Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (137 page)

By this time the other pursuers were spread out all over the terrain, in their efforts to follow the changing course of the runaway. It must have been Emerson’s strong paternal instincts that led him to be first upon the scene, for no one could possibly have predicted where the animal would eventually halt. The others all converged on the spot, and before long the protagonists in the drama were swallowed up by a crowd of screaming supernumeraries and hidden by agitated blue and white draperies.

Not until that moment did I feel the hand that had gripped my shoulder, though its pressure was hard enough to leave (as I later discovered) visible bruises. The grip relaxed and I turned in time to catch Enid as, with a tremulous moan, she sank fainting to the ground.

I dragged the girl into the tent and left her there. The intensity of the drama was sufficient excuse for her reaction, but I knew Emerson would be annoyed if he discovered she had succumbed. He had a poor opinion of swooning females.

The viscount and his entourage were the first to return. Most of them kept their distance, but his lordship summoned courage enough to face me. However, he was prudent enough to remain on horseback as he made his stammering apologies.

I cut them short. ‘I don’t hold you wholly accountable, since Ramses has a habit of getting into scrapes; however, I think you had better take yourself off before Professor Emerson gets here. I refuse to be responsible for his actions when he is under extreme emotional stress, as I suppose him to be at this time.’

The gentlemen took my advice. They were in full retreat when Emerson staggered up, with Ramses clasped to his bosom. After Ramses had finally convinced his father he was capable of standing, Emerson ran after the riders, cursing and demanding that they come back and fight like men. Having expected a demonstration of that sort, I was able to trip him up, and by the time he had resumed an upright position and brushed the sand from his perspiring countenance, he was relatively calm.

‘No harm done,’ he said grittily. ‘But if that idiot ever shows his face here again–’

I handed him my water flask, for it was evident that his speech was encumbered by sand. ‘Perhaps we had better stop for the day,’ I suggested. ‘It is after noon, and everyone is tired from all that running around.’

‘Stop work?’ Emerson stared at me in amazement. ‘What are you thinking of, Peabody?’

So we returned to our labours. The diggers went at it with renewed vigour; I heard one of them remark to another that he always enjoyed working for the Father of Curses, since there was sure to be something amusing going on.

Naturally we looked for Nemo in order to express our appreciation and admiration, but he was nowhere to be found. Since he was still wearing his Egyptian robes and turban, it was not difficult for him to hide among the fifty-odd diggers; and even after we had finished work and returned to the house, I was unable to locate him. I need not tell the Reader that my reasons for wishing to speak to him were not solely those of parental gratitude. I had a number of questions to ask that young man, and this time I was determined to get answers.

I had, of course, explained to Ramses that his behaviour was wholly inexcusable. Not all the blame for the incident could be attributed to him, since the accidental discharge of the firearm had startled the horse into bolting. However, if Ramses had not been on the horse, the danger would not have occurred.

Remarkably, Ramses made no attempt to defend himself, but listened in silence, his narrow countenance even more inscrutable than usual. Upon the conclusion of the lecture I ordered him to his room – not much of a punishment, since he usually spent the hottest part of the day there working on his grammar.

Emerson and I had never succumbed to the lazy habit of afternoon rest which is common in the East. There is always a great deal to do on an archaeological expedition, aside from the digging itself. I knew Emerson would be busy that afternoon, for as he admitted, the stratification of the ruined buildings at the base of the pyramid was complex in the extreme. His copious notes and sketches would have to be sorted and copied in more permanent form.

He was frowning and muttering over this task when I began to set in motion the scheme I had contrived that morning.

I found Enid lying on her cot. She was not asleep; her wide eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling and she did not turn her head when I entered, after giving the emphatic cough that was the only possible substitute for a knock – there being, as the Reader may recall, no door on which to knock.

I understood the cause of her lethargy, and the despair of which it was the outward sign, and I was tempted to mitigate it by assuring her that I was about to take action. I decided I could not risk it; she might have tried to dissuade me from the course I contemplated. Subterfuge was necessary, and although I deplore in the strongest possible terms the slightest deviation from straightforward behaviour, there are occasions upon which moral good must yield to expediency.

‘I have brought you something to read,’ I said cheerfully. ‘It will, I hope, beguile the hours more effectively than Meyer’s
Geschichte des Altertums
.’ For such was the volume she had tossed aside.

A slight show of animation warmed her pale cheeks, though I fancied it was politeness rather than genuine interest. She took the books and examined the titles curiously. ‘Why, Amelia,’ she said, with a little laugh. ‘I would not have suspected you of such deplorable taste in literature.’

‘Only the book by Mr Haggard is mine,’ I explained, taking a seat on the packing case. ‘The others belong to Ramses – a collection of what are called, I believe, detective stories.

‘They are very popular stories. You don’t care for them?’

‘No; for in my opinion they strain the credulity of the reader to an unreasonable degree.’

I was pleased to see that our little literary discussion had cheered the girl: her eyes twinkled as she said, ‘To a more unreasonable degree than the romances of Mr Haggard? I believe his plots include such devices as the lost diamond mines of King Solomon, and beautiful women thousands of years old–’

‘You give yourself away, Enid. You would not be so familiar with the plots if you had not read the books!’

Her smile faded. ‘I know – I knew – someone who enjoyed them.’

Her cousin Ronald? He had not struck me, from what I had heard of him, as a reading man. I was tempted to inquire why the memory brought such a look of sorrow to her face, but decided I must postpone further questions, since I had only a limited time in which to put my scheme into effect.

‘Mr Haggard’s stories,’ I explained, ‘are pure fantasy and do not pretend to be anything else. However rational the mind – and mine is extremely rational – it requires periods of rest, when the aery winds of fancy may ruffle the still waters of thought and encourage those softer and more spiritual musings without which no individual can be at his or her best. These so-called detective stories, on the other hand, pretend to exhibit the strictly intellectual qualities of the protagonist. In fact, they do nothing of the sort; for in the few I have read, the detective arrived at his solutions, not by means of the inexorable progress of true reasoning, but by wild guesses which turned out to be correct only because of the author’s construction of his plot.’

Enid’s abstracted murmur proved that I had lost her attention; and since the books had been only the pretext for my visit, I was quite content to change the subject to one which might appear – as I trusted it would – even more frivolous than that of literature, but which was, in fact, at the root of my scheme.

I began by telling her how much I had admired her grey-green afternoon frock, and asking where she had obtained it. Emerson has been heard to assert that the discussion of fashion will distract any woman from any other subject whatsoever, including her own imminent demise. Without subscribing to this exaggerated assessment, I am bound to admit that there is some truth in it, and this was proved by Enid’s response. We discussed fashion houses and fabrics and the frightful expense of dressmaking; and then I subtly closed in upon my purpose.

‘The costume you were wearing the day you arrived quite intrigued me,’ I said.

‘Oh, but it is the latest mode,’ Enid explained. ‘It is called a bicycling dress. Have you not heard of them? I was sure you had, since your own costume is similar in design – if not in colour.’

‘Oh yes, quite; I try to keep au courant with the latest styles, although practicality is a greater consideration than beauty here. That was what surprised me – that a young lady of fashion would include such a garment in her travel wardrobe.’

‘I am not as frivolous as my recent conduct may have led you to believe,’ Enid said with a wry smile. ‘I took it for granted that boots and short skirts would be useful for exploring ruins and descending into tombs. And indeed they were, though not in the sense I had expected. When I woke from my sleep or swoon that awful morning, my first thought was to get away. I knew what people were saying; I knew what the police would believe if I were found with the dead body of my supposed lover. To make matters worse, we had quarrelled the evening before, and several of the hotel employees could have testified to the fact.’

I had intended to inquire into the details of Enid’s flight at another time. Here she was confiding in me voluntarily, without the firm interrogation I had thought might be necessary. The moment was not the one I would have chosen, but I feared I would lose her confidence if I put her off; so I settled myself, with a degree of interest the Reader may well imagine, to hear her story.

She continued in an abstracted tone, as if she were speaking to herself and exorcizing the anxiety of that dreadful experience by reliving it in memory. ‘I find it hard to believe I could have acted so quickly and coolly. Shock, I am told, does sometimes have that effect. I dressed myself, selecting a costume suited to the physical hardships I expected I would have to endure. It had the additional advantage of being one I had not worn before, so it would not be recognized. I left the room by means of the balcony outside my window, descending a stout vine that had twined up the wall. A few tourists had assembled before the hotel, though it was scarcely daybreak. Hiring a carriage, I asked to be taken to Mena House, for some of the others were going to Giza. By the time I reached the hotel, the reaction had set in; I was sick and trembling and had no idea what to do next. I knew I could not remain undiscovered for long, since an unaccompanied woman would provoke questions and – and worse.

‘I was having breakfast in the dining room when a gentleman asked if I was one of the archaeologists working in the area. That gave me the idea, and also reminded me of your letter. I had no one else to turn to, and I determined to make my way to you. It was a council of desperation–’

‘Not at all. It was a sensible decision. But how did you remain undiscovered that night and throughout the following day?’

‘It was not easy. For, as you know, the archaeological sites are infested with guides, beggars, and the like, who follow one like a cloud of flies. I finally realized that the only persons who pass unnoticed are Arab women of the poorest class. I purchased a robe from one of them, assumed it in the privacy of an unoccupied tomb, and began walking. No one paid the least attention to me, and I spent the night huddled in a cleft in the rock somewhere between here and Sakkara. I cannot say I slept well … When I reached here the next afternoon, I was on the verge of collapse. I had only strength enough to remove my disguise and conceal it with the few small articles I had brought away with me before I made myself known to you and the professor.’

‘Well,’ I said judiciously, ‘allow me to say, Enid, that you displayed a tenacity and inventiveness that do you credit. I take it that the coat to your bicycling dress was among the objects you hid?’

‘Yes. The notion of disguising myself as a lady archaeologist was still in my mind; when, from concealment, I saw you talking with the professor, I tried to adjust my dress to match yours. You were not wearing your coat, so I removed mine. I had decided to attempt to deceive you as well–’

‘You need not apologize, my dear. I would have done the same. I had better retrieve your belongings for you. Can you describe the place where you hid them?’

She did so, with such accuracy that I felt sure I could find the place. ‘I meant to get them last night,’ she went on. ‘But when I looked out the flap of the tent, the desert was so cold and eerie … And I heard strange noises, Amelia – soft cries and moans –’

‘Jackals, Enid. Jackals. However,’ I added thoughtfully, ‘you must promise me you will not leave your tent at night, whatever you may hear.’

When I left her, I took with me the skirt of her bicycling costume, explaining that I would have it cleaned and brushed. Emerson was still doggedly drawing plans. There was a great spatter of ink on the wall, so I deduced he had encountered a stumbling block and had got over it, as he often did, by hurling his pen across the room.

I said encouragingly, ‘Persevere, Emerson; persevere, my dear.’ Then I went up the stairs to the roof.

Behind the shelter of the screen I changed into Enid’s divided skirt, and removed my belt. It cost me a pang to leave it and its useful tools behind, and to abandon my parasol; but I knew I could never be mistaken for another while I had them. After I had put on tinted spectacles and fastened a pith helmet on my head, I had done all I could to complete the resemblance. Rather than pass through the parlour and prompt questions from Emerson, I descended from the roof by means of the holes and crevices in the wall.

Though the sun was sinking, the village yet drowsed in the somnolence of the afternoon nap. I crossed my arms casually across my chest – the dimensions of that region being the most obvious difference between Enid’s figure and mine – and emulated her slower, swaying walk.

I had not gone a hundred yards from the compound before I felt eyes upon me. Nothing moved on the broken expanse of the desert slope ahead; no living creature could be seen, save the eternal vultures swinging in slow graceful circles down the sky. Yet I knew I was being observed – knew it with the certain instinct described so well by Mr Haggard and other writers of fiction. It is a sense developed by those who are often the object of pursuit by enemies; and certainly no one had been pursued more often than I.