A Moment Too Soon
Sir Ribald was aghast. "Surely you can't mean . . ." He trailed off, contemplating all possible avenues for what Lady Ashton was suggesting, and simultaneously reviewing all possible means by which he might extricate himself from the study as quickly as possible. A great many possibilities.
"Yes," Lady Ashton asserted before he could implement his plan to fling himself bodily over the box of spear heads and make a run for the door. She leaned over him, placing a hand on either knee. Her presence barred his exit. "My husband can't possibly have mistook his dates so erroneously. Which means, Sir Ribald, that this meeting in Egypt was planned for this coming week. Which means, Sir Ribald, that unless news of his death has somehow traveled halfway across the world, whomever he was planning on meeting there will still be expecting him to arrive on the seventeenth. It has become quite clear to me that my husband was enmeshed in something--something mysterious, unbeknown even to myself, and that it was both ominous and of grave import . . . at least, to him. Which means that it is important to me, darling. Very important. Furthermore, I mean to find out the precise nature of this conspiracy."
"How," Ribald ventured, "do you plan to do this, exactly?" He was leaning back, away from Lady Ashton, straining against the cushioned upholstery of the arm chair. The look in his hostess's eyes frightened him. If he had not been such a sensible man, he would have called it eagerness.
Lady Ashton smiled--a close-lipped, mischievous smile. She patted his knee then reached up to tweak his nose. "We," she said, straightening to her formidable height, "we are leaving for Cairo. Tonight."
She reached into her pocket and produced a long envelope. Sir Ribald dreaded its contents--a degree of dread he typically reserved for things like Hell, Nuclear Warfare, and brussel sprouts. His pale face shone with a fine sheen of perspiration, advertising his disinclination to accept Lady Ashton's invitation. (Which was really more of a designation, when he thought about it.) He wetted his lips with a tongue gone suddenly dry. "We, Lady Ashton?" he inquired. "Surely you can't mean . . ."
Tsking, Lady Ashton opened the envelope and handed him the pair of train tickets within. She patted his knee again and turned to the doorway. "That's the second time you've said that, dearheart," she sighed. "Really, you can expect from here on that I can mean and that if in doubt, I probably do. I'll just go and ready my things. Will you call us a cab?"
And without further parley, she disappeared from the study, leaving Ribald alone with his misgivings and the task of phoning the British Community Transport. He staggered to the phone and, with shaking fingers, hefted the earpiece. It seemed inordinately heavy! "Hello?" he rasped into the receiver. "Ahem, hello? Get me the BCT, please. I need a cabbie to 51 Beaverton Street. Yes. The train station, please. Thank you."
He replaced the earpiece, which resounded against the brass catch with a terrible finality. "Ribald, old chap," it seemed to say, "Ribald, you are in over your head."
And it was right.
"Yes," Lady Ashton asserted before he could implement his plan to fling himself bodily over the box of spear heads and make a run for the door. She leaned over him, placing a hand on either knee. Her presence barred his exit. "My husband can't possibly have mistook his dates so erroneously. Which means, Sir Ribald, that this meeting in Egypt was planned for this coming week. Which means, Sir Ribald, that unless news of his death has somehow traveled halfway across the world, whomever he was planning on meeting there will still be expecting him to arrive on the seventeenth. It has become quite clear to me that my husband was enmeshed in something--something mysterious, unbeknown even to myself, and that it was both ominous and of grave import . . . at least, to him. Which means that it is important to me, darling. Very important. Furthermore, I mean to find out the precise nature of this conspiracy."
"How," Ribald ventured, "do you plan to do this, exactly?" He was leaning back, away from Lady Ashton, straining against the cushioned upholstery of the arm chair. The look in his hostess's eyes frightened him. If he had not been such a sensible man, he would have called it eagerness.
Lady Ashton smiled--a close-lipped, mischievous smile. She patted his knee then reached up to tweak his nose. "We," she said, straightening to her formidable height, "we are leaving for Cairo. Tonight."
She reached into her pocket and produced a long envelope. Sir Ribald dreaded its contents--a degree of dread he typically reserved for things like Hell, Nuclear Warfare, and brussel sprouts. His pale face shone with a fine sheen of perspiration, advertising his disinclination to accept Lady Ashton's invitation. (Which was really more of a designation, when he thought about it.) He wetted his lips with a tongue gone suddenly dry. "We, Lady Ashton?" he inquired. "Surely you can't mean . . ."
Tsking, Lady Ashton opened the envelope and handed him the pair of train tickets within. She patted his knee again and turned to the doorway. "That's the second time you've said that, dearheart," she sighed. "Really, you can expect from here on that I can mean and that if in doubt, I probably do. I'll just go and ready my things. Will you call us a cab?"
And without further parley, she disappeared from the study, leaving Ribald alone with his misgivings and the task of phoning the British Community Transport. He staggered to the phone and, with shaking fingers, hefted the earpiece. It seemed inordinately heavy! "Hello?" he rasped into the receiver. "Ahem, hello? Get me the BCT, please. I need a cabbie to 51 Beaverton Street. Yes. The train station, please. Thank you."
He replaced the earpiece, which resounded against the brass catch with a terrible finality. "Ribald, old chap," it seemed to say, "Ribald, you are in over your head."
And it was right.