Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [85]
I gathered up the rest of Margaret’s possessions and tossed them into her suitcase, together with the books I had been good enough to lend her. Carrying it, Daoud escorted me home. He left me near the door of the veranda and vanished into the darkness. I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to face Emerson. I was not keen on doing so either. Overconfidence (a quality of which I am often accused) and unwarranted trust had caused me to err.
He had heard us coming and was holding the door open. “Was that Daoud?” he demanded. “Why didn’t he come in? Why the devil have you been so long? You are late for dinner. Maaman will—”
“Something has happened,” Nefret exclaimed, hurrying to the door. “Mother, where are your clothes?”
Emerson hadn’t noticed that. He wouldn’t, of course. I swayed and put my hand to my head. Alarm replaced the anger on Emerson’s face. He caught me up in his arms.
“Are you hurt? Peabody, speak to me!”
I couldn’t, because he was squeezing me so tightly. The others gathered round, and Fatima came trotting out of the house, uttering squeaks of distress. Touched by their concern, I managed to loosen Emerson’s grip and gave him a reassuring smile.
“A whiskey and soda will set me right.”
“Put her on the settee, Father,” Ramses said, removing the Great Cat of Re from that object of furniture.
Emerson lowered me onto the settee. I began to feel a trifle guilty for causing the dear fellow such distress, so I sat up and took the glass Ramses handed me.
“Thank you, my boy. I suffered a momentary faintness, nothing more.”
Sethos spoke for the first time. “Am I correct in assuming Margaret has something to do with your—er—momentary faintness?”
The moment of truth could not be delayed. Nefret was about to drag me off to the clinic for another needless examination, and Emerson was still pale with alarm. I took a refreshing sip of whiskey and squared my shoulders.
“Margaret has got away. She knocked me unconscious, stole my clothes, and slipped out of the house. By the time Kadija found me, Margaret had disappeared. Daoud searched for her, but in vain.”
“Good Gad,” said Emerson. “Good Gad! She hit you?”
“Not very hard,” I said. “I have a little bump…Ouch.”
Nefret’s skilled hands ran over my head. “Just here. The skin isn’t broken. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Four,” I said. “I do not have concussion. Don’t fuss over me. We must without delay consider what steps to take to find her. We will discuss it at dinner. All this excitement has given me quite an appetite.”
Once reassured as to my state of health, Emerson was inclined to be critical. “Really, Peabody, I am surprised at you. How could you be so careless?”
He stabbed viciously at the inoffensive fish on his plate. Flakes flew.
“Let us not waste time in recriminations,” said Ramses, with an amused glance at me. He was of course concerned about Margaret, but as he had pointed out earlier, she had only herself to blame if she ran into trouble. We had done our best to protect her.
Sethos, eating with good appetite, appeared even less concerned. I had described my encounter and our subsequent search in some detail.
“Where could she go?” Nefret asked, her brow furrowed. “She must have concealed her—Mother’s—distinctive clothing under the woman’s robe, which would have enabled her to leave Gurneh undetected. But after that? She can’t maintain her disguise as an Egyptian woman for long, and she has no acquaintances on the West Bank. Perhaps she’ll come here.”
“No,” Sethos said. Fatima removed his fish—or rather, the bones thereof—and replaced it with a platter of sliced beef. Sethos picked up his knife and fork. “There’s only one place she could go. Only one place she would go.”
Ramses’s heavy black eyebrows tilted. “Straight into the thick of things. The Winter Palace.”
“Or one of the other