The Curse of the Pharaohs (34 page)

A woman in less excellent physical condition might have continued to stagger till all was lost; but my blood vessels and muscles are as well trained as the rest of me. Strength returned to my limbs as I progressed. The white apparition was still visible, some distance ahead, when I broke into my famous racing form, arms swinging, head high. Nor did I scruple to make the echoes ring with my demands for assistance from anyone who might be listening.

"Help!
Au secours! Zu Hilfe!
Stop thief," accompanied my progress, and I daresay these cries had an effect on the person I pursued. There was no escape for it, but it continued to run until I brought my parasol down on its head with all the strength I could muster. Even then, as it lay supine, it reached out with clawed hands for the object it had dropped in its fall. I put my foot firmly on the weapon—a long, sharp hatpin. With my parasol at the ready, I looked down on the haggard, no longer beautiful face that glared up at me with Gorgonlike ferocity.

"It is no use, Lady Baskerville," I said. "You are fairly caught. You should have known when we first met that you were no match for me."

Seventeen

EMERSON was unreasonably annoyed with me for what he called my unwarranted interference. I pointed out to him that if I had not interfered he would have moved on to a better, but probably less interesting, world. Unable to deny this, but reluctant to admit it, he changed the subject.

We made a little ceremony of opening the envelopes to which we had earlier committed our deductions as to the identity of the murderer. I suggested we do this publicly. Emerson agreed so readily that I knew he had either guessed correctly or been able to substitute a new envelope for the original.

We held our conference in Arthur's room. Though still very weak, he was out of danger, and I felt his recovery would be hastened if he knew he was no longer under suspicion of murder.

Everyone was there except Mr. Vandergelt, who had felt duty-bound to accompany Lady Baskerville to Luxor, where, I had no doubt, she was proving a considerable embarrassment to the authorities. They seldom had a criminal of such exalted social status, and a woman to boot. I only hoped they would not let her escape out of sheer embarrassment.

After Emerson and I had opened our envelopes and displayed the two slips of paper, each bearing the name of Lady Baskerville, Mary exclaimed, "You amaze me, Amelia— and you too, of course, Professor. Though I cannot say I admired her ladyship, it would never have occurred to me that she could be guilty."

"It was obvious to an analytical mind," I replied. "Lady Baskerville was shrewd and vicious but not really intelligent. She committed one error after another."

"Such as asking the Professor to take command of the expedition," Karl said. "She ought to have known a man so brilliant, so distinguished—"

"No, that was one of her more intelligent actions," Emerson said. "The work would have been carried on, with or without her approval. His late lordship's will specifically directed that it be done. She had a role as a devoted widow to play; and at the time she approached us she took it for granted that the matter was ended. Armadale, she hoped, would either die in the desert or flee the country. She underestimated his stamina and the depth of his passion; but, though she was not very intelligent, she knew how to act promptly and decisively when action was necessary."

"And," I added, "the idea of disguising herself as a lady in white was one of her brighter notions. The veils were so voluminous that there was no way of identifying the figure; it might even have been that of a man. Also, its ghostly appearance made some of those who saw it reluctant to approach it. Lady Baskerville made good use of the white lady by pretending to see it herself the night Emerson was so nearly hit by the stone head. It was, of course, Habib who threw the stone. Other indications, such as Lady Baskerville's preference for an inefficient and timid Egyptian servant, were highly suspicious. I have no doubt that Atiyah observed a number of things that a sharper attendant would have understood, and perhaps reported to me."

I would have gone on had not O'Connell interrupted me.

"Just a minute, ma'am. All this is very interesting but, if you will pardon me, it is the sort of thing anyone might see, after the fact. I need more details, not only for my editor, but to satisfy my own curiosity."

"You already know the details of one incident in the case, though you may not care to describe them to your readers," I said meaningfully.

Mr. O'Connell blushed fiery red, so that his face almost matched his hair. He had confessed to me in private that he had been responsible for the knife in the wardrobe. He had bribed a hotel servant to place an elaborate, ornamented knife—of the sort that is made for the tourist trade—in a prominent place in our room. His inefficient and underpaid ally had replaced the expensive trinket with a cheaper weapon and put it in the wrong place.

Seeing the journalist's blushes, I said no more. In the last few days he had earned my goodwill, and besides, he was due for a comeuppance if my suspicions about Mary and Arthur were correct.

"Yes, well, let us proceed," said O'Connell, gazing intently at his notebook. "How did you—and Professor Emerson, of course—arrive at the truth?"

I had decided I had better hear what Emerson had to say before I committed myself. I therefore remained silent and allowed him to begin.

"It was evident from the first that Lady Baskerville had the best opportunity to dispose of her husband. It is a truism in police science—"

"I can only allow you ten minutes, Emerson," I interjected. "We must not tire Arthur."

"Humph," said Emerson. "You tell it, then, since you consider my narrative style too verbose."

"I'll just ask questions, if you permit," said Mr. O'Connell, looking amused. "That will save time. I am trained, you know, to a terse journalistic style."

"Terse" was not the word I would have used; but I saw no reason to interfere with the procedure he suggested.

"You have mentioned opportunity," he said. "What about motive? Professor?"

"It is a truism in police science," said Emerson stubbornly, "that a victim's heirs are the primary suspects. Though I was unaware of the stipulations of the late Lord Baskerville's will, I assumed his wife stood to inherit something. But I suspected an even stronger motive. The archaeological world is small. Like all small communities, it is prone to gossip. Lady Baskerville's reputation for—er—let me think how to put it..."

"Extramarital carrying on," I said. "I could have told you that."

"How?" Emerson demanded.

"I knew it the moment I set eyes on her. She was that sort of woman."

"So," Mr. O'Connell intervened, as Emerson's face reddened, "you inquired about the lady's reputation, Professor?"

"Precisely. I had been out of touch for several years. I spoke with acquaintances in Luxor and sent off a few telegrams to Cairo, to ascertain whether she had continued her old habits. The replies confirmed my suspicions. I concluded that Lord Baskerville had learned of her affairs—the husband is always the last to know—and had threatened her with divorce, disgrace, and destitution."

In reality, he had discovered these facts only that morning, when Lady Baskerville broke down and confessed all. I wondered how many other facets of that most interesting confession would turn up, in the form of deductions, as he went along.

"So she killed her husband in order to preserve her good name?" Mary asked incredulously.

"To preserve her luxurious style of living," I said, before Emerson could reply. "She had designs on Mr. Vandergelt. He would never have married a divorced woman—you know how puritanical these Americans are—but as an unhappy widow she did not doubt she could capture him."

"Good," said Mr. O'Connell, scribbling rapidly. "Now, Mrs. E., it is your turn. What clue gave away the murderer's identity to you?"

"Arthur's bed," I replied.

Mr. O'Connell chuckled. "Wonderful! It is almost as deliciously enigmatic as one of Mr. Sherlock Holmes's clues. Elucidate, please, ma'am."

"The evening we found our friend here so near his end," I said, with a nod at Arthur, "his room was in disorder. Lady Baskerville had tossed his belongings around in order to suggest a hasty flight. She had, however—"

"Forgotten to take his shaving tackle," Emerson interrupted. "I knew then that the murderer must be a woman. No man would overlook such an obvious—"

"And," I said, raising my voice, "no man could have made Arthur's bed so neatly. Remember, he was resting on it when he was attacked. The killer had to remake the bed so that the counterpane hung all the way down to the floor and concealed his unconscious form. The longer the delay, the more difficult it would have been for innocent persons to establish an alibi. Those neat hospital corners were a dead giveaway."

"Good, good," crooned Mr. O'Connell, scribbling. "But how did she commit the crime, Mrs. E.? That is the most baffling thing of all."

"With a hat pin," I replied.

Exclamations of astonishment followed. "Yes," I went on. "I confess that I puzzled over that for a long time. Not until yesterday afternoon, when Lady Baskerville was trying on her trousseau, did I realize how deadly a hat pin can be. Lady Baskerville had been a nurse, and she had known—er —been acquainted with—medical students and doctors. A sharpened steel needle inserted into the base of the brain will penetrate the spinal column and kill the victim instantly. A small puncture, hidden by the victim's hair, would not be observed; or, if it was, it would be taken for an insect bite. She killed Mr. Armadale the same way."

"But why Armadale?" O'Connell asked keenly, his pencil poised. "Did he suspect her?"

"Quite the contrary," I replied. (My breath control is much better than Emerson's; I could start speaking while he was still inhaling.) "Mr. Armadale thought
he
had killed Lord Baskerville."

A gratifying burst of surprised exclamations interrupted me.

"It is only conjecture, of course," I said modestly, "but it is the only explanation that fits all the facts. Lady Baskerville had cold-bloodedly seduced Mr. Armadale. Mary noticed that he was distracted and depressed for several weeks preceding Lord Baskerville's death. More significantly, he did not renew his offer of marriage. He had found another love, and the torment of knowing he had betrayed his patron was tearing him apart. Lady Baskerville pretended to feel the same. She informed Armadale that she intended to tell her husband the truth and, professing fear of his reaction, asked the young man to wait in her room while the confrontation took place. Not unnaturally her husband began to shout at her. She screamed; Armadale rushed in and struck the enraged husband, thinking he was protecting his mistress. As soon as Lord Baskerville fell, his wife bent over him and cried, 'You have killed him!'"

"And Armadale believed her?" O'Connell asked skeptically. "My readers are going to love this, Mrs. E., but it's a little hard to swallow."

"He loved her," Arthur said weakly. "You don't understand true love, Mr. O'Connell."

I reached for Arthur's wrist. "You are flushed," I said. "You are becoming overexcited. We had better adjourn."

"No, no." The sick man took hold of my hand. His golden beard had been neatly trimmed and his hair arranged. His pallor and emaciation made him handsomer than ever, like a young Keats (except, of course, that the poet was dark).

"You can't leave the story unfinished," Arthur went on. "Why did she attack me?"

"Yes, why?" Emerson said, catching me off guard this time. "I'll warrant even my omniscient wife does not know that."

"Do you?" I inquired.

"No. It makes no sense. Arthur never saw her; she entered his room while he was asleep, and why she did not use the handy hat pin on him—"

"She had to render him unconscious first," I explained. "The insertion of the needle into the pertinent spot requires some dexterity; it cannot be done while the victim is awake and capable of resistance. Once she had struck him, she believed him to be dead. Perhaps, also, she was afraid of being interrupted. In Arthur's case she had to act during the daylight hours. Something may have startled her, and she had only time to hide him under the bed. The question is, why did she feel it necessary to silence you, Arthur? If someone had become suspicious of how Lord Baskerville died, you were the obvious suspect. Your naive folly in telling no one of your identity—"

"But I did tell someone," Arthur said innocently. "I told Lady Baskerville, barely a week after I came here."

I exchanged glances with Emerson. He nodded. "So that was it," he said. "You did not mention that to my wife, when you bared your soul to her."

The young man flushed. "It hardly seemed cricket. Mrs. Emerson had told me in no uncertain terms what she thought of my stupidity. To admit that Lady Baskerville had encouraged me to retain my anonymity would be to accuse her..." He broke off, looking startled. Handsome Arthur Baskerville might be; wealthy and endowed with all the good things of this world. Oustandingly intelligent he was not.

"Hold on now." O'Connell's pencil had been racing across the page. He now looked up. "This is all good stuff, but you are not following the right order. Let's go back to the murder of Armadale. I presume that she persuaded the poor booby to flee after Baskerville collapsed and then did his lordship in with her hat pin. Hey—wait a minute. No one mentioned a bruise on Baskerville's face—"

"Dr. Dubois would not notice if the man's throat had been cut," I said. "But, to do him justice, he was looking for the cause of death, not a slight swelling on the jaw or chin. Lord Baskerville seems to have been astonishingly prone to self-mutilation. He probably had many bruises, cuts, and scrapes."

"Good." O'Connell wrote this down. "So Armadale ran away—disguised himself as a native, I suppose, and hid in the hills. I am surprised he didn't flee the country."

"And leave his mistress behind?" I countered. "I doubt that the young man's mental state was quite normal. The horror of what he thought he had done was enough to turn his brain and render him incapable of decisive action of any kind. If he
had
wanted to confess, he would have been deterred by the knowledge that by doing so he must incriminate the woman he loved, as an accessory after the fact. But when Lady Baskerville returned he could bear it no longer. He came to her window at night and was seen by Hassan. That foolish man tried to blackmail Lady Baskerville—for of course he had seen which window Armadale approached. She disposed of both of them the next night, Armadale at the
cave, where he had told her to meet him, and Hassan on the
way back, when he intercepted her. I am not surprised that
she appeared so exhausted next day."