The Curse of the Pharaohs (11 page)

"Both her arms were broken," said Emerson, in a soft, cold voice quite unlike his usual tones. "She had tried to shield her head from the blows of her father's club. How she eluded him, or walked so far in her condition, I cannot imagine. She collapsed at my feet. I made her as comfortable as I could and ran to get help. In the few moments I was gone, Habib, who must have been close behind her, entered my tent and crushed her skull with a single blow.

"I returned in time to see him running away. One glance told me I could do no more for poor Aziza, so I went in pursuit. I gave him a good beating before I turned him over to the police. He got off much more lightly than he deserved, for of course the native courts found his motive entirely reasonable. If I had not threatened the sheikh with various unpleasant things he would probably have set Habib free."

I pressed his arm sympathetically. I understood why he had not mentioned the story; even now the memory affected him deeply. The softer side of Emerson's character is not known to many people, but those who are in trouble instinctively sense his real nature and seek him out, as the unhappy girl had done.

After a moment of thoughtful silence he shook himself and said, in his usual careless tone, "So take care with Mr. Vandergelt, Amelia. He was not exaggerating when he called himself an admirer of the fair sex, and if I learn that you have yielded to his advances I will beat you."

"I will take care that you don't catch me, never fear. But, Emerson, we are going to have a hard time solving this case if we hope to do it by using you as bait. There are too many people in Egypt who would like to kill you."

Five

A magnificent sunset turned the reflecting water to a shimmering scarf of crimson and gold as we set sail for the east bank and our appointment with Lady Baskerville. Emerson was sulking because I had insisted we take a carriage from the house to the quay. No man but Emerson would have considered walking across the fields in full evening kit, much less expect me to trail my red satin skirts and lace ruffles through the dirt; but Emerson is unique. When he behaves irrationally it is necessary to be firm with him.

He cheered up, however, when we embarked, and indeed few people could fail to be moved to enjoyment at such sensations. The cool evening breeze bathed our faces, the felucca slid smoothly across the water, and before us unrolled the glorious panorama of Luxor—the vivid green of palms and gardens, the statues and pillars and pylons of the Theban temples. A carriage was waiting for us and it bore
us swiftly through the streets to the Luxor Hotel, where Lady Baskerville was staying.

As we entered the lobby the lady came gliding to meet us, her
hands outstretched. Although she wore black I did not consider the gown suitable for a recently bereaved widow.

The
abominable bustle, which had so vexed me in the past, was on its way out. Lady Baskerville's gown was of the latest style, with only a small drapery behind. The layers of black net forming the skirts were so full and the puffs of fabric at her shoulders so exaggerated that her waist looked ridiculously small. She was tightly corseted, and the extent of shoulder and throat exposed was, in my opinion, almost indecent. The waxy white flowers crowning her upswept hair were also inappropriate.

(I do not apologize for this digression into fashion. Not only is it intrinsically interesting, but it shows something of the woman's character.)

Lady Baskerville gave me her fingertips and clasped Emerson's hand warmly. She men turned to introduce us to her companion.

"We met earlier," said Cyrus Vandergelt, beaming down at us. "It sure is nice to see you folks again. Mrs. Emerson, may I say your dress is right pretty. That red color suits you."

"Let us go in to dinner," Lady Baskerville said, with a slight frown.

"I thought Miss Mary and her friend were joining us," Vandergelt said.

"Mary said she would come if she were able. But you know her mother."

"I sure enough do!" Vandergelt rolled his eyes heavenward. "Have you met Madame Berengeria, Mrs. Emerson?"

I indicated that I had not had the pleasure. Vandergelt went on, "She claims she came here to study ancient Egyptian religion, but I opine it's because living is cheap. I don't like to speak ill of any member of the fair sex, but Madame Berengeria is an awful woman."

"Now, Cyrus, you must not be unkind," said Lady Baskerville, who had listened with a faint pleased smile. She enjoyed hearing other women criticized as much as she disliked hearing them complimented. "The poor thing cannot help it," she went on, turning to Emerson. "I believe her mind is deficient. We are all very fond of Mary, so we tolerate her mother; but the poor child is kept dancing attendance on the old... on the unfortunate creature, and can seldom get away."

Emerson shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and inserted a finger under his collar, as he does when he is uncomfortable or bored. Reading these signs correctly—as any married woman would—Lady Baskerville was turning toward the dining salon when Mr. Vandergelt let out a muffled exclamation.

"Holy shucks!" (At least I believe that was the phrase.) "How the dickens—look who's here. You didn't invite her, did you?"

"Certainly not." Lady Baskerville's voice had a distinct rasp as her eyes lit on the person who had prompted Vandergelt's remark. "That would not prevent her from coming, though. The woman has the manners of a peasant."

Coming toward us was a singular pair. One was a young lady dressed modestly in a somewhat out-of-date evening frock of pale-yellow voile. Ordinarily she would have captured anyone's attention, for she was the possessor of an unusually exotic style of beauty; her olive skin and dark, long-lashed eyes, her delicate features and slender frame were so like those of the aristocratic Egyptian ladies depicted in the tomb paintings that her modern dress looked out of place, like a riding habit on an antique statue of Diana. One expected to see diaphanous linen robes, collars of turquoise and carnelian, anklets and bracelets of gold adorning her limbs.

All these, and more, bedecked the woman who was with her, and whose extraordinary appearance drew the eye from the girl's pretty face. She was an extremely large woman, standing several inches taller than her daughter and being correspondingly broad. The linen robe she wore was no longer pure white, but a dingy gray. The beaded collar that attempted in vain to cover her ample bosom was a cheap imitation of the jewels worn by pharaohs and their ladies. On her very large feet were skimpy sandals; around the imprecise region of her waist a brightly embroidered sash had been knotted. Her hair was a huge black beehive surmounted by a bizarre headdress consisting of feathers, flowers, and cheap copper ornaments.

I pinched Emerson. "If you say just one of the words that are in your mind..." I hissed, leaving the threat unspecified.

"I'll keep quiet if you will," Emerson replied. His shoulders were shaking and his voice quivered.

"And try not to laugh," I added.

A stifled whoop was the only answer.

Madame Berengeria swept toward us, towing her daughter along in her wake. A closer examination confirmed what I had suspected—that the unnaturally black hair was a wig, like those worn by the ancients. The contrast between this dreadful object, which appeared to be constructed of horsehair, and Miss Mary's soft, shining locks would have been amusing if it had not been so horrid.

"I came," Madame Berengeria announced dramatically. "The messages were favorable. I was given the strength to endure a meeting devoid of spiritual comfort."

"How nice," said Lady Baskerville, baring her long white teeth as if she thirsted to sink them in the other woman's throat. "Mary, my child, I am delighted to see you. Let me present you to Professor and Mrs. Emerson."

The girl acknowledged the introduction with a shy smile. She had very pretty, old-fashioned manners—which she had certainly not learned from her mother. Emerson, his amusement forgotten, studied the girl with a blend of pity and admiration, and I wondered if her lovely face, so Egyptian in character, had reminded him of the murdered Aziza.

Without waiting to be introduced, Madame thrust herself forward, catching Emerson's hand and holding it, with odious familiarity, in both of hers. Her fingers were stained with henna and quite dirty.

"We need no formal presentation, Professor," she boomed, in a voice so loud that the few heads that had not turned to mark her entrance now swiveled in our direction. "Or may I call you... Set-nakhte?"

"I don't see why the devil you should," Emerson replied in astonishment.

"You don't remember." They were almost of a height, and she had come so close to him that when she let out a gusty sigh Emerson's hair waved wildly. "It is not given to all of us to remember former lives," she went on. "But I had hoped... I was Ta-weseret, the Queen, and you were my lover."

"Good Gad," Emerson exclaimed. He tried to free his hand, but the lady hung on. Her grip must have been as strong as a man's, for Emerson's fingers turned white as hers tightened.

"Together we ruled in ancient Waset," Madame Berengeria continued raptly. "That was after we had murdered my wretched husband, Ramses."

Emerson was distracted by this inaccuracy. "But," he protested, "Ramses was not the husband of Ta-weseret, and it is not at all certain that Set-nakhte—"

"Murdered!" Madame Berengeria shouted, causing Emerson to flinch back. "Murdered! We suffered for that sin in other lives, but the grandeur of our passion... Ah, Set-nakhte, how could you forget?"

Emerson's expression, as he contemplated the self-proclaimed partner of his passion, was one I will long remember with enjoyment. However, the woman was beginning to wear on me, and when my husband cast a look of piteous appeal in my direction, I decided to intervene.

I always carry a parasol. I find it invaluable in many different ways. My working parasol is of stout black bombazine with a steel shaft. Naturally the one I carried that evening matched my frock and was eminently suitable for formal occasions. I brought it down smartly on Madame Berengeria's wrist. She yelped and let go of Emerson.

"Dear me, how careless of me," I said.

For the first time the lady looked directly at me.

Black kohl, lavishly smeared around her eyes, made her look as if she had suffered a severe beating. The orbs themselves were unusual. The irises were of an indeterminate shade between blue and gray, and so pale that they blended with the muddy white of the eye. The pupils were dilated to an unusual degree. Altogether it was a most unpleasant set of optics, and the concentrated and venomous intelligence with which they regarded me assured me of two things: one, that I had made an enemy; two, that Madame's eccentricities were not entirely without calculation.

Lady Baskerville seized Mr. Vandergelt's arm; I took possession of my poor gaping Emerson; and leaving Madame and her unfortunate daughter to bring up the rear, we proceeded to the dining salon. A table had been prepared for us, and it was there that the next difficulty arose, caused, as one might have expected, by Madame Berengeria.

"There are only six places," she exclaimed, settling herself at once into the nearest chair. "Did not Mary tell you, Lady Baskerville, that my young admirer will also be dining?"

The effrontery of this was so enormous as to leave the hearers with nothing to say. Shaking with fury, Lady Baskerville summoned the maitre d'hotel and requested that an additional place be set. In defiance of custom I placed Emerson firmly between myself and our hostess, which left Mr. Vandergelt to partner Madame Berengeria. Her appearance had thrown the arrangements out in every conceivable way, for there was now an uneven number of ladies and gentlemen. The empty chair awaiting Madame Berengeria's "admirer" chanced to be between me and Miss Mary. So preoccupied was I with other matters that it did not occur to me to wonder who this person might be. I was taken completely by surprise when a familiar freckled face surmounted by an equally well-known shock
of
flaming red hair made its appearance.

"Heartfelt apologies for my tardiness, Lady Baskerville," said Mr. O'Connell, bowing. " 'Twas unavoidable, I assure you. What a pleasure to see so many friends! Is this my place? Sure an' I couldn't want a better one."

As he spoke he inserted himself neatly into the vacant chair and bestowed an inclusive hearty smile upon the party.

Seeing, by the intensifying livid hue of his countenance, that Emerson was on the verge of an explosive comment, I trod heavily upon his foot.

"I did not expect to meet you here, Mr. O'Connell," I said. "I trust you have recovered from your unfortunate accident."

"Accident?" Mary exclaimed, her soft dark eyes widening. "Mr. O'Connell, you did not tell me—"

"It was nothing," O'Connell assured her. "I clumsily lost my footing and fell down a few stairs." He looked at me, his eyes narrowed with amusement. "Tis kind you are, Mrs. Emerson, to be remembering such a trivial incident."

"I am relieved to hear that you considered it trivial," I said, maintaining my pressure on Emerson's foot, which twitched and writhed under the sole of my shoe.

Mr. O'Connell's eyes were as innocent as limpid pools of water. "To be sure I did. I only hope my editors feel the same."

"I see," I said.

Waiters bustled up carrying bowls of clear soup, and the meal began. Conversation also began, each person turning to his dinner partner. Thanks to Madame, this comfortable social custom was confused by the presence of an extra person, and I found myself with no one to talk to. I did not object; sipping my soup, I was able to eavesdrop on the other conversations in turn, to my edification and entertainment.

The two young people seemed on friendly terms. Indeed, I  suspected  Mr.   O'Connell's  feelings  were  somewhat warmer; his eyes never left the girl's face and his voice took on the soft, caressing tones that are typical of the Irish. Though Mary evidently enjoyed his admiration, I was not sure that her affections were seriously engaged. I also observed that though Madame Berengeria was regaling Mr. Vandergelt with a description of her romance with Setnakhte, she kept a close eye on the young people. Before long she turned abruptly and interrupted O'Connell in the middle of a compliment. This freed Vandergelt; catching my eye, he pantomimed a sigh of relief and joined in the discus- sion between Emerson and Lady Baskerville.

Thanks to Emerson, this had taken a strictly archaeological turn, despite Lady Baskerville's sighs and fluttering lashes and repeated thanks for his gallantry in coming to the rescue of a poor lonely widow. Happily impervious to these hints, Emerson continued to explain his plans for excavating the tomb.

Do not believe for an instant, reader, that I had lost sight of what had now become my main object. To discover the murderer of Lord Baskerville was no longer a matter of purely intellectual interest. Mr. O'Connell might have been responsible for the injury to Emerson in Cairo (though I doubted this); the villainous Habib might have been the motive power behind the boulder that had so narrowly missed him that very day.
Might,
I say; for I felt sure that two attempts in such a short space of time had a deeper and more sinister significance. The person who had murdered Baskerville now had designs on the life of my husband, and the sooner I discovered his identity, the sooner Emerson would be safe.

I use the masculine pronoun for reasons of grammatical simplicity, but I could not dismiss the possibility that a woman's hand had wielded the death weapon (whatever that might have been). Indeed, as I looked around the table I felt I had never beheld such a suspicious-looking group of persons.

That Lady Baskerville was capable of murder I did not doubt. Why she should want to kill her husband I did not know at that time, but I felt sure that a brief investigation would provide a motive and also explain how she had managed the two attacks on Emerson.

As for Mr. Vandergelt, amiable as he appeared to be, I had to consider him a suspect. We all know how ruthlessly these American millionaires crush their rivals as they climb to power. Vandergelt had lusted after Lord Baskerville's tomb. Some might consider that an inadequate motive for murder, but I knew the archaeological temperament too well to dismiss it.

As if she felt my speculative glance move to her, Madame Berengeria looked up from the roast mutton she was stuffing into her mouth. Once again her pallid eyes glowed with hate. No need to ask myself if she was capable of committing murder! She was certainly mad, and the actions of a madwoman are unaccountable. She might have hailed Lord Baskerville as a long-lost lover and killed him when he rejected her, as any normal man must.

Madame Berengeria continued to wolf her food and I turned my attention to her daughter, who was listening in silence to Mr. O'Connell's low-voiced remarks. She was smiling, but it was a sad smile; the bright lights of the salon showed the shabbiness of her frock and the weary lines in her young face. I immediately removed her from my list of suspects. The fact that she had not yet exterminated her mother proved that she was incapable of violence.

Mr. O'Connell? Without a doubt he must be on my list. He was on good terms with all three of the ladies, which indicated a sly and hypocritical turn of character. To win Mary's regard would not be difficult; the child would respond to any show of kindness or affection. In order to facilitate his acquaintance with the girl, O'Connell had ingratiated himself with her mother, by sheer duplicity and falsehood (for no one could honestly admire, or even tolerate, the woman). The same slippery slyness probably accounted for his acceptance by Lady Baskerville. He had written about her in the most disgustingly sentimental terms, and she was vain enough to be deceived by empty flattery. In short, his was not a character to be trusted.

Of course those present did not exhaust all the possible suspects. The missing Armadale was high on my list, and Karl von Bork and Milverton might have motives as yet unknown to me. I did not doubt that as soon as I applied myself seriously to the problem, the answer would be easily discovered; and, to be truthful, the prospect of a little detective work was not at all displeasing.

In such entertaining speculations the meal passed, and we prepared to retire to the lounge. Madame Berengeria had eaten everything she could get her hands on, and her round face shone greasily. So must ancient Egyptian diners have looked, at the end of a formal party, when the cone of scented fat atop their wigs had melted and run down their faces. She had also drunk vast quantities of wine. When we rose from the table she caught her daughter's arm and leaned heavily against her. Mary's knees buckled under the weight. Mr. O'Connell promptly came to her rescue, or rather, he tried to, for when he took Madame's other arm she pulled away from him.

"Mary will help me," she muttered. "Dear daughter— help Mother—good daughter never leaves Mother...."

Mary turned pale. Supporting Madame, she said in a low voice, "Perhaps you would call a carriage, Mr. O'Connell. We had better not stay. Mother, you are unwell."

"Never felt better," Madame Berengeria declared. "Have a little coffee. Must talk to old lover—Amenhotep—I called him the Magnificent—he was, too—you remember your darling queenie, don't you, Amen?"

Releasing her daughter's arm, she lunged at Emerson.

But this time she had underestimated my husband. On the first occasion he had been caught off guard; now he acted, and Emerson is seldom, if ever, restrained from action by any remote notion of what is socially acceptable. Catching the lady in a paralyzing grip, he frogmarched her toward the door, calling out, "A carriage here! Madame Berengeria's carriage, if you please!"

The hotel porter leaped to assist him. Mary started after them. O'Connell caught her hand.

"Can you not stay? I haven't had a chance to talk to you—"

"You know I cannot. Good night, everyone. Lady Baskerville, my thanks—and apologies—"

Slim and graceful in her shabby frock, her head bowed, she followed the porters who were dragging her mother out the door.

Mr. O'Connell's countenance plainly displayed his chagrin and his affectionate concern. I began to warm to the young man; but then he gave himself a sort of shake and remarked, "Well, Mrs. Emerson, have you changed your mind about that interview? Your thoughts on arriving in Luxor would interest my readers enormously."

The transformation of his face was extraordinary. His eyes sparkled with malice, his mouth curved in a tight-lipped half-moon grin. This expression, which I thought of as his journalist's face, reminded me of the leprechauns and mischievous elves which are said to abound in the Emerald Isle.

Not wishing to dignify the suggestion with a reply, I ignored it. Fortunately Emerson had not heard the question. Leaning on the back of Lady Baskerville's chair, he was explaining his plans for the next day. "And," he added, glancing at me, "since we must be out at the first light, we had better be getting back, eh, Amelia?"

I promptly rose. To my surprise, so did Lady Baskerville.

"I am packed and ready. If you will summon the porter, Radcliffe?" Seeing my expression, she smiled sweetly at me. "Had I not explained that I mean to go with you, Mrs. Emerson? Now that you are here, I need not fear scandal if I resume my old place, hallowed by so many fond memories." I need not say that my response was perfectly calm and courteous.

I had feared the presence of Lady Baskerville in the adjoining room might inhibit Emerson to some extent. It did, in the beginning. Casting an irritated glance at the closed portal, which I had promptly bolted, he muttered, "Curse it, Amelia, this is going to be a nuisance; I shan't be able to say a thing for fear of being overheard." However, as time went on he became so involved in what he was doing that all reserve fled and all external distractions were forgotten. My own contributions toward achieving this end were not inconsiderable.

Lying at peace in my husband's arms, I drifted off to sleep. But we were not destined for a quiet rest that night. Scarcely, it seemed, had my eyelids closed when I was reft of slumber by an outrageous howl, so penetrating that it seemed to come from within our very chamber.

I pride myself on being able to arise from meditation or sleep fully alert and ready for whatever action seems required. Rising up, I prepared to bound out of bed. Unfortunately I had not completely readjusted to the sleeping arrangements necessary in that clime; and, as I had done on another memorable occasion, I plunged headlong into the mosquito netting draped around the bed. My efforts to free myself only wound the fabric more tightly around me. The howling continued. It had now been joined by cries of alarm from elsewhere in the house.

"Help me, Emerson," I cried irritably. "I am entangled in the netting. Why do you not arise?"

"Because," said a faint voice from the bed, "you stepped onto my stomach when you stood up. I have just now recovered my breath."

"Then employ it, if you please, in action rather than words. Unloose me."

Emerson obeyed. It is not necessary to reproduce the comments he made while doing so. Once he had freed me he ran to the door. As his form crossed the band of moonlight from the open window I let out a shriek.

"Emerson, your trousers—your dressing gown—something—"

With a violent oath Emerson snatched up the first garment that came to hand. It proved to be the one I had discarded upon retiring, a nightgown of thin white linen trimmed with wide bands of lace. Tossing this at me, with an even more violent oath, he began searching for his clothes. By the time we reached the courtyard the shrieks had stopped, but the excitement had not subsided. All the members of the expedition were gathered around a servant who sat on the ground with his arms over his head, rocking back and forth and moaning. I recognized Hassan, one of Lord Baskerville's men, who was employed as a night watchman.

"What has happened?" I demanded of the person nearest me. This happened to be Karl, who was standing with his arms folded and every hair in his mustache neatly in place. He was fully dressed. Bowing, in his formal German fashion, he replied calmly, "The foolish person claims he saw a ghost. You know how superstitious these people are; and at the present time—"

"How ridiculous," I said, in considerable disappointment. I had hoped the disturbance might have been caused by the murderer of Lord Baskerville, returning to the scene of the crime.

Emerson seized Hassan by the neck and hoisted him up off the ground. "Enough!" he shouted. "Art thou a man, or a dribbling infant? Speak; tell me what sight brought our valiant watchman to this pass."

Emerson's methods, though unconventional, are usually effective. Hassan's sobs died away. He began kicking his feet, and Emerson lowered him till his dusty bare soles rested on the beaten earth of the courtyard.

"Oh, Father of Curses," he gulped. "Wilt thou protect thy servant?"

"Certainly, certainly. Speak."

"It was an efreet, an evil spirit," Hassan whispered, rolling his eyes. "The spirit of the one with the face of a woman and the heart of a man."

"Armadale!" Mr. Milverton exclaimed.

He and Lady Baskerville were standing side by side. Her delicate white hands clutched his sleeve, but it would be hard to say which of them was supporting the other, for he was as pale as she.

Hassan nodded vigorously, or at least he tried to do so; Emerson was still holding him by the throat.

"The hand of the Father of Curses renders speech difficult," he complained.

"Oh, sorry," Emerson said, releasing him.

Hassan rubbed his bony neck. He had recovered from his initial fright, and there was a crafty gleam in his eyes that made me suspect he was beginning to enjoy being the center of attention.

"I saw it clearly in the moonlight, as I made my rounds," he said. "The very form and image of the one with the face—"

"Yes, yes," Emerson interrupted. "What was he doing?"

"Creeping through the shadows like a serpent or a scorpion or an evil djinn! He wore the long linen robe of a corpse, and his face was thin and drawn, with staring eyes and—"

"Stop that!" Emerson roared. Hassan subsided, with another roll of his eyes, as if he were judging the effect of the ghost story on his audience.

"The superstitious fellow was dreaming," Emerson said, addressing Lady Baskerville. "Return to bed. I will see to it that he—"

Like many of the men, Hassan understood English much better than he spoke it. "No!" he exclaimed. "It was no dream, I swear; I heard the jackals howling in the hills, I saw the grass blades bend under his feet. He went to one of the windows, oh, Father of Curses—one of the windows there."

He gestured toward the side of the house in which all our rooms were located.

Karl let out a grunt. Lady Baskerville's face turned muddy gray. But Milverton's reaction was the most dramatic. With a queer soft sigh he folded at the knees and fell to the ground in a dead faint.