The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [44]
Emerson replied that we were paying a social call. The incredulity this answer provoked was expressed, not in speech, but in the young man’s pursed lips and raised eyebrows. Obviously he did not know who we were.
He offered to escort us back to our carriage. “Not necessary,” said Emerson. “You seem to have cleared the way very neatly, sir. Not even a fallen body in sight. Did they all get away from you?”
“We did not pursue them,” was the haughty reply. “The prisons are overflowing with such riffraff and we had nothing to charge them with.”
“Screaming in public,” Emerson suggested.
The fellow had a sense of humor after all; his lips twitched, but he replied sedately, “It must have been one of them who cried out, if the lady did not. They did not attack you, then?”
“We cannot charge them with anything,” I admitted. “In fact, you could arrest us, Captain; we forced entry into this house and broke the door.”
The officer smiled politely. Emerson took a handful of money from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. “That should take care of any complaints about the broken door. Come along, my dear, we are late for our appointment.”
We had taken the wrong turning at the fountain. The proprietor of the coffee shop knew Mr. McKenzie’s house very well; it was only a short distance away. But somehow I was not surprised when his servant informed us that he was not expecting guests that evening. In fact, he had already retired. He was, the servant said reproachfully, a very elderly man.
CHAPTER 5
“Men are frail creatures, it is true; one does not expect them to demonstrate the steadfastness of women.”
NOT so cursed elderly he had forgotten where he lives,” Emerson remarked. “The directions are clear. Left at the sabil.” He tossed the crumpled paper onto the breakfast table. It fell into the cream jug; by the time I had fished it out, the writing was so blurred as to be indecipherable.
“I will take your word for it,” I said, putting the soggy wad onto a clean saucer. “Nor will I claim that even a young man might suffer a momentary lapse of memory or an inadvertent slip of the pen. The fact that the wrong turning led us into an ambush is proof positive that the misdirection was intentional. Have you ever done anything to offend Mr. McKenzie?”
“I presume,” said my husband, distorting his handsome face into a hideous scowl, “that you are attempting to be facetious, Amelia. The invitation did not come from McKen-zie.”
He had not answered the question. It was a safe assumption that at some time or other he had offended Mr. McKenzie, because there were few people he had not offended. The reaction seemed somewhat extreme, however.
“How do you know it did not come from him?”
“I don’t,” Emerson admitted. “I sent round this morning to inquire, but the messenger has not yet returned.”
“He will deny it in any case.”
“True.” Emerson brooded like a pensive sphinx over the muffin he was buttering. “There are some curious stories about McKenzie. His age and the passage of time have given him an air of respectability he did not always deserve. In his youth he swaggered around in Turkish costume—silken robes and a huge turban—and by all accounts behaved like a Turk in—er—other ways.”
I knew he was referring to women. Emerson is absurdly shy about such matters—with me, at any rate. I had some reason to suspect he was not so reticent with other men, or with some women.
“Did he keep a harîm?” I inquired curiously.
“Oh, well.” Emerson looked uncomfortable. “It was not uncommon at that time for wild young men encountering a strange culture to adopt some of its customs. Early archaeologists were no more scrupulous about the monuments than they were about—er—other things. McKenzie’s private collection of antiquities is said to be—”
“He never married, I believe,” I mused. “Perhaps it was not women he favored. There is one Turkish custom—”
“Good Gad, Peabody!” Emerson shouted, crimsoning. “A well-bred woman has no