The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (17 page)

Emerson had swung his feet to the floor and sat up. Further effort was obviously beyond him, his face was ashen and his arms hung awkwardly at his sides. The very act of moving them must have been unutterably painful. He looked from me to the woman at the door and back to me, but he did not speak.
"Let me go," she whispered. "If your people catch me I will go to prison . . . or worse . . . Please, Sitt!
I have tried to help him."
"Go, then," I said. "Close the door after you." With one last, flashing look at Emerson, she obeyed.
Then, at last, at last, I could go where I yearned to go. I rushed to his side and knelt beside him.
Emotion stifled breath and speech.
He stared blankly at me, a faint frown furrowing his brow. "One female in trousers is confusing enough, but two is a bit much for a man in my condition. If you will excuse me, madam, I believe I will take advantage of my freedom from restraint to ... Oh, damnation!"
It was his last word, a bitter acknowledgment of his inability to do as he had planned. He fell to his
knees and collapsed face-down onto the floor.
I was too numbed by shock to prevent it The pistol dropped from my nerveless hand. But I was holding
it leveled at the door, and cradling Emerson's unconscious head in the other arm, when Abdullah's shout informed me that our saviors had arrived. He burst through the door and stopped short, horror replacing the triumph on his face "You weep, Sitt! Allah be merciful—he is not . . ."
"No, Abdullah, no. It is worse than that! Oh, Abdullah—he does not know me!"

CHAPTER 7

"Marriage should be a balanced stalemate between equal adversaries."

Of course I did not mean what I said to Abdullah. There may be conditions worse than death, but there are few, if any, as irreversible. Gladly would I have searched the length and breadth of Egypt for my husband's dismembered body, as Isis did for Osiris, cheerfully I would have taken up my Orphean lyre and descended into the nethermost pits of Hades to fetch him back— had such deeds been possible. Unfortunately they were not, fortunately they were not necessary There was a light at the end of this Stygian tunnel. So long as he lived, anything was possible. And if a thing is possible, Amelia P. Emerson will tackle the job.
It took a while to sort things out. My first task was to comfort Abdullah, he sat down on the ground and blubbered like a child, with relief and with distress at seeing his hero laid so low. Then he wanted to rush out and kill a few more people, but there were none, our victory had been complete, and since our men had not been concerned with taking prisoners, the survivors of the battle had run or crawled or crept away. Among the fugitives, I was chagrined to learn, was the leader. "But we will find him," said Abdullah, grinding his teeth. "I saw him in the fight, before he ran away, it was a bullet from his
weapon that wounded Daoud. I will remember him. And Emerson will know . . ."
He broke off, with a doubtful glance at me. "Yes," I said firmly. "He will. Now, Abdullah, stop ranting and be sensible. Daoud is not seriously injured, I hope? And your other men?"
Miraculously, none of our defenders had been killed, though several had been wounded. Daoud, who soon joined us, bore his bloody sleeve like a badge of honor and insisted on helping to carry the litter
on which Emerson was borne away. I hated to move him, but the alternatives would have been more dangerous,- we could not remain there, and the village offered no accommodations in which I would
have put a sick dog. Emerson was deeply unconscious and did not stir, not even when the cart Abdullah had commandeered jolted along the path to the riverbank.
It goes without saying that I did not leave his side for an instant. Though I had not brought my medical kit, my expertise (derided though it often had been by Emerson) assured me that his heart beat strong
and steady and his breathing, though shallow, showed no evidence of distress. The drugs he had been given were enough to account for his present state, though I had reason to suspect he had been kept
short of food and water as well. His injuries were superficial except for the wound on the back of his head. That concerned me most, for it must be connected with his loss of memory.
What I had taken to be a clever ruse to avoid questioning was the terrible truth. He had not been
delirious or off his head, his remarks had been rational, his mind clear. Except in one rather important
particular.
As we approached the Castle I saw that it was lit from cellar to attics. I ran on ahead, in order to lose
as little time as possible in making Emerson comfortable. When I reached the gate Cyrus was waiting.
I will not endeavor to reproduce his remarks. American profanity is apparently unrelated to the mother tongue or to any other language known to me. Determined as I was to make myself heard, I could not stop the flow of his eloquence. Not until the litter bearers came in sight with their precious burden did Cyrus break off, with a sound that must have hurt his throat.
Taking advantage of his momentary paralysis of speech, I said, "No questions now, Cyrus. Help me
get him to bed. And make sure the doctor is admitted at once. I sent Daoud to fetch him when we
passed through Luxor."
After I had put my stricken spouse to bed (for I would permit no other than myself to perform that
tender duty), Cyrus joined me. Arms folded, he stood looking down at Emerson. Then he leaned
forward and lifted one sunken eyelid.
"Drugged."
"Yes."
"What else is wrong with him?"
I had done all I could. Tucking in the last end of the bandages I had wrapped around his lacerated
wrists, I sat back and nerved myself to admit the painful truth.
"Apparently they realized, as anyone who knows Emerson must realize, that torture would only stiffen
his resistance. He is not seriously injured, except . . . We agreed, you remember, after we had read the message, that he must be pretending to have amnesia. He was not pretending, Cyrus. He— he did not know me."
Cyrus sucked in his breath. Then he said, "Opium produces strange delusions."
"He was perfectly rational. His replies were sensible— sensible for Emerson, that is. Hurling insults and sarcastic remarks at a man who holds one a chained prisoner is not, perhaps, very wise."
Cyrus let out a brief bark of laughter. "Sounds like Emerson, all right. Still— "
"There can be no mistake, Cyrus. Would that there were! Not only did he look me straight in the face
and call me 'madam' but earlier he said .he said he would never be damned fool enough to saddle himself with a wife."
Cyrus's efforts to comfort me were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor. He was not the pompous
little Frenchman with whose medical inexpertise ! had been forced to deal on a previous occasion, but
an Englishman who had retired, for reasons of health, to a warmer clime. Evidently the desired effect
had been achieved, though his beard was gray and his body cadaverously thin, he moved with the vigor
of a young man, and his diagnosis assured me that we were fortunate to have found him.
We could only wait, he said, for the effects of the opium to dissipate.
Though the dosage had been large, the patient had not been under its influence for long, there was every hope, given his splendid physique, that the process of recovery would be neither prolonged nor unduly arduous. The only serious injury was the wound on the back of the head, but this concerned Dr. Wallingford less than it had me. "There is no fracture of the skull," he murmured, probing the area with sensitive fingers "A concussion, perhaps . . . We cannot assess that until the patient has recovered consciousness."
"His loss of memory," I began.
"My dear lady, it would be a wonder if his memory were not confused, after such a blow on the head
and daily doses of opium! Be of good heart,  I have no doubt he will make a full recovery."
He left after promising to return the following day and after giving me directions I did not need but which further reassured me, since they agreed in every particular with my own intentions: Keep the patient warm and quiet, try to get him to take nourishment. "Chicken broth," I murmured abstractedly.
A murmurous, musical mew sounded, as if in agreement. The cat Anubis had entered, as silently as the shadow he resembled. I stiffened as the animal jumped onto the bed and inspected Emerson from feet
to head, pausing to sniff curiously at his face. Abdullah's antipathy toward the beast was based on ignorance and superstition, but— weary and worried as I then was— I found myself beginning to sympathize with him. Had the bearded blackguard who held Emerson captive been Anubis's master?
I had not been able to make out his features. The voice had reminded me of Vincey's, but I could not
be certain even of that, for its sneering tone had been quite unlike the gentle, well-bred accents of the
man I had known so briefly. Anubis returned to the foot of the bed, where he lay down and began washing his whiskers. I relaxed, feeling a trifle foolish.
Cyrus returned after showing the doctor out. He announced that the cook was boiling a chicken and
asked what else he could do to help me.
"Nothing, thank you. He has taken a little water, that is a good sign. I am very impressed with
Dr. Wallingford."
"He has an excellent reputation. But if you would like to send to Cairo—"
"We will wait awhile, I think. I expect you are full of questions, Cyrus. I will answer some of them
now if you like"
"I know most of the story. I gave myself the pleasure of a little chat with Abdullah." Seating himself in
an armchair, Cyrus took out one of his cheroots and asked my permission to smoke.
"By all means. Emerson loves his nasty pipe, the smell of tobacco smoke may rouse him. I hope you were not too hard on Abdullah."
"I couldn't bawl him out, could I, for succeeding when I failed? Nor for letting you bully him into going along. You've got him right under your little thumb, Amelia."
"It was his devotion to Emerson that inspired him. But, yes, I think he is fond of me too. I never realized that. It was a touching moment when he opened his heart to me as he had never done before."
"Huh," said Cyrus. "I suppose I can't persuade you to get some rest while I keep an eye on my old pal."
"You suppose correctly. How could I sleep? Go to bed, Cyrus. You must be tired. I need not ask if
your mission to the hotel was unsuccessful."
"I'm plumb wore out, it's true, but what did it was coming back here and finding you gone. I was afraid the message had been a stunt to get me out of the way so they could carry you off. I don't want to spend another couple of hours like those."
"Dear Cyrus. But all's well that ends well, you see."
"Let's hope so." Cyrus crushed out the cheroot. His hand was a trifle unsteady, and this evidence of affectionate concern moved me deeply. "Well, I'll leave you to your vigil. Call me if ... Oh, shucks, I almost forgot. The mail came this afternoon. There's a letter for you from Chalfont."
"The promised letter!" I cried. "Where is it?"
Cyrus indicated a pile of letters on the table The one on top was the one I wanted,- its bulk suggested
that the writer had quite a story to tell, and so it proved.
A brief note from Walter introduced the missive

I have decided to let young Ramses have his say, his epistolatory style has a panache mine lacks. You know your son well enough not to be misled by his tendency toward exaggeration. Have no fear for us, we have taken all precautions, as you will see. It is for you, dear brother and sister, that we are anxious. Please keep us informed.

There followed several pages closely written in a hand with which I was only too familiar. I can do no better than copy out this extraordinary document in its entirety, for it is impossible to summarize Ramses

Dearest Mama and Papa [it began],
I trust this finds you well. We are all well. Aunt Evelyn assures me my hair will soon grow back.

After I had recovered from the effect of this startling statement, I read on.

< style="font-style: italic;">Your telegram was of great assistance in preventing a more serious event than actually occurred, but I already had reasons for suspecting that a game of some sort was afoot. While making my usual rounds of the estate in order to run off poachers and look for traps, I came upon a roughly dressed individual who, instead of running away when I challenged him, ran at me with the evident intention of taking hold of me. Retreating, as discretion seemed to indicate (for he was approximately twice my bulk), I led him through a thorn thicket and left him hopelessly entangled in the branches my lesser height and greater knowledge of the terrain enabled me to avoid. He was shouting loudly and profanely as I departed the scene, but when Uncle Walter and I and two of the footmen returned, he had fled.
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">Uncle Walter, I regret to report, scoffed at my claim that the fellow's behavior roused the direst suspicions as to his motives for being there. After Papa's telegram arrived, however, Uncle
Walter was gentlemanly enough to apologize and intelligent enough to reconsider the case. After
a council of war we determined to take defensive measures. As I pointed out, it was safer to err
on the side of excess than to fail from lack of caution.
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">Aunt Evelyn wanted to call the constable. She is a very kind person, but not practical. Uncle Walter and I persuaded her that we had no grounds for requesting official assistance, and that
in order to convince officialdom of the validity of our reasons for concern we would have to disclose matters we had sworn to keep secret. Our defensive force, therefore, consists of the following:
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">I. Gargery. He was very pleased to be asked.
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">2. Bob and Jerry. As you know, they are the strongest of the footmen, and familiar with our habits. You will recall that Bob was of great assistance in our attack on Mauldy Manor, when
I was fortunate enough to effect your escape from the dungeon.
< style="font-style: italic;">
< style="font-style: italic;">3. Inspector Cuff. I should say, "former Inspector Cuff," since he has retired from the force and
is growing roses in Dorking. I spoke to him personally on the telephone (a most useful device,
we must install one at Amarna House], and after he stopped sputtering and listened to what I
had to say he was persuaded to join us. I believe he is bored with roses. Do not fear, Mama
and Papa, we did not disclose the SECRET. I flatter myself that the Inspector has enough confidence in my humble self to believe my assurance that the matter is serious. Uncle Walter's confirmation was of some small assistance in this regard.
< style="font-style: italic;">
It was fortunate (or, if you will permit me to say so, farsighted) that these measures were instituted/ for Inspector Cuff, the last to arrive, had not been in the house twenty-four hours
before the anticipated attack occurred.