The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [142]
Your loving sister,
Evelyn.
Tears blurred my vision as I read the last lines. How blessed I was in such affection! And how I had underestimated Evelyn! Ramses’s lecture on preconceptions had not been directed at me (at least I trusted it had not), but everything he had written about himself could as well be applied to me. And I, of all people, ought to have known better. Had I not seen Evelyn coolly confront the hideous mummy? Had I not heard her accept an offer that made every nerve quiver with revulsion in the hope that by doing so she could save those she loved? I was as guilty of prejudice against my own sex as the blind, biased men I had condemned.
Evelyn had not said a word about her adventure. Instead she had bent all her efforts on trying to find an answer to the mystery. The analysis was brilliant; the mind that had composed it was as keen as my own.
Cyrus had been rereading Ramses’s letter. Sensitive to every change in my expression, he said gently, “What is it, Amelia? Some bad news Ramses did not mention? I find it difficult to believe he could or would omit anything, but—”
“In that assumption you are correct. Evelyn is far more considerate of my feelings than is my son.” I folded the letter and slipped it into my pocket. Let it rest there, against my heart, to remind me of my good fortune and my shame!
“I hope you will forgive me for not sharing this with you, Cyrus, “I went on. “It was the tender expressions of affection it contains that brought the tears to my eyes.”
I was more than ready to follow his advice that I seek my couch, for it had been a tiring day. Never has fatigue prevented me from doing my duty, however. I first inspected my patient, whose condition was unchanged, and then went in search of Bertha. The sooner I could find a suitable establishment for her, the better; it really was a nuisance having to play chaperone as well as perform my other duties.
Somehow I was not surprised to find her sitting by the dying fire, talking with Kevin. Knowing he would be all the more determined to speak to her if I made a mystery of her identity, I had simply described her as another victim of the villain who had attacked Emerson. I had expected Kevin would seek her out. No journalist could resist the mysteriously veiled, seductively gliding figure, and victimized women are particularly popular subjects. I could have composed the heading for his story myself; the words “love-slave” would undoubtedly appear. In the private pages of this journal I will admit that I was willing to throw poor Bertha to this Hibernian wolf of the press if her story would distract him from other aspects of the case.
However, there was no reason why I should go out of my way to accommodate Kevin, so I interrupted the discussion and sent Bertha off to bed. “You had better do the same, Kevin. We rise at dawn and it will be a long day.”
“Not for me,” said Kevin with a lazy smile. “We detectives keep our own hours. Wandering to and fro, questioning this one and that—”
“You will not be wandering. You will be with me, so I can keep my eye on you.”
“Ah well, it was worth a try,” Kevin murmured. “While I am with you, Mrs.—Miss Peabody, you can tell me all about your daring rescue of the professor. It’s bound to come out, you know,” he added with a challenging smile. “Even now some of my more enterprising colleagues are interviewing various citizens of Luxor. From what I have heard, you cut rather a wide swath. Wouldn’t you rather have the true facts published than the exaggerated fantasies some of my associates—”
“Oh, be quiet and go to bed,” I snapped.
He went off, crooning some sentimental Irish melody in a way that was calculated to annoy me. When I reached my own tent, Bertha was already asleep,