Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [81]
“You can hardly expect me to place an order with my haberdasher in Cairo,” Sethos said reproachfully.
“Under which of your names? Oh, never mind. I will have to place the order in Ramses’s name, I suppose. Fortunately Davies, Bryan and Company has his measurements.”
I hadn’t been to Luxor for some time, and my spirits rose as Sabir’s boat took us smoothly across the sun-rippled water. Earlier Ramses had taken me aside and asked me not to leave Nefret’s side, and to stay in safe areas, which I had intended to do anyhow. I was prepared to insist that Sethos remain with us, should he declare his intention of going off alone, but he made no such attempt, strolling along like any casual tourist, with Nefret on one arm and me on the other.
If he intended to make his presence known, he succeeded. We were always running into people we knew, and most of them wanted to stop and chat. So did a number of people we did not know. Unavoidable conversations with the latter ran along the same lines: “Ah, Mrs. Emerson, I am sure you remember me. Miss Jones of the Joneses of Berkshire. May I hope you and your family will dine with us one evening soon?”
I gave them all to understand that they might not hope.
We made the round of the shops. Sethos was at his most gregarious, introducing himself to all and sundry, and bargaining expertly for silver bangles and woven scarves. There was not a great deal of variety to be found in the shops of Luxor—mostly souvenirs and fake antiquities—but some of the good ladies at the school had begun encouraging local handicrafts such as woodwork, weaving, and alabaster carving. We finished our expedition at the Winter Palace Hotel, where a few establishments carrying European goods were to be found, just in time for luncheon.
“Let us lunch on the terrace,” Sethos suggested. “It is too nice a day to be inside.”
“If we can get a table,” said Nefret, for the terrace was full.
“Amelia can always get a table,” said Sethos.
And so it proved. After we had settled ourselves, Nefret began rummaging through her purchases. “Paints and pencils for David John…silver chains for Charla…I couldn’t find anything for Uncle Walter.”
“Men are always difficult,” I agreed.
Half-turned in his chair, looking out over the street, Sethos said, “I’ve been thinking of going up to Cairo to meet them. Give me a list, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Do you think that is a good idea?” I inquired.
“Why not?”
“You know perfectly well why not. Could it be that you want to avoid Margaret? You haven’t once been to see her.”
“It was you, I believe, who pointed out we ought to stay away from her. Perhaps I can—”
He broke off abruptly. A man had come to stand beside us. He removed his hat and inclined his head.
“Ah, Sir Malcolm,” I said, wondering how much he had overheard. “Where have you been keeping yourself? I haven’t seen you since we met unexpectedly in the Valley of the Kings.”
The hair had to be a wig. It was too snowy white, too smooth.
Sir Malcolm acknowledged my hit with a smile. “An interesting evening, was it not? May I join you for a few minutes?”
“Certainly,” I said. “Do you remember Anthony Bissinghurst? You met him last year, but briefly.”
“A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Bissinghurst.” Sir Malcolm bowed again, very cautiously, and subjected Sethos to an intense stare. “I heard you had joined the Emersons’ crew. An excavator, are you?”
“My specialty is demotic,” said Sethos. “I am privileged to further my acquaintance with the subject with an expert like Ramses.”
The waiter came to take our orders and I asked him to fetch another chair. Sethos studied Sir Malcolm with what I could only regard as professional interest, taking note of every detail. I hoped he didn’t intend to impersonate Sir Malcolm again. He had done so briefly the year before, and had been thoroughly confounded when Sir Malcolm arrived on our