Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (129 page)

‘Oh, I thought you said … Well, not to put too fine a face upon it, we are all rather under the weather just now, and I thought perhaps I might beg some medicine from Mrs Emerson. What I need, I believe, is a quantity of ipacanana.’

‘Ipecacuanha,’ I corrected.

‘Oh, Yes – quite. Thank you, Mrs Emerson.’

‘What is the nature of your complaint?’ Emerson asked. A suspicion of the truth had occurred to him; the dawning delight on his face really did him no credit.

‘That is evident, Emerson,’ I said. ‘Mr Quibell’s disinclination to take food and the peculiar shade of his complexion indicate a disturbance of the digestive tract.’

‘Food poisoning,’ said Emerson, choking with amusement. ‘It is food poisoning, isn’t it, Quibell? Petrie’s people always come down with food poisoning. He opens a tin, and eats half of the contents, and leaves it standing round in some unsanitary tomb, and then expects his staff members to finish the stuff … Ha, ha, ha!’

‘Really, Emerson,’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Here is poor Mr Quibell, pea-green with indigestion–’

‘Peas,’ Emerson gasped. ‘Yes, I understand Petrie is particularly fond of tinned peas. Very good, Peabody.’

Quibell came loyally to his chief’s defence. ‘It isn’t Professor Petrie’s fault. You know he operates with limited funds and he never has the slightest trouble himself–’

‘No, the man has the digestion of a camel,’ Emerson agreed, struggling to control himself. ‘I do beg your pardon, Quibell; my laughter was in extremely bad taste. But Petrie’s eccentricities are a source of great amusement to a simple, straightforward chap like myself.’

Quibell’s wide eyes shifted from Emerson, bareheaded under the baking sun, to me, and then to Ramses, who was giving the cat Bastet her daily lesson. ‘Heel, if you please,’ he was saying, and the cat promptly fell in behind him.

But, as I have said, for all his blunt manners, Emerson has the kindest of hearts. After Selim had fetched the bottle of ipecacuanha, and a few other items I thought might be useful, Emerson told Quibell to call on us for anything he needed, and insisted upon lending him a donkey and an escort for the return trip. ‘Petrie thinks nothing of a six-mile walk,’ he said, slapping the young man on the back with such friendly emphasis that he tottered. ‘Neither do I, of course. Do it all the time. But in your weakened condition … Are you sure you won’t rest awhile before returning? Mrs Emerson would love to put you to bed and dose you.’

‘Thank you, Professor, but I must return at once. I am not the only sufferer, and the others are awaiting relief.’

‘Didn’t I hear there was a young lady with Professor Petrie this year?’ I inquired.

A blush spread across Mr Quibell’s cheeks. The addition of pink to the original green produced a remarkable tint, a sort of mottled puce. ‘There are three ladies, in fact,’ he replied. ‘My sister and – er – two others. It is primarily on her – on their account that I came.’

Quibell trotted off, accompanied by one of our men. He really did look ill, and after he had vanished from sight I said to Emerson, ‘Perhaps I ought to go to Sakkara. When I think of the young ladies alone and ill–’

‘Don’t be such a busybody, Amelia,’ said my fond husband.

On the surface and in actual fact, Mr Quibell’s visit was one of those casual incidents that often befall people in our situation. Yet it had consequences of the most dramatic nature, and Quibell himself, the innocent instigator of some of them, would have been as surprised as any of us at what ensued.

The aforesaid consequences did not occur until late in the afternoon. We had finished excavation for the day. Emerson was more determined than ever that he and I should camp near the pyramid instead of staying in the house. His arguments were persuasive, and I had returned with him to the site after tea to inspect the pit he had found.

In Upper Egypt, where the river has cut a deep channel through the sandstone of the plateau, many tombs are dug into the sides of the cliffs. Properly cleansed and swept, the empty chambers make admirable accommodations. I am speaking, of course, of the upper chambers of the tombs, those that served as chapels; for the burial chambers themselves were far back in the cliffs, sometimes at the bottom of deep shafts. Here in the north, the majority of the tombs were of the type known as mastabas, after the stone benches whose shape their superstructures resembled. When the superstructures survived, they could be converted into quite attractive dwelling places, but as yet we had discovered nothing of that sort. The pit Emerson had discovered was just that – a nasty hole in the ground.

However, I enjoyed wandering hand in hand with Emerson across the barren plain. My amiable mood was only slightly marred when Emerson kept insisting that all we needed was a scrap of canvas to stretch over his wretched hole. At the least we required tents, and tents I was determined to have. If the necessary materials could not be procured in Menyat Dahshoor, I would simply have to make a trip to Cairo.

We had climbed a ridge in order to get a better view, and perhaps to discern in the shapes of the lengthening shadows some feature of the landscape that had not been visible under the direct rays of the sun. As always, my eyes were drawn to the west, where the pyramid slopes had deepened into bronze against the sunset. Nothing moved on that vast empty plain, and there was no sound to be heard except that of our voices, which had, I fear, risen to a considerable pitch during our discussion about the tents. When we stopped speaking, it was not because we had come to an agreement, but because we both realized no agreement would ever be reached. So pervasive was the ensuing silence that it was startling in the extreme to have it broken by the sound of a human voice. We turned as one man (so to speak) and beheld, standing motionless on the level ground below the ridge, a woman’s form. The grey-blue shadow blurred her features, and for one startled moment I felt as if I were seeing my own reflection in a dusty mirror. The dark mass of loosened hair was the same shade as my own; the high boots and full nether garment were like mine; the very shape of the body, belted tightly around the waist and swelling out above and below that constriction, was the image of my form.

I remembered the old legend of the doppelgänger, that eerie double whose appearance portends approaching death, and I confess that a momentary thrill of terror froze my limbs. Emerson was equally affected. A low ‘Oh, curse it’ expressed the depth of his emotions and his arm held me close to his side, as if daring even the Grim Reaper to tear me from him.

The shadowy shape below swayed and shivered as when one tosses a stone into a pool of dark water. Slowly it sank forward and lay motionless.

The spell was broken. It was no spirit I had seen, but a living woman – living, at least, until that moment. Though how she had come there, and why, were mysteries almost as great as the ultimate mystery of life and death.

I scrambled down the slope, with Emerson close behind, and knelt beside the fallen form. The woman’s costume was certainly similar to mine, but there was no other resemblance except for the colour of her hair. Despite her deadly pallor, she was obviously some years younger than I – hardly more than a girl. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles had been pushed aslant by the force of her fall, and the lashes that shadowed her ashen cheeks were long and curly.

‘This is too cursed much,’ Emerson declared emphatically. ‘You know, Amelia, that I am the most tolerant and charitable of men; I don’t mind lending a helping hand to the unfortunate, but two in one day is putting a strain on my good nature. Er – she is not dead, I hope?’

‘She appears to have fainted,’ I said. ‘Lift her feet, Emerson, if you will be so good.’

Emerson wrapped one big brown hand round the girl’s slim ankles and hoisted them with such vigorous good will that her limbs formed a perfect right angle to her body. I corrected this little error, uncapped my water bottle, and sprinkled the girl’s face.

‘She doesn’t stir,’ said Emerson, the tremor in his manly tones betraying the soft and tender side of his nature which few others besides myself are privileged to behold. ‘Are you sure –’

‘Perfectly. Her pulse is steady and strong. You can let go her feet now, Emerson – no, no, don’t drop them, lower them gently.’

His anxiety relieved, Emerson reverted to his natural manner. ‘It really is too bad of Petrie,’ he grumbled. ‘He doesn’t care if his subordinates drop like flies; oh no, he knows they will come running to us and interfere with
our
work. I will have a word to say to him next time we meet. Of all the infernal, inconsiderate –’

‘You think this is one of Mr Petrie’s assistants?’ I asked.

‘Why, who else could it be? Quibell said the young ladies were ill; no doubt this girl has had second thoughts about working with that maniac Petrie. Shows considerable good judgment on her part. Why doesn’t she wake up?’

‘I believe she is coming round now,’ I said. In fact, I was certain the girl had been conscious for some time – and I had a good idea as to why she had wanted to conceal that state.

‘Good.’ Emerson peered into the girl’s face, breathing so anxiously that her spectacles misted over. I had replaced them after sprinkling her face, though it was doubtful that she could get any good from them; they appeared to be made of plain window glass.

‘Naturally I am happy to assist any ill person,’ I said, watching the fluttering lashes and little movements of the lips that were the signs of returning consciousness. She really did it quite well; she must have taken part in a number of home theatricals. ‘But I hope she doesn’t expect to stay on with us. Professor Petrie would probably consider we had deliberately lured away one of his assistants –’

‘Since when have I cared about Petrie’s absurd opinions? He thinks the worst of me whatever I do. It will be her decision, of course, but we could use an extra pair of hands. And it would be nice for you to have another woman about.’

The ridiculousness of this remark made me chuckle. ‘I am hardly the sort that requires female companionship, Emerson. I have plenty to do as it is.’

‘No, Amelia, you do not. That active brain of yours is always seeking employment; that is why you keep meddling in police investigations and concocting nonsensical theories about master … about criminal conspiracies. Perhaps if you have a young woman to train in archaeology, you won’t be so ready to go off chasing murderers. Good Gad, I have never seen anyone take so long to recover from a faint. Ought I not slap her cheeks or her hands?’

The girl took the hint. Having felt the vigour of Emerson’s grasp, she was wise enough to anticipate what the effect of a gentle slap on the face would be. Her eyes opened.

‘Where am I?’ she said, with a deplorable lack of originality.

‘Just where you hoped to be,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘With me and Mrs Emerson. Miss … What is your name?’

I waited with considerable interest for the young woman’s reply. It was not long delayed; her brief hesitation would have been imperceptible to one who had no reason to suspect her motives. ‘Marshall, Enid Marshall.’

Emerson sat down on a rock and beamed at her. ‘Well, Miss Marshall, you made a wise decision to leave Petrie; he is a fair enough scholar – I have known worse – but no sane person can live as he does. Though I don’t think you showed good sense walking all the way from Sakkara in your condition.’

‘My – my condition?’ the girl gasped.

‘Never mind,’ Emerson went on. ‘Mrs Emerson will fill you up with sulphur and ipecacuanha and you will be on your feet in no time. I will just carry you to our house –’

‘No, thank you; I can walk perfectly well.’ With my assistance, Enid – to give her the name she had selected – rose to her feet. She looked a trifle dazed, and no wonder; Emerson had labelled her and pigeonholed her and explained her motives with such vigour that even a woman with less cause to conceal her true identity might have been left in doubt as to who she really was.

I, of course, knew who she was. Emerson had been misled, not only by his delight in playing a trick on Mr Petrie, but by the pitiable inability of the male sex to see beyond a frilly frock and touch of lip rouge. The dark eyes that had snapped with laughter were now shadowed and fearful; the delicate features were drawn and colourless; but they were unquestionably those of the missing English lady, Miss Debenham.

E
MERSON’S
enthusiasm faded rapidly when he realized that the arrival of his new assistant put an end to his plans for spending the night in a hole in the ground.

‘Out of the question, Emerson,’ I said, over his querulous objections. ‘Miss Marshall must certainly spend the night with us, whatever she chooses to do tomorrow, and obviously she cannot be left alone in the same house with a young person of the opposite sex. You know, my dear, that no one despises meaningless social conventions more than I, but some limits of propriety cannot be ignored.’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson. ‘But, Amelia, Ramses will be at the house–’

‘And so will we, Emerson. I promise you,’ I added, smiling at him over the girl’s bowed head, ‘that first thing tomorrow I will take steps to ensure we do not spend another night at the house.’