Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [74]
However, I decided to postpone my visit till the following day. I had a number of other problems to deal with. Among them was what to tell Cyrus. He had been pestering me (his word, and a most expressive word too) about Sethos. I had managed to put him off so far, but I owed my old friend at least part of the truth, particularly in view of the fact that one of his staff had been affected. Sethos had to be dealt with, and so did Margaret. I had told her that the matter would be resolved, but just then I hadn’t the faintest idea what to do about it.
Life was becoming complicated. I withdrew to a quiet corner and made one of my little lists.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Ramses had given the others the impression that he had abandoned his attempt to decipher the message, but he hadn’t been able to resist tinkering with it. The number groups were susceptible to several variations, and he had tried all of them without success.
What dangerous secret could the damned thing contain? A threatened coup, a secret alliance, plans for a war? Disclosure would presumably constitute a danger to those plans, which implied that they were of vital importance. However, he was only too familiar with the peculiar thinking of the intelligence services, and he had known men to massacre their fellowmen, and -women, for reasons that made no sense to a normal mind.
Tossing a Hebrew Old Testament aside in disgust, he went back to work on his hieratic translations and managed to concentrate on his work for a few hours before he realized that his ears were pricked, listening for sounds of his mother’s return from Gurneh. Leaning back in his chair, he ran his fingers through his hair. She was getting out of hand. Kidnapping Margaret Minton was really beyond the pale. Her reasons for doing so had made sense at the time—those steely gray eyes and firm chin had a way of hypnotizing her listeners—but the more he thought about them the more he was inclined to think his mother had yielded to her fondness for melodrama.
He’d have to have a talk with her. What was taking her so long? Perhaps she had gone to the West Valley, leaving Sethos—and him—to stew.
A little chat with Sethos might not be a bad idea. Tossing his pen onto the table, he went in search of his uncle. After looking in the garden, where the children were playing, and on the veranda, he ran Sethos to earth in the courtyard behind the house. The women of the household were going about their business, preparing food, washing clothes; in a quiet corner where his mother’s hibiscus flaunted crimson blossoms around a carved bench, Sethos sat with hands folded and head bent as if in profound meditation. He looked up with a start.
“Time for luncheon?”
“No.” There was room on the bench, but Ramses was disinclined to give an impression of congeniality. He sat down on the ground, folding his legs under him with the ease of long habit. “Sorry to disturb your nap.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” Sethos yawned, as if to give the lie to his statement.
He’s trying to annoy me, Ramses thought. And he’s succeeding.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“About what? Oh—Margaret? Your mother has her well in hand.” Another gaping yawn.
“About the situation in general,” Ramses said, holding on to his temper. “We can’t go on like this indefinitely.”
“Something is sure to happen sooner or later.” He added pensively, “I have a plan.”
“You wouldn’t care to share it with me, I suppose.”
Sethos scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and now that Ramses took a closer look at him, he saw signs of strain—sunken eyes, new lines on his face. Then the old mocking smile curved his mouth. “It’s not much