Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [83]
Emerson, who had been badgered into playing chess with David John, looked up from the board. “You didn’t slip a little something into that lemonade, did you, Peabody?”
“I didn’t know Nefret was bringing it.”
Sethos burst out laughing, and Nefret said severely, “Don’t encourage her.”
She was out of temper with Sethos these days. I felt sure that Margaret had been regaling her with tales of his failings as a husband. As a professional woman in her own right, Nefret sympathized with other strong, professional women, and as a spouse Sethos cut a poor figure compared with Ramses.
Daoud had come by earlier with a demand from Margaret that I attend upon her that evening. I decided I had better go, though I couldn’t think of anything that would satisfy her desire for an exclusive story. Obviously I could not mention Sir Malcolm’s preposterous scheme, though that was certainly news of import, and if Kevin got hold of the story first, Margaret would be impossible to control.
However, I told myself, Kevin wouldn’t dare print anything without our cooperation, and he was not going to get that. It had required two whiskey and sodas to calm Emerson after I told him about Sir Malcolm’s proposition. Having admitted the reasonableness of my behavior, he turned his wrath on his brother.
“You ought to have given him a good thrashing!”
“On the terrace of the Winter Palace in front of fifty people?” Sethos raised his eyebrows.
“Hmph,” said Emerson. After a moment he added, “Bah!”
Rising, I said, “I am going to run over to Gurneh for a while.”
“Take your parasol,” Emerson said.
“Give my love to my wife,” said Sethos.
“Checkmate,” said David John.
Kadija stood in the open door of the house, arms folded, chatting with her neighbors.
“I brought the medicine you asked for,” I said, for the benefit of the audience that always gathered when I visited the village.
“Thank you, Sitt Hakim.” She took the bottle I handed her and led the way into the house. An appetizing odor of roast lamb made my nostrils twitch. Observing this, Kadija asked, “Will you stay to eat, Sitt?”
“I had better not, Kadija. Some other night. Where is Daoud?”
“The lady sent him to Luxor to get the newspapers. Is that all right, Sitt Hakim? If you say no, I will not give them to her.”
“You may as well. How is she?”
“All day she has been writing in her little book. She thanked me very politely for being so kind to her.”
“Good,” I said. Perhaps I might look forward to a peaceful interview.
“I feel sorry for her,” Kadija said. “Today she asked me to bring her flowers. Only a few, she said, to remind her of the beautiful world outside.”
Because my own conscience was troubling me just a trifle, I said firmly, “It is necessary for her own safety—and it won’t be much longer.” I hope, I added to myself.
Margaret was curled up in the comfortable armchair Kadija had supplied, reading. Daoud had smuggled her suitcase to her, and she was wearing a loose dressing gown in a drab shade of mauve. (She really could use some hints on the subject of dress.) On the table beside her were Kadija’s flowers, roses and hibiscus and daisies, nicely arranged in a vase.
“I see you have found something to amuse you,” I said, closing the door. Kadija’s ponderous footsteps retreated kitchenward.
“It’s a marvelous piece of rubbish,” Margaret said. “Really, Amelia, I am surprised to find you reading such stuff.”
“I was curious,” I admitted. “The book was so popular last winter. It sold an extraordinary number of copies. I—er—only skimmed parts of it. That bad, is it?”
“Dear me, yes. Even better than my own efforts along the lines of romantic adventure.” Glancing down at the page, she read aloud, “‘He seized my hand, his black eyes blazing with passion. “For days your glorious face has filled my dreams,” he panted, his breath hot on my face. “I cannot sleep, I cannot eat. You are mine, alone in the desert with me. No one will hear you cry for help!” ’”
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