The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [46]
“Sometimes blundering accomplishes more than tact,” retorted Emerson, who was certainly in a position to know. “I suspect the old fool is getting bored down in Kent. He always enjoys participating in our little adventures.”
“What about Sethos?” Nefret asked.
“What about him?”
“Emerson, don’t be so aggravating,” I said. “Do you know where he is?”
“Yes. At least I know where he is supposed to be.” He looked round the room, as if he expected his brother to materialize out of thin air, and then pointed toward the guardhouse. “Ah.”
In the center of a jostling crowd, almost as if he had materialized out of thin air, stood a familiar figure. I would have known him anywhere.
FOUR
He looked very much like his brother—a scant inch shorter, not so heavily muscled as Emerson but trim and well built. Only an observer familiar with his true appearance would have noticed the resemblance, however; he now sported a mane of white hair, worn longer than was fashionable, a narrow mustache, and a goatee. His linen suit and the silver-headed stick he brandished bore out the impression of a well-bred if somewhat foppish gentleman. Pushing through the crowd, he advanced toward the house, followed by two perspiring fellows who carried several large suitcases and a hatbox. He stopped outside the door and smiled upon us all with impartial affability.
“Good morning, my dears. How good it is to see you all again.”
“Who are you supposed to be this time?” I inquired, opening the door.
“A wealthy connoisseur and philanthropist,” said Sethos, running a fingertip along his mustache. “Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague, at your service. You may omit the title when addressing me.” He dispensed baksheesh to his bearers, who deposited his luggage and departed.
“Aren’t you taking something of a chance?” I inquired. “Sir Malcolm has supported several excavations in this area. You may encounter someone who knows him.”
“You insult my abilities, my dear, if you suppose I cannot bamboozle such persons” was the airy reply. He gave me a brotherly kiss on the cheek, saluted Nefret on the brow, and shook Ramses’s hand.
“Sit down and stop showing off,” said Emerson irritably. “What took you so long?”
“It wasn’t long at all, considering that my imposing appearance and witty conversation distracted a number of persons who might otherwise have trailed you. Every journalist in Egypt must be here.”
Fatima appeared with fresh coffee, her plain but kindly face shining with pleasure. She had obviously been aware of his arrival, though how she had recognized him I could not imagine. Over the years he had appeared at the house in various guises, ostensibly to prevent people from identifying him as Emerson’s brother. This would have been embarrassing for us and dangerous for him in his role as an agent of British intelligence. However, Sethos was an actor at heart and enjoyed the game for its own sake.
“Did you come down from Cairo on the same train as Emerson?” I inquired.
“Obviously,” said Sethos.
“It is not obvious. You might have been in Luxor all along.”
“Or somewhere else in Egypt,” Sethos suggested helpfully.
“Mother, you are letting him get you off the track again,” said Ramses through his teeth. He found his uncle extremely exasperating—a point of view with which I had some sympathy. “Father, how did you locate—er—Sir Malcolm so quickly, and what have you told him, and why is he here?”
“He knew I was in Cairo,” Sethos replied. “Hasn’t he told you that we have been in regular communication for the past few years?”
“No,” I said—through my teeth.
Emerson said, “Hmph,” and avoided my eyes.
Sethos hadn’t missed my response or Emerson’s response to my response, and he appeared highly amused. “Given your propensity for inviting trouble, I deemed it my duty to be readily available in case you needed my help. I was not at all surprised to learn that you’re at it again. However, this is an even more preposterous situation than the ones you usually get into.”