Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [148]
He lowered his voice gradually as he spoke. Ramses took the hint. “How many days?” he asked softly.
“Two, three at the most. Margaret’s not here. When I insisted, they let me search the house.”
“They must be keeping her somewhere else. If we can take one of them prisoner, he may be persuaded to tell us where.”
Despite his urgent need to return to his wife, Ramses’s spirits had lifted. Having David on his side was as good as an army—better, in a sense. David was his balance wheel, the sensible member of the group, as he proceeded to demonstrate.
“At the risk of sounding callous, we can’t worry about Margaret now. It will be hard enough getting ourselves away, without additional heroics. Here. I found your knife.”
Something pressed against his side and he shifted position slightly, so that it was concealed under his thigh. He hadn’t located any spyholes in the walls, but the keyhole was big and old-fashioned.
“We’ll have to wait until most of them have gone beddy-by,” David went on. “There will be two men on guard. Bashir has already left. I agreed to stay here. In fact, I refused to leave when they said I could. A disingenuous offer, wasn’t it?”
“A test, perhaps.”
“I thought so. The door is barred as well as locked, and they aren’t careless enough to trust me with the key. I may be able to pick the lock. If not, you’ll have to break the door down.”
“I can hardly wait.” Ramses rubbed his sore shoulder. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven. In another hour the lads should be tucked in.”
Ramses groaned. “Damn. Nefret must be getting more frantic by the minute.”
“To say nothing of the parents,” David said. “Maybe Aunt Amelia will appear, parasol in hand.”
“Don’t try to cheer me up,” Ramses muttered. He took another mouthful of the disgusting food. It was cold as well as tasteless. “There’s no way they could have traced us. I made sure—clever me—that no one followed me.”
“I’d better go and put on a convincing show of cooperation.” David held out his hand. “They told me not to leave the dish.”
“Afraid I’ll smash it and use the shards to carve a hole in the door? Here, you’re welcome to the rest.”
David took the plate and went out without speaking again. They would work together, and fight together if necessary, like the well-oiled machine they had become.
The key turned with a click. There was nothing to do now but wait.
Emerson stood over his brother with fists clenched and brow thunderous.
“Remember the code,” Sethos said. He had prudently remained supine. “Mustn’t hit a man when he’s down.”
“Get up then!”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
The door opened and Fatima put her head in. “Dinner is—” Seeing Sethos flat on the floor she broke off and ran to him. “He is sick again?”
“No, I hit him,” Emerson said between clenched teeth. “And I’ll do it again if he so much as blinks.”
“He will not blink,” Fatima cried. “Do not hit him again.”
“No, we want him conscious so he can answer questions,” I said.
Keeping a wary eye on Emerson, Sethos sat up, rubbing his chin. “You needn’t interrogate me, Amelia,” he said indistinctly. “I am prepared to speak freely, insofar as my injuries allow. They say whiskey is good for a sore jaw.”
Emerson snarled. “Give it to him,” I said impatiently. “And let me add, Sethos, that frivolity is distinctly out of place. What have you done with Margaret?”
For of course, Reader, I had put two and two together. On the night of the party Sethos had gone out of his way to infuriate Margaret and induce Kevin to remain. I had thought nothing of it at the time, nor could I blame myself. Hindsight is always more useful than observation. And there was another thing I hadn’t noticed at the time.
“Daoud!” I cried. “Is Daoud involved in this?”
Fatima, who had immediately supplied Sethos with whiskey, let out a little squeal of protest.
“He was ready and willing,” Sethos said. “Didn’t you tell him you wished you could abduct Margaret again?