“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.

“Let us not proceed precipitately,” I said to Nefret, neatly blocking her attempt to get round the table and past me.

“Someone may be hurt!”

“If you go rushing into that melee, it will be you. Stay with me.”

Taking her arm in one hand and my parasol in the other, I pushed through the agitated ladies who huddled together at the top of the stairs. The street was a scene of utter chaos. Vehicular and four-footed traffic had halted; some vehicles were trying to turn and retreat, others attempted to press forward. People were running in all directions, away from and toward the spot. The fleeing forms were almost all Egyptians; I fended a wild-eyed flower vendor off with a shrewd thrust of my parasol, and drew Nefret out of the path of a portly turbaned individual who spat at us as he trotted past.

By the time we reached the scene the crowd had dispersed. Ramses and Emerson remained, along with several officers, including Percy. The Egyptians had vanished, except for two prisoners who struggled in the grip of their captors, and a third man who lay crumpled on the ground. Standing over him was a tall, rangy fellow wearing the uniform of an Australian regiment.

“Excuse me,” Nefret said. The Australian moved automatically out of her way, but when she knelt beside the fallen man he reached for her, exclaiming, “Ma’am—miss—here, miss, you can’t do that!”

Ramses put out a casual hand, and the young man’s arm flew up into the air.

“Keep your hands off the lady,” Percy ordered. “She is a qualified physician, and a member of one of this city’s most distinguished families.”

“Oh? Oh.” The young man rubbed his arm. Colonials are not so easily intimidated, however; looking from Ramses to Percy, he said, “If she’s a friend of yours, you get her away from here. This is no place for a lady.” He transferred his critical stare to me. “Any lady. Is this one a friend of yours too?”

Percy squared his shoulders. “I would claim that honor if I dared. You may go, Sergeant; you are not needed.”

Reminded thus of their relative ranks, the young man snapped off a crisp salute and backed away.

“What’s the damage, Nefret?” Emerson inquired, studiously ignoring Percy.

“Broken arm, ribs, possible concussion.” She looked up. The brim of her flower-trimmed hat framed her prettily flushed face. The flush was due to anger, as she proceeded to demonstrate. “How many of you gentlemen kicked him after he was down?”

“It was necessary to subdue the fellow,” Percy said quietly. “He was about to throw a second grenade onto the terrace of Shepheard’s.”

“Dear me,” I said. “What happened to it?”

Too late, I remembered I had sworn never to speak to Percy again. With a smile that showed me he had not forgotten, he removed his hand carefully from his pocket.

“Here. Don’t worry, Aunt Amelia, I got it away from him before he had removed the pin.”

Nefret refused to leave her patient until an ambulance arrived. He was still unconscious when they put him into it. By that time the police were on the scene and the soldiers had dispersed. Percy had been the first to leave, without speaking to any of us again.

Emerson helped Nefret to her feet. Her pretty frock was in a deplorable state; Cairo streets are covered with a number of noxious substances, of which dust is the least offensive. Ramses inspected her critically and suggested we take her straight home.