The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [40]
Coloring, the young man returned his weapon to its holster. “It was eine Gazelle—a… How do you call it?”
“Nonsense. It could not have been a gazelle, they are timid creatures who would not venture so close to humans. You tried to shoot some poor villager’s goat, Herr Schmidt. Luckily for you, you missed it; the world’s finest marksman could not hit such a distant target with a pistol.”
My lecture was interrupted by Emerson, who came rushing toward us demanding to know who had shot at what and why. My explanation did nothing to relieve his tender anxiety; turning to his German colleague, who had been close on his heels, he burst into a storm of complaint.
“Sie haben recht, Herr Professor,” Schmidt murmured submissively. “Ich bin ein vollendetes Rindvieh.”
“You are making a great fuss about nothing, Emerson,” I said. “The bullet came nowhere near me.”
“In short, no harm was done or intended,” said Professor Eberfelt, coming to the defense of his colleague.
“Except that my guide was frightened away,” I added. “Let us see if we can find him and reassure him. He had found a new tomb which he was about to show me.”
But neither the guide nor the tomb he had mentioned was to be found, though we searched for some time. “Perhaps he will return tomorrow, once he has got over his fright,” I said at last. “He was young, and appeared to be very timid.”
Our visitors did not linger; the boat they had hired awaited them, and they meant to return to Cairo that night. Watching the donkeys disappear into the darkening shadows of the east, Emerson stroked his chin, as was his habit when deep in thought.
“I think we have done enough here, Peabody,” he said. “The Luxor-Cairo train stops at Rikka in the morning. Shall we be on it?”
I could see no reason why not.
My first act upon reaching the hotel was to request the safragi to run a nice hot bath for me. As I luxuriated in the scented water Emerson looked through the letters and messages that had arrived in our absence and reported their contents to me, with appropriate comments. “Will we dine with Lady Wallingford and her daughter? No, we will not. Captain and Mrs. Richardson look forward to the pleasure of our company at their soiree… They will look in vain. Mr. Vincey hopes we will do him the honor of lunching with him on Thursday … It is an honor he has not earned. The Solicitor General… Aha! A grain of wheat among all this chaff! A letter from Chalfont.”
“Open it,” I called. A ripping sound told me he had already done so.
The epistle was a sort of round-robin, begun by Evelyn and added to by the others. Evelyn’s and Walter’s contributions were short, intended only to reassure us that all was well with them and their charges. Nefret’s brief message was something of a disappointment to me; it sounded like a duty note from a child to a relation she does not much like. I reminded myself that I ought not to have expected anything else. She had been taught to read and write English by her father, but she had not had much occasion to practice that skill. It would be some time before she learned to express herself gracefully and at length.
Ramses’s contribution made up for any deficiency in the latter quality at least. I could see why he had asked to be the last to write, for his comments were, to say the least, more candid than those of his aunt.
“Rose does not like it here. She does not say that, but her mouth always looks as if she has been eating pickled onions. I think the difficulty is that she does not get on with Ellis. Ellis is Aunt Evelyn’s new maid. She came from the gutter, like the others.”
Emerson stopped to laugh, and I exclaimed, “Good heavens, where does that child pick up such language? Out of the goodness of her heart Evelyn employs unfortunate young women whose lives have not been what they ought, but—”
“The description gains in pungency what it lacks in propriety,” said Emerson. “He goes on:
“Rose says she does not hold