Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [143]
“Let us discuss this sensibly,” Emerson said, taking out his pipe. “You”—he gestured at his brother—“you say you have done nothing to prompt such a reaction. Has anyone else?”
“You’re on the wrong track, Father,” Ramses said. Emerson blinked at his uncharacteristic lack of tact, and Ramses said, “I beg your pardon. But look at it this way. Supposing we had received a sudden revelation, which God knows we haven’t, what would we have done about it?”
“Informed the authorities,” I said.
“How?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “By telegraph or in person, isn’t that right? Most probably the latter. Telegrams may become lost in the bureaucratic muddle or be intercepted. No; we’d have gone straight to Cairo, to Thomas Russell or the high commissioner. They know that hasn’t happened. We are under surveillance still. We always have been. For all we know, someone close to us is passing on information about our activities.”
It was a damning and convincing summary. While we digested it, Sethos raised a haggard face. “Are you accusing me of betraying my own wife?”
“He doesn’t mean you,” I said. “Strangers in our midst…Nadji or Suzanne? But which?”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Nefret sat at her dressing table brushing her hair. The dress she meant to wear lay across the bed. It was one of Ramses’s favorites, a pale blue sprinkled with small white flowers and green leaves, but to him she was even more beautiful in her clinging silk slip, her white shoulders and little feet bare.
“You’re looking absolutely marvelous these days,” he said, capturing a stray lock of hair and winding it round his finger. “I like that dress. What’s the occasion?”
“I felt like cheering myself up. And Mother.”
“Women are lucky. We men haven’t such easy means of cheering ourselves up.”
“It’s your own fault for following fashion so slavishly. Go and tell David it’s time for dinner, will you? He’s been brooding for hours.”
There was no answer to Ramses’s knock. After a second, louder knock he opened the door. The room was unoccupied. A drawing pad lay open on the writing table; David had started a sketch of the painted chest. Incomplete as it was, it had David’s inimitable touch.
While Ramses was admiring it, the houseman came in with an armful of fresh towels.
“Where’s Mr. David?” Ramses asked.
“I do not know. He told me to give you this,” he said, as he handed over a folded sheet of paper.
Ramses read the brief message and swore under his breath. “When did he leave?”
“Just now, Brother of Demons.”
Ramses hurried back to his room.
“What—” Nefret began, her eyes widening.
“Read this.” He handed her the note.
She read it aloud. “‘Have gone for a walk. Won’t be long. Don’t worry.’ What does he mean, don’t worry? It isn’t like David to go off like this.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m going after him.” He buckled on the belt that held his knife.
“Not alone!” Nefret got up and came to him.
“I must leave at once. He’s already several minutes ahead of me.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No.” He took her by the shoulders. “Not this time. My darling, I’m only going to catch him up and remind him this is not a good time to be wandering about in the dark.”
He was over the sill and out the window before she could reply. He had a last glimpse of her anxious face and parted lips before he turned the corner of the house.
Ramses swung by the stable and found Jamad asleep and the horses all in their stalls. So David was on foot. He was at least five minutes behind David, and if David had gone toward Gurneh or the western cliffs, he’d already be out of sight. If he had headed toward the riverbank, meaning to cross over to Luxor, there was still a chance of catching him up. He started down the road, running.
He had thought of several innocent explanations for David’s behavior, including the one he had given. It was understandable that he might feel the need to be alone; the family en masse or individually could be wearing.
His straining eyes caught sight of a form moving along the road some