Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (59 page)

‘Don’t get into one of your arguments,’ he went on. ‘I don’t have the patience to wait till you finish fighting. What the hades is down there, Professor?’

‘The end of the passageway,’ Emerson answered. ‘And a well or shaft. I couldn’t cross it. There were a few scraps of rotten wood, the remains of a bridge or covering – ’

‘Brought by thieves?’ Vandergelt asked, his blue eyes alert.

‘Possibly. They would have come prepared for such pitfalls, which were common in tombs of the period. However, if they did find a door at the far end, there is no sign of it now – only a blank wall surface painted with a figure of Anubis.’

‘Humph.’ Vandergelt stroked his goatee. This action produced a stream of mud that ran down the front of his once-neat coat. ‘Either the door is hidden behind the plaster and paint, or the wall is a blind alley and the burial chamber lies elsewhere – perhaps at the bottom of the shaft.’

‘Correct. As you see, we have quite a few more hours’ work ahead of us. We must test every foot of the floor and ceiling carefully. The closer we get to the burial chamber, the greater the chance of encountering a trap.’

‘Then let us get to work,’ I cried excitedly.

‘Precisely what I have been suggesting,’ Emerson replied.

His tone was decidedly sarcastic, but I decided to overlook it, for there was some excuse for his behaviour. My brain teemed with golden visions. For the moment archaelogical fever supplanted detective fever. I was actually at work, sifting the first portion of rubble, before I remembered I had not told Emerson of Arthur’s confession.

I assured myself that there was no need for haste. Emerson would undoubtedly insist on finishing the day’s work before returning to the house, and Arthur had agreed to take no action until we had had a chance to confer. I decided to wait until the noon break before confiding in Emerson.

Jealous persons might claim, in the light of later events, that this was an error of judgment on my part. I cannot see it this way. Only another Cassandra, gifted or cursed with the ability to foresee the future, could have predicted what transpired; and if I
had
had a premonition, I could not possibly have convinced Emerson to act on it.

Proof positive of this assertion is given by his reaction when I did tell him about my conversation with Arthur. We had gone to eat our frugal meal and rest for a while under the canvas canopy that had been erected to shelter me from the sun’s rays while I worked. Mary was below, attempting to trace the most recently uncovered paintings. The only time she could work was while the men were resting, for the clouds of dust their feet stirred up made vision, much less breathing, virtually impossible. Needless to say, Karl was in attendance upon her. Vandergelt had wolfed down his food and returned at once to the tomb, which exerted a powerful fascination over him. Emerson would have followed had I not restrained him.

‘I must tell you of my conversation with Arthur last night,’ I said.

Emerson was grumbling and trying to free his sleeve from my grasp. This statement had the effect of catching his attention.

‘Curse it, Amelia, I ordered you not to leave our room. I ought to have known Abdullah wasn’t man enough to stop you. Just wait till I get my hands on him!’

‘It was not his fault.’

‘I am well aware of that.’

‘Then stop fussing and listen to me. I assure you, you will find the story interesting. Arthur confessed – ’

‘Arthur? How friendly you have become with a murderer! Wait a moment – I thought his name was Charles.’

‘I call him Arthur because if I were to use his last name and title it would be confusing. His name is not Milverton.’

Emerson flung himself down on the ground with a look of bored patience, but when I reached the climax of my story he abandoned his efforts to appear disinterested.

‘Good Gad,’ he exclaimed. ‘If he is telling the truth – ’

‘I am sure he is. There would be no reason for him to lie.’

‘No – not when the facts can be checked. Doesn’t he realise what an extremely awkward position this places him in?’

‘He certainly does. But I have persuaded him to make a clean breast of it. The question is, to whom should he tell his story?’

‘Hmmm.’ Emerson drew his feet up and rested his forearms on his knees while he considered the question. ‘He must show proof of his identity if he wants to establish his claim to the title and estate. We had better communicate directly with Cairo. They will certainly be surprised.’

‘To find him here, yes. Though I feel sure his existence, as the next heir, is known to whatever government persons concern themselves with such matters. I wonder I did not think of that myself. For, of course, Lord Baskerville’s heir would be the most logical suspect.’

Emerson’s heavy brows drew together. ‘He would be, if Lord Baskerville’s death
was
murder. I thought you had concluded that Armadale was the criminal.’

‘That was before I knew Milverton’s – I mean Arthur’s – real identity,’ I explained patiently. ‘Naturally he denies having killed his uncle – ’

‘Oh, he does?’

‘You would hardly expect him to admit it.’

‘
I
would not;
you
did, if you recall. Ah, well; I will talk with the young fool tonight – or tomorrow – and we will see what steps ought to be taken. Now we have wasted enough time. Back to work.’

‘I feel we ought to act on this matter without delay,’ I said.

‘I don’t. The tomb is the matter that will not brook delay.’

Her copy of the paintings completed, Mary returned to the house, and the rest of us resumed work. As the afternoon wore on, I found increasing numbers of objects in the rubble – potsherds and bits of blue faience, and many beads moulded of the same glasslike substance. The beads were a nuisance, for they were very small, and I had to sift every cubic inch to make sure I had not missed any.

The sun declined westward, and its rays crept under my canvas canopy. I was still looking for beads when a shadow fell across my basket; looking up, I saw Mr O’Connell. He doffed his hat with a flourish and squatted down beside me.

‘Sure and it’s a pity to see a lovely lady spoiling her hands and her complexion with such work,’ he said winsomely.

‘Don’t waste your Hibernian charm on me,’ I said. ‘I am beginning to think of you as a bird of ill omen, Mr O’Connell. Whenever you appear, some disaster follows.’

‘Ah, don’t be hard on a poor fellow. I’m not my usual cheery self today, Mrs Emerson, and that’s the truth.’

He sighed heavily. I remembered my scheme to enlist this presumptuous young person in our cause, and moderated my sharp voice. ‘You have not managed to regain your place in Miss Mary’s affections, then?’

‘You’re a canny lady, Mrs E. Indeed she’s still vexed with me, God bless her for a darling little tyrant.’

‘She has other admirers, you know. They leave her little time to miss an impertinent red-haired journalist.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ O’Connell replied gloomily. ‘I have just come from the house. Mary refused even to see me. She sent a message telling me to take myself off or she would have the servants throw me out. I’m beaten, Mrs E., and that’s the truth. I want a truce. I’ll accept any reasonable terms if you will help me make my peace with Mary.’

I bowed my head, pretending to concentrate on my work, in order to hide my smile of satisfaction. Having been about to propose a compromise, I was now in the happy position of being able to dictate terms.

‘What are you suggesting?’ I asked.

O’Connell appeared to hesitate; but when he spoke the words poured forth so glibly that it was obvious he had already formulated his plan.

‘It’s the most charming of fellows I am,’ he said modestly. ‘But if I never see the girl, my charm is not of much use. If I were to be invited to stay at the house, now…’

‘Oh, dear me, I don’t see how I could possibly arrange that,’ I said in a shocked voice.

‘There would be no difficulty with Lady Baskerville. She thinks the world of me.’

‘Oh, I’ve no doubt you can get round Lady Baskerville. Unfortunately Emerson is not so susceptible.’

‘I can win him over,’ O’Connell insisted.

‘How?’ I demanded bluntly.

‘If, for instance, I promised to submit all my stories to him for approval before sending them to my editor.’

‘Would you really agree to that?’

‘I hate like the very devil – excuse me, ma’am, my feelings got the better of me – I hate the idea. But I would do it to gain my ends.’

‘Ah, love,’ I said satirically. ‘How true it is, that the tender emotion can reform a wicked man.’

‘Say rather that it can soften the brain of a clever man,’ O’Connell replied morosely. He caught my eye; and after a moment the corners of his mouth curved in a rueful smile, devoid of the mockery that so often marred his expression. ‘You’ve got a bit of charm yourself, Mrs E. I think you have a great deal of sentiment in your nature, though you try to hide it.’

‘Absurd,’ I said. ‘Take yourself off now, before Emerson discovers you. I will discuss your proposal with him this evening.’

‘Why not now? I am on fire to begin my wooing.’

‘Don’t press your luck, Mr O’Connell. If you come by the dig tomorrow at about this time, I may have good news for you.’

‘I knew it!’ O’Connell exclaimed. ‘I knew a lady with a face and figure like yours could not be cruel to a lover!’ Seizing me around the waist he planted a kiss on my cheek. I immediately seized my parasol and aimed a blow at him but he skipped back out of reach. Grinning broadly and blowing me a kiss, the impertinent young man sauntered off.

He did not go far away, however; whenever I looked up from my work I saw him among the staring tourists. When his eyes met mine he would either sigh and press his hand to his heart or wink and smile and tip his hat. Though I did not show it, I could not help being amused. After an hour or so he evidently felt that his point had been made; he vanished from the scene and I saw him no more.

The molten orb of the sun was low in the west and the blue grey shadows of evening were cool on the ground when a cessation in the monotonous flow of loaded baskets made me sense that something had occurred. I looked up to see the crew file out of the tomb. Surely, I thought, Emerson cannot have dismissed them for the day; there is still an hour of daylight left. I went at once to see what had happened.

The heap of rubble had been considerably reduced. No longer did it consist solely of moderate-sized stones and pebbles. One end of a massive stone block was now visible. Emerson and Vandergelt stood by it, looking down at something on the floor.

‘Come here, Peabody,’ said Emerson. ‘What do you think of this?’

His pointing finger indicated a brown, brittle object covered with limestone dust, which Vandergelt began to remove with a small brush.

Experienced in such matters, I realised immediately that the strange object was a mummified human arm – or rather the tattered remains of one, for a great deal of the skin was missing. The bared bones were brown and brittle with age. The patches of skin had been tanned to a hard leathery shell. By some strange quirk of chance the delicate fingerbones had been undisturbed; they seemed to reach out as if in a desperate appeal for air – for safety – for life.

I
was peculiarly moved by the gesture, though I realised it was only a fortuitous arrangement of skeletal material. However, sangfroid is necessary to an archaeologist, so I did not voice my sentiments aloud.

‘Where is the rest of him?’ I enquired.

‘Under the slab,’ replied Vandergelt. ‘We seem to have here a case of poetic justice, Mrs Amelia – a thief who was caught in the act in the most literal sense.’

I looked up at the ceiling. The rectangular gap in the surface formed a pocket of deeper darkness. ‘Could it have been an accident?’ I asked.

‘Hardly,’ Emerson replied. ‘As we have learned to our sorrow, the rock here is dangerously brittle. However, the symmetrical shape of this block shows that it was deliberately freed from the matrix and balanced so that it would fall if a thief inadvertently disturbed the triggering mechanism. Fascinating! We have seen other such devices, Peabody, but never one so effective.’

‘Looks as if the slab is a couple of feet thick,’ Vandergelt remarked. ‘I opine there won’t be much left of the poor rascal.’

‘Quite enough, however, to rattle our workmen,’ Emerson replied.

‘But why?’ I asked. ‘They have excavated hundreds of mummies and skeletons.’

‘Not under these particular circumstances. Could there possibly be a more convincing demonstration of the effectiveness of the pharaoh’s curse?’

His last word echoed from the depths beyond: ‘Curse… curse…’ and yet again the faintest murmured ‘curse…’ before the final sibilant faded into silence.

‘Hey, cut it out, Professor,’ Vandergelt said uneasily. ‘You’ll have
me
gibbering about demons in a minute. What do you say we quit for the night? It’s getting late, and this appears to be a sizeable job.’

‘Quit? Stop, you mean?’ Emerson stared at him in surprise. ‘No, no, I must see what is under the slab. Peabody, fetch Karl and Abdullah.’