Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (52 page)

‘Pull your curtains and go to bed, Lady Baskerville. Come along, Amelia. Go to your room, Mr Milverton. Ridiculous business,’ he added, and strode out. The cat peered at us from over his shoulder.

When we reached our room Emerson put the animal on the floor. It immediately jumped onto the bed and began washing itself. I advanced toward it, somewhat tentatively – not through fear, but because I had never been intimately acquainted with cats. As I put out my hand it rolled over and began to purr.

‘Interesting,’ said Emerson. ‘That is a position of submission, Amelia; by exposing its soft and vulnerable underbelly it demonstrates that it trusts you. It is unusually tame. I am surprised that it has managed to fend for itself so long.’

This aspect of the matter had not occurred to me. Scratching the cat’s stomach (a surprisingly pleasant sensation, I confess), I considered the point.

‘Emerson,’ I cried. ‘It has been with Armadale! Do you suppose it could lead us to him?’

‘You know nothing of the nature of cats,’ Emerson replied, unbuttoning his shirt.

As if to prove him correct, the cat wound all its limbs around my arm and sank its teeth into my hand. I gazed at it in shocked surprise.

‘Release your grip at once,’ I said severely. ‘You may mean this as another delicate attention, but I assure you it is not appreciated by the recipient.’

The cat at once obeyed and licked my fingers apologetically. It then stretched. Its body elongated to a perfectly astonishing degree, as if its muscles were made of India rubber. In a series of agile bounds it passed through the window and disappeared into the night.

I examined my hand. The cat’s teeth had left dents in the skin, but had not drawn blood.

‘A curious way of demonstrating affection,’ I remarked. ‘But it seems a most intelligent creature. Should we not go in search of it?’

‘It is a nocturnal animal,’ Emerson replied. ‘Now don’t get into one of your fits of enthusiasm, Amelia, the way you always do when some new subject captures your agile imagination. Leave the cat to do what cats do in the night-time – an activity, let me add, that we might emulate.’

However, we did not do so. Overcome by the fatigues of the day, we were swiftly overcome by slumber so profound that no sound from without disturbed our rest. Yet at some time in the dark hours before the dawn, not far from our open window, Hassan the watchman met the jackal god of cemeteries and set out on the road to the West.

Unfortunately we had no chance of hiding this latest evidence of ‘the curse of the pharaoh.’ Hassan’s body was discovered by a fellow servant, whose woeful ululations roused us from sleep. Departing unceremoniously by way of our bedroom window, Emerson was the first on the scene. I need not say that I was close behind him. We were in time to see the shirt-tails of the discoverer vanish into the grove. Attributing this disappearance to the horror primitive people feel for a dead body, Emerson did not attempt to call him back, but knelt and turned the dusty bundle of cotton over onto its back.

The blank staring eyes and livid face confronted me almost with a look of accusation. I had not found Hassan a prepossessing character; but a wave of pity and indignation washed over me, and I vowed on the spot that his murderer would not go unpunished.

I said as much to Emerson. Intent on the limp form, which he was examining with some care, he remarked acrimoniously, ‘There you go again, Amelia, jumping to conclusions. What makes you think the man was murdered?’

‘What makes you think he was not?’

‘I don’t know how the devil he died.’ Emerson rose to his feet, slapping absently at the cloud of small insects that swarmed around him. ‘There is a bump on the back of his head, but it was certainly not enough to kill him. Other than that, there is not a mark on him. But there are plenty of fleas…. Curse it, I am going to be late for work.’

The pace of life in Egypt is slow, and death is commonplace. Ordinarily the authorities would have taken their time in responding to a summons such as ours. But our case was different. If I had required any demonstration of the passionate interest in our affairs that possessed all of Luxor, I would have found it in the speed with which the police appeared on the scene.

Emerson had already left for the Valley, at my suggestion. I had pointed out that it was unnecessary for both of us to waste working hours, for he could add nothing to what I knew of the matter; and since this accorded with his own inclinations, he did not object. I saw no reason to mention my chief reason for wanting him away. I anticipated that the press would soon descend on the house and felt that we were providing enough of a journalistic thrill without any additional contributions from my husband.

Eventually the body of poor Hassan was removed, though not without considerable discussion as to its disposition; for the constable wished to restore it to the family, whereas I insisted on a postmortem. I won my point, naturally, but it was obvious, from the way the men shook their heads and murmured, that they considered such investigation unnecessary. Hassan had been killed by an efreet, the ghost of the pharaoh; why look for further evidence?

E
AGER
as I was to depart at once, I felt obliged to enquire after Lady Baskerville. She was in bed, with her Egyptian maid in attendance. The dark circles under her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks assured me that her complaints of being quite overcome were not entirely fictitious.

‘When will this horror end?’ she demanded, wringing her hands.

‘I am sure I have no idea,’ I replied. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Lady Baskerville, before I go?’

‘No. No, I believe I will try to sleep. I had the most dreadful dreams.’

I took my departure, before she could tell me about her dreams. It was a pleasure to assume my working garb and set out in the fresh morning air.

Yet dark forebodings haunted me during my walk, for I well knew that once word of Hassan’s death got out, even our dedicated workmen might throw down their tools and refuse to enter the accursed tomb. Emerson was not the man to stand meekly aside and let his orders be defied. He would resist – the men would turn on him – attack him…. My affectionate imagination presented me with a ghastly image. I could see my husband’s life blood soaking into the white dust, and the men trampling his fallen body as they fled. By the time I reached the cliff overlooking the Valley, I was running.

One glance told me that the tragedy I had envisioned had not occurred, though it was clear that news of the latest disaster had spread. The crowd of the previous day had multiplied tenfold. Among the watchers I saw three of our men reinforcing the fence around the work area. They had not rebelled; they were loyal. I do not scruple to admit that a tear of relief dampened my eye. Brushing it resolutely aside, I descended.

Once again my trusty parasol proved its usefulness. By poking it at the backs of the crowd, I won a path through to the stairs. One of the basket men was just coming up. I greeted him effusively. He mumbled something and would not meet my eye. Again my apprehensions rose. Before they could flower into hysteria I heard the sound I yearned to hear – Emerson’s voice raised in a blistering Arabic swear word.

It was echoed, bizarrely, by a girl’s soft laugh. Squinting into the shadows below, I saw Miss Mary perched on a stool at the bottom of the stairs. Her position must have been uncomfortable, for she was pressed against the wall in order to leave a path for the basket men. But she appeared quite cheerful; greeting me with a shy smile, she said softly, ‘The Professor does not realise, I am sure, that my Arabic is quite fluent. Pray don’t tell him; he needs some outlet for his feelings.’

I did not doubt that she found her cramped, hot position a pleasant change from her usual morning’s occupation, for any activity that did not include her mother must be pleasurable. However, I found her cheerfulness somewhat frivolous under the circumstances, and I was about to utter a kindly reproof when her pretty face grew sober and she went on, ‘I am so sorry you had such a distressing experience this morning. I did not learn of it until I arrived here; but I assure you, Mrs Emerson, that I want to help in any way I can.’

This speech convinced me that my initial appraisal of the girl’s character had not been at fault. Her cheerfulness was simply an effort to keep her chin up, in the best British tradition. I replied warmly, ‘You must call me Amelia; we will be working together, I hope, for a long time.’

She was about to reply when Emerson came storming out and told me to get to work. I drew him aside. ‘Emerson,’ I said in a soft voice, ‘it is time we took action to end this nonsense about the curse, instead of simply ignoring it. We can only lose that way; every incident will be interpreted as a new instance of supernatural hostility unless – ’

‘For the love of heaven, Amelia, don’t make a speech,’ Emerson snapped. ‘I see the point you are attempting to make; proceed, if you are able, to a specific suggestion.’

‘I was about to do so when you so rudely interrupted me,’ I replied spiritedly. ‘The men seem perturbed by last night’s accident. Give them a day or two away from the tomb; set them to work searching for Armadale. If we can find him and prove he was responsible for Lord Baskerville’s death – ’

‘How the devil can we hope to find him when weeks of search produced nothing?’

‘But we know he was here, on our very doorstep (so to speak) less than twelve hours ago! Hassan saw the man himself, not his ghost; Armadale must have returned last night and murdered Hassan in order to escape discovery. Or Hassan may have attempted to blackmail him – ’

‘Good Gad, Amelia, will you attempt to control your rampageous imagination? I admit that what you have suggested is possible. It had, of course, already occurred to me as one explanation among many – ’

‘You never thought of it until this moment,’ I said indignantly. ‘It is just like you to claim the credit for my – ’

‘Why should I wish to claim credit for such a wild, farfetched – ’

‘Kindly lower your voice.’

‘I never raise my voice,’ Emerson bellowed. A ghostly echo came rolling back from the depths of the tomb, as if the king’s spirit were objecting to being awakened.

‘Then you will not do as I suggest?’

Emerson’s voice dropped to a thunderous growl. ‘I came here to excavate, Amelia, not to play Sherlock Holmes, a role, let me point out, for which you are no better equipped than I. If you wish to assist me, get to work. If you do not, return to the house and drink tea with Lady Baskerville.’

Whereupon he charged back into the tomb. Turning, I met the wide, apprehensive gaze of Mary. I smiled at her.

‘Pay no attention to the Professor, Mary. His bark is worse than his bite.’

‘Oh, I know that. I…’ The girl raised a trembling hand to brush a lock of hair from her brow. ‘I am not at all afraid of the Professor.’

‘You aren’t afraid of me, I hope,’ I said, laughing.

‘Oh, no,’ Mary replied quickly.

‘I should hope not. My temper is always mild – though at times Emerson would try the patience of a saint. That is one of the small difficulties of the married state, my dear, as you will discover.’

‘It is most unlikely that I will,’ Mary replied bitterly. Before I could pursue this interesting comment, she went on, ‘I could not help overhearing, Mrs Emerson. Do you really believe poor Alan is still alive?’

‘What other explanation can there be?’

‘I don’t know. I cannot explain the mystery, but I am sure Alan would never have harmed Lord Baskerville. He was the gentlest of men.’

‘You knew him well?’

Mary blushed and lowered her eyes. ‘He… he had done me the honour to ask me to be his wife.’

‘My dear child.’ I placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. ‘I did not know you were engaged to Mr Armadale, or I would not have spoken so critically of him.’

‘No, no, we were not engaged. I was obliged to tell him his hopes could never be realised.’

‘You did not love him?’

The girl gave me a strange look, in which surprise and amusement were blended with a fatalism unexpected in one of her tender years. ‘How often does love come in question, Mrs Emerson?’

‘It is – it should be – the only possible basis for marriage,’ I exclaimed.

Mary continued to study me curiously. ‘You really believe that! Oh, do forgive me; I did not intend – ’

‘Why, there is nothing to forgive, my dear. I am always pleased to pass on the benefit of my age and experience to the young, and at the risk of hubris I must say that I consider my marriage a sterling example of what that condition can and should be. My feelings for Emerson, and his for me, are too deep to be concealed. I am the most fortunate of women. And he considers himself the most fortunate of men. I am sure he would say so, if he ever discussed such matters.’

Mary was overtaken with a sudden fit of coughing. Struggling heroically to control it, she covered her face with her hands. I administered a brisk slap on the back, remarking, ‘You had better come up out of the dust for a while.’

‘No, thank you; I am quite all right now. It was… something caught in my throat. Mrs Emerson – ’