The Curse of the Pharaohs (20 page)

I pulled his hand from my mouth. "It is only Abdullah. I was not so foolish as to come alone. But he did not overhear—"

"No, no." Arthur rose to his feet and I thought he was about to rush out into the shrubbery. After a moment he relaxed. "It is gone now. But it was not Abdullah, Mrs. Emerson. It was slighter, and shorter—dressed in gauzy robes of snowy pallor."

I caught my breath. "The Woman in White," I gasped.

Before we parted I asked Arthur's permission to tell his story to Emerson. He agreed, probably because he realized I meant to do so with or without his approval. My suggestion that he go next day to Luxor to confess his true identity was rejected, and after some argument I had to admit that his reasoning had validity. The proper persons to receive this intelligence were, of course, the British authorities, and there was no one in Luxor of sufficient rank to deal with the matter, the consular agent being an Italian whose primary occupation was to supply Budge of the British Museum with stolen antiquities. Arthur promised he would accept Emerson's judgment as to what action he ought to take, and I promised I would assist him in any way I could.

They say confession is good for the soul. It had certainly improved Arthur's peace of mind. He went off with a springy step, whistling softly.

But oh, my own heart was heavy as I went to reassure my faithful Abdullah of my safety. I liked the young man—not, as Emerson claims, because he was a handsome specimen of English manhood, but because he was kind and amiable. However, I was unfavorably impressed with certain aspects of his character, which reminded me of his description of the charming ne'er-do-well who had sired him. The levity he had displayed concerning his forged credentials, the immature folly of his romantic scheme of gaining his uncle's regard, and other things he had said indicated that his good mother's influence had not overcome the shallowness he had inherited from the paternal side. I wished him well; but I was afraid his plausible story was only an attempt to win my goodwill before the truth came out, as it inevitably would when he claimed his title.

I found Abdullah concealed (more or less) behind a palm tree. When I questioned him about the apparition in white, he denied having seen anything. "But," he added, "I was watching you, or rather the dark place into which you went; never did I take my eyes away. Sitt Hakim, there is no need to tell Emerson of this."

"Don't be such a coward, Abdullah," I replied. "I will explain that you did your best to stop me."

"Then will you strike me hard on the head so I may have a bruise to show him?"

I would have thought he was joking, but although Abdullah does have quite a sense of humor, this was not the sort of joke he would be likely to make.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said.

Abdullah groaned.

I could hardly wait to tell Emerson I had solved the murder of Lord Baskerville. Of course there were a few small details to be worked out, but I felt sure that if I applied myself seriously to the matter I would soon discover the answers. I meant to begin working on it that very night, but unfortunately I fell asleep before I could arrive at any conclusions.

My first thought on awakening was a renewal of concern over Emerson's safety. Reason assured me that the household would have been roused if there had been a disturbance; but affection, never susceptible to logic, hastened my preparations to proceed to the Valley.

Early as I was, Cyrus Vandergelt was already in the courtyard when I emerged from my room. For the first time I saw him in his working costume, instead of one of the snowy linen suits he habitually wore. His tweed jacket was as beautifully tailored as his other clothes; it bore little resemblance to the shabby garments in which Emerson was wont to attire himself. On his head the American wore a military-looking solar kepi with a band of red, white, and blue ribbon. He doffed this with a flourish when he saw me and offered his arm to escort me to the breakfast table.

Lady Baskerville seldom joined us at this meal. I had heard the men speculating on her need for prolonged rest; but of course I knew she spent the time on her toilette, for the artificial perfection of her appearance was obviously the result of hours of work.

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when we found the lady already at her place. She had not taken the time that morning to make up her face, and consequently she looked her age. Shadows circled her heavy-lidded eyes, and there were lines of strain around her mouth. Vandergelt was so struck by her appearance that he exclaimed with concern. She admitted that her night's sleep had been disturbed and would have elaborated had not Milverton—or rather, Arthur Baskerville —rushed in full of apologies for having overslept.

Of all the persons in the room he, the guilty man, alone appeared to have had a refreshing, dreamless rest. The looks of smiling gratitude he kept shooting at me assured me he had quite cast off his melancholy. It was another demonstration of the immaturity that had already struck me; having confessed to an older, wiser individual, he now felt completely relieved of responsibility.

"Where is Miss Mary?" he asked. "We ought not linger; I am sure Mrs. Emerson is anxious to see her husband."

"Attending on her mother, I suppose," Lady Baskerville replied, in the sharp tone she always employed when referring to Madame Berengeria. "I cannot imagine what you were thinking of, to allow that dreadful woman to come here. Since the damage is done, I must accept it, but I absolutely refuse to be left alone in the house with her."

"Come with us," Vandergelt suggested. "We'll fix you up a nice little place in the shade."

"Thank you, my friend, but I am too tired. After what I saw last night..."

Vandergelt rose to the bait, expressing concern and demanding details. I summarize the lady's reply, for it was replete with gasps and sighs and theatrical descriptions. Stripped of these meaningless appendages, it was simple enough. Unable to sleep, she had gone to the window and seen the now notorious white-clad apparition gliding through the trees. It had disappeared in the direction of the cliffs.

I looked at Arthur and read his intentions in his ingenuous countenance. The young idiot was on the verge of exclaiming that we had also seen the White Lady—which would have brought out the whole story of our midnight meeting. It was necessary to stop him before he could speak. I kicked out under the table. In my haste I missed my object and administered a sharp blow on Mr. Vandergelt's calf. This served the purpose, however; his shout of pain and the ensuing apologies gave Arthur time to recollect himself.

Vandergelt continued to beg Lady Baskerville to join us, and, when she refused, offered to stay with her.

"My dear Cyrus," she said, with an affectionate smile, "you are burning to get to your nasty, dirty tomb. Not for the world would I deprive you of this opportunity."

A prolonged and foolish discussion ensued; it was finally decided that Arthur would stay with the ladies. So Vandergelt and I started out and at the last minute Mary joined us, breathless and apologetic. Made even more anxious by the delay, I set a pace that even the long-legged American was hard pressed to match.

"Whoa, there, Mrs. Amelia" (or perhaps it was "Gee"— some American cattle term, at any rate). "Poor little Miss Mary is going to be all tuckered out before she starts working. There's no cause for alarm, you know; we'd have heard by this time if some early bird had found the Professor weltering in his gore."

Though the thought was meant to be comforting, I did not think it particularly well expressed.

After a night spent apart I expected that Emerson would greet me with some degree of enthusiasm. Instead he stared at me blankly for a moment, as if he could not remember who I was. When recognition dawned, it was immediately followed by a scowl.

"You are late," he said accusingly. "You had better get to work at once; we are far ahead of you, and the men have already turned up a considerable number of small objects in the rubble."

"Have they?" Vandergelt drawled, stroking his goatee. "Doesn't look too salubrious, does it, Professor?"

"I said before that I suspected the tomb had been entered by robbers in antiquity," Emerson snapped. "That does not necessarily mean—"

"I get you. How about letting me have a gander at what has been done? Then I promise I'll get to work. I'll even tote baskets if you want."

"Oh, very well," Emerson said in his most disagreeable manner. "But be quick."

No one but the most fanatical enthusiast would have found the effort of inspection worthwhile, for the interior of the passage, now cleared to a length of about fifteen metres, had reached an unbelievable degree of discomfort. It sloped sharply down into abysmal and stifling darkness lighted only by the wan glow of lanterns. The air was foul with the stale-ness of millennia, and so hot that the men had stripped off all their garments except those required by decency. Every movement, however slight, stirred up the fine white dust left by the limestone chips with which the corridor had been filled. This crystalline powder, clinging to the men's perspiring bodies, gave them a singularly uncanny appearance; the pallid, leprous forms moving through the foggy gloom resembled nothing so much as reanimated mummies, preparing to menace the invaders of their sleep.

Partially concealed by the rough scaffolding, the procession of painted gods marched solemnly down into the darkness. Ibis-headed Thoth, patron of learning, Maat, goddess of truth, Isis and her falcon-headed son Horus. But what caught my attention and made me forget the extreme discomfort of heat and stifling air was the pile of rubble. In the beginning this had entirely closed the passageway. Now it had shrunk to a height barely shoulder high, leaving a gap between its top and the ceiling.

After a quick glance at the paintings, Vandergelt caught up a lantern and went straight to the pile of rubble. Standing on tiptoe, I peered over his arm as he moved the light forward, over the top of the pile.

The debris sloped sharply downward from that point on. In the shadows beyond the lantern rays loomed a solid mass —the end of the passageway, blocked, as the entrance had been, by a barrier of stone.

Before either of us could comment, Emerson made a commanding gesture and we followed him out into the vestibule at the foot of the stairs. Wiping dust from my streaming brow, I gazed reproachfully at my husband.

"So this is the true explanation for your decision to remain on guard last night! How could you, Emerson? Have we not always shared the thrill of discovery? I am cut to the quick by your duplicity!"

Emerson's fingers nervously stroked his chin. "Peabody, I owe you an apology; but honestly, I had no intention of stealing a march on you. What I said was true; from now on the tomb is in imminent peril of being robbed."

"And when have I shrunk from the prospect of peril?" I demanded. "When have you sunk to the contemptible practice of attempting to shield me?"

"Quite often, actually," Emerson replied. "Not that I often succeed; but really, Peabody, your inclination to rush headlong where angels fear to tread—"

"Hold on," Vandergelt interrupted. He had removed his hat and was methodically wiping the sticky dust from his face. He seemed unaware of the fact that this substance, which, when mixed with perspiration, took on the consistency of liquid cement, was running down into his goatee and dripping off the end.

"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 behavior. 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 realize 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 bis 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."

"/ 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 molded of the same glasslike substance. The beads were a nuisance, for they were very small, and I had to sift every cubic centimeter 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 gray 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 rabble 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 realized 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.

Ten

I was peculiarly moved by the gesture, though I realized 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 inquired.

"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.