Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [122]
After a while I excused myself and entered the hotel. When I inquired at the desk for Miss Minton, the clerk told me she had left early that morning and had not yet returned. No, she had not said where she was going or when she would be back.
“Do you wish to leave a message for the lady, Mrs. Emerson?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” I presented the clerk with a substantial baksheesh. “I would like to be informed when she does return. And—er—you need not mention it to the lady.”
When I returned, the rest of our party had arrived. After a little bustle arranging tables and chairs, we ordered tea and then everyone began talking, comparing the day’s activities and dropping veiled hints about their purchases. Even Gargery had a few parcels, closely wrapped in newspaper. He was in fine form, declaring that he had fended off at least one potential abductor. Emerson shouted him down and asked Charla what she had bought for him.
I found myself seated next to Sethos. “No potential abductors, I presume?” I asked.
“A miserable old man trying to sell Sennia fake ushebtis. Gargery would have wrestled him to the ground if I hadn’t stepped in.” He stirred sugar into his tea. “Is she back yet?”
He had seen me emerge from the hotel and drawn the obvious conclusion. “No,” I said. “She wasn’t in the Valley, at least not while we were there.”
“So I heard.”
“Where do you suppose she went?”
“How should I know?”
David John tugged at my sleeve. “Charla won’t tell me what she bought, Grandmama.”
“Christmas is a time for secrets,” I said.
For the next few days we devoted ourselves to the merriments of the season. Abdullah had been right; what did mundane distractions such as royal tombs and shadowy plotters matter? In future years they would take their places in the long list of adventures in which we had triumphed. We had much to be thankful for.
When I expressed these sentiments to Emerson, he said only, “Kindly do not repeat yourself, Peabody. I can only endure a certain amount of such bloody optimism.”
Since fir trees were at a premium in Egypt (nonexistent, in fact), we employed a feathery tamarisk, filling out its skimpy branches with a profusion of ornaments. In some families, I believe, the tree is not decorated until Christmas Eve. We do not follow that custom, since the children enjoyed hanging the ornaments and setting fire to the tree.
“It makes for an exciting interlude,” Ramses said philosophically, after he had extinguished one such blaze and strictly forbidden Charla to light the candles unless he gave permission.
“That applies to you as well,” I said, with a stern look at David John.
“But Grandmama, I did not—”
“You suggested it, though, didn’t you?”
David John never lied. Like his father, he usually employed equivocation to avoid doing so. In this case the direct question allowed of only one truthful answer. Blue eyes wide and candid, he nodded his head. “Yes, Grandmama.”
“And you provided the matches?” I knew Charla could not have taken them from the kitchen without being seen. Fatima watched her like a hawk, whereas David John was less suspect.
“Yes, Grandmama.”
“Where are the rest of them?”
David John dug into his pocket and produced a handful of questionable objects, including several nails, a dead mouse tenderly wrapped in tissue paper, several broken crayons, and the box of matches. I confiscated the matches, the nails (on general principles), and the mouse, and delivered a stern lecture on the dangers of