The Curse of the Pharaohs (32 page)

When we entered, Madame Berengeria had been lying on her side with her back to the door. Mary's touch, gentle as it was, had disturbed the balance of the body and caused it to roll onto its back. One glance at the staring eyes and lax mouth told the story. It was not even necessary for me to seek a nonexistent pulse, though I did so, as a matter of routine.

"My dear child, this could have happened at any time," I said, taking Mary by the shoulders and giving her a sympathetic shake. "Your mother was a sick woman, and you should regard this as a blessed release."

"You mean," Mary whispered. "You mean it was—her heart?"

"Yes," I said truthfully. "Her heart stopped. Now, child, go and lie down. I will do what needs to be done here."

Mary was visibly heartened by the false assumption I had allowed her to form. Time enough for her to learn the truth later. The Arab woman had awakened by this time; she cringed when I turned to her, as if expecting a blow. I did not see how she could be blamed, so I spoke gently to her, instructing her to take care of Mary.

When they had gone, I went back to the bed. Madame's fixed stare and sagging jowls were not a pleasant sight, but I have seen worse things and done worse; my hands were quite steady as I went about my ghoulish but necessary tasks. The flesh was still warm. That proved little, since the temperature of the room was hot, but the eyes gave away the truth. They were so widely dilated as to appear black. Berengeria's heart had certainly stopped, but it had stopped as the result of a large dose of some narcotic poison.

Sixteen

I sent a message at once to Emerson, although I never supposed for a moment that he would allow the small matter of another murder to distract him from his work. In fact, it was not until teatime that he returned. I was waiting for him; and as he stripped off his work-stained garments I brought him up to date on the events of the day. He seemed more struck by what Arthur had told me.

"Very interesting," he said, stroking his chin. "Ve-ry interesting! That should relieve us of one concern; if he did not see the killer we may assume, may we not, that he is not liable to a second attack. I say, Amelia, did you think of summoning Dr. Dubois to look at Madame, or did you do the postmortem yourself?"

"I did call him, not because he could add anything to what I already knew, but because he had to sign the death certificate. He agreed with me that death was due to an overdose of laudanum or some similar poison; even he could not overlook the signs of that. He claims, however, that the drug was self-administered, by accident. Apparently all Luxor knew Madame's habits."

"Humph," said Emerson, rubbing his chin so hard it turned pink. "Ve-ry interest------"

"Do stop that," I said crossly. "You know as well as I do that it was murder."

"Are you sure you didn't do it? You said the other day that the world would be a better place if the lady were removed from it."

"I am still of that opinion. Apparently I was not the only one who thought so."

"I would say the viewpoint was virtually unanimous," Emerson agreed. "Well, well, I must change. Do you go to the parlor, Amelia; I will be with you shortly."

"Don't you want to discuss the motives for Madame's murder? I have a theory."

"I felt sure you would."

"It has to do with her wild ravings last night."

"I prefer to defer discussion of that."

"You do, eh?" Absently I stroked my own chin, and we eyed one another suspiciously. "Very well, Emerson. You will find me ready for you."

I was the first one in the drawing room. By the time Emerson made his appearance the others had assembled. Mary, in a black dress borrowed from Lady Baskerville, was tenderly supported by Mr. O'Connell.

"I persuaded her to come," the young man explained in a proprietary manner.

"Quite right," I agreed. "After all, there is nothing like a nice hot cup of tea to comfort one."

"It will take more than a cup of tea to comfort me," Lady Baskerville announced. "Say what you will, Radcliffe, mere is a curse on this place. Even though Madame's death was an unfortunate accident—"

"Ah, but are we sure of that?" Emerson inquired.

Vandergelt, who had taken his agitated fiancee in the shelter of his white linen arm, looked sharply at my husband.

"What do you mean, Professor? Why look for trouble? It's no secret that the poor woman was—er—"

He broke off, with an apologetic look at Mary. She was staring at Emerson in wide-eyed surprise. I quickly passed her a cup of tea.

"We may never know the truth," Emerson replied. "But it would have been easy to slip a dose of poison into the lady's favorite beverage. As for the motive..." He glanced at me, and I took up the narrative.

"Last night Madame made a number of wild accusations. Pure malice and hysteria, most of them; but now I wonder if there might not have been a grain of wheat in all that chaff. Do any of you know the ancient tale to which she referred?"

"Why, sure," Vandergelt replied. "Anyone who knows the least little thing about Egyptology must be familiar with it. 'The Tale of the Two Brothers,' isn't that right?"

His reply was prompt. Too prompt, perhaps? A stupid man might have pretended ignorance of that potentially dangerous story. A clever man might know his ignorance would be suspect, and admit the truth at once.

"What are you talking about?" Mary asked pathetically. "I don't understand. These hints—"

"Let me explain," Karl said.

"As a student of the language you probably know the story best," Emerson said smoothly. "Go on, Karl."

The young man cleared his throat self-consciously. I noted, however, that when he spoke his verb forms were in perfect English alignment. That meant something.

"The tale concerns two brothers. Anubis the elder and Bata the younger. Their parents were dead, and Bata lived with his older brother and his wife. One day when they were working in the fields, Anubis sent Bata back to the house to fetch some grain. The wife of Anubis saw the young man's strength and desired—er—that is, she asked him—er—"

"She made advances to him," Emerson said impatiently.

"Ja, Herr Professor!
The young man indignantly refused the woman. But, fearing that he would betray her to her husband, she told Anubis Bata had—er—made advances to
her.
So Anubis hid in the barn, meaning to kill his younger brother when he came in from the field.

"But," Karl continued, warming to the tale, "the cattle of Bata were enchanted; they could speak. As each entered the bam it warned Bata that his brother was hiding behind the door, intending to murder him. So Bata ran away, pursued by Anubis. The gods, who knew Bata was innocent, caused a river full of crocodiles to flow between them. And then Bata, across the river, called out to his brother, explaining what had really happened. As a sign of his innocence he cut off—er—that is—"

Karl turned fiery-red and stopped speaking. Vandergelt grinned broadly at the young man's discomfiture, and Emerson said thoughtfully, "There really is no acceptable euphemism for that action; omit it, Karl. In view of what happens later in the story, it does not make much sense anyway."

"Ja, Herr Professor.
Bata told his brother he was going away to a place called the Valley of the Cedar, where he would put his heart in the top of a great cedar tree. Anubis would know his brother was in good health so long as his cup of beer was clear; but when the beer turned cloudy he would know Bata was in danger, and then he must search for Bata's heart and restore it to him."

Lady Baskerville could restrain herself no longer. "What is this nonsense?" she exclaimed. "Of all the stupid stories—"

"It is a fairy tale," I said. "Fairy tales are not sensible, Lady Baskerville. Go on, Karl. Anubis returned to the house and destroyed his faithless wife—"

For once—the first and last time—Karl interrupted me instead of the other way around.

"Ja, Frau Professor.
Anubis regretted his injustice to his poor young brother. And the immortal gods, they also felt sorry for Bata. They determined to make a wife for him— the most beautiful woman in the world—to keep him company in his lonely exile. And Bata loved the woman and made her his wife."

"Pandora," Mr. O'Connell exclaimed. "I never heard this story, and that's the truth; but it's just like the tale of Pandora, that the gods made for... begorrah, but I can never remember the fellow's name."

No one enlightened him. I would never have taken the young man for a student of comparative literature; it seemed much more likely that he was trying to emphasize his ignorance of the story.

"The woman was like Pandora," Karl admitted. "She was a bringer of evil. One day when she was bathing, the River stole a lock of her hair and carried it to the court of pharaoh.

The scent of the hair was so wonderfully sweet that pharaoh sent soldiers to find the woman from whose head it had come. With the soldiers went women who carried jewels and beautiful garments and all the things women love; and when the woman saw the fine things she betrayed her husband. She told the soldiers about the heart in the cedar tree; and the soldiers cut down the tree. Bata fell dead, and the faithless woman went to the court of pharaoh."

"Bedad, but it's the Cinderella story," said Mr. O'Connell. "The lock of hair, the glass slipper—"

"You have made your point, Mr. O'Connell," I said.

Unabashed, O'Connell grinned broadly. "It never hurts to make sure," he remarked.

"Go on, Karl," I said.

"One day the older brother Anubis saw that his cup of beer was clouded, and he knew what it meant. He searched, and he found his brother, and he found the heart of his brother in the fallen tree. He put the heart in a cup of beer and Bata drank it and came back to life. But the woman—"

"Well, well," Emerson said,
"that
was splendidly told, Karl. Let me synopsize the rest, it is just as long and even more illogical than the first part. Bata eventually avenged himself on his treacherous wife and became pharaoh."

There was a pause.

"I have never heard anything so nonsensical in my life," said Lady Baskerville.

"Fairy tales are meant to be nonsensical," I said. "That is part of their charm."

The general reaction to "The Tale of the Two Brothers" was approximately the same as Lady Baskerville's. All agreed that Madame's references to it had been meaningless, the product of a deranged mind. Emerson seemed content to let the subject drop, and it was not until we were almost finished with dinner that he again electrified the company by introducing a controversial topic.

"I intend to spend the night at the tomb," he announced.

"After tomorrow's revelations I will be able to procure all the workmen and guards I need; until then, there is still some slight risk of robbery."

Vandergelt dropped his fork. "What the devil do you mean?"

"Language, language," Emerson said reproachfully. "There are ladies present. Why, you have not forgotten my messenger, have you? He will be here tomorrow. Then I will know the truth. A simple 'yes' or 'no'; the message will be no more than that; and if it is 'yes'... Who would suppose that one person's fate could hang on such a little word?"

"You are overdoing it," I said, out of the corner of my mouth. Emerson scowled at me, but took the hint.

"Are we all finished?" he inquired. "Good. Let us retire. I am sorry to rush you, but I want to get back to the Valley."

"Then perhaps you wish to be excused now," said Lady Baskerville, her raised eyebrows showing what she thought of this piece of rudeness.

"No, no. I want my coffee. It will help keep me awake."

As we left the room, Mary came up to me. "I don't understand, Mrs. Emerson. The story Karl told was so strange. How can it have any bearing on my mother's death?"

"It may have no bearing at all," I said soothingly. "We are still walking in a thick fog, Mary; we cannot even see what objects are hidden by the mist, much less know if they are landmarks to guide us on our quest."

"How literary we all are tonight," remarked the ubiquitous Mr. O'Connell, smiling. It was bis professional, leprechaun's smile; but it seemed to me his eyes held a glint of something more serious and more sinister.

With a defiant glance at me Lady Baskerville took her place behind the coffee tray. I smiled tolerantly. If the lady chose to make this trivial activity a show of strength between us, let her. In a few more days I would be in charge officially, as I already was in actuality.

We were all extremely polite that evening. As I listened to the genteel murmurs of "black or white?" and "two lumps, if you please," I felt as if I were watching the commonplace, civilized scene through distorting glasses, like those in a fairy tale I had once read. Everyone in the room was acting a part. Everyone had something to conceal—emotions, actions, thoughts.

Lady Baskerville would have done better to let me serve the coffee. She was unusually clumsy; and after she had managed to spill half a cup onto the tray, she let out a little scream of exasperation and clapped her hands to her head.

"I am so nervous tonight I don't know what I am doing! Radcliffe, I wish you would reconsider. Stay here tonight. Don't risk yourself, I could not stand another..." Smiling, Emerson shook his head, and Lady Baskerville, summoning up a faint answering smile, said more calmly, "I ought to know better. At least you will take someone with you? You will not go alone?"

Stubborn creature that he is, Emerson was about to deny this reasonable request, but the others all joined in urging him to accept a companion. Vandergelt was the first to offer his services.

"No, no, you must stay and guard the ladies," Emerson said.

"As ever, Herr Professor, I would be honored to be of service to the most distinguished—"

"Thank you, no."

I said nothing. There was no need for me to speak; Emerson and I habitually communicate without words. It is a form of electrical vibration, I believe. He felt my unspoken message, for he avoided looking at me as he scanned the room in a maddeningly deliberate fashion.