Miss Ermintrude de Vere Smith (a rather silly name, in my opinion) was no match for Fatima, who could stare down a charging bull. Emerson has been known to blink during confrontations with her. I have told him numerous times that tact was more effective, but to no avail. “Did Miss Smith tell you why she wanted to see Herr Morgenstern?” I inquired.

“Only that she was concerned about his health. I told her that he was recovering and that she could not come further onto the deck.”

After Fatima left, I picked up a cucumber sandwich and nibbled pensively. I could think of no reason why Miss Smith would evince concern for the patient. To the best of my memory, they had exchanged few words. Had she concluded that Mr. Dullard was no longer a viable suitor and had turned to Herr Morgenstern to replace him? The idea was so befuddling that I opened my notebook and drew an arrow with a question mark. Emerson, who abhorred romantic trivia, would not deign to debate the possibility. Nefret had met all three players in the love triangle, and might relish the opportunity to speculate with me.

I finished eating the sandwich, took a sip of tea, sank back into the pillows of the divan, and succumbed to a nap.

Seventeen

From Manuscript H

Tahir peered out the window that fronted the street. “There are dozens of men on the sidewalk, muttering to one another and frightening women who are burdened with bags and children. Are these the recruits you spoke of, Brother of Demons?”

Ramses nodded, having conceded that Tahir could never bring himself to use a more familiar form of address. “Yes, but they are early. We do not want to arrive at the train station two hours before our departure. That will be our most vulnerable time, and we cannot rely on Gunter’s rogues to duplicate Cromwell’s fatal attempt to avoid being apprehended. Tahir, please go downstairs and remind my so-called recruits that I specified five o’clock.”

David waited until Tahir hurried out the door. “I commend your success in the art of inspiring otherwise useless layabouts to protect us. They will outnumber those sent by Gunter to repossess his bust of Nefertiti, which I assume he believes is the original. Should we give him one of the forgeries as a gesture of repentance?”

“He fired a gun at us,” Ramses reminded him, “and kidnapped you. The only thing I would give him is a bag of camel dung. Forty pounds of it, well ripened.” He went to the window and looked down. “Tahir has had no impact on the increasing number of our bodyguards, now up to about forty. There will be little space on the platform at the train station for innocent travelers. I wonder if Sethos will be among them.”