Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (67 page)

She rushed at him. Emerson slid neatly out of his chair. Berengeria tripped and fell face- or rather, stomach-down across the seat. Even I, hardened as I am, felt constrained to avert my eyes from the appalling spectacle thus presented.

‘Good Gad,’ said Emerson.

Berengeria slid to the floor, rolled over, and sat up. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded, squinting at the table leg. ‘Where has he gone? Thutmosis, my lover and my husband – ’

‘I suppose her attendant has run away with the other servants,’ I said resignedly. ‘We had better get her back to her room. Where on earth did she get brandy at this hour of the morning?’

It was a rhetorical question, and no one tried to answer it. With some difficulty Karl and Vandergelt, assisted by me, lifted the lady to an upright position and steered her out of the room. I sent Karl to seek out Madame’s missing attendant, or any reasonable facsimile thereof, and returned to the dining room. Lady Baskerville had left, and Emerson was coolly drinking tea and making notes on a pad of paper.

‘Sit down, Peabody,’ he said. ‘It is time we had a council of war.’

‘Did you, then, succeed in convincing the men to return to work? You seem much more cheerful than you were earlier, and I am sure the admiration of Madame Berengeria is not the cause of your good humour.’

Emerson ignored this quip. ‘I did not succeed,’ he replied, ‘but I have worked out a plan that may have the desired effect. I am going across to Luxor. I wish I could ask you to go with me, but I dare not leave the house unguarded by at least one of us. I can trust no one else. Too many matters hang on a sword’s edge. Amelia, you must not leave young Baskerville unattended.’

I told him what I had done, and he looked pleased. ‘Excellent. Daoud is dependable; but I hope you will keep a watchful eye out as well. Your description of the young man’s worsening condition was designed to mislead, I hope?’

‘Precisely. In actual fact he seems stronger.’

‘Excellent,’ Emerson repeated. ‘You must be on the qui vive, Peabody. Trust no one. I think I know the identity of the murderer, but – ’

‘What?’ I cried. ‘You know – ’

Emerson clapped a large hard hand over my mouth. ‘I will make the announcement myself, at the proper time,’ he growled.

I peeled his fingers from my lips. ‘That was unnecessary.’ I said. ‘I was only surprised at your statement, after you have consistently disclaimed any interest in the matter. In fact, I too have discovered the identity of the person in question.’

‘Oh, you have, have you?’

‘Yes, I have.’

We studied one another warily.

‘Would you care to enlighten me?’ Emerson enquired.

‘No. I think I know; but if I am wrong you will never let me hear the end of it. Perhaps
you
will enlighten
me.’

‘No.’

‘Ha! You are not sure either.’

‘I said as much.’

Again we exchanged measuring glances.

‘You have no proof,’ I said.

‘That is the difficulty. And you – ’

‘Not yet. I hope to obtain it.’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson. ‘Peabody, please refrain from any reckless actions while I am away. I wish you could bring yourself to confide in me.’

‘Truly, Emerson, I would if I had anything useful to suggest. At the present time my suspicions are based on intuition, and I know how scornful you are of that; you have mocked me often enough. I promise that the moment I obtain concrete evidence I will tell you.’

‘Very well.’

‘You might return the compliment,’ I said pointedly.

‘I will tell you what I will do. Let us both write down the name of the person we suspect and put it in a sealed envelope. When this is over, the survivor, if there is one, can see who was right.’

I found this attempt at humour not at all amusing, and said so. We proceeded to do as Emerson had suggested, placing the sealed envelopes in a table drawer in our room.

Emerson then departed. I had hoped to have a few moments to myself, in order to jot down a few notes about the case and consider methods of obtaining the evidence I had spoken of. I was not given time for reflection, for one duty succeeded the next. After sending Karl to the Valley to relieve Mr O’Connell I interviewed Dr Dubois, who had come to visit Arthur. When I suggested broth to strengthen the patient, his response was positively rude.

I then led the medical man to the building where Armadale’s body had been placed. I was pleased to see that an attempt had been made to lend some dignity to the poor fellow’s resting place. The body had been decently swathed in a clean white sheet and upon the breast of the still form lay a bouquet of flowers. I fancied that Mary must have supplied these, and regretted I had not been there to support the girl as she carried out this sad task.

Dubois was of no help whatever. His examination was cursory in the extreme; his conclusion was that Armadale had died of exposure – a perfectly ridiculous idea, as I pointed out. He was even more vague about the time of death. The atmospheric conditions that produced so many excellent mummies prevailed in the cave where Armadale had been found, so that desiccation rather than decay had affected the body. Dubois declared he had been dead no less than two days and no more than two weeks.

I then turned to the needs of the living, first ordering the chicken broth from Ahmed and then hastening to my room to carry out a task which had been too long delayed. Only the succession of unnerving incidents that had required all my attention had made me neglect this pressing duty. At least by waiting I had more hopeful news to send Arthur Baskerville’s long-suffering mother. As I sat trying to compose a message that would be both peremptory and soothing, it occurred to me that I did not know Mrs Baskerville’s full name or address. After some thought I decided to send the message to the authorities in Nairobi; surely, with all the publicity attendant on Lord Baskerville’s death, they would be able to locate his brother’s widow.

Scarcely had I finished this task when I was summoned to the drawing room to assist Lady Baskerville in explaining to the police how Armadale’s body had been discovered. After much fuss and bureaucratic delay the requisite documents were completed. Armadale had no living relatives, except for distant cousins in Australia. It was decided that he should be buried in the small European cemetery in Luxor, delay in this matter being both insanitary and unnecessary; and when Lady Baskerville showed signs of relapsing into sobs and sighs, I assured her I would make the necessary arrangements.

It was midafternoon before Emerson returned, and by then even my iron constitution was beginning to feel some strain, for in the meantime, in addition to the tasks I have described, I had visited the sick man and forced some broth down his throat, had interviewed Mr O’Connell on his return from the Valley, dressed his injured hand and put him to bed, and had enjoyed an acrimonious argument with Madame Berengeria over the luncheon table. Like many drunkards, she had astonishing powers of recuperation; a few hours’ rest completely restored her, and when she forced her way into the dining room she was again dressed in her appalling costume. The strong perfume she had poured over her frame did not entirely cover the unmistakable olfactory evidences of her lack of interest in the most rudimentary personal cleanliness. She had learned of Armadale’s death, and her dire predictions of further disasters to come were interrupted only by intervals of munching and mumbling as she crammed food into her mouth. I did not blame Lady Baskerville for her precipitate departure from the table. Vandergelt followed, but I felt obliged to remain until Madame had eaten herself into a semistupor. My request that she return to her room revived her and was the cause of the argument, during the course of which she made a number of unwarranted personal remarks and asserted her intention of reclaiming her reincarnated lover, Thutmosis-Ramses-Amenhotep the Magnificent-Setnakhte.

When Emerson entered our room, by way of the window, he found me recumbent on the bed with the cat at my feet. He hastened to my side, dropping the armful of papers he was carrying.

‘Peabody, my dear girl!’

‘Everything is under control,’ I assured him. ‘I am a little tired, that is all.’

Emerson sat down beside me and wiped the perspiration from his brow. ‘You cannot blame me for being alarmed, my love; I don’t recall ever seeing you in bed during the day-time – to rest, that is. And,’ he added, with an amused glance at the sleeping cat, ‘you looked for all the world like a small Crusader on a tombstone with your faithful hound at your feet. What is the cause of this unusual weariness? Have the police been here?’

I gave him a succinct, well-organized summary of the events of the day.

‘What a frightful time you have had,’ he exclaimed. ‘My poor girl, I only wish I could have been with you.’

‘Bah,’ I said. ‘You don’t wish that at all. You are relieved to have missed all the fuss, particularly Madame.’

Emerson smiled sheepishly. ‘I confess that the lady comes as close to throwing me off balance as any living creature – with the exception of yourself, my love.’

‘She is more appalling every day, Emerson. The ways of Providence are inscrutable, to be sure, and I would never dream of questioning its decree; but I cannot help but wonder why Madame Berengeria is allowed to flourish when good young men like Alan Armadale are cruelly cut off. It would be an act of positive benevolence to remove her from this world.’

‘Now, Amelia, be calm. I have something for you that will restore your equanimity; the first mail from home.’

Shuffling through the envelopes I came upon a familiar hand and a sentiment long repressed, through stern necessity, would not be denied. ‘A letter from Ramses,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why did you not open it? It is addressed to both of us.’

‘I thought we could read it together,’ Emerson replied. He stretched out across the bed, his hands supporting his head, and I opened the envelope.

Ramses had learned to write at the age of three, disdaining the clumsy art of printing. His hand, though unformed, proclaimed the essentials of his character, being large and sprawling, with emphatic punctuation marks. He favoured very black ink and broad-ribbed pens.

‘“Dearest mama and papa,”’ I read. ‘“I miss you very much.”’

Emerson let out a choked sound and turned his head away.

‘Do not yield to emotion yet,’ I said, scanning the next lines. ‘Wait till you hear his reasons for missing us. “Nurse is very cruel and will not give me any sweets. Aunt Evelyn would, but she is afraid of Nurse. So I have not been to a sweetshop since you left and I think you were cruel and vishus [I reproduce Ramses’ spelling literally] to leave me. Uncle Walter spanked me yesterday – ”’

‘What?’ Emerson sat up. The cat, disturbed by his violent movement, let out a grumble of protest. ‘The wretch! How dare he lay hands on Ramses! I never thought he had it in him.’

‘Neither did I,’ I said, pleased. ‘Pray let me continue, Emerson. “Uncle Walter spanked me yesterday only because I tore some pages out of his dikshunary. I needed to use them. He spanks very hard. I will not tear any more pages out of his dikshunary. Afterwards he taught me how to write ‘I love you, mama and papa,’ in hieroglyphs. Here it is. Your son, Ramses.”

Together Emerson and I contemplated the untidy little row of picture signs. The signs blurred a trifle as I looked at them; but, as always when Ramses was concerned, amusement and irritation tempered sentimentality

‘How typical of Ramses,’ I said, smiling. ‘He misspells dictionary and vicious, but misses not a letter of hieroglyphs.’

‘I fear we have bred a monster,’ Emerson agreed, with a laugh. He began to tickle the cat under the chin. The animal, annoyed at being awakened, promptly seized his hand and began to bite it.

‘What Ramses needs is discipline,’ I said.

‘Or an adversary worthy of his steel,’ Emerson suggested. He pried the cat’s teeth and claws from his hand and studied the animal thoughtfully. ‘I have just had an inspiration, Amelia.’

I did not ask what it was. I preferred not to know. Instead I turned to the rest of the mail, which included a long, loving letter from Evelyn reassuring me as to Ramses’ health and happiness. Like the good aunt she was, she did not even mention the dictionary incident. Emerson opened his own mail. After a while he handed two items to me for perusal. One was a telegram from Grebaut, cancelling Emerson’s permission to excavate and demanding that he re-hire the guards he had dismissed. After I had read it Emerson crumpled it up and tossed it out the window.

The second item was a clipping from a newspaper, sent us by Mr Wilbour. The story, under the byline of Kevin O’Connell, described in vivid detail not only the kicking of the reporter down the stairs of Shepheard’s Hotel, but also the knife in the wardrobe. Mr O’Connell’s informant had played him false with the latter incident, however; the knife, ‘a bejewelled weapon worthy of being worn by a pharaoh,’ was said to have been found driven into the centre of the bedside table.

‘Wait till I get my hands on that young man,’ I muttered.

‘At least he did not break his word,’ Emerson said with surprising tolerance. ‘This story was written some days ago, before we made our agreement. Do you want to change the name in that envelope, Amelia?’

It took me a moment to understand what he meant. When I did, I replied, ‘Certainly not. Though this does raise a point I cannot yet explain. What about you?’

‘My opinion is unchanged.’

A low growl from the cat warned us that someone was approaching. A moment later there was a knock at the door. I opened it and admitted Daoud.

‘The holy woman calls you to come,’ he said. ‘The sick man is awake and speaking.’

‘Curse it,’ Emerson exclaimed, shaking his fist in the astonished man’s face. ‘Keep your voice down, Daoud. No one must know of this. Now get back to your post and hold your tongue.’

Daoud obeyed and we proceeded, posthaste, to Arthur’s room.

The Sister was bending over the sick man, as was Mary. Worn by illness as he was, it required both women’s strength to keep him from sitting up.

‘He must not move his head!’ I exclaimed in alarm.