The Curse of the Pharaohs (33 page)

"The chosen victim must be Mr. O'Connell, I believe," he said at last. "I hope we will have a restful night; he can work on his next dispatch."

"That suits me, Professor," said the young Irishman, taking his cup from Lady Baskerville.

Suddenly Emerson rose to his feet with a cry. "Look there!"

Every eye went to the window, where he was pointing. O'Connell rushed across the room and pulled back the curtains.

"What did you see, Professor?"

"A flutter of white," Emerson said. "I thought someone passed rapidly by the window."

"There is nothing there now," O'Connell said. He went back to his chair.

No one spoke for a time. I sat gripping the arms of my chair, trying to think; for a new and terrible idea had suddenly occurred to me. I had no idea what Emerson was up to, with his ridiculous suggestions of flutters of white and his dramatic cries; the matter that concerned me was of quite another nature. I might be wrong. But if I was not wrong, something had to be done, and without delay.

"Wait," I cried, rising in my turn.

"What is it?" Emerson demanded.

"Mary," I exclaimed. "Quickly—she is about to swoon—"

The gentlemen all converged on the astonished girl. I had hoped, but had not really expected, that she would have the wits to follow my lead. Evelyn would have done it instantly. But Evelyn is used to my methods. It did not matter; the distraction gave me the opportunity I needed. Emerson's coffee cup and mine were on a low table next to my chair. Quickly I exchanged them.

"Honestly, there is nothing wrong with me," Mary insisted. "I am a little tired, but I don't feel at all faint."

"You are very pale," I said sympathetically. "And you have had such a dreadful day, Mary; I think you ought to retire."

"So should you," Emerson said, looking at me suspiciously. "Drink your coffee, Amelia, and excuse yourself."

"Certainly," I said, and did so without hesitation.

The group dispersed soon thereafter. Emerson offered to escort me to our room; but I informed him I had other matters to take care of before I retired. The first and most imperative I will not describe in detail. It had to be done, and I did it; but the process was unpleasant to experience and distasteful to recount. If I had been able to anticipate Emerson's plans I would not have eaten quite so much at dinner.

I then felt obliged to look in on Mary. She was still in the state of false composure that often follows a shock, whether the shock be one of joy or sorrow—but sooner or later she must give way to the bewildering mixture of emotions that filled her heart. I treated her as I would a hurt or frightened child, tucking her into bed, and leaving a candle burning for comfort; and she seemed pathetically grateful for the attentions, which, I have no doubt, were new to her. I took the opportunity of speaking to her about Christian fortitude and British spunk in the face of adversity, adding that, with all due respect to her mother, the future could only appear bright. I might have said more; but at this point in the conversation she fell asleep. So I tucked the netting around her and tiptoed out.

Emerson was waiting outside the door. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his look of "I would stamp and shout if I were not such an unusually patient man" on his face.

"What took you so cursed long?" he demanded. "I am in a hurry."

"I did not ask you to wait for me."

"I want to talk to you."

"We have nothing to talk about."

"Ah!" Emerson exclaimed, in the surprised tone of someone who has just made a discovery. "You are angry because I didn't ask you share the watch with me tonight."

"Ridiculous. If you wish to sit there like Patience on a monument waiting for a murderer to attack you, I will not interfere."

"Is that what you are thinking?" Emerson laughed loudly. "No, no, my dear Peabody. I was bluffling about the message, of course—"

"I know."

"Humph," said Emerson. "Do you suppose the others know?"

"Probably."

"Then what are you worried about?"

He had me there. The message was such a transparent subterfuge that only a fool would fail to see it for the trick it was.

"Humph," I said.

"I had hoped," Emerson admitted, "that the device would stimulate our suspect, not to murder me—I am no hero, my dear, as you may have observed—but to flee. Like you, I believe now that the trick has failed. However, just in case the killer is more nervous or more stupid than we believe, I want you here to observe whether anyone leaves the house."

We had been pacing slowly around the courtyard as we spoke. Now we reached the door of our room; Emerson opened it, shoved me in, and enveloped me in a bruising embrace.

"Sleep well, my darling Peabody. Dream of me."

I flung my arms around his neck. "My dearest husband, guard your precious life. I would not attempt to keep you from your duty, but remember that if you fall—"

Emerson pushed me away. "Curse it, Peabody, how dare you make fun of me? I hope you fall over a chair and sprain your ankle."

And with this tender farewell he left me, cursing under his breath.

I addressed the cat Bastet, whose sleek form I had seen outlined against the open window.

"He deserved that," I said. "I am inclined to agree with you, Bastet; cats are much more sensible than people."

Bastet and I kept watch together while the hands of my little pocket watch crept on toward midnight. I was flattered that the cat stayed with me; always before she had seemed to prefer Emerson. No doubt her keen intelligence told her that the truest friend is not always the one who offers chicken.

I had not been deceived for a moment by Emerson's glib excuses. He did hope the murderer would believe his lies about messages and decisive clues; he expected to be attacked that very night. The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I became. A sensible murderer (if there is such a thing) would not have been fooled for a moment by Emerson's playacting. But if my theory was correct the murderer was stupid enough, and desperate enough, to react as Emerson had planned.

After I put on my working costume I blackened my face
and hands with soot from the lamp and removed everv touch
of white from my attire. Opening my door a crack, I ascertained that the watchman was on duty in the courtyard. I could not see anyone outside the window. When midnight finally came I left the cat sleeping quietly on my bed and slipped out the window.

The moon was gibbous, but it gave too strong a light for my purposes. I would rather have walked unseen under heavy clouds. Despite the cool of the night air I was perspiring by the time I reached the cliff that overlooked the Valley.

Below me the abode of the dead lay at peace under the light of Egypt's eternal moon. The fence around the tomb obstructed my view until I was quite near. I had not expected to hear sounds of revelry, so the dead silence that enveloped the place was not in itself alarming, nor was the fact that I saw no glow from the lantern Emerson usually kept burning. He might have left it unlit in the hope of luring the killer close. Yet the now only too familiar grue of apprehension chilled my limbs as I glided on.

I approached the barrier cautiously. I did not want to be mistaken for the criminal and knocked down by my own husband. My approach was certainly not noiseless, for the stony ground was littered with pebbles and gravel that crunched underfoot. Reaching the fence, I peered through the gap between two stakes.

"Emerson," I whispered. "Don't shoot; it is I."

No voice replied. Not the slightest sound broke the uncanny stillness. The enclosed space was like a badly focused photograph, crisscrossed by the shadows of the fence stakes and blurred by the shapes of boulders and miscellaneous objects. Instinct told me the truth even before my straining eyes made out a huddled, darker shape beside the stairwell. Abandoning caution, I ran forward and flung myself down beside it. My groping hands found creased fabric, thick tumbled hair, and features whose shape would have been familiar to me in the darknest night.

"Emerson," I gasped. "Speak to me! Oh, heavens, I am too late. Why did I wait so long? Why did—"

The motionless body was suddenly galvanized into life. I was seized—throttled—muffled—pulled down to the ground with a force that left me breathless—enclosed in an embrace that held the ferocity of a deadly enemy instead of the affection of a spouse.

"Curse you, Amelia," Emerson hissed. "If you have frightened my quarry away I will never speak to you again. What the devil are you doing here?"

Being unable to articulate, I gurgled as meaningfully as I could. Emerson freed my mouth. "Softly," he whispered.

"How dare you frighten me so?" I demanded.

"How did you... Never mind; get back out of sight, with O'Connell, while I resume my position. I was pretending to be asleep."

"You
were
asleep."

"I may have dozed off for a moment___No more talk.

Retire to the hut where O'Connell—"

"Emerson—where is Mr. O'Connell? This encounter has not been exactly silent; should he not have rushed to your assistance by this time?"

"Hmmm," said Emerson.

We found the journalist behind a boulder on the hillside. He was breathing deeply and regularly. He did not stir, even when Emerson shook him.

"Drugged," I said softly. "This is a most alarming development, Emerson."

"Alarming but hopeful," was the reply, in tones as soft as Emerson could make them. "It confirms my theory. Stay here out of sight, Peabody, and for heaven's sake don't give the alarm too soon. Wait till I actually have my hands on the wretch."

"But, Emerson—"

"No more. I only hope our animated discussion has gone unheard."

"Wait, Emerson—"

He was gone. I sat down beside the boulder. To pursue him and insist on being heard was to risk the failure of our scheme; and besides, the information I had meant to give him was no longer pertinent. Or was it? Chewing on my lip, I tried to sort out my thoughts. O'Connell had been drugged. No doubt Emerson's coffee, which I had drunk, had also been doctored. Fearing such an eventuality, I had drunk Emerson's coffee, and rid myself of it. Yet when I came upon him just now he had been sound asleep. I could not have mistaken pretense for reality. I had felt the limpness of his body, and if he had only been feigning sleep he would have heard my whispers. He had drunk
my
coffee. Or had someone else exchanged cups with him? I felt as if my head were spinning like a top.

A soft glow of artificial light roused me from my disquieting thoughts. Emerson had lit the lantern. I approved (his decision; if my reasoning was correct, the murderer would expect to find him drugged and helpless, and the lamplight would enable this prostrate condition to be observed more readily. I only wished I could be certain he was free of the influence of some drug. I took a deep breath and clenched my hands. It did not matter. I was on the job. I had my knife, my gun, my parasol; I had the resolve of duty and affection to strengthen every sinew. I told myself that Emerson could not have been in better hands than mine.

I told myself that; but as time wore on I began to doubt my own assurances—not because I had lost faith in my abilities, but because I stood to lose so much if, by some unexpected mischance, I should fail to act in time. Emerson had seated himself on the ground by the stairs, his back against a rock, his pipe in his mouth. After smoking for a while he knocked out the pipe and sat motionless. Gradually his head drooped forward. The pipe fell from his lax hand. Shoulders bowed, chin on his breast, he slept—or was he pretending to sleep? A breeze ruffled his dark hair. I beheld his unmoving form with mounting apprehension. I was at least ten yards away. Could I reach him in time, if action proved necessary? Beside me, Mr. O'Connell rolled over and began to snore. I was tempted to kick him, even though I knew his comatose condition was not his fault.

The night was far advanced before the first betraying sound reached my ears. It was only the soft click of a pebble striking stone, and it might have been made by a wandering animal; but it brought me upright, with every sense alert. Yet I almost missed the first sign of movement. It came from behind the fence, outside the circle of light.

I had known what to expect; but as the shadowy shape emerged cautiously into view, I caught my breath. Muffled from head to foot in clinging muslin that covered even its face, it reminded me of the first appearance of Ayesha, the immortal woman or goddess, in Mr. Haggard's thrilling romance
She.
Ayesha veiled her face and form because her dazzling beauty drove men mad; this apparition's disguise had a darker purpose, but it conveyed the same sense of awe and terror. No wonder the persons who had seen it had taken it for a demon of the night or the spirit of an ancient queen.

It stood poised, as if prepared for instant flight. The night wind lifted its draperies like the wings of a great white moth. So strong was my desire to rush at it that I sank my teeth in my lower lip and tasted the saltiness of blood. I had to wait. There were too many hiding places in the nearby cliffs. If it escaped us now, we might never bring it to justice.

Almost I waited too long; for when the figure finally moved it did so with such speed mat I was caught unawares. Rushing forward, it bent over Emerson, one hand raised.

It was apparent by this time that Emerson really had dozed off and was not mimicking sleep. Naturally I would have cried out if the danger had been imminent; but seeing the ghostly figure, I knew all. My theories had been right, from start to finish. Knowing the method of attack, I knew it required a certain delicacy and deliberation of execution. I had plenty of time. Triumph soared within me as I rose slowly to my feet.

As soon as I put my weight on it, my left ankle gave way, tingling with the pain of returning circulation. The crash of my fall, I am sorry to say, was quite loud.

By the time I had recovered myself, the white form was in rapid retreat. Emerson had tumbled over onto his side and was stirring feebly, like an overturned beetle. I heard his bewildered curses as I staggered past him, leaning on my parasol for support.