The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [101]
Cyrus hurried to my side and put a respectful arm around me. “What ails you, my dear? You are as white as the driven snow. Sit down. Have another whiskey.”
“There are some situations too serious even for whiskey and soda,” I said, slipping out of his embrace with a casual air that—I hoped—gave no offense. “My idea was absurd, unjust. I will dismiss it. But at the least, Cyrus, Kevin is bound to ferret out the truth of Emerson’s amnesia. He has known him too long and too well to miss evidences of that.”
“I never could understand why you were so set on keeping it secret, even from the family,” Cyrus said. “Seems to me his brother, at least, is entitled to know the truth.”
“You know not whereof you speak, Cyrus! Five minutes after Walter found out, everyone in the house would know it, and the whole lot of them would rush off to catch the first boat—including Gargery! Have you forgotten Dr. Schadenfreude’s advice, Cyrus? We must not force Emerson’s memory; we must wait for it to grow and blossom, like a flower.”
“Huh,” said Cyrus, in a tone as skeptical as the one Emerson would probably have employed.
“I know you dislike the doctor’s theories, Cyrus, but he is unquestionably an authority in his field, and his analysis of Emerson’s character was brilliantly accurate. It is imperative that we give Schadenfreude’s methods a fair chance. That would be impossible if our family and friends descended on us en masse. None of them is capable of the iron self-control that has guided my behavior—and can you imagine the effect on Emerson of coming face-to-face with Ramses? An eleven-year-old son would be enough of a shock for a man who doesn’t even know he is married, and a son like Ramses—”
“It might be the catalyst that would restore Emerson’s memory, though,” Cyrus said, watching me steadily. “The sight of his son—”
“He has known me longer than he has Ramses,” I said. “And under circumstances that ought, if any could … I perceive no purpose in discussing it, Cyrus; you must let me be the judge of what is best for Emerson.”
“As always, you think of him and not of yourself. I wish you would let me—”
“I don’t care to discuss it,” I said, softening the blunt words with an affectionate smile. “If you will excuse me, Cyrus, I believe I will take a turn around the deck before retiring. No, my friend, don’t come with me; your men are on guard, and I would like some time for solitary reflection.”
It required longer than I had expected for cool reflection to calm the agitated waters of distress. The suspicion I had entertained, if only briefly, was truly dreadful.
Emerson and I had discussed the qualities an enemy must possess in order to ferret out the secret of the Lost Oasis. Kevin had them all—even a smattering of archaeological training. He also had the insatiable curiosity and the rampageous imagination (as Emerson would have put it) that would enable an individual to weave the disparate strands of the puzzle into a meaningful whole.
Nothing can crush the spirit so much as the treachery of a friend. Certain of Kevin’s newspaper articles had, in my opinion, stretched our friendship to the limit, but at worst they had only threatened our reputations. This was another matter entirely—a cold-blooded attack on life, limb and sanity. In my mind’s eye I pictured Kevin’s smiling, freckled face, his candid blue eyes, his crop of flaming hair. In my inner ear I heard his caressing Irish voice repeat the compliments and assurances of affection whose sincerity I had never doubted.
I would not doubt it now! As my agitation subsided I reminded myself that Kevin