Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (56 page)

‘Perhaps she doubts your intentions, Mr Milverton. They are, I assume, those of an honourable gentleman?’

‘You wound me inexpressibly, Mrs Emerson,’ the young man exclaimed. ‘My feelings are so profound, so respectful –’

‘Then why don’t you express them to their object? Have you proposed to her?’

Milverton sighed. ‘How can I? What have I to offer her, in my situation – ’

He stopped speaking with a sharp intake of breath.

I verily believe that my own respiration halted for an instant as the import of that betraying pause dawned on me. If he had ended his sentence with that word, or allowed it to trail off into the mournful silence of indecision, I would have assumed he was referring to his subordinate position, his youth, and his lack of financial security. My detective instincts – the result of natural aptitude and of a certain not inconsiderable experience – immediately showed me the true meaning of his gasp. The comfortable cloak of darkness and the seductive influence of womanly sympathy had lowered his guard. He had been on the verge of confessing!

The detective instinct, when in full bloom, ruthlessly suppresses softer feelings. I am ashamed to admit that my next speech was dictated, not by sympathy, but by guile. I was determined to break through his guard, to trick him into an admission.

‘Your situation is difficult,’ I said. ‘But I know Mary will stand by you, if she loves you. Any true woman would.’

‘Would she? Would you?’ Before I could reply he turned and caught me by the shoulders.

I confess that a slight qualm dampened my detective ardour. The darkness was now complete, and the tall form of Milverton hovered over me like a creature of night, no longer entirely human. I felt his hot breath on my face and felt his fingers pressing painfully into my flesh. It occurred to me that possibly I might have been guilty of a slight error in judgement.

Before I was stampeded into committing some foolish act, such as calling for help or striking Mr Milverton with my parasol, a silvery light illumined the darkness as the moon, almost at the full, rose over the cliffs. I had forgotten that this phenomenon must inevitably occur; for almost never are there cloudy skies in Luxor. So pure, so limpid is the lunar illumination in that southern clime that it is possible to read a book by its rays; but who would dream of turning his eyes to a sterile page of print when a magical landscape of shadow and silver lies before him? Moonlight in ancient Thebes! How often and how understandably has this theme formed the subject of literary masterpieces!

My feeble pen, moved by a mind more susceptible to cold reason than to poetry (though not untouched by its influence, never think that) … my feeble pen, as I say, will not attempt to rival the effusions of more gifted writers. More to the point, the light enabled me to see Mr Milverton’s face which, in his extremity, he had pressed close to mine. I saw, with considerable relief, that his handsome features bore a look of anxiety and distress, with no trace of the mania I had feared to see.

The same light allowed him to see
my
face, which must have betrayed discomfort. Immediately he loosened his grasp.

‘Forgive me. I – I am not myself, Mrs Emerson, indeed I am not. I think I have been half mad these past weeks. I can endure it no longer. I must speak. May I confide in you? May I trust you?’

‘You may!’ I cried.

The young man took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height, his broad shoulders squared. His lips parted.

At that precise moment a long-drawn-out shriek echoed across the wilderness of tumbled stone. For a moment I thought Mr Milverton was howling like a werewolf. But he was as startled as I; and almost at once I realised that the peculiar acoustical qualities of the area had made a sound whose origin was some distance away sound mysteriously close at hand. The moon was fully up by then, and as I scanned the terrain, seeking the source of the eerie cry, I beheld an alarming sight.

Bounding across the plateau came Emerson, leaping boulders and soaring over crevasses. His speeding form was followed by a silvery cloud of dust, and his unearthly cries, combined with this ectoplasmic accompaniment, would have struck terror into a superstitious heart. He was moving in our direction, but at an angle to the path. Waving my parasol, I immediately set off on a course that would cross his.

I was able to intercept him, for I had calculated the intersecting angles accurately. Knowing him well, I did not attempt to stop him by touching him or grasping him lightly; instead I threw the whole weight of my body against his, and we both went tumbling to the ground. As I had planned, Emerson was underneath.

Once he had got his breath back, the moonlit scene again echoed to the fervour of his cries, now entirely profane and almost entirely directed at me. Taking a seat on a convenient boulder, I waited until he had calmed himself.

‘This is too much,’ he remarked, raising himself to a sitting position. ‘Not only am I under attack by every malcontent and religious maniac in Luxor, but my own wife turns against me. I was in pursuit, Amelia – hot pursuit! I would have caught the rascal if you had not interfered.’

‘I assure you, you would not,’ I said. ‘There was no one else in sight. He undoubtedly crept away among the rocks while you were rushing around and howling. Who was it?’

‘Habib, I suppose,’ Emerson replied. ‘I caught only a glimpse of a turban and a fluttering robe. Curse it, Amelia, I was just about – ’

‘And I was just about to become the repository of a confidence from Mr Milverton,’ I said, in considerable bitterness of spirit. ‘He was on the verge of confessing to the crime. I do wish you could learn to control that juvenile joie de vivre which leads you to act before you – ’

‘That is certainly a case of the pot reprimanding the kettle,’ Emerson cried. ‘Joie de vivre is too kind a word for the inveterate conceit that leads you to believe yourself – ’

Before he could finish this insulting comment we were joined by the others. Agitated questions and explanations followed. We then proceeded, Emerson conceding reluctantly that there was no sense in continuing a pursuit of someone who had long since vanished. Rubbing his hip and limping ostentatiously, he headed the procession.

Once again I found myself with Mr Milverton. As he offered me his arm I saw that he was struggling to repress a smile.

‘I could not help overhearing part of your conversation,’ he began.

I tried to recall what I had said. I knew I had made some references to a confession. But when Milverton continued I was relieved to learn that he had not heard that part of my speech.

‘I don’t mean to be impertinent, Mrs Emerson, but I am intrigued by the relationship between you and the Professor. Was it really necessary for you to knock him flat?’

‘Of course it was. Nothing short of physical violence can stop Emerson when he is in a rage, and if I had not stopped him he would have gone on running until he tumbled over the cliffs or caught his foot in a hole.’

‘I see. He did not seem to – er – appreciate your concern for his safety.’

‘Oh, that is just his manner,’ I said. Emerson, still limping in a vulgar and unconvincing fashion, was not far ahead, but I did not trouble to lower my voice. ‘Like all Englishmen, he does not care to display his true emotions in public. In private, I assure you, he is the tenderest and most affectionate – ’

This was too much for Emerson, who turned and shouted, ‘Hurry up, you two; what are you doing, dawdling along back there?’

So, with considerable vexation, I abandoned hope of regaining Milverton’s confidence. As we made our way down the winding and dangerous descent, there was no opportunity for a private conversation. We had gone only a short distance toward the house, whose lights we could see gleaming through the palm fronds, when we were met by Mr Vandergelt, who, anxious at our tardiness, had come out in search of us.

As we entered the courtyard Milverton caught my hand.

‘Did you mean it?’ he whispered. ‘You assured me – ’

A flame of exultation soared from the dying embers of hope.

‘Every word,’ I whispered back. ‘Trust me.’

‘Amelia, what are you muttering about?’ Emerson demanded pettishly. ‘Hurry up, can’t you?’

I took a firm grip on my parasol and managed not to hit him with it.

‘I am coming,’ I replied. ‘Do you go on.’

We were almost at the door. I heard a voice in my ear murmur, ‘Midnight; on the loggia.’

As soon as we stepped into the house Emerson fled toward our room like a man pursued by demons, and, indeed the distant echo of a resounding voice which could only be that of Madame Berengeria gave him some excuse for flight. When I entered our room he began to groan and wince. Displaying a large area of scraped, reddened skin, he accused me of being responsible for it.

I paid no attention to this childish exhibition.

‘Emerson,’ I cried eagerly, ‘you will never guess what has happened. Despite your stupid interference…’ Here he began to expostulate. I raised my voice and went on, ‘I have won Mr Milverton’s confidence. He is going to confess!’

‘Well, do shout a little louder,’ Emerson said. ‘There must be a few people in the house who haven’t heard you.’

The reproof was justified, if rudely expressed. I dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘He is deeply disturbed, Emerson. I am sure the murder was unpremeditated; no doubt he was driven to it.’

‘Humph.’ Standing on a mat, Emerson pulled off his shirt and began to sponge himself off. ‘What precisely did he say?’

‘You are very calm,’ I exclaimed. I took the sponge from his hand and washed the sand and dust from his back. ‘He was unable to give me any details. That will come later. I am to meet him at midnight, in – ’

‘You have lost your wits,’ said Emerson. His voice was calmer, however, and as I continued to move the sponge rhythmically over the hard muscles of his back, he let out an absurd purring murmur of pleasure. ‘Do you really suppose, my dear Peabody, that I will let you go out to meet a murderer in the middle of the night?’

‘I have it all planned,’ I said, replacing the sponge with a towel. ‘You will be in hiding nearby.’

‘No, I won’t,’ said Emerson. He took the towel from me and hastily finished drying himself. ‘I am spending the night at the tomb, and you are going to lock yourself in this room and stay in it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘We are getting near the end of the passageway. Another day or two should see it cleared. A couple of determined thieves, working in haste, can dig a tunnel through in a few hours.’

I did not ask how he knew the end of the corridor was near. In professional matters Emerson is the greatest archaeologist of this, and perhaps any, age. It is only in the routine aspects of life that he displays a normal degree of masculine incompetence.

‘But our men are on guard, are they not?’ I asked.

‘Two men, who are, by this time, in such a state of nerves that a howling jackal could send them scampering for cover. And two men could not hold out against an assault in force. The Gurnawis have attacked archaeologists before.’

‘So you are proposing yourself as one of the victims?’

‘They won’t dare attack an Englishman,’ Emerson said sublimely.

‘Ha,’ I said. ‘I see your real motive for wishing to absent yourself. You are afraid of Madame Berengeria.’

‘Ridiculous.’ Emerson let out a hollow laugh. ‘Let us not argue, Peabody. Why don’t you get out of that dusty costume? You must be hot and uncomfortable.’

I skipped agilely back as he put out his hands. ‘That device will not work, Emerson. And do put on some clothes. If you think the sight of your admittedly muscular and well-developed frame will seduce me from my plain duty – ’

This time it was not Emerson who interrupted me, though he was advancing in a manner indicative of intentions along those lines. A knock at the door caused him to fumble for his trousers; and a voice announced that we were summoned by Lady Baskerville.

By the time I had washed and changed, the others had assembled in the drawing room. The atmosphere was not that of a social gathering, but a council of war. I was pleased to see that Madame Berengeria had relapsed into a state of semi-stupor, and the strong smell of brandy that surrounded her did not surprise me in the least. She simpered sleepily at Emerson, but was otherwise incapable of speech or movement.

Relieved of his greatest fear by Madame’s collapse, Emerson expressed his intentions and plans with his usual forcefulness. Lady Baskerville let out a cry of distress.

‘No, Radcliffe, indeed you must not think of risking yourself. I would rather have the entire tomb vandalised than see one hair of your head injured.’

This idiotic statement, which would have won me a blistering reproof, brought a look of fatuous pleasure to Emerson’s face. He patted the white hand that clung to his sleeve.

‘There is not the slightest danger, I promise you.’

‘You’re probably right about that,’ said Vandergelt, who had not appreciated this display of concern by the lady. ‘Howsoever, I think, I’ll just mosey along with you, Professor. Two six-shooters are better than one, and a fellow is safer with a pal to watch his back.’

But at this Lady Baskerville cried out in greater alarm. Would they abandon her to the mercies of the ghostly form that had already killed one man and attempted a murderous assault on Emerson? Vandergelt, to whom she was now clinging, showed himself just as susceptible to amateur theatrics as my husband.

‘She’s right, I reckon,’ he said in a worried voice. ‘We can’t leave the ladies unprotected.’

At this both Milverton and Karl expressed their willingness to be of service. It was finally decided that Karl would join Emerson in guarding the tomb. So impatient was Emerson to be gone that he would not even wait to dine, so a picnic basket was prepared, and he and Karl made ready to depart. Despite Emerson’s efforts to avoid me, I managed to draw him aside for a moment.

‘Emerson, it is absolutely necessary that I speak with Mr Milverton while his mood is chastened. By tomorrow he may have decided to brazen it out.’