The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [98]
The thick packet he handed me did indeed bear the Chalfont crest. I hastened to open it, but I suspected my pleasure might not be entirely unalloyed.
There had been a frantic flurry of telegrams before we departed from Luxor. Unhappily, my message announcing Emerson’s rescue did not arrive in England until after our dear ones had learned of his disappearance, and the first telegram I received from them was so agitated as to be virtually unintelligible. A second message announced the arrival of mine, expressed relief, and demanded further details. These I supplied as best I could, given the limitations of the medium and the necessity for reticence. I knew perfectly well that the telegraph operators in Luxor were susceptible to bribery, and that the jackals of the press were well aware of this deplorable habit—which is, however, only to be expected in a country whose inhabitants do not possess the advantages of British moral training, or a living wage.
I had promised to write, and had, of course, done so. However, I doubted my letter could have arrived by this time; certainly it had not arrived in time to elicit a response from Ramses. He must have written this even before the dreadful news of his father’s disappearance became known to him.
In this last assumption I was mistaken, as the date heading the letter proved. I looked up at Cyrus, who was still on his feet, unwilling to seat himself until I had invited him to do so, but fairly quivering with the curiosity he was too courteous to express.
“Stay, dear friend,” I said. “I have no secrets from you. But first tell me how this missive reached me so quickly. It is dated only eight days ago, and the mail boat takes eleven to reach Port Sa’id. Have you a genie in your employ, or have you hired an inventor to perfect one of those flying machines I have read about? For I know it must be to your good offices, in some manner or other, that I owe this—er— treat.”
Cyrus looked embarrassed, as he always did when I praised him. “It must have come overland to Marseilles or Naples; the express takes one or two days, and a fast boat can reach Alexandria in another three. I asked a friend in Cairo to collect your mail the instant it arrived and send it off by the next train.”
“And the mail-boy who travels to and from Derut is one of your servants? Dear Cyrus!”
“I’m as curious as you are,” Cyrus said, blushing. “Even more so, I reckon; aren’t you anxious to read it?”
“I am torn between anticipation and apprehension,” I admitted. “Where Ramses’s activities are concerned, the latter emotion tends to predominate, and this appears to be a long…Ah, but not so long as I had thought; Ramses has enclosed a batch of clippings from the London newspapers. Confound them! ‘Famed Egyptologist Missing, Feared Dead…”The Archaeological Community Mourns the Loss of Its Most Notorious…’ Notorious! I am surprised at the Times; the Mirror, perhaps, or…Oh, curse it! The Mirror describes me as hysterical with grief, under a doctor’s care; the World has a sketch of the ‘murder scene,’ complete with a huge pool of blood; the Daily Yell …” The papers drifted from my palsied hand. In a hollow voice I said, “The account in the Daily Yell was written by Kevin O’Connell. I cannot read it, Cyrus, indeed I cannot; Kevin’s journalistic style has often inspired me to homicidal fury. I shudder to think what he has written this time.”
“Don’t read it, then,” said Cyrus, bending to collect the scattered papers. “Let’s hear what your son has to say.”
“His literary style is not much of an improvement on Kevin’s,” I said gloomily.
In fact, the only part of the letter that calmed my nerves was the salutation.
“Dearest Mama and Papa: My hand trembles with mingled joy and dread as I inscribe that last word; for the space of a few endless hours I feared I might never again be privileged to employ