Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (58 page)

‘She convinced me; but I never admitted to her that she had, for I had formed a foolish, thoughtless scheme of my own. When I left Kenya I told her only that I meant to seek my fortune in the wide world, by means of the photography which had been my youthful hobby. I am sure she has read of the mystery surrounding my uncle’s death, but she does not dream that the Charles Milverton of the newspapers is her miserable son.’

‘But she must be beside herself with worry about you,’ I exclaimed. ‘She has no idea where you are?’

‘She believes I am on my way to America,’ the young man confessed in a low voice. ‘I told her I would send an address when I was settled.’

I could only shake my head and sigh. But there was no point in urging Arthur to communicate at once with his mother; the truth would be far more painful than any uncertainty she presently felt, and though I had only the most dismal forebodings as to his future, there was always a possibility, however remote, that I might be wrong.

‘My scheme was to present myself to my uncle as a stranger and win his regard and confidence before proclaiming my true identity.’ Arthur said. ‘You needn’t comment, Mrs Emerson; it was a naive idea, worthy of a sensational novel. But it was harmless. I swear to you, I had no intention of doing anything except proving myself, by hard work and devotion. Naturally I knew of my uncle’s plans to winter in Egypt – most of the English-speaking population of the globe must have known. I journeyed to Cairo and applied to him as soon as he arrived. My credentials – ’

‘Forged?’ I enquired.

‘I could hardly offer him genuine recommendations, now could I? The ones I produced were impressive, I assure you. He hired me on the spot. And that is how matters stood when he died. He did not know my identity, although…’

He hesitated. Feeling sure I knew what he was about to say, I finished the sentence for him. ‘You think he suspected? Well, that does not matter now. My dear Arthur, you must make a clean breast of this to the authorities. Admittedly it places you under grave suspicion of murder – ’

‘But there is no evidence of murder,’ Arthur interrupted. ‘The police were satisfied that his lordship died a natural death.’

He was correct; and his quickness to point out this minor flaw in my reasoning did not augur well for his innocence. However, unless I could prove
how
Lord Baskerville was murdered, there was no sense in asking
who
had murdered him.

‘All the more reason for you to tell the truth,’ I insisted. ‘You must proclaim yourself in order to claim your inheritance’,

‘Sssh!’ Arthur clapped his hand over my mouth. The fear for my own safety, which had been forgotten in the interest of his narrative, now came back to me; but before I had time to experience more than a momentary alarm he went on in a whisper, ‘There is someone out there in the shrubbery. I saw movement – ’

I pulled his hand from my mouth. ‘It is only Abdullah. I was not so foolish as to come alone. But he did not overhear – ’

‘No, no.’ Arthur rose to his feet and I thought he was about to rush out into the shrubbery. After a moment he relaxed. ‘It is gone now. But it was not Abdullah, Mrs Emerson. It was slighter, and shorter – dressed in gauzy robes of snowy pallor.’

I caught my breath. ‘The Woman in White,’ I gasped.

Before we parted I asked Arthur’s permission to tell his story to Emerson. He agreed, probably because he realised I meant to do so with or without his approval. My suggestion that he go next day to Luxor to confess his true identity was rejected, and after some argument I had to admit that his reasoning had validity. The proper persons to receive this intelligence were, of course, the British authorities, and there was no one in Luxor of sufficient rank to deal with the matter, the consular agent being an Italian whose primary occupation was to supply Budge of the British Museum with stolen antiquities. Arthur promised he would accept Emerson’s judgment as to what action he ought to take, and I promised I would assist him in any way I could.

They say confession is good for the soul. It had certainly improved Arthur’s peace of mind. He went off with a springy step, whistling softly.

But oh, my own heart was heavy as I went to reassure my faithful Abdullah of my safety. I liked the young man – not, as Emerson claims, because he was a handsome specimen of English manhood, but because he was kind and amiable. However, I was unfavourably impressed with certain aspects of his character, which reminded me of his description of the charming ne’er-do-well who had sired him. The levity he had displayed concerning his forged credentials, the immature folly of his romantic scheme of gaining his uncle’s regard, and other things he had said indicated that his good mother’s influence had not overcome the shallowness he had inherited from the paternal side. I wished him well; but I was afraid his plausible story was only an attempt to win my goodwill before the truth came out, as it inevitably would when he claimed his title.

I found Abdullah concealed (more or less) behind a palm tree. When I questioned him about the apparition in white, he denied having seen anything. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I was watching you, or rather the dark place into which you went; never did I take my eyes away. Sitt Hakim, there is no need to tell Emerson of this.’

‘Don’t be such a coward, Abdullah,’ I replied. ‘I will explain that you did your best to stop me.’

‘Then will you strike me hard on the head so I may have a bruise to show him?’

I would have thought he was joking, but although Abdullah does have quite a sense of humour, this was not the sort of joke he would be likely to make.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said.

Abdullah groaned.

I could hardly wait to tell Emerson I had solved the murder of Lord Baskerville. Of course there were a few small details to be worked out, but I felt sure that if I applied myself seriously to the matter I would soon discover the answers. I meant to begin working on it that very night, but unfortunately I fell asleep before I could arrive at any conclusions.

My first thought on awakening was a renewal of concern over Emerson’s safety. Reason assured me that the household would have been roused if there had been a disturbance; but affection, never susceptible to logic, hastened my preparations to proceed to the Valley.

Early as I was, Cyrus Vandergelt was already in the courtyard when I emerged from my room. For the first time I saw him in his working costume, instead of one of the snowy linen suits he habitually wore. His tweed jacket was as beautifully tailored as his other clothes; it bore little resemblance to the shabby garments in which Emerson was wont to attire himself. On his head the American wore a military-looking solar topi with a band of red, white, and blue ribbon. He doffed this with a flourish when he saw me and offered his arm to escort me to the breakfast table.

Lady Baskerville seldom joined us at this meal. I had heard the men speculating on her need for prolonged rest; but of course I knew she spent the time on her toilette, for the artificial perfection of her appearance was obviously the result of hours of work.

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when we found the lady already at her place. She had not taken the time that morning to make up her face, and consequently she looked her age. Shadows circled her heavy-ridded eyes, and there were lines of strain around her mouth. Vandergelt was so struck by her appearance that he exclaimed with concern. She admitted that her night’s sleep had been disturbed and would have elaborated had not Milverton – or rather, Arthur Baskerville – rushed in full of apologies for having overslept.

Of all the persons in the room he, the guilty man, alone appeared to have had a refreshing, dreamless rest. The looks of smiling gratitude he kept shooting at me assured me he had quite cast off his melancholy. It was another demonstration of the immaturity that had already struck me; having confessed to an older, wiser individual, he now felt completely relieved of responsibility.

‘Where is Miss Mary?’ he asked. ‘We ought not to linger, I am sure Mrs Emerson is anxious to see her husband.’

‘Attending on her mother, I suppose,’ Lady Baskerville replied, in the sharp tone she always employed when referring to Madame Berengeria. ‘I cannot imagine what you were thinking of, to allow that dreadful woman to come here. Since the damage is done, I must accept it, but I absolutely refuse to be left alone in the house with her.’

‘Come with us,’ Vandergelt suggested. ‘We’ll fix you up a nice little place in the shade.’

‘Thank you, my friend, but I am too tired. After what I saw last night…’

Vandergelt rose to the bait, expressing concern and demanding details. I summarise the lady’s reply, for it was replete with gasps and sighs and theatrical descriptions. Stripped of these meaningless appendages, it was simple enough. Unable to sleep, she had gone to the window and seen the now notorious white-clad apparition gliding through the trees. It had disappeared in the direction of the cliffs.

I looked at Arthur and read his intentions in his ingenuous countenance. The young idiot was on the verge of exclaiming that we had also seen the White Lady – which would have brought out the whole story of our midnight meeting. It was necessary to stop him before he could speak. I kicked out under the table. In my haste I missed my object and administered a sharp blow on Mr Vandergelt’s calf. This served the purpose, however; his shout of pain and the ensuing apologies gave Arthur time to recollect himself.

Vandergelt continued to beg Lady Baskerville to join us, and, when she refused, offered to stay with her.

‘My dear Cyrus,’ she said, with an affectionate smile, ‘you are burning to get to your nasty, dirty tomb. Not for the world would I deprive you of this opportunity.’

A prolonged and foolish discussion ensued; it was finally decided that Arthur would stay with the ladies. So Vandergelt and I started out and at the last minute Mary joined us, breathless and apologetic. Made even more anxious by the delay, I set a pace that even the long-legged American was hard pressed to match.

‘Whoa, there, Mrs Amelia’ (or perhaps it was ‘Gee’ – some American cattle term, at any rate). ‘Poor little Miss Mary is going to be all tuckered out before she starts working. There’s no cause for alarm, you know; we’d have heard by this time if some early bird had found the Professor weltering in his gore.’

Though the thought was meant to be comforting, I did not think it particularly well expressed.

After a night spent apart I expected that Emerson would greet me with some degree of enthusiasm. Instead he stared at me blankly for a moment, as if he could not remember who I was. When recognition dawned, it was immediately followed by a scowl.

‘You are late,’ he said accusingly. ‘You had better get to work at once; we are far ahead of you, and the men have already turned up a considerable number of small objects in the rubble.’

‘Have they?’ Vandergelt drawled, stroking his goatee. ‘Doesn’t look too salubrious, does it, Professor?’

‘I said before that I suspected the tomb had been entered by robbers in antiquity,’ Emerson snapped. ‘That does not necessarily mean – ’

‘I get you. How about letting me have a gander at what has been done? Then I promise I’ll get to work. I’ll even tote baskets if you want.’

‘Oh, very well,’ Emerson said in his most disagreeable manner. ‘But be quick.’

No one but the most fanatical enthusiast would have found the effort of inspection worthwhile, for the interior of the passage, now cleared to a length of about fifteen yards, had reached an unbelievable degree of discomfort. It sloped sharply down into abysmal and stifling darkness lighted only by the wan glow of lanterns. The air was foul with the staleness of millennia, and so hot that the men had stripped off all their garments except those required by decency. Every movement, however slight, stirred up the fine white dust left by the limestone chips with which the corridor had been filled. This crystalline powder, clinging to the men’s perspiring bodies, gave them a singularly uncanny appearance; the pallid, leprous forms moving through the foggy gloom resembled nothing so much as reanimated mummies, preparing to menace the invaders of their sleep.

Partially concealed by the rough scaffolding, the procession of painted gods marched solemnly down into the darkness. Ibis-headed Thoth, patron of learning, Maat, goddess of truth, Isis and her falcon-headed son Horus. But what caught my attention and made me forget the extreme discomfort of heat and stifling air was the pile of rubble. In the beginning this had entirely closed the passageway. Now it had shrunk to a height barely shoulder high, leaving a gap between its top and the ceiling.

After a quick glance at the paintings, Vandergelt caught up a lantern and went straight to the pile of rubble. Standing on tiptoe, I peered over his arm as he moved the light forward, over the top of the pile.

The debris sloped sharply downward from that point on. In the shadows beyond the lantern rays loomed a solid mass – the end of the passageway, blocked, as the entrance had been, by a barrier of stone.

Before either of us could comment, Emerson made a commanding gesture and we followed him out into the vestibule at the foot of the stairs. Wiping dust from my streaming brow, I gazed reproachfully at my husband.

‘So this is the true explanation for your decision to remain on guard last night! How could you, Emerson? Have we not always shared the thrill of discovery? I am cut to the quick by your duplicity!’

Emerson’s fingers nervously stroked his chin. ‘Peabody, I owe you an apology; but honestly, I had no intention of stealing a march on you. What I said was true; from now on the tomb is in imminent peril of being robbed.’

‘And when have I shrunk from the prospect of peril?’ I demanded. ‘When have you sunk to the contemptible practice of attempting to shield me?’

‘Quite often, actually,’ Emerson replied. ‘Not that I often succeed; but really, Peabody, your inclination to rush headlong where angels fear to tread – ’

‘Hold on,’ Vandergelt interrupted. He had removed his hat and was methodically wiping the sticky dust from his face. He seemed unaware of the fact that this substance, which, when mixed with perspiration, took on the consistency of liquid cement, was running down into his goatee and dripping off the end.