Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [152]
Nefret had changed out of her flimsy frock and evening slippers and I had assumed trousers and coat—and, of course, my belt of tools and parasol. There was no way of knowing what we might encounter. When we got to the stable Emerson had seen to it that the horses were saddled and ready.
The hour was late, the village of Gurneh dark and slumbering. The house we sought showed no signs of life. Emerson assured us it was the right place; he had identified it from Sethos’s description of the owner.
We dismounted, and Sethos spoke for the first time since he had finished his story. “I don’t suppose you would consider letting me go in first? I could snatch Margaret up and—”
Emerson called him a bad name, and I said coldly, “Your effrontery passes all bounds. Go ahead, Emerson, wake the poor old soul.”
It was not the old man who came to the door, but his wife, and her reception of us was in keeping with her reputation. Brandishing a stick, she began shouting and swearing. Even the sight of Emerson did not daunt her.
“We are not thieves,” he bellowed. “We mean you no harm. Curse it! Be quiet, woman, and heed the Father of Curses.”
He snatched the stick from her hand and took hold of her. She went on struggling and screaming until I stepped forward, parasol in hand.
“Be still,” I said sternly. “Or I will use my magic to turn you into a goat.”
People can believe the most absurd things. My parasol was known and dreaded by some of the more superstitious Egyptians. Fortunately the old lady was one of them.
She led us, without further violence, to the room where Margaret was confined. Either she had not been asleep or the dispute had wakened her; she was on her feet, brandishing a jar which must have contained a beverage of some sort. I had deemed it proper to be the first person to enter. For a moment I thought she would heave the jar at me.
She thought better of it when she beheld Emerson, looming behind me. Words had never failed Margaret; they did not do so now.
“So you have decided to show your face at last!” she exclaimed. “This time you have gone too far, Mrs. Emerson. I will blazon your perfidy across the front page of every newspaper in the world!”
“Well put,” I said appreciatively. “However, in this case your accusation is unwarranted. Make yourself comfortable and we will—”
“Mother,” Nefret interrupted. Her voice was peremptory, even, one might say, critical. Ramses and David had not been here, that was evident.
“I will be as expeditious as possible,” I promised.
Margaret put the jug down and folded her arms. She was wearing the frock, now crumpled and sweat-stained, that she had worn to our party. It was an act of defiance; several other garments were hung on hooks or draped over chairs. The sight of them made me blink, for they were the sort of thing one finds in the bazaars, designed for tourists—sewn with beads and covered with gold and silver braid. Sethos must have supplied them, but no doubt Margaret had taken them for another of my comments on her unattractive attire, and resented them accordingly.
A quick survey of the chamber assured me that the old beldam had earned her pay. The room was clean and adequately, if not luxuriously, furnished. There was a basket of figs and grapes on the table, and the means of ablution had been supplied.
“It was not I who gave the orders for your abduction,” I began.
“The carriage driver had been ordered to stop along the road,” Margaret said, her eyes flashing. “When he did, Daoud climbed in and took hold of me. Whom else would he obey but you? Don’t lie to me.”
“I never lie.” (Unless, I added mentally, it is absolutely necessary.) “Daoud did what he believed I would approve, but he was manipulated by another