Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [93]
It was quite an amusing sight, but I resisted the temptation to see what would ensue. Opening the door, I shouted at the top of my lungs.
“Amira! Stay!”
The dog at once obeyed, dropping to the ground practically at the feet of Sir Malcolm, who was flailing ineffectually at her with his stick.
“I do beg your pardon, Sir Malcolm,” I called. “Please come in. She is perfectly harmless, you see.”
Emerson, doubled up with laughter, moved aside as Sir Malcolm ran pell-mell toward the door. “Most refreshing,” he said. “You’ve put together a real witch’s brew, Peabody. What are you up to now, eh?”
“Wait and see,” I murmured. Emerson grinned and held out his arms to the children. “There you are, my darlings. Come and say hello to our friends.”
Sir Malcolm was no fonder of children than he was of dogs. Eyeing Charla askance—she had once tried to bite him after he patted her on the head—he sank panting into a chair. I took him a cup of tea.
“Did you plan that, Mrs. Emerson?” he said in a whisper.
“I assure you, I did not. You know most of the others, I believe? Cyrus and Katherine Vandergelt, their son Bertie, their assistant Jumana. May I present Suzanne Malraux and Mr. Nadji Farid, who recently joined our staff. Oh, and Mr. Kevin O’Connell, of the Daily Yell.”
The courtesies gave Sir Malcolm time to compose himself. His dignity had been sadly damaged, however; Bertie was still grinning, and some of the others were trying not to laugh. The malevolent look he gave me assured me he would not soon forget the indignity.
All in all, it was a merry, noisy meeting. I moved from group to group as a good hostess should, offering refreshments and overhearing bits of conversation. Margaret did not put in an appearance.
Sir Malcolm succeeded in getting Emerson aside. The few words I managed to hear indicated that he was still attempting to persuade Emerson to join with him in a complaint to M. Lacau. This proved to be a serious error on his part. Emerson gave him a contemptuous look and turned his back.
“That was a serious error on your part,” I said to Sir Malcolm. “I could have told you Emerson would refuse.”
“Time is running out,” Sir Malcolm said, clutching his stick as if he yearned to strike someone with it. “The Professor did not refuse—not point-blank. He implied that he would consider my proposal.”
“Did he really?”
“I choose to interpret it thus, Mrs. Emerson, because the alternative—”
He stopped with a snap of his teeth, and I said, “Dear me. Is that a threat, Sir Malcolm?”
“Not at all.” He glanced at the door, where Amira lay staring in. Her tongue hung out and most of her teeth were visible. “If you will be good enough to remove that creature, I will bid you good afternoon.”
I did, and he did. After looking about and realizing his servant had not returned, Sir Malcolm set off on foot, at a pace that betokened ill for the poor fellow. I hoped he would have the good sense to keep on running and not return.
Naturally, the moment Sir Malcolm was out of earshot we all began talking about him.
“He would not play chess,” said David John critically.
“I wouldn’t trust him any farther than I could throw him,” Cyrus declared. “What did he say to you, Emerson?”
“Same old thing. Wanted me to join with him in exposing to Lacau what he called Carnarvon’s illicit activities. I said I would think about it.” Emerson tried to look crafty.
“Well done, my dear,” I exclaimed. “How far will he go, I wonder? He spoke of time running out, and of assuming you would cooperate with him, because the alternative—”
After a breathless interval, Emerson said, “The alternative was what?”
“He broke off at that point.”
“How delightfully ominous.” Nefret laughed.
“Bah,” Emerson declared. “There is