Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (53 page)

‘Amelia. I insist.’

‘You are too kind. I would like, if I may, to return to the subject of Alan Armadale.’

‘By all means. I am not so narrow-minded, I hope, to refuse to entertain other hypotheses.’

‘I certainly cannot blame you for suspecting poor Alan,’ Mary said ruefully. ‘You are not the first to do so. But if you had been acquainted with him, you would know he could not be guilty of such a vile act. Lord Baskerville was his patron, his benefactor. Alan was devoted to him.’

‘Then what do you think has become of Mr Armadale?’

‘I fear he has met with a fatal accident,’ Mary said. Her voice was grave but composed; it assured me that her feelings for the missing man, though affectionate, were not of that degree of tenderness that made it impossible for me to discuss his guilt or innocence freely. She went on, ‘He had been in a strange mood for several weeks preceding Lord Baskerville’s death: wildly gay one moment, gloomy and silent the next. I wondered if my refusal of his offer of marriage was preying on his mind – ’

‘That hardly seems likely,’ I interrupted, attempting to reassure her.

‘Believe me, I do not assess my charms so highly,’ Mary replied, with a faint smile. ‘He took it well at the time; it was not until a week or so later that he began to exhibit the characteristics I speak of, and he did not renew his offer. Something was certainly amiss with him – whether physical or spiritual, I cannot say. Naturally we were all shocked by Lord Baskerville’s mysterious death, but Alan’s reaction . . . He was like the man in the poem – perhaps you know the one I am thinking of – fearful to turn his head lest he see some foul fiend close behind. I am convinced that his mind gave way and that he wandered into the mountains, where he met with an untimely end.’

‘Humph,’ I muttered. ‘That is conceivable. Though I find it hard to believe that Lord Baskerville’s death could affect him so strongly. His lordship was not, I believe, the sort of man who was capable of winning the devoted love of his subordinates.’

‘Really,’ Mary said hesitantly, ‘I would not like – ’

‘Your discretion does you credit.
Nil nisi bonum,
and all that; but remember, Mary, we are investigating the poor man’s death, and this is no time – ’

‘This is no time for gossip,’ shouted a voice behind me. Mary started and dropped her pencil. I turned to behold Emerson, his pose one of extreme belligerence, his face flushed with heat and anger. ‘You are not investigating anything,’ he went on. ‘Get that clear in your mind, Amelia, if you can. Stop interfering with my artist and return to your rubbish heap, or I will put you over my shoulder and carry you back to the house.’

Without waiting for an answer he vanished into the interior of the tomb.

‘Men are such cowards,’ I said indignantly. ‘He knew I had more to say. Well, I will deal with him later; it would make a bad impression on the men if I were to follow him and point out the weakness of his argument. I am glad we had this little talk, Mary.’

With a reassuring pat on the shoulder, I left the girl to her work. Not that I was at all intimidated by Emerson’s anger – no, indeed. I wanted to think over what the girl had told me. She had given me much food for thought. I was particularly struck by her description of Armadale’s strange behaviour preceding the death of Lord Baskerville. What she failed to see, being fond of the young man, was that this phenomenon only strengthened the theory that Armadale had murdered his patron. The absence of a motive had been one of the things in Armadale’s favour; but a maniac needs no motive, as we know from our studies of criminal behaviour.

Upon returning to the house that evening, tired and hot and out of sorts, it was no pleasure to be told that Lady Baskerville wanted to see us immediately. Emerson replied with a single vehement word and went stamping off to our room. I delayed a moment in order to reassure the messenger, who had turned quite green with terror.

Atiyah, Lady Baskerville’s attendant, was a Cairene and a Copt, and therefore was not popular with the Moslem servants. A shy, timid creature of indeterminate age – as are most Egyptian women, once they pass the brief bloom of youth – she spent most of her time in Lady Baskerville’s chamber attending to her duties or in the small room in the servants’ wing that had been assigned to her use. Lady Baskerville was constantly reprimanding her. Once, after overhearing such a lecture, I asked the lady why she did not employ an English maid, since Atiyah seemed so inadequate. The lady replied, with a curl of her handsome lip, that Lord Baskerville had preferred not to incur the expense. That accorded with what I had heard of his lordship’s peculiar blend of professional extravagance and personal parsimony – he had, for instance, never employed a manservant while in Egypt – but I suspected the true reason was that Lady Baskerville could not have bullied and berated a free-born Englishwoman as she did the humble native.

I therefore made it a point to speak gently to the woman, whose hands were fumbling with a string of carved wooden beads, which I took to be a kind of rosary.

‘Tell Lady Baskerville we will come as soon as we have changed our clothing, Atiyah.’ Atiyah continued to stare blankly and finger her beads, so I added, ‘There is nothing to be afraid of.’

These consoling words had precisely the opposite effect from what I had intended. Atiyah started violently and began to speak. Her voice was so low and her discourse so poorly organised that I was obliged to shake her – gently, of course – before I could make any sense of what she said. I then dismissed her, with appropriate reassurances, and hastened to find Emerson.

He had finished bathing and was in the process of putting on his boots. ‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘I want my tea.’

‘I assure you, I want it too. Emerson, I have just had a most interesting conversation with Atiyah. She tells me that last night, about the time Hassan was murdered, she saw the figure of a woman, robed and veiled in filmy white, flitting through the palm grove. She is in a state of pitiable terror, poor thing; I was obliged to – ’

Emerson had paused in the act of putting on his second boot. Now he flung it across the room. It struck a china vessel, which fell to the floor and smashed into bits. Mingled with the crash was Emerson’s roar. I bowdlerise the comment, which concluded with a request that I spare him further examples of local superstition, a subject with which he was only too well acquainted.

As he spoke I began my ablutions. When he finally ran out of breath I said calmly, ‘I assure you, Emerson, that the woman’s story was replete with a wealth of detail that gave it an air of convincing verisimilitude. She saw something, there is no doubt of that. Has it not struck you that not a thousand miles from here dwells a lady who is in the habit of wearing ancient Egyptian dress?’

Emerson’s apoplectic countenance relaxed. He let out a snort of laughter. ‘“Flit” is hardly the word I would use to describe Madame Berengeria’s movements.’

‘Nor was it the word Atiyah used. I resorted to some permissible poetic licence. Help me with these buttons, Emerson, we are late.’

I fully expected that we would be even later, for the process of fastening buttons has the effect of arousing Emerson’s amative instincts. On this occasion he simply did as he was asked before retrieving his boot and finishing his toilette. I confess – since I have determined to be completely candid about such matters – that I was a trifle put out.

When we reached the drawing room Lady Baskerville was pacing up and down, clearly annoyed at our tardiness, so – as is my invariable custom – I attempted to cast oil on the troubled waters.

‘I hope we did not keep you waiting, Lady Baskerville. Had you paused to consider the matter, I am sure you would have realised we required time for a wash and brush-up after our arduous labours.’

My graceful apology was received with a malignant look, but when the lady turned to Emerson, she was all charm. Mr Milverton and Karl were also present. The latter still wore his crumpled work clothes. By contrast, Mr Cyrus Vandergelt was the picture of sartorial elegance in a white linen suit of snowy freshness. A diamond the size of a cherry sparkled in his cravat.

‘Here I am again,’ he remarked cheerfully, as he took my hand. ‘Hope you aren’t tired of seeing my weather-beaten old face, Mrs Emerson.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied.

‘Glad to hear it. To tell you the truth, I’ve been pestering Lady Baskerville for an invitation. Do you think you could persuade her to offer a bed to a poor homeless Yankee?’

His eyes twinkled and the creases in his cheeks deepened as they always did when he was amused; but I had the impression that there was something serious beneath his seemingly humorous suggestion.

‘There is something serious beneath your seemingly humorous suggestion,’ I said. ‘What are you driving at?’

‘Amazing acumen!’ Mr Vandergelt exclaimed. ‘As always, Mrs Emerson, you are one hundred percent correct. I’m downright unhappy about the way things are going. You folks haven’t spent much time in Luxor, but take my word for it, the town is humming like a beehive. Somebody broke into Madame Berengeria’s room this afternoon while she was taking her siesta, and made off with her jewellery – ’

‘That cannot have been a great loss,’ Lady Baskerville murmured.

‘Maybe not, but it scared the poor woman half to death when she woke up and found the place all topsy-turvy. I happened to be at the hotel when the servants pelted in yelling. Poor little Miss Mary is in for a hard time when she gets home; Madame was raving about ungrateful daughters who abandon their mothers, and so on.’ Mr Vandergelt took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow as he relived the painful interview. ‘I know as well as you do that sneak thieves aren’t unusual,’ he went on. ‘But I can’t remember any thief being quite as bold as this one; it’s a sign of rising feelings against foreigners, especially the ones connected with this expedition. I’m proposing to move in to help protect you ladies in case of trouble. That’s what it amounts to.’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson. ‘I assure you, Vandergelt, I am perfectly capable of protecting not only Amelia and Lady Baskerville but any indeterminate number of helpless females.’

I opened my mouth, an indignant comment trembling on my lips; but I was not allowed to make it. With rising heat Emerson went on, ‘Curse it, Vandergelt, there are three able-bodied men here, not to mention my men from Aziyeh, who are completely reliable and who would defend Amelia and myself to the death. What are you up to?’

‘The Professor has it correct,’ said Karl, in his Germanic way. ‘We can defend the ladies; never will they be in danger when here I am.’

There was a faint murmur of agreement from Mr Milverton. I found the murmur and the young man’s troubled countenance far from reassuring, but Karl was the picture of manly devotion as he rose to his feet, his muscular frame (and his moustache) vibrant with emotion and his gold-rimmed spectacles gleaming. He added, ‘I only wish, ladies and sirs, that Miss Mary could be here. It is not right that she should be alone in Luxor with her ageing and peculiar maternal parent.’

‘We can’t ask her to come here unless we invite her mother,’ said Mr Vandergelt.

There was a brief pause while everyone considered the idea. Karl was the first to break the silence. ‘If it must be – ’

‘Certainly not,’ Lady Baskerville exclaimed. ‘I will not tolerate that woman’s presence. But if you wish to join us, Cyrus, you know you are always welcome. Not that I feel there is any real danger.’

‘Wait until the townspeople hear about the white lady,’ I said ruefully.

Lady Baskerville let out an exclamation and gazed on me with burning eyes. ‘Have you had…’ She checked herself for a moment and then went on, ‘… a conversation with my foolish Atiyah?’

I had the distinct impression that this was not what she had meant to say. ‘She mentioned seeing a figure in white robes last night, about the time Hassan was killed,’ I replied. ‘To be sure, it might have been imagination.’

‘What else could it have been?’ Lady Baskerville demanded. ‘The woman is hopelessly superstitious.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Vandergelt shook his head. ‘That’s the kind of talk you folks don’t need.’

‘It is perfectly ridiculous,’ Lady Baskerville exclaimed angrily. She walked toward the windows. The swift desert night had fallen; the evening breeze set the flimsy curtains billowing and carried the sweet, cloying scent of jasmine into the room. With one white hand holding the curtains, Lady Baskerville stood with her back to us, looking out into the night. I had to admit she made a handsome picture in her softly draped black gown, her queenly head with its crown of shining hair poised on her slender throat.

The discussion continued. Emerson could hardly refuse to receive Mr Vandergelt when the mistress of the house had made him welcome, but he did not attempt to conceal his displeasure. Vandergelt replied with perfect good humour, but I rather thought he enjoyed Emerson’s discomfiture and, in numerous sly ways, added to it.

Suddenly Lady Baskerville gave a sharp cry and stepped away from the window. The warning was too late. With the celerity of a speeding bullet (though of considerably larger dimensions), a missile hurtled through the open window and crossed the room, landing with a crash on the tea table and sending broken china flying in all directions. Before it reached its final destination, however, it achieved its aim. With a violent (and, I am sorry to report, profane) exclamation, Emerson clapped his hand to his head, staggered, and fell full length upon the floor. The impact of his body toppled several small fragile objects from the tables and shelves where they stood, so that the collapse of the colossus (if I may be permitted a literary metaphor) was accompanied by a perfect symphony of breaking glass.

As one man (speaking figuratively, in my case) we rushed to Emerson’s side. The only exception was Lady Baskerville, who stood frozen to the spot like Lot’s wife. Needless to say, I was the first to reach my husband; but before I could clasp him to my bosom he sat up, his hand still pressed to his temple. From beneath his fingers, already horribly stained with his gore, a crimson stream flowed down his brown cheek.