The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [52]
I had ordered the ewer and washbasin in Sethos’s room to be filled (and, if Fatima had her way, strewn with rose petals). He had occupied the room once before, and when I showed him into it he looked round with raised eyebrows.
“Good to be home,” he said.
“I presume you are attempting to be sarcastic,” I retorted. “Considering that the last time you stayed here you were a prisoner, and you ended up having a knife fight in the courtyard. A fight you lost, I might add.”
“I would certainly have come to a sticky end if it hadn’t been for Ramses.”
It was a rare admission of fallibility. “I don’t suppose you ever thanked him.”
“Good Lord, no. He’d faint dead away with surprise if I did that.”
Reflecting on this characteristic conversation, I dressed in haste and went to the veranda, where Fatima was arranging the tea things and flirting with Sethos—if I may use that word to describe a harmless demonstration of goodwill. She never behaved that way with anyone else, and he responded with his practiced courtly charm. When Emerson appeared, Fatima bustled off, blushing a little.
“At it again, are you?” inquired Emerson, who had seen the blush. “Can’t you leave any female alone?”
“What’s the harm in pleasing a lady?” Sethos retorted. “I like Fatima. She’s a good woman and a superb cook.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, abandoning an unproductive argument. “Where are the children?”
He looked out and then let out an indignant complaint. “Hell and damnation! Wasim has let someone get past him. Who the devil…”
The answer was, unfortunately, only too obvious. The man was already nearing the house. Sethos, still standing by the door he had held for Fatima, echoed Emerson’s expletive. “Hell and damnation!”
The newcomer stopped outside the barred door and looked in. “Good evening. May I venture to ask for a few minutes of your time? I am Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague.”
I pride myself on my ability to rise to any occasion, but for a few seconds I could only gape unbecomingly at the genuine Sir Malcolm. A quick glance showed me that the false Sir Malcolm had vanished. Pulling myself together, I opened the door and invited the former in.
“Emerson,” I said, “will you do the honors? I must—I must—uh—tell Fatima…”
It was not a nice thing to do to Emerson, who appeared as thunderstruck as I felt, but I felt sure he would manage. I dashed in pursuit of my brother-in-law, whom I found in his room rummaging through a small valise.
“What—” I began.
“Hair coloring,” grunted Sethos, tossing out wigs, mustaches, and assorted bottles and jars. “Confound it, I seem to have misplaced the black.” He straightened and gave me an appraising look. “I don’t suppose you…”
Well, I ask the Reader: what could I do? The situation was grave, verging on catastrophic. I went and got my little bottle. “I seldom if ever use it,” I explained.
“Quite,” said Sethos. “Go and warn Fatima, will you? Tell her…damned if I know what you can tell her, just keep her from making any false moves. You had better warn Ramses and Nefret as well.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Shave,” said Sethos.
I have never been certain whether Fatima is as simple as she appears, or cunning enough to appear simple. She accepted my garbled explanation with a nod and went on arranging tea cakes on a pretty flowered plate. I was too late to intercept Nefret and Ramses. When I returned to the veranda they were already there, and so were the children. The dog had its large face pressed to the screen and its long tongue lolling out.
As I later learned, the presence of the little ones (to say nothing of the dog) had relieved the first awkward moments. Sir Malcolm had made the mistake of trying to pat Carla on the head. Ramses had snatched her away before anything unpleasant occurred, but Sir Malcolm kept a wary eye on the little girl until the arrival of the tea cakes distracted her. David John was not distracted. Leaning against his father’s knee, he kept his blue eyes fixed on Sir Malcolm.
“I do beg your pardon, Sir Malcolm,” I said, taking a chair.