Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (35 page)

like me very much?" I assured her that we would. At least she had not demanded a direct quid pro quo! Leaving her and Bertie to stroll slowly about, we set off in a southerly direction, trailed by Jamil, who was carrying the water bottles. He fell farther and farther behind as we followed the steep path toward the base of the cliffs. "He is certainly a reluctant assistant," I remarked to Ramses. "How did he get those bruises?" "According to Jumana, he got into a fight at one of the Luxor coffee shops. In her opinion-she has a good many opinions," Ramses interpolated, with a sidelong glance at me-"he spends too much time in such places, with companions who are of questionable reputation. He's the apple of Yusuf's eye, though, and the old rascal refuses to discipline him. Watch where you step-it's rather rough going here." He caught hold of my arm. I could have recovered from my stumble without assistance, but I thanked him and explained, "I am quite familiar with the terrain, my dear. I was scanning the cliffs for tomb entrances." They-the cliffs, not the entrances-hung over us. Countless years of weathering by wind and water had shaped the stone into bizarre formations, some roughly columnar, some reminiscent of molten stone that had flowed over the top and then hardened. I did not need Emerson-or Ramses-to tell me that looking for an opening in that broken surface was almost certainly futile. Ramses felt obliged to tell me, though. "One never knows," I replied. "Your father must believe there is some purpose in this expedition. Has he confided in you?" "No. However, I think he wants to have a look at the place Kuentz showed us." "Where someone dropped various objects on you? Hmmm. I had forgotten to put that on my list. Wait just a minute." I removed the list from my pocket and opened the pencil case attached to my belt while Ramses watched with unconcealed amusement. "Why don't you join Cyrus and rest for a bit?" he suggested. Emerson and Nefret had forged ahead, leaving Cyrus seated on the ground with his back against a boulder. When we came up to him he was mopping his flushed, sweating face with a handkerchief. "Are you all right, Cyrus?" I asked. "Never been happier," said Cyrus, between wheezes. "Take me a day ... or two ... to get back in shape ..." I told Ramses to go on and beckoned at Jamil. After handing each of us a water bottle, he seated himself on the ground a little distance away. "You don't appear to be enjoying yourself, Jamil," I remarked. Jamil shrugged. "This is not work for a man, Sitt Hakim." "What kind of work would you like to do?" Another shrug. "You must have some idea," I persisted. "Some of your cousins and your uncles work for us. They earn good money and are respected." A slight curl of the boy's lip indicated his view of that idea. "If archaeology does not interest you, there are other worthwhile careers," I went on. "Cook, police officer-" "Waiter, house servant," said Cyrus, whose Arabic was good enough to enable him to follow the conversation. "His opportunities are limited, my dear. It isn't right or just, but that's the way the world is." "Ambition can o'erleap limitations," I said. "Look at David. And at Selim and Abdullah, for that matter." Jamil did not respond, even with a curl of the lip, so I poked him with my parasol to get his attention, and went on in Arabic, "You come of an honored family, Jamil. You too can be honored and respected if you work hard and study. There are those who will gladly help." "Yes, Sitt Hakim." His smile would have been as charming as his sister's if it had had her warmth. "I am surprised to find such lack of ambition in a member of that family," I remarked, as we continued on our way. "Perhaps my kindly little lecture will have some effect. He appeared to take it to heart." "Huh," said Cyrus. "You'd better concentrate on Jumana. She's got enough ambition for both of them." It was not long before we caught the others up. They had found the place without difficulty. The body had been removed, by predators or the police-probably the latter, since there were no indigestible bits scattered about. "Has the fellow been identified?" I inquired. "I asked to be notified should that occur," Ramses replied. "But I don't expect they will go to much trouble, unless someone reports a son or husband missing. He was a poor man. Worn, cheap garments. Not even a pair of sandals." Emerson looked up. "Confound it, Ramses, there must be something there or the fellow wouldn't have attempted to prevent you from finding it." "Kuentz must have been mistaken about the location. I didn't see any sign of an opening, and anyhow, he says the place contained nothing of interest." "Hmph," said Emerson, fingering his chin. "I need to have a talk with Kuentz." And off he went with his long stride. "Emerson, come back here!" I shouted. "You can't walk all the way to Deir el Medina." He could have and would have had I not prevented him. I was also forced to forbid him to climb the cliff in search of Mr. Kuentz's purported tomb. In my opinion, it would have been both dangerous and unproductive, and we had to return in time to keep our luncheon engagement. The going was easier on the way back, since it was downhill most of the way; but by the time we had collected Bertie and Jumana, both of whom looked very pleased with themselves-for, I sincerely hoped, different reasons-we decided that Emerson and I would go to the Amelia with the children and freshen up a bit there before proceeding to our appointment. Cyrus's face fell. The arrangement left him no choice but to escort Bertie back to the Castle. I had never intended to take him along anyhow; I had a number of things to say to my brother-in-law that could not be said in Cyrus's presence. FROM MANUSCRIPT H As they got ready for their visit to the Winter Palace, Ramses's nerves began to twitch. The interview with Sethos promised to be awkward, if not actually explosive, and he was worried about Margaret. Smith's presence added another disturbing element. He wondered if his mother had him on her list, and what she had written under "What to do about it." She was the coolest of them all, inspecting them to make certain they were tidy enough to meet her standards, and giving Emerson's dusty coat an extra brushing. Ramses half-expected her to demand he hold out his hands as she had done when he was a child. When they were in the dinghy and under way, she whipped out her list and Emerson, who had been scowling and rubbing his chin, snarled, "Did you overlook something, Amelia? 'Reform Sethos,' for example? I see you have your parasol, but-" "Sssh." She indicated the boatman. "Leave it to me, Emerson." "Curse it," said Emerson. "Ramses, I presume you know what he looks like. At the moment, I mean." "He was wearing Ramses's clothes," Nefret said. "The brown-and-gray tweed he bought in London last summer. Ramses also supplied him with a mustache and a sunburn. In return, he supplied us with the name under which he intended to register." She put her hand over Emerson's clenched fist. "Father, promise you won't start shouting at him. And Mother, you won't be rude to Margaret, will you?" Both of them looked at her in shocked surprise. "I am never rude," said his mother stiffly. "I never shout," his father shouted. For once Emerson did not linger in front of the hotel exchanging witticisms with dragomen, beggars, and vendors. He marched straight to the reception desk, where he was greeted effusively by the assistant manager. "Welcome back to Luxor, Professor and Mrs. Emerson. We heard of your arrival and were hoping you would honor us with a visit. Are you lunching? I will have a table prepared." "Yes, very good," said Emerson. "You have a guest who registered yesterday, a Mr.-er-" "The Honorable Edmund Whitbread," Ramses supplied. "Oh, Honorable, of course," Emerson muttered. "What's his room number?" "The gentleman left us this morning. He was on his way to Assuan, I believe. Oh, dear. I am very sorry, Professor, you appear a trifle-er-put out. Had he expected you to call?" "Evidently," said Emerson in a choked voice. "He said he would be back in a few days, he asked us to keep his room for him ..." "Key," said Emerson, holding out his hand. It was strictly against the rules, but the fellow didn't even hesitate before he produced the key. How does he do it? Ramses wondered enviously. He doesn't threaten, he doesn't even raise his voice. Emerson maintained a simmering silence as they proceeded to the lift. His wife was the first one who had the courage to break it. "Bad luck," she said. "It wasn't your fault, Ramses." Ramses realized, to his surprise, that he had no intention of apologizing. Perhaps letting Sethos go had not been a wise move, but he didn't regret it. "It "was the news of your arrival that made him bolt," he said. "What do you expect to find in his room, Father? D'you suppose he's had the common decency to return my best suit, or leave us a note of apology?" "One never knows," his father said with a grudging smile. "We'll have a look later. First we will collect the lady-assuming she hasn't taken herself off too-and have lunch. I'm hungry." Ramses knocked and announced himself, but Margaret refused to open the door until Nefret had spoken to her. The room was in disorder-the bed unmade, the furniture shifted around-and Margaret was equally disheveled. Her clothes looked as if she had slept in them. "Thank heaven!" she exclaimed, clutching at Emerson's arm like a drowning woman who has found a lifeline. "I haven't been out of this room since yesterday afternoon, I didn't dare even open the door for the waiter, and I wasn't sure the invitation was from you, and ... and I'm ravenous!" "Now, now," said Emerson, glancing uneasily at his wife, who remarked, "There is no excuse for hysteria, Miss Minton. We will go down to luncheon at once. First smooth your hair and put on your hat." "Of course. It wouldn't do to appear in public without a hat, would it?" She pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. "I beg your pardon. I have been under something of a strain." Their table was ready, and Emerson insisted she eat something and have a glass of wine before she explained. A lady in distress always brought out the chivalrous side of his nature. He even called her Margaret. His wife did not. "If you are yourself again, Miss Minton, we would appreciate a brief, coherent narrative." Half a glass of wine and a roll had restored Margaret's self-possession and her sense of humor. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait and borrow my written account?" "Just tell us," Ramses said quickly. "By all means," said his mother. "You may wonder why I asked Nefret to speak before I opened the door. Yesterday afternoon, just as I was about to go down for tea, there was a knock at my door, and a voice. Your voice, Ramses." Ramses bit off an oath. His father didn't. "Bloody hell and damnation! What did he say?" '"It's me, Margaret. All right, are you?' It sounded exactly like you, Ramses." "It would," Ramses said between his teeth. "So of course I unlocked the door, and started to open it. He slammed it, practically in my face, and ordered me to lock it and keep it locked. He didn't sound like you then! He went on to tell me what a bloody idiot I was, and that there were at least three people in the hotel, including himself, who would lay violent hands on me if I put my nose outside that door, and that he wasn't the only one who could imitate your voice, and . . ." She smiled wryly. "If he meant to frighten me, he succeeded. When he stopped listing all the things that could happen to me, I asked several questions-you can imagine what about-but there was no answer." The waiter brought their soup, and with a murmured apology, she began to eat. "Two other people," Emerson muttered. "Who the devil ..." "It may not have been true," Ramses said. "I couldn't take the chance, could I?" Margaret demanded. "And later that night, after I'd gone to bed, someone rattled the doorknob. I'd just got up nerve enough to turn out the light and I was half asleep. I yelled, 'Who's there?' Nobody answered. Then, just before dawn-" "Good Gad," Emerson exclaimed. "Again?" "He said he was the safragi, with my breakfast. I hadn't ordered breakfast." "Three in all," Nefret murmured. "I wonder how many of them were Sethos?" "I'm glad you find this amusing, Nefret," Margaret said. Nefret hastily wiped the smile off her face. Ramses didn't understand her amusement either; Sethos's intentions might have been honorable, but his methods were deplorable. "He'd have had time to pop by just before he went to catch the Assuan train," Nefret went on. Margaret dropped her soup spoon. "He's gone to Assuan?" "Not bloo- not likely," said Emerson. "But he has left the hotel, the bas- the ungrateful wretch. Ramses got him over here yesterday, since the presence of a stranger on board the Amelia had become known. Good idea, really. Confuse the trail." "Thank you, Father," Ramses said. "Hmm, yes. You can't stay here either, Margaret-Miss Minton--" "Please use my given name, Professor. Formality is somewhat absurd under the circumstances." "Er-thank you. As I was saying, we need to get you away from here. Peabody?" "Quite right, Emerson. She is going back to the Castle with us. I have already spoken to Cyrus about it." Of course she had, Ramses thought. She had probably put it on her list: "Move Miss Minton." Neither of the Vandergelts would have had a word to say about it. She and Nefret went with Margaret to help her pack while Ramses and his father investigated the room Sethos had occupied. It was on the same floor as Margaret's, a few doors down the hall. The servants had been there that morning; the bed had been made and fresh towels placed on the table by the washstand. The wardrobe was empty. The only sign of occupancy, past or future, was a book on the bedside table-a popular guide to the antiquities of Upper Egypt. When Ramses picked it up, an envelope fell from between the pages. It was addressed, in a bold, black scrawl, to Professor Radcliffe Emerson. Emerson read the enclosed letter and handed it to Ramses. "'Sorry to have missed you. I had business elsewhere. Be good enough, I beg, to present my compliments to the ladies of your family, and to Miss Minton, who, I understand, will be leaving Luxor immediately. Sincere regards ...' It's signed 'Whitbread.'" His father's unnatural calm augured poorly for someone-probably Sethos. "The ladies of your family," Emerson said, in the same cool voice. "Good of him to include Nefret." "It is, rather, considering how she bullied him. Father, he had to be careful what he wrote. The chance of anyone other than you finding the message was remote, but he doesn't take chances, even remote ones." "What annoys me most," said Emerson reflectively, "is his ability to anticipate our movements. He could have left this at the desk. How did he know I'd search his