Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [46]
“Not this afternoon, Emerson.”
Hearing something in my tone, Emerson objected no further. After the carriage had driven off, he turned to me.
“You have all been behaving very oddly,” he said, looking from one of us to the other. “What has happened?”
“Sit down, Father,” Nefret said.
“Good Gad!” Emerson cried in anguished tones. “Not one of the kiddies!”
“Now stop that, Emerson,” I said severely. “Do you suppose we would all be so calm if something had happened to one of the children? No. Guess again.”
Emerson dropped into a chair. “The tomb has been robbed,” he said in a hollow voice. “Pecky Callender is no more use than—”
“At least you put the children before the tomb,” I snapped. “Allow me to remind you once again that it is not your tomb. Guess again.”
Emerson’s noble brow furrowed. “Give me a hint.”
“Confound you, Emerson,” I began. “How can you have forgotten—”
“Not so loud, Mother.” Nefret, who had been struggling with laughter, sat on the arm of Emerson’s chair and put a finger to his lips. “We have a guest, Father. The—Oh, dear, how can I put this? The person who inspired your adventure at the shop. The fire. The bag of salt. The—”
As comprehension gradually dawned, her dainty finger proved inadequate to the task. “Hell and damnation!” Emerson shouted. “Has that bas—Has he had the effrontery to come here?”
“He was ill,” Nefret said. “Please, Father, don’t fly off the handle.”
“And keep your voice down,” I added. “How successful we have been in concealing his presence I cannot say, but there is nothing to be gained by shouting it from the rooftops.”
Emerson could not get up without dislodging Nefret. He squirmed a bit, but she stayed firmly in place. “Oh, bah,” he said in a strangled voice. “Ramses, would you care to explain how this came about? No, Peabody, not you; you are inclined to digress, and I want a succinct, informative account, without commentary.”
He got it. In my opinion Ramses might have elaborated a trifle more; however, my attempts to add color to the narrative were ignored by all parties. When Ramses had finished, Emerson sat in silence for a time, stroking his prominent chin.
“That is the most preposterous story I have ever heard,” he said at last.
“That was my initial reaction,” I admitted. “And I feel sure Sethos hasn’t told us all he knows. However, this is a preposterous world, Emerson, and some persons will stick at nothing to gain their ends.”
Emerson could not deny this. We had encountered a number of such persons, and history had preserved the names of many others.
“This mysterious paper,” he said. “Have you succeeded in deciphering it?”
Ramses shook his head. “It’s really not my field of expertise, Father.”
“You need not apologize, my boy. Very well. You can get up now, Nefret; my temper is firmly under control. I want to see him. Now.”
Naturally I went with Emerson. He appeared to be in a reasonable state of mind, but there was no telling how long it would last if his brother provoked him—which he was almost certain to do.
Sethos was sitting up in bed, reading. He greeted Emerson effusively, but without surprise. “I heard you were back,” he explained. “Who are the two people who came with you?”
His attempt at insouciance did not deceive Emerson, for the beard and the silly nose failed to conceal the hollowness of his cheeks and his sickly complexion.
“Fatima told you, I suppose,” Emerson said gruffly. “The two newcomers are members of our staff. Egyptologists, well known to me. Er—how are you feeling?”
“Much better. It is good of you to ask.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “What the devil are we to do with you, eh?”
“That sounds more like you,” said Sethos. “I’ll be out of here as soon as Nefret gives me leave.”
Emerson sat down heavily on the side of the narrow bed. “Where will you go?”
“I’ll stay in touch.”
“Damned right you will!” said Emerson. “Curse it, you can’t simply stroll out the front door. Your adversaries aren’t all fools. If they discover