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had other plans, but might join us later if we were dining at Shepheard’s.

    From Manuscript H
         Ramses made a point of arriving early at the Club so that he could not be refused a table. The committee would have loved an excuse to bar him altogether, but he had carefully avoided committing the unforgivable sins, such as cheating at cards.
         From his vantage point in an obscure corner he watched the dining room fill up. Half the men were in uniform, the drab khaki of the British Army outshone and outnumbered by the gaudy red and gold of the British-led Egyptian Army. They were all officers; enlisted men weren’t allowed in the Turf Club. Neither were Egyptians of any rank or position.
         He had almost finished his meal before the table next to his was occupied by a party of four — two middle-aged officials escorting two ladies. One of the ladies was Mrs. Pettigrew, who had presented him with his latest white feather. She and her husband always reminded him of Tweedledum and Tweedledee; as some married couples do, they had come to resemble one another to an alarming degree. Both were short and stout and red-faced. Ramses rose with a polite bow, and was not at all surprised when Mrs. Pettigrew cut him dead. As soon as they were all seated they put their heads together and began a low-voiced conversation, glancing occasionally in his direction.
         Ramses didn’t doubt he was the subject of the conversation. Pettigrew was one of the most pompous asses in the Ministry of Public Works and one of the loudest patriots in Cairo. The other man was Ewan Hamilton, an engineer who had come to Egypt to advise on the Canal defenses. A quiet, inoffensive man by all accounts, his only affectation was the kilt (Hamilton tartan, Ramses assumed) he often wore. That night he was resplendent in formal Scottish dress: a bottle-green velvet jacket with silver buttons, lace at his chin and cuffs. And, Ramses speculated, a skean dhu in his sock? Gray tarnished the once-blazing red of his hair and mustache, and he squinted in a way that suggested he ought to be wearing spectacles.
         Perhaps he had left them off in order to impress the handsome woman with him. Mrs. Fortescue had been in Cairo less than a month, but she was already something of a belle, if a widow could be called that. Gossip spread like wildfire in Anglo-Egyptian society; it was said that her husband had perished gallantly at the head of his regiment during one of the grisly August campaigns that had strewn the fields of France with dead. Meeting Ramses’s speculative, shamelessly curious gaze, she allowed her discreetly carmined lips to curve in a faint smile.
         As if to emphasize their disapproval of Ramses, the Pettigrews were extremely gracious to another group of diners. All three were in uniform; two were Egyptian Army, the other was a junior official of the Finance Ministry and a member of the hastily organized local militia known derisively as Pharaoh’s Foot. They met daily to parade solemnly up and down on the grounds of the Club, carrying fly whisks and sticks because there were not enough rifles for them. The situation looked promising. Ramses sat back and eavesdropped unabashedly.
         Once the Pettigrews had finished dissecting his history and character, their voices rose to normal pitch — quite piercing, in the case of Mrs. Pettigrew. She talked about everything under the sun, including the private sins of most members of the foreign community. Inevitably the conversation turned to the war. The younger woman expressed concern over the possibility of a Turkish attack, and Mrs. Pettigrew boomed out a hearty reassurance.
         “Nonsense, my dear! Not a chance of it! Everyone knows what wretched cowards the Arabs are — except, of course, when they are led by white officers —”
         “Such as General von Kressenstein,” said Ramses, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over her