The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [98]
He had ample time to think about what he should do. Nobody asked him what he had accomplished that day; Emerson was too busy interrogating David about Deir el Medina and describing Cyrus’s work in the West Valley. Ramses was still weighing the pros and cons when, after an early dinner, his mother sent everyone to bed. They had put in a hard day and Emerson had decreed they would be out again at dawn. Having made up his mind, Ramses managed to intercept David.
“Oh, no,” the latter groaned, after he had read the message. “Not another anonymous letter inviting you to a secret rendezvous in the middle of the night.”
“We haven’t had one like that for quite a while.”
David had had his share of midnight rendezvous during the War. He fixed Ramses with a formidable stare.
“You aren’t thinking of accepting, I hope.”
“He says…” Ramses took the letter back. “‘How did the lady die? I know. Come alone. I will tell you.’ His Arabic isn’t very good, is it?”
“Not a native speaker.”
“Or he’s semiliterate. Could be one of the suffragis at the hotel. They are understandably cautious of the police.”
“You’re going,” David said resignedly.
“There’s a chance the fellow may really know something,” Ramses argued. “A chance worth taking.”
“I’m going with you.”
“I thought you’d say that. I’m not fool enough to go alone, and you’re the only one with enough experience to stay in concealment. Nefret would raise hell if I told her, and Father would raise a different variety of hell, and Mother…”
“Would come charging after you waving her parasol. I see your point. What about Sethos?”
Ramses was silent. “You don’t trust him?” David asked.
“No. Yes. Damned if I know what to think. He turned up most conveniently and coincidentally just after we got hold of one of the most valuable antiquities even he has ever seen.”
“The truth is, you don’t like him,” David said.
“Yes. No.”
“I feel the same way. Well.” David leaned back and folded his arms. “I’m with you, of course. It’ll be like old times.”
“Do you miss them?” Ramses asked curiously.
“If I had no responsibilities and no hostages to fortune, I’d be up to my neck in the nationalist movement. And probably in prison,” David added with a wry smile.
“I know. Maybe a murder investigation will take some of the edge off. I hate to ask you, but—”
“I’d have been deeply hurt if you hadn’t. How are we going to go about this?”
They met behind the stable, an hour before the appointed time. The rendezvous point was in the hills south of Deir el Bahri, only a short walk, but this would give them time to scout the area and find a place of concealment for David before the informant arrived—if he did arrive. They were both wearing dark galabeeyahs and head-cloths, and Ramses noted, with some misgivings, that David appeared to be in a cheerful frame of mind.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said sternly.
“Such as jumping the fellow when he draws a knife on you?”
“Nothing like that is likely to occur.”
He hoped he was right. He had told Nefret he meant to work late. She’d have his scalp for a trophy if she found out he had lied to her.
“Are you armed?” he asked.
“Two of them.” David waved his arms. If Ramses hadn’t known his abstemious friend so well, he would have suspected David had been drinking. It must be the possibility of action that had got his adrenaline flowing.
They walked briskly along the uneven path. It was as familiar to both of them as the passageways of the house, and the moon was bright. No one else was abroad. The villagers went to bed early to save lamp fuel, and would-be tomb robbers had apparently taken the night off—or were busy elsewhere.
When they reached the steep slopes of detritus that edged the foot of the gebel, Ramses said softly, “It’s somewhere near here.”
The letter writer had been vague about the precise location, possibly because his Arabic vocabulary was limited. Ramses planned to stand full in the moonlight, a safe distance from the cliff face, and wait for the man to come to him. David was no longer smiling; his lean face was set