The Curse of the Pharaohs (19 page)

The party broke up early. It was only ten o'clock when I got into bed and tucked the netting in place. So softened was I by the thought of my husband's peril that I had almost decided to obey his last command. However, I was unable to sleep. I watched the mystic path of moonlight glide across the floor, and after a time its lure was as irresistible as the charm of a road leading into strange, unknown lands. I had to follow.

I rose. Cautiously I opened my door.

The dreaming silence of the night was broken only by the buzzing of nocturnal insects and the mournful howls of jackals far back in the hills. The household had succumbed to slumber. I continued to wait and watch; and after a while I saw the dark form of a man pass silently through the courtyard. After Hassan's death Emerson had assigned one of our own people to the watchman's post.

Not a whit discouraged, for I had never intended to go that way, I softly closed my door and put on my clothing. Another peep out the door assured me that the house was quiet and that the watchman was still in the courtyard. I then went to the window.

I had one knee on the sill and was preparing to draw the other foot up when a dark bulk loomed up, and a familiar voice murmured in Arabic, "The Sitt desires something? Her servant will bring it."

If I had not had a firm grip on the sill, I would have tumbled over backward. Recovering myself, I climbed up into the embrasure.

"The Sitt desires to climb out the window, Abdullah," I replied. "Give me a hand or get out of my way."

The tall form of the reis did not move. "Efreets and evildoers haunt the darkness," he remarked. "The Sitt will be better in her bed."

Seeing that discussion could not be avoided, I sat down, with my feet dangling. "Why did you not go with Emerson, to protect him?"

"Emerson left me here, to guard the treasure dearer to him than the gold of the pharaoh."

I doubted that Emerson had put it quite that way—though he was florid enough when he spoke Arabic. My compunctions at ignoring his request quite vanished. He had not trusted me!

"Help me down," I said, holding out my hands.

Abdullah let out a groan. "Sitt Hakim, please do not do this. Emerson will have my head on a pole if harm comes to you."

"How can harm come to me if you are guarding me? I am not going far, Abdullah. I want you to follow, making sure you are not seen, and conceal yourself behind a bush or a tree when I have reached the loggia."

I lowered myself to the ground. Abdullah shook his head despairingly, but he knew better than to try and prevent me. As I stole through the shrubbery, trying to avoid the bright patches of moonlight, I knew he was following, though I did not hear a sound. For all his size Abdullah could move like a bodiless spirit when he had to.

Turning the corner of the house I saw the loggia before me, the bright paint of its pillars strangely altered by the eerie light. Its interior was deep in shadow. I made out the shapes of the white wicker chairs and tables, but saw no sign of a human form. Pausing, I spoke softly.

"Wait here, Abdullah. Do not make a sound, or intervene unless I call for help."

I crept on. Emerson may accuse me of lack of caution, but I knew better than to approach the place openly. I meant to survey the scene from the shelter of a pillar before venturing in.

Emerson's suggestion that the midnight rendezvous was solely the product of my imagination was of course ridiculous. However, cool reflection had reminded me that I could not be absolutely sure Milverton intended to confess to Lord Baskerville's murder. He might have other, less interesting information, or—disconcerting thought—he might only wish to avail himself of my sympathy while he talked about Mary. Young men commonly suffer from the delusion that the rest of the world is absorbed in their love affairs.

I felt a thrill pass through me when I saw the round red tip of a cigar at the far end of the loggia. Abandoning my place of concealment, I glided toward it.

"Mrs. Emerson!" Milverton rose and crushed out his cigar. "You did come. God bless you."

"You must have eyes like a cat's," I said, chagrined because I had not been able to reach him unobserved.

I spoke in a low murmur, as did he. "My hearing is prenaturally sharp," he replied. "I heard you approach."

I groped for a chair and sat down. Milverton followed my example, selecting a chair next to mine. The cool breeze

rustled the vines that wound green arms around the pillars.

For a few moments neither of us spoke. Realizing that the situation was delicate, fearing I would say the wrong thing, I said nothing. Milverton was wrestling with his fears and his awareness of guilt. At least I hoped that was what he was doing, rather than planning the quickest method of dispatching me. If he grasped me by the throat I would not be able to call Abdullah. I wished I had brought my parasol.

Milverton's first remark did nothing to calm my apprehension. "You are a courageous woman, Mrs. Emerson," said he, in a sinister voice. "To come here alone, in the middle of the night, after a mysterious death and a series of strange accidents."

"It was rather stupid of me," I admitted. "I fear that over-confidence is one of my failings. Emerson often accuses me of that."

"I had no intention of suggesting anything so insulting," Milverton exclaimed. "I would rather believe that your decision was based on a profound knowledge of human nature and on that womanly compassion for the unfortunate which is so conspicuous in your conduct."

"Well, since you put it that way..."

"And you were right," Milverton continued. "Your appraisal of my character was correct. I am weak and foolish, but not vicious, Mrs. Emerson. You are in no danger from me. I am incapable of harming a woman—or, indeed, of harming anyone; and your confidence in me has raised you to a lofty place in my esteem. I would die to defend you."

"Let us hope the necessity for that does not arise," I said. Though reassured, I felt a certain flatness. This speech did not sound like the prelude to a confession of murder.

"But," I went on, "I appreciate the offer, Mr. Milverton. The hour is late; may I request that you tell me... whatever it was you wanted to tell me?"

From the man beside me, no more than a dim outline in the darkness, came an odd stifled sound that might have been a laugh. "You have hit on the essence of my confession, Mrs. Emerson. You have addressed me by a name that is not my own."

"Who are you, then?" I demanded in surprise.

"I am Lord Baskerville," was the astonishing reply.

Nine

MILVERTON had gone out of his mind. That was my first thought. Guilt and remorse take strange forms; wishing to deny the vile deed, his conscience had persuaded the young man that Lord Baskerville yet lived— and that he was he (Lord Baskerville, to be precise).

"I am glad to make your acquaintance," I said. "Obviously the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated."

"Please don't joke," Milverton said with a groan.

"I was not joking."

"But... Oh, I see." Again came the stifled laugh that was more like a cry of pain. "I cannot blame you for thinking me mad, Mrs. Emerson. I am not—not yet—though I am not far from it at times. Let me make myself plain."

"Please do," I said emphatically.

"I call myself Lord Baskerville because that is now my title. I am the nephew of his late lordship, and his heir."

The explanation was as unexpected as my original idea. Even
my
agile brain required several seconds to assimilate the fact and its sinister connotations.

"Then what on earth are you doing here under an assumed name?" I asked. "Did Lord Baskerville—the late Lord Baskerville—know your true identity? Good Gad, young man, don't you realize what a suspicious position you have placed yourself in?"

"Of course I do. I have been in such distress since my uncle died that I verily believe it added to the severity of the fever I caught. Indeed, but for that I would have taken to my heels long ago."

"But, Mr. Milverton... What am I to call you, then?"

"My name is Arthur. I would be honored to have you use it."

"Then, Arthur—it is just as well you could not flee. That would have been tantamount to an admission of guilt. And you claim, if I understand you, that you had nothing to do with your uncle's death."

"On my honor as a British nobleman," came the tense, thrilling whisper from the darkness.

It was hard to doubt that impressive oath, but my reservations lingered. 'Tell me," I said.

"My father was his late lordship's younger brother," Arthur began. "When only a boy he incurred the displeasure of his stern parent because of some youthful peccadillo. From what I have heard, the old gentleman was a tartar, who would have been more at home in the Puritan Commonwealth than in the present century. Following the precepts of the Old Testament, he promptly cut off the right hand that had offended him and cast the prodigal son out in the cold. My poor father was dispatched to Africa with a small monthly stipend, to live or die as Fate decreed."

"Did not his brother intercede for him?"

Arthur hesitated for a moment. "I will hide nothing from you, Mrs. Emerson. The late Lord Baskerville was in complete agreement with his father's cruel behavior. He came to the title only a year after his brother had been sent into exile, and one of his first acts was to write Pater informing him that he need not waste time applying for assistance, for both personal conviction and filial respect compelled him to cast his brother off as he had been cast off by their parent."

"How unfeeling," I said.

"I was brought up to consider him a veritable fiend," Arthur said.

A shudder passed through my body when I heard this damning admission. Did not the young man realize that every word deepened the pit he was digging for himself? Did he believe I would keep silent about his identity—or did he count on other means of rendering himself safe from detection?

Arthur went on with his story. "I heard my father curse him nightly, when he was... Well, not to put too fine a face upon it, when he had taken too much to drink. This happened, I regret to say, with increasing frequency as time went on. Yet when he was himself, my father was the most delightful of men. His engaging character won the heart of my mother, who was the daughter of a gentleman of Nairobi and, despite her parents' objections, they were wed. My mother had a small income of her own, and on this we lived.

"She loved him devotedly, I know. Never did I hear a word of complaint or accusation from her lips. But six months ago, after he had succumbed to the inevitable consequences of his indulgence, it was my mother who persuaded me that my hatred of my uncle might be unjust. She did this, mark you, without the slightest criticism of my father—"

"Which must have been no small feat," I interrupted. I had formed a clear mental picture of Arthur's father and I felt great sympathy for his wife.

Ignoring my comment, Arthur continued. "She also pointed out that since Lord Baskerville was childless, I was his heir. He had made no attempt to communicate with me, even though she had, in duty bound, notified him of his brother's death. But as she said, omissions and unfairness on his part did not justify my behaving badly. I owed it to myself and to my family to present myself to the man whom in the course of time I must succeed.

"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 inquired.

"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—"