He Shall Thunder in the Sky (11 page)

     “Stop it,” Nefret snapped.

     “I am sorry,” said Ramses, “if you find my remarks offensive.”

     “Deliberately provocative, rather. People are listening.”

     “If they take umbrage at a philosophical discussion —”

     “Both of you, stop it,” I exclaimed.

     Spots of pink marked Nefret’s smooth cheeks, and Ramses’s lips were pressed tightly together. I was forced to agree with Nefret. Ramses had almost given up his old habit of pontificating at length on subjects designed to annoy the hearer (usually his mother); this relapse was, I thought, deliberate.

     The terrace of Shepheard’s hotel had been a popular rendezvous for decades. It was even more crowded than usual that afternoon. All the first-class hotels were filled to bursting. The War Office had taken over part of the Savoy; Imperial and British troops were pouring into the city. Yet, except for the greater number of uniforms, Shepheard’s looked much the same as it had always done — white cloths and fine china on the tables, waiters running back and forth with trays of food and drink, elegantly dressed ladies and stout gentlemen in snowy linen. Thus far the war had done very little to change the habits of the Anglo-Egyptian community; its members amused themselves in much the same fashion as they would have done in England: the women paying social calls and gossiping, the men patronizing their clubs — and gossiping. Another form of amusement, between persons of opposite genders, was perhaps the inevitable consequence of boredom and limited social contacts. I believe I need say no more.

     I glanced at my lapel watch. “She is late.”

     At this innocuous remark Emerson broke off in the middle of a sentence and turned a formidable frown on me.

     “She? Who? Curse it, Peabody, have you invited some fluttery female to join us? I would never have agreed to come here if I had suspected —”

     “Ah, there she is.”

     She was very handsome in a mature, rather Latin, style, with very red lips and very dark hair, and although she wore the black decreed for recent widows, it was extremely fashionable mourning. Chiffon and point d’esprit filled in the waist opening, and her hat was heaped with black satin bows and jet buckles.

     The man whose arm she held was also a newcomer to Cairo. He looked familiar; I stared rather sharply until I realized that the narrow black mustache and the eyeglass through which he was inspecting the lady reminded me of a sinister Russian I had once known. He was not the only man with her; she was virtually surrounded by admirers civilian and military, upon whom she smiled with practiced impartiality.

     “Is that her?” Emerson demanded. “I hope you didn’t invite the whole lot of them as well.”

     “No.” I raised my parasol and waved. This caught the lady’s eye; with a little gesture of apology she began to detach herself from her followers. I went on, “She is a Mrs. Fortescue, the widow of a gentleman who perished heroically in France recently. I received a letter from her enclosing an introduction from mutual friends — you remember the Witherspoons, Emerson?”

     From Emerson’s expression I could tell he did remember the Witherspoons and was about to express his opinion of them. He was forestalled by Ramses, who had been studying the lady with interest. “Why should she write you, Mother? Is she interested in archaeology?”

     “So she claimed. I saw no harm in extending the hand of friendship to one who has suffered such a bitter loss.”

     “She does not appear to be suffering at the moment,” said Nefret.

     Her brother gave her a sardonic look, and I said, “Hush, here she comes.”

     She had shed all her admirers but one, a fresh-faced officer who looked no more than eighteen. Introductions ensued; since the youth, a Lieutenant Pinckney, continued to hover, watching the lady with doglike devotion, I felt obliged to ask him to join us. Emerson and Ramses resumed their chairs, and Mrs. Fortescue began to apologize for her tardiness.

     “Everyone is so kind,” she murmured. “It is impossible to dismiss well-wishers, you know. I hope I have not kept you waiting long. I have so looked forward to this meeting!”

     “Hmph,” said Emerson, who is easily bored and who does not believe in beating around the bush. “My wife tells me you are interested in Egyptology.”

     From the way her black eyes examined his clean-cut features and firm mouth, I suspected Egyptology was not her only interest. However, her reply indicated that she had at least some superficial knowledge of the subject, and Emerson at once launched into a description of the Giza mastabas.

     Knowing he would monopolize the conversation as long as she tolerated it, I turned to the young subaltern, who appeared somewhat crestfallen by the lady’s desertion. My motherly questions soon cheered him up, and he was happy to tell me all about his family in Nottingham. He had arrived in Egypt only a week before, and although he would rather have been in France, he had hopes of seeing action before long.

     “Not that Johnny Turk is much of a challenge,” he added with a boyish laugh and a reassuring glance at Nefret, who had been studying him fixedly, her chin in her hand. “You ladies haven’t a thing to worry about. He’ll never make it across the Canal.”

     “We aren’t at all worried,” Nefret said, with a smile that made the boy blush.

     “Nor should you be. There are some splendid chaps here, you know, real first-raters. I was talking to one the other night at the Club; didn’t realize it at the time, he’s not the sort who would put himself forward, but one of the other chaps told me afterward he was an expert on the Arab situation; had spent months in Palestine before the war, and actually let himself be taken prisoner by a renegade Arab and his band of ruffians so he could scout out their position. Then he broke out of the place, leaving a number of the scoundrels dead or wounded. But I expect you know the story, don’t you?”

     In his enthusiasm he talked himself breathless. When he stopped, no one replied for a moment. Nefret’s eyes were downcast and she was no longer smiling. Ramses had also been listening. His expression was so bland I felt a strong chill of foreboding.

     “It seems,” he drawled, “that it is known to a good many people. Would that fellow standing by the stairs be the hero of whom you speak?”

     Nefret’s head turned as if on a spring. I had not seen Percy either. Obviously Ramses had. He missed very little.

     “Why, yes, that’s the chap.” Young Pinckney’s ingenuous countenance brightened. “Do you know him?”

     “Slightly.”

     Percy was half-turned, conversing with another officer. I did not doubt he was aware of us, however. Without intending to, I put my hand on Ramses’s arm. He smiled faintly.

     “It’s all right, you know, Mother.”

     Feeling a little foolish, I removed my hand. “What is he doing in khaki, instead of that flamboyant Egyptian Army uniform? Red tabs, too, I see; has he been reassigned?”

     “Red tabs mean the staff, don’t they?” Nefret asked.

     “That’s right,” said Pinckney. “He’s on the General’s staff. It was jolly decent of him to talk to a chap like me,” he added wistfully.

     With so many eyes fixed on him, it was inevitable that Percy should turn. He hesitated for a moment, and then bowed — a generalized bow, directed at all of us, including the delighted Lieutenant Pinckney — before descending the steps.

     I did not think I could endure listening to any more encomiums about Percy, so I attempted to join in the conversation between Emerson and Mrs. Fortescue. However, she was not interested in conversing with
me
.

     “I had no idea it was so late!” she exclaimed, rising. “I must rush off. May I count on seeing you — all of you — again soon? You promised, you know, that you would show me your tomb.”

     She offered her hand to Emerson, who had risen with her. He blinked at her. “Did I? Ah. Delighted, of course. Arrange it with Mrs. Emerson.”

     She had a pleasant word for each of us, and — I could not help noticing — a particularly warm smile for Ramses. Some women like to collect all the personable males in their vicinity. However, when Mr. Pinckney would have accompanied her, she dismissed him firmly but politely, and as she undulated toward the door of the hotel I saw she had another one waiting! He ogled her through his monocle before taking her arm in a possessive fashion and leading her into the hotel.

     “Who is that fellow?” I demanded.

     Pinckney scowled. “A bally Frenchman. Count something or other. Don’t know what the lady sees in him.”

     “The title, perhaps,” Nefret suggested.

     “D’you think so?” The boy stared at her, and then said with a worldly air, “Some ladies are like that, I suppose. Well, I mustn’t intrude any longer. Dashed kind of you to have me. Er — if I happen to be at the pyramids one day, perhaps I might . . . er . . .”

     He hadn’t quite the courage to finish the question, but Nefret nodded encouragingly, and he left looking quite happy again.

     “Shame on you,” I said to Nefret.

     “He’s young and lonely,” she replied calmly. “Mrs. Fortescue is far too experienced for a boy like that. I will find a nice girl his own age for him.”

     “What the devil was that story he was telling you about Percy?” Emerson demanded. He has no patience with gossip or young lovers.

     “The same old story,” Ramses replied. “What is particularly amusing is that everyone believes Percy is too modest to speak of it, despite the fact that he published a book describing his daring escape.”

     “But it’s a bloody lie from start to finish,” Emerson expostulated.

     “And getting better all the time,” Ramses said. “Now he’s claiming he allowed himself to be caught and that he had to fight his way out.”

     It had taken us far longer than it ought to have done to learn the truth about that particular chapter of Percy’s wretched little book. Ramses had not spoken of it, and I had never bothered to peruse the volume; the few excerpts Nefret had read aloud were quite enough for me. It was Emerson who forced himself to plow through Percy’s turgid prose — driven, according to Emerson, by mounting disbelief and indignation. When he reached the part of the book that described Percy’s courageous escape and his rescue of the young Arab prince who had been his fellow prisoner, my intelligent spouse’s suspicions had been aroused, and, in his usual forthright manner, he had confronted Ramses with them.

     “It was you, wasn’t it? It couldn’t have been Prince Feisal, he’d never be damned fool enough to take such a risk. And don’t try to tell me Percy was the hero of the occasion because I wouldn’t believe it if I had the word direct from God and all his prophets! He couldn’t escape from a biscuit tin, much less rescue someone else.”

     Thus challenged, Ramses had had no choice but to confess, and correct Percy’s version. He had also admitted, under considerable pressure, that the truth was known to David and Lia and Nefret. “I asked them not to speak of it,” he had added, raising his voice to be heard over Emerson’s grumbles. “And I would rather you didn’t mention it again, not even to them.”

     He had been so emphatic about it that we had no choice but to accede to his wishes. Now Emerson cleared his throat. “Ramses, it is up to you, of course, but don’t you think you ought to let the true story be known?”

     “What would be the point? No one would believe me, anyhow. Not now.”

     Emerson leaned back in his chair and studied his son’s impassive countenance thoughtfully. “I understand why you did not choose to make the facts public. It does you credit, though in my opinion one can sometimes carry noblesse oblige too damned far. However, given the fact that Percy’s military career seems to have been based on that series of lies, some individuals might feel an obligation to expose him. He could do a great deal of damage if he were entrusted with duties he is incapable of carrying out.”

     “He’ll take care to avoid such duties,” Ramses said. “He’s good at that sort of thing. Father, what were you talking about with Philippides?”

     The change of subject was so abrupt as to make it evident Ramses had no intention of discussing the matter further. I glanced at Nefret, whose failure to offer her opinion had been decidedly unusual. Her eyes were fixed on her teacup, and I thought her cheeks were a trifle flushed.

     “Who?” Emerson looked shifty. “Oh, that bastard. I just happened to find myself standing next to him, so I took advantage of the opportunity to put in a good word for David. Philippides has a great deal of influence with his chief; if he recommended that David be released —”

     “It’s out of his hands now,” Ramses said. “David’s connection with Wardani was well known, and it would take a direct order from the War Office to get him out.”

     “It never hurts to try,” said Emerson. “I was mingling with the crowd, taking the temper of the community —”

     “What nonsense!” I exclaimed.

     “Not at all, Mother,” Ramses said. “What is the temper of the community, Father?”

     “Sour, surly, resentful —”

     “Naturally,” I said.

     “You didn’t allow me to finish, Peabody. There is something uglier than resentment in the air. The enforcement of martial law has not ended anti-British sentiment, it has only driven it underground. Those blind idiots in the Government refuse to see it, but mark my words, this city is a powder keg waiting to be —”

     The next word was drowned out by a loud explosion, rather as if an unseen accomplice had provided dramatic confirmation of Emerson’s speech. Some little distance down the street I saw a cloud of dust and smoke billow up, accompanied by screams, shouts, the rattle of falling debris, and the frantic braying of a donkey.

     Ramses vaulted the rail, landing lightly on the pavement ten feet below. Emerson was only a few seconds behind him, but being somewhat heavier, he dropped straight down onto the Montenegrin doorkeeper and had to pick himself up before following Ramses toward the scene of destruction. Several officers, who had descended the steps in the normal fashion, ran after them. Other people had converged on the spot, forming a shoving, struggling, shouting barricade of bodies.