Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (49 page)

Thanks to Emerson, this had taken a strictly archaeological turn, despite Lady Baskerville’s sighs and fluttering lashes and repeated thanks for his gallantry in coming to the rescue of a poor lonely widow. Happily impervious to these hints, Emerson continued to explain his plans for excavating the tomb.

Do not believe for an instant, reader, that I had lost sight of what had now become my main object. To discover the murderer of Lord Baskerville was no longer a matter of purely intellectual interest. Mr O’Connell might have been responsible for the injury to Emerson in Cairo (though I doubted this); the villainous Habib might have been the motive power behind the boulder that had so narrowly missed him that very day.
Might,
I say; for I felt sure that two attempts in such a short space of time had a deeper and more sinister significance. The person who had murdered Baskerville now had designs on the life of my husband, and the sooner I discovered his identity, the sooner Emerson would be safe.

I use the masculine pronoun for reasons of grammatical simplicity, but I could not dismiss the possibility that a woman’s hand had wielded the death weapon (whatever that might have been). Indeed, as I looked around the table I felt I had never beheld such a suspicious-looking group of persons.

That Lady Baskerville was capable of murder I did not doubt. Why she should want to kill her husband I did not know at that time, but I felt sure that a brief investigation would provide a motive and also explain how she had managed the two attacks on Emerson.

As for Mr Vandergelt, amiable as he appeared to be, I had to consider him a suspect. We all know how ruthlessly these American millionaires crush their rivals as they climb to power. Vandergelt had lusted after Lord Baskerville’s tomb. Some might consider that an inadequate motive for murder, but I knew the archaeological temperament too well to dismiss it.

As if she felt my speculative glance move to her, Madame Berengeria looked up from the roast mutton she was stuffing into her mouth. Once again her pallid eyes glowed with hate. No need to ask myself if she was capable of committing murder! She was certainly mad, and the actions of a madwoman are unaccountable. She might have hailed Lord Baskerville as a long-lost lover and killed him when he rejected her, as any normal man must.

Madame Berengeria continued to wolf her food and I turned my attention to her daughter, who was listening in silence to Mr O’Connell’s low-voiced remarks. She was smiling, but it was a sad smile; the bright lights of the salon showed the shabbiness of her frock and the weary lines in her young face. I immediately removed her from my list of suspects. The fact that she had not yet exterminated her mother proved that she was incapable of violence.

Mr O’Connell? Without a doubt he must be on my list. He was on good terms with all three of the ladies, which indicated a sly and hypocritical turn of character. To win Mary’s regard would not be difficult; the child would respond to any show of kindness or affection. In order to facilitate his acquaintance with the girl, O’Connell had ingratiated himself with her mother, by sheer duplicity and falsehood (for no one could honestly admire, or even tolerate, the woman). The same slippery slyness probably accounted for his acceptance by Lady Baskerville. He had written about her in the most disgustingly sentimental terms, and she was vain enough to be deceived by empty flattery. In short, his was not a character to be trusted.

Of course those present did not exhaust all the possible suspects. The missing Armadale was high on my list, and Karl von Bork and Milverton might have motives as yet unknown to me. I did not doubt that as soon as I applied myself seriously to the problem, the answer would be easily discovered; and, to be truthful, the prospect of a little detective work was not at all displeasing.

In such entertaining speculations the meal passed, and we prepared to retire to the lounge. Madame Berengeria had eaten everything she could get her hands on, and her round face shone greasily. So must ancient Egyptian diners have looked, at the end of a formal party, when the cone of scented fat atop their wigs had melted and run down their faces. She had also drunk vast quantities of wine. When we rose from the table she caught her daughter’s arm and leaned heavily against her. Mary’s knees buckled under the weight. Mr O’Connell promptly came to her rescue, or rather, he tried to, for when he took Madame’s other arm she pulled away from him.

‘Mary will help me,’ she muttered. ‘Dear daughter – help Mother – good daughter never leaves Mother….’

Mary turned pale. Supporting Madame, she said in a low voice, ‘Perhaps you would call a carriage, Mr O’Connell. We had better not stay. Mother, you are unwell.’

‘Never felt better,’ Madame Berengeria declared. ‘Have a little coffee. Must talk to old lover – Amenhotep – I called him the Magnificent – he was, too – you remember your darling queenie, don’t you, Amen?’

Releasing her daughter’s arm, she lunged at Emerson.

But this time she had underestimated my husband. On the first occasion he had been caught off guard; now he acted, and Emerson is seldom, if ever, restrained from action by any remote notion of what is socially acceptable. Catching the lady in a paralysing grip, he frogmarched her toward the door, calling out, ‘A carriage here! Madame Berengeria’s carriage, if you please!’

The hotel porter leaped to assist him. Mary started after them. O’Connell caught her hand.

‘Can you not stay? I haven’t had a chance to talk to you – ’

‘You know I cannot. Good night, everyone. Lady Baskerville, my thanks – and apologies – ’

Slim and graceful in her shabby frock, her head bowed, she followed the porters who were dragging her mother out the door.

Mr O’Connell’s countenance plainly displayed his chagrin and his affectionate concern. I began to warm to the young man; but then he gave himself a sort of shake and remarked, ‘Well, Mrs Emerson, have you changed your mind about that interview? Your thoughts on arriving in Luxor would interest my readers enormously.’

The transformation of his face was extraordinary. His eyes sparkled with malice, his mouth curved in a tight-lipped half-moon grin. This expression, which I thought of as his journalist’s face, reminded me of the leprechauns and mischievous elves which are said to abound in the Emerald Isle.

Not wishing to dignify the suggestion with a reply, I ignored it. Fortunately Emerson had not heard the question. Leaning on the back of Lady Baskerville’s chair, he was explaining his plans for the next day. ‘And,’ he added, glancing at me, ‘since we must be out at the first light, we had better be getting back, eh, Amelia?’

I promptly rose. To my surprise, so did Lady Baskerville.

‘I am packed and ready. If you will summon the porter, Radcliffe?’ Seeing my expression, she smiled sweetly at me. ‘Had I not explained that I mean to go with you, Mrs Emerson? Now that you are here, I need not fear scandal if I resume my old place, hallowed by so many fond memories.’

I need not say that my response was perfectly calm and courteous.

I had feared the presence of Lady Baskerville in the adjoining room might inhibit Emerson to some extent. It did, in the beginning. Casting an irritated glance at the closed portal, which I had promptly bolted, he muttered, ‘Curse it, Amelia, this is going to be a nuisance; I shan’t be able to say a thing for fear of being overheard.’ However, as time went on he became so involved in what he was doing that all reserve fled and all external distractions were forgotten. My own contributions toward achieving this end were not inconsiderable.

Lying at peace in my husband’s arms, I drifted off to sleep. But we were not destined for a quiet rest that night. Scarcely, it seemed, had my eyelids closed when I was reft of slumber by an outrageous howl, so penetrating that it seemed to come from within our very chamber.

I pride myself on being able to arise from meditation or sleep fully alert and ready for whatever action seems required. Rising up, I prepared to bound out of bed. Unfortunately I had not completely readjusted to the sleeping arrangements necessary in that clime; and, as I had done on another memorable occasion, I plunged headlong into the mosquito netting draped around the bed. My efforts to free myself only wound the fabric more tightly around me. The howling continued. It had now been joined by cries of alarm from elsewhere in the house.

‘Help me, Emerson,’ I cried irritably. ‘I am entangled in the netting. Why do you not arise?’

‘Because,’ said a faint voice from the bed, ‘you stepped onto my stomach when you stood up. I have just now recovered my breath.’

‘Then employ it, if you please, in action rather than words. Unloose me.’

Emerson obeyed. It is not necessary to reproduce the comments he made while doing so. Once he had freed me he ran to the door. As his form crossed the band of moonlight from the open window I let out a shriek.

‘Emerson, your trousers – your dressing gown – something – ’

With a violent oath Emerson snatched up the first garment that came to hand. It proved to be the one I had discarded upon retiring, a nightgown of thin white linen trimmed with wide bands of lace. Tossing this at me, with an even more violent oath, he began searching for his clothes. By the time we reached the courtyard the shrieks had stopped, but the excitement had not subsided. All the members of the expedition were gathered around a servant who sat on the ground with his arms over his head, rocking back and forth and moaning. I recognised Hassan, one of Lord Baskerville’s men, who was employed as a night watchman.

‘What has happened?’ I demanded of the person nearest me. This happened to be Karl, who was standing with his arms folded and every hair in his moustache neatly in place. He was fully dressed. Bowing, in his formal German fashion, he replied calmly, ‘The foolish person claims he saw a ghost. You know how superstitious these people are; and at the present time – ’

‘How ridiculous,’ I said, in considerable disappointment. I had hoped the disturbance might have been caused by the murderer of Lord Baskerville, returning to the scene of the crime.

Emerson seized Hassan by the neck and hoisted him up off the ground. ‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘Art thou a man, or a dribbling infant? Speak; tell me what sight brought our valiant watchman to this pass.’

Emerson’s methods, though unconventional, are usually effective. Hassan’s sobs died away. He began kicking his feet, and Emerson lowered him till his dusty bare soles rested on the beaten earth of the courtyard.

‘Oh, Father of Curses,’ he gulped. ‘Wilt thou protect thy servant?’

‘Certainly, certainly. Speak.’

‘It was an efreet, an evil spirit,’ Hassan whispered, rolling his eyes. ‘The spirit of the one with the face of a woman and the heart of a man.’

‘Armadale!’ Mr Milverton exclaimed.

He and Lady Baskerville were standing side by side. Her delicate white hands clutched his sleeve, but it would be hard to say which of them was supporting the other, for he was as pale as she.

Hassan nodded vigorously, or at least he tried to do so; Emerson was still holding him by the throat.

‘The hand of the Father of Curses renders speech difficult,’ he complained.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Emerson said, releasing him.

Hassan rubbed his bony neck. He had recovered from his initial fright, and there was a crafty gleam in his eyes that made me suspect he was beginning to enjoy being the centre of attention.

‘I saw it clearly in the moonlight, as I made my rounds,’ he said. ‘The very form and image of the one with the face – ’

‘Yes, yes,’ Emerson interrupted. ‘What was he doing?’

‘Creeping through the shadows like a serpent or a scorpion or an evil djinn! He wore the long linen robe of a corpse, and his face was thin and drawn, with staring eyes and – ’

‘Stop that!’ Emerson roared. Hassan subsided, with another roll of his eyes, as if he were judging the effect of the ghost story on his audience.

‘The superstitious fellow was dreaming,’ Emerson said, addressing Lady Baskerville. ‘Return to bed. I will see to it that he – ’

Like many of the men, Hassan understood English much better than he spoke it. ‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘It was no dream, I swear; I heard the jackals howling in the hills, I saw the grass blades bend under his feet. He went to one of the windows, oh, Father of Curses – one of the windows there.’

He gestured toward the side of the house in which all our rooms were located.

Karl let out a grunt. Lady Baskerville’s face turned muddy grey. But Milverton’s reaction was the most dramatic. With a queer soft sigh he folded at the knees and fell to the ground in a dead faint.

‘It means nothing,’ I said, some time later, as Emerson and I again prepared to retire. ‘I told you the young man was not fully recovered; the shock and excitement were too much for him.’

Emerson was standing on a chair trying to get the mosquito netting back in place. He had irritably refused my suggestion that I call one of the servants to do the job.

‘I am surprised at you, Amelia,’ he grunted. ‘I made sure you would take that faint as a sign of guilt.’

‘Don’t be absurd. Armadale is the murderer; I have insisted on that all along. Now we know he is still alive, and in the area.’

‘We know nothing of the kind. Hassan is perfectly capable of imagining the spirits of Ramses One through Twelve, simultaneously. Forget it and come to bed.’

He descended from the chair. To my astonishment I saw that he had the netting in place. Emerson is constantly displaying talents I never knew he had. So I did as he suggested.