expression, Ramses had strictly forbidden me to leave the house—or rather, since he knows me well, he had strongly suggested that I follow his advice on the matter. I agreed (while reserving the right to act otherwise should the situation change) and he went off, declaring that he meant to spend the day working on the hieratic papyri we had found in such numbers. The Egyptian language was Ramses’s specialty and major interest, and he had fallen behind on his translations.
My thoughts strayed to my conversation with Abdullah. He had been as annoyingly mysterious as usual, and there was nothing new in his lecture about my habit of looking for trouble, as he called it. But this was the first time he had had the temerity to hint that I was getting too old for such adventures! He ought to have known that would only spur me on.
Perhaps that was why the old rascal had done it. Not that I needed any such inspiration. Like Abdullah, I would be the master of my own fate. A swift and honorable death, particularly if it were in the service of a loved one, was preferable to slow decay of mind and body.
What the devil had he meant by that last “hint,” as he called it? I tried to recall the many conversations I had had with him. He had often told me that time had no meaning in the afterworld; what had seemed years to me might have been only a few moments to him. We had spoken of many things; try as I might, I could not call to mind any reference to Amarna or Akhenaton.
After Nefret had tended to the patients who had turned up that morning—an infected toe and a case of ophthalmia—she joined me on the veranda, admitting that she was unable to emulate her husband’s lack of curiosity.
“Who are all those people?” she asked, accepting a cup of coffee from Fatima. “Don’t they have anything better to do?”
“Many people lead lives of crushing boredom,” I said. “They are so lacking in imagination and intelligence they don’t even realize how bored they are until something like this happens. That flashily dressed lady and gentleman in the carriage, for instance—I think I remember meeting them last year. Idle, uninformed members of the aristocracy.”
“Who is that fellow in the shooting jacket and broad-brimmed hat?”
“A journalist,” I said with a sniff. “No, I don’t know him, but I can spot the villains a mile away. Goodness, I do believe the fellow is offering Hassan a bribe!”
“He is probably not the first to do so. Hassan knows better.”
“Wasim knows better too, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover he extracted a sizable amount of baksheesh from various people.”
“By promising to deliver messages, which you had instructed him to do anyhow? So that’s why he is now anxious to return to his duties. One would have supposed that having a house collapse on him would put him off the job.”
“Greed is a motive strong enough to overcome cowardice,” I remarked. “Curse it, look at all those people. I wish…”
“That you could find out what is going on? So do I,” Nefret admitted. “But we daren’t risk leaving the house. We would be surrounded.”
“I had thought of borrowing a robe and headcloth from Fatima and going just as far as the guardhouse.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Please don’t, Mother. I have a feeling that before long we will hear from either Miss Petherick or Cyrus.”
It was neither of the above who came first. I was a trifle surprised when I saw Hassan stand back and try to hide the rifle behind his back. Then I recognized the man who came walking up the road—taller than most Egyptians, his white uniform crisp, his close-cropped black beard framing a keen dark face. A wise man does not argue with the chief of the Luxor police, especially this one. Ibrahim Ayyid was still young, but in the past few years he had acquired a reputation for strict discipline and fair dealing.
With an exclamation of pleasure, Nefret went to the door to
My thoughts strayed to my conversation with Abdullah. He had been as annoyingly mysterious as usual, and there was nothing new in his lecture about my habit of looking for trouble, as he called it. But this was the first time he had had the temerity to hint that I was getting too old for such adventures! He ought to have known that would only spur me on.
Perhaps that was why the old rascal had done it. Not that I needed any such inspiration. Like Abdullah, I would be the master of my own fate. A swift and honorable death, particularly if it were in the service of a loved one, was preferable to slow decay of mind and body.
What the devil had he meant by that last “hint,” as he called it? I tried to recall the many conversations I had had with him. He had often told me that time had no meaning in the afterworld; what had seemed years to me might have been only a few moments to him. We had spoken of many things; try as I might, I could not call to mind any reference to Amarna or Akhenaton.
After Nefret had tended to the patients who had turned up that morning—an infected toe and a case of ophthalmia—she joined me on the veranda, admitting that she was unable to emulate her husband’s lack of curiosity.
“Who are all those people?” she asked, accepting a cup of coffee from Fatima. “Don’t they have anything better to do?”
“Many people lead lives of crushing boredom,” I said. “They are so lacking in imagination and intelligence they don’t even realize how bored they are until something like this happens. That flashily dressed lady and gentleman in the carriage, for instance—I think I remember meeting them last year. Idle, uninformed members of the aristocracy.”
“Who is that fellow in the shooting jacket and broad-brimmed hat?”
“A journalist,” I said with a sniff. “No, I don’t know him, but I can spot the villains a mile away. Goodness, I do believe the fellow is offering Hassan a bribe!”
“He is probably not the first to do so. Hassan knows better.”
“Wasim knows better too, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover he extracted a sizable amount of baksheesh from various people.”
“By promising to deliver messages, which you had instructed him to do anyhow? So that’s why he is now anxious to return to his duties. One would have supposed that having a house collapse on him would put him off the job.”
“Greed is a motive strong enough to overcome cowardice,” I remarked. “Curse it, look at all those people. I wish…”
“That you could find out what is going on? So do I,” Nefret admitted. “But we daren’t risk leaving the house. We would be surrounded.”
“I had thought of borrowing a robe and headcloth from Fatima and going just as far as the guardhouse.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Please don’t, Mother. I have a feeling that before long we will hear from either Miss Petherick or Cyrus.”
It was neither of the above who came first. I was a trifle surprised when I saw Hassan stand back and try to hide the rifle behind his back. Then I recognized the man who came walking up the road—taller than most Egyptians, his white uniform crisp, his close-cropped black beard framing a keen dark face. A wise man does not argue with the chief of the Luxor police, especially this one. Ibrahim Ayyid was still young, but in the past few years he had acquired a reputation for strict discipline and fair dealing.
With an exclamation of pleasure, Nefret went to the door to
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