The Curse of the Pharaohs (30 page)

"Indeed?" I said.

"Well, well," said O'Connell. He crossed his legs, put his notebook on his knees, and gazed at Emerson with the impish grin that betokened his professional mood. "You wouldn't care to drop a hint, would you, Professor?"

"Certainly not."

"There is nothing to prevent me from speculating a bit, is there?"

"At your own risk," Emerson replied.

"Never fear, I am no more anxious to commit myself prematurely than you are. Hmmm. Yes, this will require some rather delicate phrasing. Excuse me, please; I had better get to work."

"Don't forget your promise," I said.

"You may see the story before I send it off," O'Connell said. He departed with a springy step, whistling.

"The rest of us had better retire too," Emerson said. "Vandergelt, can I count on your assistance tomorrow morning when I reopen the tomb?"

"I wouldn't miss it for... That is, if you don't mind, my dear?"

"No," Lady Baskerville replied wearily. "Do as you like, Cyrus. This latest news has quite overwhelmed me."

When she had taken her departure, leaning on Vandergelt's arm, Emerson turned to me. Before he could speak I made a warning gesture.

"I believe Karl wishes to ask you something, Emerson. Either that, or he has fallen asleep there in the shadows."

Emerson looked startled. Karl had been so still, and the corner where he sat was so far distant from the nearest lamp, that he might have fallen into a doze; but I suspected another, more sinister explanation. Now he roused himself and came forward.

"Not to ask do I wish, Herr Professor, but to warn. An act very foolish it was, to say what you said. A gauntlet of defiance you have thrown down to a killer."

"Dear me," Emerson said. "That was careless of me."

Von Bork shook his head. He had lost considerable weight during the past week, and the lamplight emphasized the new hollows under his cheekbones and in his eye sockets.

"A stupid man you are not, Professor. I myself ask why you have so acted. But," he added, with a faint smile, "I do not an answer expect.
Gute Nacht,
Herr Professor, Frau Professor—
Schlafen Sie wohl."

Frowning, Emerson watched the young man go. "He is the most intelligent of the lot," he muttered. "I may have made a mistake there, Peabody. I ought to have handled him differently."

"You are tired," I said magnanimously. "No wonder, after all that shouting and jumping around. Come to bed."

Arm in arm, we sauntered across the courtyard, and as we went Emerson remarked, "I believe I detected a slight note of criticism in your comment, Amelia. To describe my masterful performance as 'shouting and jumping around' is hardly—"

"The dancing was an error."

"I was not dancing. I was performing a grave ritual march. The fact that the space was limited—"

"I understand. It was the only flaw in an otherwise superb performance. The men have agreed to return to work, I take it?"

"Yes. Abdullah will be on guard tonight, though I don't expect any trouble."

I opened our door. Emerson struck a match and lighted the lamp. The wick flared up and a hundred fiery sparks reflected the light from the neck of the cat Bastet, who sat on the table by the window. As soon as she caught sight of Emerson she let out an eager, throaty mew and trotted toward him.

"What did you use to attract the animal?" I inquired, watching Bastet claw at Emerson's coattails.

"Chicken," Emerson replied. He withdrew a greasy packet from his trouser pocket. I was pained to observe that it had left a nasty spot. Grease is so difficult to get out.

"I spent an hour training her earlier this afternoon," Emerson said, feeding the remainder of the chicken to the cat.

"You had better get Lady Baskerville's bracelet off her neck," I said. "She has probably knocked half the stones out already."

And indeed it proved that she had. Seeing Emerson's face fall, as he tried to calculate the weight and value of the rubies and emeralds he would be obliged to replace, I quite forgave him for being so puffed up about his performance.

When I went to see Arthur next morning the Sister gave me a smiling
"bon jour"
and informed me that the patient had spent a quiet night. His color was much better—which I attributed to the strengthening effect of the chicken broth— and when I placed my hand on his brow he smiled in his sleep and murmured something.

"He is calling for his mother," I said, brushing a tear from my eye with my sleeve.

"Vraiment?"
the sister asked doubtfully. "He has spoken once or twice before, but so softly I could not make out the word."

"I am sure he said
'Mother.'
And perhaps by the time he wakes he will see that good lady's face bending over him." I allowed myself the pleasure of picturing that exquisite scene. Mary would be there, of course (I really must do something about the child's clothes; a pretty white gown would be just the thing); and Arthur would hold her hand in his thin, wasted fingers as he told his mother to greet her new daughter.

To be sure, Mary had announced her intention of devoting the rest of her life to her mother, but that was just a young girl's romantic fancy. A fondness for martyrdom, especially of the verbal variety, is common to the young. I had dealt with this phenomenon before and did not doubt my ability to bring this love affair also to a happy conclusion.

However, time was passing, and if I expected to see Mary become the new Lady Baskerville, it was up to me to make sure her bridegroom survived to take that step. I repeated my caution to the nun, to give the sick man nothing except what was brought to her by myself or by Daoud.

I then went to my next patient. A peep into the room assured me that Madame was in no need of my attention. She slept the calm, deep-breathing sleep of the wicked. It is a misconception that the innocent sleep well. The worse a man is, the more profound his slumber; for if he had a conscience, he would not be a villain.

When I reached the dining room Emerson growled at me for being late. He and Mary had already finished breakfast.

"Where are the others?" I inquired, buttering a piece of toast and ignoring Emerson's demands that I bring it with me and eat as we walked.

"Karl has gone ahead," Mary said. "Kevin has crossed to Luxor, to the telegraph office—"

"Emerson!" I exclaimed.

"It is all right, he showed the story to me," Emerson replied. "You will enjoy reading it, Amelia; the young man has an imagination almost as uncontrolled as yours."

"Thank you. Mary, your mother seems better this morning."

"Yes, she has had these attacks before and made a remarkable recovery. As soon as I have finished the copy of the painting I will make arrangements to move her back to Luxor."

"There is no hurry," I said sympathetically. 'Tomorrow morning will be soon enough; you will be worn out this evening after working in the heat."

"Well, if you really think so," Mary said doubtfully. Her morose expression lightened a little. One may be determined to embrace martyrdom gracefully, but a day of reprieve is not to be sneezed at. I am sure even the early Christian saints raised no objection if Caesar postponed feeding them to the lions until the next circus.

Tiring of Emerson's nagging, I finished my breakfast and we prepared to leave. "Where is Mr. Vandergelt?" I asked. "He wanted to be with us, I thought."

"He has taken Lady Baskerville over to Luxor," Emerson replied. "There were matters to arrange for their approaching nuptials; and I persuaded the lady to stay there and do a little shopping. That always cheers ladies, does it not?"

"Why, Professor," Mary said with a laugh. "I had no idea you were so well acquainted with the weaknesses of our sex."

I looked suspiciously at Emerson. He had turned his back and was attempting to whistle. "Well, well," he said, "Let us be off, shall we? Vandergelt will join us later; it will be some time before we can actually breach the wall."

It was, in fact, midmorning before our preparations were complete. The air in the depths of the tomb was still bad, and the heat was so unbelievable that I refused to let Mary work for more than ten minutes at a time. Impatient as Emerson was, he had to agree that this was reasonable. In the meantime he occupied himself with supervising the construction of a stout wooden cover for the well. Karl had taken over the operation of the camera. And I?

You know little of my character, dear reader, if you are unable to imagine the nature of the thoughts that occupied my mind. I sat under the shade of my awning, supposedly making scale drawings of pottery fragments, but the sound of Emerson's cheerful shouts and curses as he supervised the carpenter work roused the gravest suspicions. He seemed very sure of himself. Was it possible, after all, that he was right in his identification of Lord Baskerville's murderer, and that I was wrong? I could not believe it. However, I decided it might be advisable to go over my reasoning once more, in the light of the most recent developments. I could always think of a way of changing the name in my envelope if I had to.

Turning over a page of my sketching pad, I abandoned pots for plans. I would make a neat little chart, setting forth the various motives and means and so on.

So I began.

Motive
in the murder of:

Lord Baskerville.
Inheritance. (How much Lady Baskerville would inherit I, of course, did not know yet; but I felt sure it was enough to account for her willingness to do away with her husband. By all accounts he had been a singularly boring man.)

Armadale.
He witnessed the crime. The room he had occupied was next to Lady Baskerville's. (To be sure, this did not explain why Armadale had disappeared. Had he lost his mind from horror after seeing Lady B. massacre her husband? And how the devil—as Emerson might have said—did she massacre him? If some obscure and unidentifiable poison had been used, all Armadale could have seen was Lord Baskerville sipping a cup of tea or a glass of sherry.

Hassan.
Hassan had seen Armadale and observed something—perhaps the particular window to which the "ghost" had gone—that betrayed the identity of the murderer. Attempted blackmail; destruction of blackmailer.

I read over this last paragraph with satisfaction. It made sense. Indeed, the motive for Hassan's murder would apply to all the suspects.

The next section of my little chart was not so neat. Lady Baskerville's motives for bashing Arthur on the head were obscure, unless there was some clause in his lordship's will that allowed certain properties to revert to his wife in the event of the death of his heir. That seemed not only unlikely, but positively illegal.

I went doggedly on to the question of opportunity.

Lord Baskerville.
His wife's opportunity of getting at him was excellent. But how the devil had she done it?

Armadale.
No opportunity. How had Lady Baskerville known the location of the cave? If she had killed Armadale at or near the house, she would have had to transport his body to the cave—obviously impossible for a woman.

Weak, very weak! I could almost hear Emerson's jeer. The truth of the matter was I wanted Lady Baskerville to be the murderer. I never liked the woman.

I gazed disconsolately at my chart, which was not working as I had hoped. With a sigh I turned to a fresh page and tried another arrangement.

Suspect:
Arthur Baskerville, alias Charles Milverton.

That had a fine, professional look to it. Emboldened, I went on:

Motive:
inheritance and revenge. (So far, so good.)

In fact, Arthur's motive was particularly strong. It accounted for his imbecilic behavior in presenting himself to his uncle incognito. This was the act of a romantic young idiot. Arthur
was
a romantic young idiot; but if he had planned in advance to kill his uncle, he had a very good reason for taking a false name. Once Baskerville was dead (how? curse it, how?) Arthur could return to Kenya, and it was most unlikely that anyone would have connected Arthur, Lord Baskerville, with the former Charles Milverton. He would probably claim the title and estates without ever going to England, and if he did have to go, he could make excuses to avoid Lady Baskerville.

With a start I realized that my chart had taken to wandering all over the page. I took a firm grip on my wits and my pencil, and returned to the proper form.

THE DEATH OF LORD BASKERVILLE
Suspect:
Cyrus Vandergelt. His motives were only too clear. Contrary to the stern warning of Scripture, he had coveted his neighbor's wife.

It was at that point I realized I had not discussed Arthur's means or opportunity, or explained who had struck him down if he was the original killer.

Gritting my teeth, I turned the page over and tried again.

THE MURDER OF ALAN ARMADALE

This approach was based on the assumption that Lord Baskerville's death was a red herring—or, to put it more elegantly, that his lordship had died a natural death; that the so-called mark on his brow was a meaningless stain, misinterpreted by sensation-seekers; and that the murderer had taken advantage of the furor following his lordship's death to commit a murder whose true motive would be obscured.

The obvious suspect here was Mr. O'Connell. He had not only taken advantage of the story of the curse, he had invented it. I did not suppose that he had murdered Armadale in cold blood; no, the killing had obviously resulted from a sudden rush of jealous passion. Once the deed was done, a clever man—which O'Connell undoubtedly was—might have seen how he could avert suspicion by making Armadale's death seem related to that of Lord Baskerville.

The same motive—love of Mary—could apply in the case of Karl von Bork. In my opinion he was not capable of the sort of grand passion that might drive a man to violence. But still waters run deep. And once or twice Karl had displayed hidden depths of feeling and of cunning.

By this time my chart had abandoned all pretense of form, and my random jottings, embodying the thoughts I have expressed in more developed form above, were sprawling all over the page. I studied it in some exasperation. My thought processes are always orderly. The case was simply not susceptible to this means of organization. It is all very well for writers of crime fiction; they invent the crime and the solution, so they can arrange things the way they like.