Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (25 page)

‘Hmm,’ said Emerson, studying him. ‘Yes, your lordship; if it is any consolation to you, I do believe you. Now go and give Amelia a hand with Evelyn.’

Evelyn was stirring feebly when we reached her, and when she learned what had happened to Walter she was too concerned about him to think of herself. It is wonderful what strength love can lend; rising up from a faint of terror, she walked at Walter’s side as his brother carried him to his bed, and insisted on helping me clean and dress the wound.

I was relieved to find that Emerson’s assessment was correct. I had not had any experience with gunshot wounds, but a common-sense knowledge of anatomy assured me that the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of the right shoulder, without striking a bone.

I had not the heart to send Evelyn away, but really she was more of a handicap than a help; whenever I reached for a cloth or a bandage she was supposed to hand me, I would find her staring bemusedly at the unconscious lad, tears in her eyes and her feelings writ plain on her face for all the world to see. I could hardly blame her; Walter reminded me of the beautiful Greek youth Adonis, dying among the river reeds. He was slight, but his muscular development was admirable; the long lashes that shadowed his cheek, the tumbled curls on his brow, and the boyish droop of his mouth made a picture that must appeal to any woman who is sensitive to beauty and pathos.

Walter was conscious by the time I finished bandaging the wound. He did not speak at first, only watched me steadily, and when I had finished he thanked me with a pallid smile. His first look, however, had been for Evelyn; and having assured himself that she was safe, he did not look at her again. As she turned away with her bowl of water, I saw her lips tremble.

Emerson had produced a new atrocity – a dreadful pipe that smelled like a hot summer afternoon on a poultry farm – and was sitting in a corner puffing out clouds of foul smoke. When I had finished with Walter, Emerson rose to his feet and stretched.

‘The evening’s entertainment is over, it seems,’ he remarked. ‘We may as well get some sleep for what is left of the night.’

‘How can you talk of sleeping?’ I demanded. ‘I am so full of questions and comments – ’

‘More of the latter than the former, I fancy,’ said Emerson, puffing away at his pipe. ‘I don’t think Walter is up to your conversation, Peabody. It takes a well man, in his full strength, to – ’

‘Now, Radcliffe, that will do,’ Walter interrupted. His voice was weak, but the smile he gave me was his old sweet smile. ‘I am not feeling too bad; and I agree with Miss Amelia that we have much to discuss.’

‘I, too, agree,’ said Lucas, breaking a long – for him – silence. ‘But first – may I suggest a restorative, all around? A little brandy might ease Walter’s pain – ’

‘I do not approve of spirits for such injuries,’ I said firmly.

Emerson snorted through his pipe, producing a great puff of smoke.

‘I am not in much pain,’ Walter said. ‘But perhaps brandy might help – the ladies. They – they have undergone a considerable shock.’

So we had our brandy. Emerson seemed to enjoy his very much. Although I do not ordinarily approve of spirits, they are of use in some situations; I felt the need of stimulants myself, and the liquor lessened Evelyn’s pallor. She was still wearing her nightclothes and dressing gown, not having had time to dress. They were embroidered lawn, of a pale blue, and I could see that Lucas admired them.

‘Well, Peabody,’ said Emerson. ‘What is your first question?’

‘Now that is not easy to say. The entire episode has been so bewildering…. First, though, I should like to know what has happened to Abdullah.’

‘Good heavens,’ exclaimed Lucas. ‘I had quite forgotten him. Where is the fellow?’

‘Don’t waste your suspicions on Abdullah,’ said Emerson. ‘He is probably following the mummy. I told him to do so if we fail to apprehend it. But I fancy he will be returning soon…. Ah, yes, I believe I hear him now.’

He beamed as complacently as if he had arranged Abdullah’s opportune arrival. The tall, stately form of the foreman now appeared at the entrance to the tomb. His eyes widened as he beheld Walter, and some time was wasted on explanations before Abdullah told us his story. Again, I translate into ordinary English.

He had been stationed by Emerson some distance from the camp. He had heard the shots but of course had not known what they betokened. They had, however, alerted him, and thus he was able to catch sight of the mummy when it left us. Its speed amazed him; he kept repeating, ‘It ran like a swift young man.’ He had not tried to interfere with the creature. Indeed, I think he was afraid to do so. But he had summoned up enough courage to follow it, at a safe distance.

‘Where did it go?’ I demanded. ‘To the village?’

Abdullah shook his head.

‘Not village. Into the wadi, to the royal tomb. I did not follow; I thought you need me, I come here.’

Emerson laughed shortly.

‘So it is the ghost of Khuenaten we have with us? Come, now, Abdullah, that does not make sense. Our ghost is an avenging Amonist Priest, if you remember, not a follower of the heretic king.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ I said impatiently. ‘I cannot blame Abdullah for not following the thing. We agreed, did we not, that the villain, whoever he is, must conceal his grisly costume in some remote place. He was on his way there. Perhaps he went to the village later.’

Emerson was about to reply when Evelyn’s quiet voice broke in.

‘I think we should end the discussion. Walter ought to rest.’

Walter opened his eyes when she spoke, but I had seen the signs of fatigue too.

‘Evelyn is right,’ I said, rising. ‘She, too, has had a nasty experience.’

‘I am all right,’ Walter muttered.

‘Of course you are,’ I said, with a cheer I did not feel. Fever commonly follows such wounds, and infection is rampant in Egypt. But there was no point in anticipating trouble. ‘All you need is rest. Come along, Evelyn – Lucas – ’

‘I must say one thing first.’ Lucas bent over the pallet where the sick man lay. ‘Walter, please tell me you forgive my clumsiness. I had no intention – ’

‘It was very stupid, all the same,’ said Emerson, as Walter made a feeble gesture of conciliation.

‘You are right,’ Lucas muttered. ‘But if you had been in my place – you saw, I know, but you did not feel the recoil of the pistol, and then see that ghastly thing come on and on….’ With a sudden movement he pulled the gun from his pocket. ‘I shall never use this again. There is one bullet left….’

His arm straightened, pointing the gun out of the mouth of the tomb. His finger was actually tightening on the trigger when Emerson moved. The man was constantly surprising me; his leap had a tigerish swiftness I would not have expected. His fingers clasped round Lucas’s wrist with a force that made the younger man cry out.

‘You fool,’ Emerson mumbled round the stem of the pipe. Snatching the gun from Lucas’s palsied hand, he put it in his belt. ‘The echoes from a shot in this confined place would deafen us. Not to mention the danger of a ricochet… I will take charge of your weapon, Lord Ellesmere. Now go to bed.’

Lucas left without another word. I felt an unexpected stab of pity as I watched him go, his shoulders bowed and his steps dragging. Evelyn and I followed. As soon as she had dropped off to sleep I went back onto the ledge, and somehow I was not surprised to see Emerson sitting there. His feet dangling over empty space, he was smoking his pipe and staring out at the serene vista of star-strewn sky with apparent enjoyment.

‘Sit down, Peabody,’ he said, gesturing at the ledge beside him. ‘That discussion was getting nowhere, but I think you and I might profit from a quiet chat.’

I sat down.

‘You called me Amelia, earlier,’ I said, somewhat to my own surprise.

‘Did I?’ Emerson did not look at me. ‘A moment of aberration, no doubt.’

‘You were entitled to be distracted,’ I admitted. ‘Seeing your brother struck down…. It was not entirely Lucas’s fault, Emerson. Walter rushed into the path of the bullet.’

‘In view of the fact that his lordship had already fired twice without result, I would have supposed he would have sense enough to stop.’

I shivered.

‘Get a shawl, if you are cold,’ said Emerson, smoking.

‘I am not cold. I am frightened. Are none of us willing to admit the consequences of what we saw? Emerson, the bullets struck that thing. I saw them strike.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes! Where were you, that you did not see?’

‘I saw its hands, or paws, clutch at its breast,’ Emerson admitted. ‘Peabody, I expected better of you. Are you becoming a spiritualist?’

‘I hope I am reasonable enough not to deny an idea simply because it is unorthodox,’ I retorted. ‘One by one our rational explanations are failing.’

‘I can think of at least two rational explanations for the failure of the bullets to harm the creature,’ Emerson said. ‘A weapon of that type is extremely inaccurate, even in the hands of an expert, which I believe his lordship is not. He may have fired two clean misses, and the mummy put on a performance of being hit in order to increase our mystification.’

‘That is possible,’ I admitted. ‘However, if I stood in the mummy’s shoes – or sandals, rather – I should hate to depend on Lucas’s bad marksmanship. What is your other explanation?’

‘Some form of armour,’ Emerson replied promptly. ‘I don’t suppose you read novels, Peabody? A gentleman named Rider Haggard is gaining popularity with his adventurous tales; his most recent book,
King Solomon’s Mines,
concerns the fantastic experiences of three English explorers who seek the lost diamond mines of that biblical monarch. At one point in the tale he mentions chain mail, and its usefulness in deflecting the swords and spears of primitive tribes. I believe it would also stop a small-calibre bullet. Have we not all heard of men being saved from bullet wounds by a book – it is usually a Bible – carried in their breast pocket? I have often thought it a pity that our troops in the Sudan are not equipped with armour. Even a padded leather jerkin, such as the old English foot soldiers wore, would save many a life.’

‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘The wrappings could cover some such protective padding. And I have read of Crusaders’ armour being found in this mysterious continent, even in Cairo antique shops. But would such an ingenious idea occur to a man like Mohammed?’

‘Let us abandon that idea once and for all. Mohammed was not the mummy.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Its height,’ Emerson replied calmly. ‘For a moment Walter was close enough so that I could measure their comparative height. It was as tall as he, or taller. Mohammed and the other villagers are small people. Bad diet and poor living conditions….’

‘How can you be so cool? Discussing diet, at such at a time….’

‘Why,’ said Emerson, puffing away, ‘I am beginning to enjoy myself. Lord Ellesmere’s sporting instincts have infected me; he reminds me that an Englishman’s duty is to preserve icy detachment under any and all circumstances. Even if he were being boiled to provide a cannibal’s dinner it would be incumbent upon him to – ’

‘I would expect that you would be taking notes on the dietary habits of aborigines as the water bubbled around your neck,’ I admitted. ‘But I cannot believe you are really so calm about Walter’s injury.’

‘That is perceptive of you. In fact, I mean to catch the person who is responsible for injuring him.’

I believed that. Emerson’s voice was even, but it held a note that made me glad I was not the person he referred to.

‘You have left off your bandages,’ I said suddenly.

‘You are absolutely brilliant tonight, Peabody.’

‘I am sure you should not – ’

‘I cannot afford to pamper myself. Matters are approaching a climax.’

‘Then what shall we do?’

‘You, asking for advice? Let me feel your brow, Peabody, I am sure you must be fevered.’

‘Really, your manners are atrocious,’ I exclaimed angrily.

Emerson raised one hand in a command for silence

‘We had better take a stroll,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to waken Miss Evelyn. I don’t know why you can’t carry on reasonable discussion without raising your voice.’

He offered me a hand to help me rise; but the jerk with which he lifted me to my feet was not gentle; for a moment my weight dangled from his arm in an undignified manner. He set me on my feet and walked off. I followed, and caught him up at the bottom of the cliff. We strolled along in silence for a time. Even Emerson was moved by the beauty of the night.

Before us, the moonlight lay upon the tumbled desolation of sand that had once been the brilliant capital of a pharaoh. For a moment I had a vision; I seemed to see the ruined walls rise up again, the stately villas in their green groves and gardens, the white walls of the temples, adorned with brilliantly painted reliefs, the flash of gold-tipped flagstaffs, with crimson pennants flying in the breeze. The wide, tree-lined avenues were filled with a laughing throng of white-clad worshippers, going to the temple, and before them all raced the golden chariot of the king, drawn by matched pair of snow-white horses…. Gone. All gone, into the dust to which we must all descend when our hour comes.

‘Well?’ I said, shaking off my melancholy mood. ‘You promised me the benefit of your advice. I await it breathlessly.’

‘What would you say to striking camp tomorrow?’

‘Give up? Never!’

‘Just what I would have expected an Englishwoman to say. Are you willing to risk Miss Evelyn?’

‘You think the mummy has designs on her?’

‘I am unwilling to commit myself as to its original intentions,’ said Emerson pedantically. ‘But it seems clear that the mummy is now interested in her. I am afraid it is not attracted by your charms, Peabody. It must have known you were in the tent; I was watching, and I thought for a time, seeing the walls bulge and vibrate, that you would have the whole structure down about your ears. What were you doing – physical jerks?’

I decided to ignore his childish malice.

‘I was looking for evidence of what had happened to Michael,’ I explained. ‘I found this.’