The Curse of the Pharaohs (4 page)

The journalist—"Our Correspondent in Luxor"—wrote with considerable feeling and many adjectives about the lady's "delicate lips, curved like a Cupid's bow, which quivered with emotion as she spoke" and "her tinted face which bore stamped upon it a deep acquaintance with grief."

"Bah," I said, after several paragraphs of this. "What drivel. I must say, Emerson, Lady Baskerville sounds like a perfect idiot. Listen to this. 'I can think of no more fitting monument to my lost darling than the pursuit of that great cause for which he gave his life.' Lost darling, indeed!"

Emerson did not reply. Squatting on the floor, with Ramses between his knees, he was turning the pages of a large illustrated volume on zoology, trying to convince the boy that his bone did not match that of a zebra—for Ramses had retreated from giraffes to that slightly less exotic beast. Unfortunately a zebra is rather like a horse, and the example Emerson found bore a striking resemblance to the bone Ramses was flourishing. The child let out a malevolent chuckle and remarked, "I was wight, you see. It is a zebwa."

"Have another cake," said his father.

"Armadale is still missing," I continued. "I told you he was the murderer."

"Bah," said Emerson. "He will turn up eventually. There has been no murder."

"You can hardly believe he has been drunk for a fortnight," I said.

"I have known men to remain drunk for considerably longer periods," said Emerson.

"If Armadale had met with an accident he, or his remains, would have been found by now. The Theban area has been combed—"

"It is impossible to search the western mountains thoroughly," Emerson snapped. "You know what they are liked —jagged cliffs cut by hundreds of gullies and ravines."

"Then you believe he is out there somewhere?"

"I do. It would be a tragic coincidence, certainly, if he met with a fatal accident so soon after Sir Henry's death; the newspapers would certainly set up a renewed howl about curses. But such coincidences do happen, especially if a man is distracted by—"

"He is probably in Algeria by now," I said.

"Algeria! Why there, for heaven's sake?"

"The Foreign Legion. They say it is Ml of murderers and criminals attempting to escape justice."

Emerson got to his feet. I was pleased to observe that his eyes had lost their melancholy look and were blazing with temper. I noted, as well, that four years of relative inactivity bad not robbed his form of its strength and vigor. He had removed his coat and starched collar preparatory to playing with the boy, and his disheveled appearance irresistibly recalled the unkempt individual who had first captured my heart. I decided that if we went straight upstairs there might be time, before we changed for dinner—

"It is time for bed, Ramses; Nurse will be waiting," I said. "You may take the last cake with you."

Ramses gave me a long, considering look. He then turned to his father, who said cravenly, "Run along, my boy. Papa will read you an extra chapter from his
History of Egypt
when you are tucked in your cot."

"Vewy well," said Ramses. He nodded at me in a manner reminiscent of the regal condescension of his namesake. "You will come and say good night, Mama?"

"I always do," I said.

When he had left the room, taking not only the last cake but the book on zoology, Emerson began pacing up and down.

"I suppose you want another cup of tea," I said.

When I really supposed was that since I had suggested the tea, he would say he did not want it. Like all men, Emerson is very susceptible to the cruder forms of manipulation. Instead he said gruffly, "I want a whiskey and soda."

Emerson seldom imbibes. Trying to conceal my concern, I inquired, "Is something wrong?"

"Not something. Everything. You know, Amelia."

"Were your students unusually dense today?"

"Not at all. It would be impossible for them to be duller than they normally are. I suppose it is all this talk in the newspapers about Luxor that makes me restless."

"I understand."

"Of course you do. You suffer from the same malaise— suffer even more than I, who am at least allowed to hover on the fringes of the profession we both love. I am like a child pressing its nose against the window of the toy shop, but you are not even permitted to walk by the place."

This flight of fancy was so pathetic, and so unlike Emerson's usual style of speaking, that it was with difficulty that I prevented myself from flinging my arms about him. However, he did not want sympathy. He wanted an alleviation of his boredom, and that I could not provide. In some bitterness of spirit I said, "And I have failed to obtain even a poor substitute for your beloved excavations. After today, Lady Harold will take the greatest pleasure in thwarting any request we might make. It is my fault; I lost my temper."

"Don't be a fool, Peabody," Emerson growled. "No one could make an impression on the solid stupidity of that woman and her husband. I told you not to attempt it."

This touching and magnanimous speech brought tears to my eyes. Seeing my emotion, Emerson added, "You had better join me in a little spirituous consolation. As a general rule I do not approve of drowning one's sorrows, but today has been a trial for both of us."

As I took the glass he handed me I thought how shocked Lady Harold would have been at this further evidence of unwomanly habits. The fact is, I abominate sherry, and I like whiskey and soda.

Emerson raised his glass. The corners of his mouth lifted in a valiant and sardonic smile. "Cheers, Peabody. We'll weather this, as we have weathered other troubles."

"Certainly. Cheers, my dear Emerson."

Solemnly, almost ritually, we drank.

"Another year or two," I said, "and we might consider taking Ramses out with us. He is appallingly healthy, sometimes I feel that to match our son against the fleas and mosquitoes and fevers of Egypt is to place the country under an unfair disadvantage."

This attempt at humor did not win a smile from my husband. He shook his head. "We cannot risk it."

"Well, but the boy must go away to school eventually," I argued.

"I don't see why. He is getting a better education from us than he could hope to obtain in one of those pestilential purgatories called preparatory schools. You know how I feel about them."

"There must be a few decent schools in the country."

"Bah." Emerson swallowed the remainder of his whiskey. "Enough of this depressing subject. What do you say we go upstairs and—"

He stretched out his hand to me. I was about to take it when the door opened and Wilkins made his appearance. Emerson reacts very poorly to being interrupted when he is in a romantic mood. He turned to the butler and shouted, "Curse it, Wilkins, how dare you barge in here? What is it you want?"

None of our servants is at all intimidated by Emerson. Those who survive the first few weeks of his bellowing and temper tantrums learn that he is the kindest of men. Wilkins said calmly, "I beg your pardon, sir. A lady is here to see you and Mrs. Emerson."

"A lady?" As is his habit when perplexed, Emerson fingered the dent in his chin. "Who the devil can that be?"

A wild thought flashed through my mind. Had Lady Harold returned, on vengeance bent? Was she even now in the hall carrying a basket of rotten eggs or a bowl of mud? But that was absurd, she would not have the imagination to think of such a thing.

"Where is the lady?" I inquired.

"Waiting in the hall, madam. I attempted to show her into the small parlor, but—"

Wilkins' slight shrug and raised eyebrow finished the story. The lady had refused to be shown into the parlor. This suggested that she was in some urgency, and it also removed my hope of slipping upstairs to change.

"Show her in, then, Wilkins, if you please," I said.

The lady's urgency was even greater than I had supposed. Wilkins had barely time to step back out of the way before she entered; she was advancing toward us when he made the belated announcement: "Lady Baskerville."

Two

THE words fell on my ears with almost supernatural force. To see this unexpected visitor, when I had just been thinking and talking about her (and in no kindly terms) made me feel as if the figure now before us was no real woman, but the vision of a distracted mind.

And I must confess that most people would have considered her a vision indeed, a vision of Beauty posing for a portrait of Grief. From the crown of her head to her tiny slippers she was garbed in unrelieved black. How she had passed through the filthy weather without so much as a mud stain I could not imagine, but her shimmering satin skirts and filmy veils were spotless. A profusion of jet beads, sullenly gleaming, covered her bodice and trailed down the folds of her full skirt. The veils fell almost to her feet. The one designed to cover her face had been thrown back so that her pale, oval countenance was framed by the filmy puffs and folds. Her eyes were black; the brows lifted in a high curve that gave her a look of perpetual and innocent surprise. There was no color in her cheeks, but her mouth was a full rich scarlet. The effect of this was startling in the extreme; one could not help thinking of the damnably lovely lamias and vampires of legend.

Also, one could not help thinking of one's mud-stained, unbecoming gown, and wonder whether the aroma of whiskey covered the smell of moldy bone, or the reverse. Even I, who am not easily daunted, felt a pang of self-consciousness. I realized that I was trying to hide my glass, which was still half full, under a sofa cushion.

Though the pause of surprise—for Emerson, like myself, was gaping—seemed to last forever, I believe it was only a second or two before I regained my self-possession. Rising to my feet, I greeted our visitor, dismissed Wilkins, offered a chair and a cup of tea. The lady accepted the chair and refused the tea. I then expressed my condolences on her recent bereavement, adding that Sir Henry's death was a great loss to our profession.

This statement jarred Emerson out of his stupor, as I had thought it might, but for once he showed a modicum of tact, instead of making a rude remark about Sir Henry's inadequacies as an Egyptologist. Emerson saw no reason why anything, up to and including death, should excuse a man from poor scholarship.

However, he was not so tactful as to agree with my compliment or add one of his own. "Er—humph," he said. "Most unfortunate. Sorry to hear of it. What the deuce do you suppose has become of Armadale?"

"Emerson," I exclaimed. 'This is not the time—"

"Pray don't apologize." The lady lifted a delicate white hand, adorned with a huge mourning ring made of braided hair—that of the late Sir Henry, I presumed. She turned a charming smile on my husband. "I know Radcliffe's good heart too well to be deceived by his gruff manner."

Radcliffe indeed! I particularly dislike my husband's first name. I was under the impression that he did also. Instead of expressing disapproval he simpered like a schoolboy.

"I was unaware that you two were previously acquainted," I said, finally managing to dispose of my glass of whiskey behind a bowl of potpourri.

"Oh, yes," said Lady Baskerville, while Emerson continued to grin foolishly at her. "We have not met for several years; but in the early days, when we were all young and ardent—ardent about Egypt, I mean—we were well acquainted. I was hardly more than a bride—too young, I fear, but my dear Henry quite swept me off my feet."

She dabbed at her eyes with a black-bordered kerchief.

"There, there," said Emerson, in the voice he sometimes uses with Ramses. "You must not give way. Time will heal your grief."

This from a man who curled up like a hedgehog when forced into what he called society, and who never in his life had been known to utter a polite cliche! He began sidling toward her. In another moment he would pat her on the shoulder.

"How true," I said. "Lady Baskerville, the weather is inclement, and you seem very tired. I hope you will join us for dinner, which will be served shortly."

"You are very kind." Lady Baskerville removed her handkerchief from her eyes, which appeared to be perfectly dry, and bared her teeth at me. "I would not dream of such an intrusion. I am staying with friends in the neighborhood, who are expecting me back this evening. Indeed, I would not have come so unceremoniously, unexpected and uninvited, if I had not had an urgent matter to put before you. I am here on business."

"Indeed," I said.

"Indeed?" Emerson's echo held a questioning note; but in fact I had already deduced the nature of the lady's business. Emerson calls this jumping to conclusions. I call it simple logic.

"Yes," said Lady Baskerville. "And I will come to the point at once, rather than keep you any longer from your domestic comforts. I gather, from your question about poor Alan, that you are au courant about the situation in Luxor?"

"We have followed it with interest," Emerson said.

"We?" The lady's glowing black eyes turned to me with an expression of curiosity. "Ah, yes, I believe I did hear that Mrs. Emerson takes an interest in archaeology. So much the better; I will not bore her if I introduce the subject."

I retrieved my glass of whiskey from behind the potpourri. "No, you will not bore me," I said.

"You are too good. To answer your question, then, Radcliffe: no trace has been found of poor Alan. The situation is swathed in darkness and in mystery. When I think of it I am overcome."

Again the dainty handkerchief came into play. Emerson made clucking noises. I said nothing, but drank my whiskey in ladylike silence.

At last Lady Baskerville resumed. "I can do nothing about the mystery surrounding Alan's disappearance; but I am in hopes of accomplishing something else, which may seem unimportant compared with the loss of human life, but which was vital to the interests of my poor lost husband. The tomb, Radcliffe—the tomb!"

Leaning forward, with clasped hands and parted lips, her bosom heaving, she fixed him with her great black eyes; and Emerson stared back, apparently mesmerized.

"Yes, indeed," I said. "The tomb. We gather, Lady Baskerville, that work has come to a standstill. You know, of course, mat sooner or later it will be robbed, and all your husband's efforts wasted."