Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (74 page)

‘Drugged,’ I said softly. ‘This is a most alarming development, Emerson.’

‘Alarming but hopeful,’ was the reply, in tones as soft as Emerson could make them. ‘It confirms my theory. Stay here out of sight, Peabody, and for heaven’s sake don’t give the alarm too soon. Wait till I actually have my hands on the wretch.’

‘But, Emerson – ’

‘No more. I only hope our animated discussion has gone unheard.’

‘Wait, Emerson – ’

He was gone. I sat down beside the boulder. To pursue him and insist on being heard was to risk the failure of our scheme; and besides, the information I had meant to give him was no longer pertinent. Or was it? Chewing on my lip, I tried to sort out my thoughts. O’Connell had been drugged. No doubt Emerson’s coffee, which I had drunk, had also been doctored. Fearing such an eventuality, I had drunk Emerson’s coffee, and rid myself of it. Yet when I came upon him just now he had been sound asleep. I could not have mistaken pretence for reality. I had felt the limpness of his body, and if he had only been feigning sleep he would have heard my whispers. He had drunk my coffee. Or had someone else exchanged cups with him? I felt as if my head were spinning like a top.

A soft glow of artificial light roused me from my disquieting thoughts. Emerson had lit the lantern. I approved this decision; if my reasoning was correct, the murderer would expect to find him drugged and helpless, and the lamplight would enable this prostrate condition to be observed more readily. I only wished I could be certain he was free of the influence of some drug. I took a deep breath and clenched my hands. It did not matter. I was on the job. I had my knife, my gun, my parasol; I had the resolve of duty and affection to strengthen every sinew. I told myself that Emerson could not have been in better hands than mine.

I told myself that; but as time wore on I began to doubt my own assurances – not because I had lost faith in my abilities, but because I stood to lose so much if, by some unexpected mischance, I should fail to act in time. Emerson had seated himself on the ground by the stairs, his back against a rock, his pipe in his mouth. After smoking for a while he knocked out the pipe and sat motionless. Gradually his head drooped forward. The pipe fell from his lax hand. Shoulders bowed, chin on his breast, he slept – or was he pretending to sleep? A breeze ruffled his dark hair. I beheld his unmoving form with mounting apprehension. I was at least ten yards away. Could I reach him in time, if action proved necessary? Beside me, Mr O’Connell rolled over and began to snore. I was tempted to kick him, even though I knew his comatose condition was not his fault.

The night was far advanced before the first betraying sound reached my ears. It was only the soft click of a pebble striking stone, and it might have been made by a wandering animal; but it brought me upright, with every sense alert. Yet I almost missed the first sign of movement. It came from behind the fence, outside the circle of light.

I had known what to expect; but as the shadowy shape emerged cautiously into view, I caught my breath. Muffled from head to foot in clinging muslin that covered even its face, it reminded me of the first appearance of Ayesha, the immortal woman or goddess, in Mr Haggard’s thrilling romance She. Ayesha veiled her face and form because her dazzling beauty drove men mad; this apparition’s disguise had a darker purpose, but it conveyed the same sense of awe and terror. No wonder the persons who had seen it had taken it for a demon of the night or the spirit of an ancient queen.

It stood poised, as if prepared for instant flight. The night wind lifted its draperies like the wings of a great white moth. So strong was my desire to rush at it that I sank my teeth in my lower lip and tasted the saltiness of blood. I had to wait. There were too many hiding places in the nearby cliffs. If it escaped us now, we might never bring it to justice.

Almost I waited too long; for when the figure finally moved it did so with such speed that I was caught unawares. Rushing forward, it bent over Emerson, one hand raised.

It was apparent by this time that Emerson really had dozed off and was not mimicking sleep. Naturally I would have cried out if the danger had been imminent; but seeing the ghostly figure, I knew all. My theories had been right, from start to finish. Knowing the method of attack, I knew it required a certain delicacy and deliberation of execution. I had plenty of time. Triumph soared within me as I rose slowly to my feet.

As soon as I put my weight on it, my left ankle gave way, tingling with the pain of returning circulation. The crash of my fall, I am sorry to say, was quite loud.

By the time I had recovered myself, the white form was in rapid retreat. Emerson had tumbled over onto his side and was stirring feebly, like an overturned beetle. I heard his bewildered curses as I staggered past him, leaning on my parasol for support.

A woman in less excellent physical condition might have continued to stagger till all was lost; but my blood vessels and muscles are as well trained as the rest of me. Strength returned to my limbs as I progressed. The white apparition was still visible, some distance ahead, when I broke into my famous racing form, arms swinging, head high. Nor did I scruple to make the echoes ring with my demands for assistance from anyone who might be listening.

‘Help!
Au secours! Zu Hilfe!
Stop thief,’ accompanied my progress, and I daresay these cries had an effect on the person I pursued. There was no escape for it, but it continued to run until I brought my parasol down on its head with all the strength I could muster. Even then, as it lay supine, it reached out with clawed hands for the object it had dropped in its fall. I put my foot firmly on the weapon – a long, sharp hatpin. With my parasol at the ready, I looked down on the haggard, no longer beautiful face that glared up at me with Gorgonlike ferocity.

‘It is no use, Lady Baskerville,’ I said. ‘You are fairly caught. You should have known when we first met that you were no match for me.’

E
MERSON
was unreasonably annoyed with me for what he called my unwarranted interference. I pointed out to him that if I had not interfered he would have moved on to a better, but probably less interesting, world. Unable to deny this, but reluctant to admit it, he changed the subject.

We made a little ceremony of opening the envelopes to which we had earlier committed our deductions as to the identity of the murderer. I suggested we do this publicly. Emerson agreed so readily that I knew he had either guessed correctly or been able to substitute a new envelope for the original.

We held our conference in Arthur’s room. Though still very weak, he was out of danger, and I felt his recovery would be hastened if he knew he was no longer under suspicion of murder.

Everyone was there except Mr Vandergelt, who had felt duty-bound to accompany Lady Baskerville to Luxor, where, I had no doubt, she was proving a considerable embarrassment to the authorities. They seldom had a criminal of such exalted social status, and a woman to boot. I only hoped they would not let her escape out of sheer embarrassment.

After Emerson and I had opened our envelopes and displayed the two slips of paper, each bearing the name of Lady Baskerville, Mary exclaimed, ‘You amaze me, Amelia – and you too, of course, Professor. Though I cannot say I admired her ladyship, it would never have occurred to me that she could be guilty.’

‘It was obvious to an analytical mind,’ I replied. ‘Lady Baskerville was shrewd and vicious but not really intelligent. She committed one error after another.’

‘Such as asking the Professor to take command of the expedition,’ Karl said. ‘She ought to have known a man so brilliant, so distinguished – ’

‘No, that was one of her more intelligent actions,’ Emerson said. ‘The work would have been carried on, with or without her approval. His late lordship’s will specifically directed that it be done. She had a role as a devoted widow to play; and at the time she approached us she took it for granted that the matter was ended. Armadale, she hoped, would either die in the desert or flee the country. She underestimated his stamina and the depth of his passion; but, though she was not very intelligent, she knew how to act promptly and decisively when action was necessary.’

‘And,’ I added, ‘the idea of disguising herself as a lady in white was one of her brighter notions. The veils were so voluminous that there was no way of identifying the figure; it might even have been that of a man. Also, its ghostly appearance made some of those who saw it reluctant to approach it. Lady Baskerville made good use of the white lady by pretending to see it herself the night Emerson was so nearly hit by the stone head. It was, of course, Habib who threw the stone. Other indications, such as Lady Baskerville’s preference for an inefficient and timid Egyptian servant, were highly suspicious. I have no doubt that Atiyah observed a number of things that a sharper attendant would have understood, and perhaps reported to me.’

I would have gone on had not O’Connell interrupted me.

‘Just a minute, ma’am. All this is very interesting but, if you will pardon me, it is the sort of thing anyone might see, after the fact. I need more details, not only for my editor, but to satisfy my own curiosity.’

‘You already know the details of one incident in the case, though you may not care to describe them to your readers,’ I said meaningfully.

Mr O’Connell blushed fiery red, so that his face almost matched his hair. He had confessed to me in private that he had been responsible for the knife in the wardrobe. He had bribed a hotel servant to place an elaborate, ornamented knife – of the sort that is made for the tourist trade – in a prominent place in our room. His inefficient and underpaid ally had replaced the expensive trinket with a cheaper weapon and put it in the wrong place.

Seeing the journalist’s blushes, I said no more. In the last few days he had earned my goodwill, and besides, he was due for a comeuppance if my suspicions about Mary and Arthur were correct.

‘Yes, well, let us proceed,’ said O’Connell, gazing intently at his notebook. ‘How did you – and Professor Emerson, of course – arrive at the truth?’

I had decided I had better hear what Emerson had to say before I committed myself. I therefore remained silent and allowed him to begin.

‘It was evident from the first that Lady Baskerville had the best opportunity to dispose of her husband. It is a truism in police science – ’

‘I can only allow you ten minutes, Emerson,’ I interjected. ‘We must not tire Arthur.’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson. ‘You tell it, then, since you consider my narrative style too verbose.’

‘I’ll just ask questions, if you permit,’ said Mr O’Connell, looking amused. ‘That will save time. I am trained, you know, to a terse journalistic style.’

‘Terse’ was not the word I would have used; but I saw no reason to interfere with the procedure he suggested.

‘You have mentioned opportunity,’ he said. ‘What about motive? Professor?’

‘It is a truism in police science,’ said Emerson stubbornly, ‘that a victim’s heirs are the primary suspects. Though I was unaware of the stipulations of the late Lord Baskerville’s will, I assumed his wife stood to inherit something. But I suspected an even stronger motive. The archaeological world is small. Like all small communities, it is prone to gossip. Lady Baskerville’s reputation for – er – let me think how to put it …’

‘Extramarital carrying on,’ I said. ‘I could have told you that.’

‘How?’ Emerson demanded.

‘I knew it the moment I set eyes on her. She was that sort of woman.’

‘So,’ Mr O’Connell intervened, as Emerson’s face reddened, ‘you enquired about the lady’s reputation, Professor?’

‘Precisely. I had been out of touch for several years. I spoke with acquaintances in Luxor and sent off a few telegrams to Cairo, to ascertain whether she had continued her old habits. The replies confirmed my suspicions. I concluded that Lord Baskerville had learned of her affairs – the husband is always the last to know – and had threatened her with divorce, disgrace, and destitution.’

In reality, he had discovered these facts only that morning, when Lady Baskerville broke down and confessed all. I wondered how many other facets of that most interesting confession would turn up, in the form of deductions, as he went along.

‘So she killed her husband in order to preserve her good name?’ Mary asked incredulously.

‘To preserve her luxurious style of living,’ I said, before Emerson could reply. ‘She had designs on Mr Vandergelt. He would never have married a divorced woman – you know how puritanical these Americans are – but as an unhappy widow she did not doubt she could capture him.’

‘Good,’ said Mr O’Connell, scribbling rapidly. ‘Now, Mrs E., it is your turn. What clue gave away the murderer’s identity to you?’

‘Arthur’s bed,’ I replied.

Mr O’Connell chuckled. ‘Wonderful! It is almost as deliciously enigmatic as one of Mr Sherlock Holmes’s clues. Elucidate, please, ma’am.’

‘The evening we found our friend here so near his end,’ I said, with a nod at Arthur, ‘his room was in disorder. Lady Baskerville had tossed his belongings around in order to suggest a hasty flight. She had, however – ’