Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (68 page)

Emerson went to the bed. His big brown hands, so strong and yet so gentle, took hold of the injured man, immobilising him. Arthur immediately left off struggling. So intense is the degree of animal magnetism Emerson projects that it seemed to flow through his fingers into the injured brain. Arthur opened his eyes.

‘He is awake,’ Mary cried. ‘Do you know me, Mr … I mean, Lord Baskerville?’

But there was no awareness in the dazed blue orbs. If they focused at all, it was on some object high in midair, invisible to the rest of us.

I have always held that the various states of semiconsciousness, even deep coma, do not necessarily involve the complete cessation of sensation. The means of communication may be interrupted, but who is to say that the brain does not function or the ears do not hear? I therefore seated myself by the bed and approached my mouth close to the ear of the injured man.

‘Arthur,’ I said. ‘It is Amelia Emerson who speaks to you. You have been struck down by an assailant as yet unknown. Have no fear; I am watching over you. But if you could possibly answer a question or two – ’

‘How the devil do you expect him to do that?’ Emerson demanded, in the muted roar that passes, with him, for a whisper. ‘The poor chap has all he can do to continue breathing. Ignore her, Milverton – er – Baskerville.’

Arthur paid no attention to either speech. He continued to stare raptly into space.

‘He seems calmer now,’ I said to the nun, in French. ‘But I fear a repetition of this; should we tie him to the bed, do you think?’

The sister replied that Dr Dubois had predicted the possibility of such a violent awakening and had given her medicine to administer should it occur. ‘I was taken by surprise,’ she added apologetically. ‘It happened so suddenly; but do not fear, madame, I can deal with him.’

Mary had collapsed into a chair, pale as … I was about to say ‘snow’ or ‘paper’ or one of the common comparatives; however, in strict accuracy I must say that a complexion as brown as hers could never turn ashy white. Her pallor was in reality a delicate shade of coffee well laced with milk; three quarters milk to one quarter coffee, let us say.

Suddenly we were all electrified at hearing a strange voice. It was young Arthur’s; but I identified it only because I knew it could belong to no one else. The soft, droning tone was totally unlike his normal speaking voice.

‘The beautiful one has come…. Sweet of hands, beautiful of face; at hearing her voice one rejoices….’

‘Good Gad,’ Emerson exclaimed.

‘Ssssh!’ I said.

‘Lady of joy, his beloved…. Bearing the two sistrums in her two beautiful hands…. ’

We waited, after that, until my chest ached with holding my breath, but Arthur Baskerville spoke no more that day. His darkly stained lids closed over his staring eyes.

‘He will sleep now,’ the nun said. ‘I give you felicitations, madame; the young man will live, I believe.’

Her calm struck me as inhuman until I realised that she was the only one who had not understood a word. To her the patient had simply been babbling nonsense syllables, in his delirium.

Mary’s reaction was inclined more toward confusion than the awestruck disbelief that had effected Emerson and me.

‘What was he talking about?’ she asked.

‘Don’t ask,’ Emerson said, with a groan.

‘He was delirious,’ I said. ‘Mary, once again I am going to ask that you go to your room. It is ridiculous for you to sit here hour after hour. Touching, but ridiculous. Go and take a nap, or a walk, or talk to the cat.’

‘I second the motion,’ Emerson added. ‘Get some rest, Miss Mary; I may want you later this evening.’

We escorted the girl to her room and then confronted one another with identical expressions of disbelief.

‘You heard, Peabody,’ Emerson said. ‘At least I hope you did; if not, I was experiencing auditory hallucinations.’

‘I heard. They were the titles of Queen Nefertiti, were they not?’

‘They were.’

‘Such tender phrases … I am convinced, Emerson, that they were the compliments of Khuenaten – excuse me, Akhenaton – to his adored wife.’

‘Amelia, you have an absolutely unparalleled talent for straying from the point. How the devil did that ignorant young man know those words? He told us himself that he was untrained in Egyptology.’

‘There must be a logical explanation.’

‘Of course there must. All the same – he sounded rather like Madame Berengeria in one of her fits, didn’t he? Though his ravings were a great deal more accurate than hers.’

‘Curse it,’ I exclaimed, ‘he must have heard the titles from Lord Baskerville or Armadale at some time. They say the sleeping brain retains everything, though the waking mind cannot recall it.’

‘Who says?’

‘I forget. I read it somewhere – one of those newfangled medical theories. However far-fetched it may be, it makes more sense than…’

‘Precisely,’ Emerson agreed. ‘All that aside, Peabody, has it struck you that the young man’s ravings may have a bearing on who murdered Lord Baskerville?’

‘Naturally that aspect of the matter had not escaped me.’

Emerson let out a roar of laughter and flung his arms around me. ‘You are indestructible, Peabody. Thank God for your strength; I don’t know what I would do without it, for I feel like an ancient chariot driver trying to control half a dozen spirited steeds at once. Now I must be off again.’

‘Where?’

‘Oh – here and there. I am arranging a little theatrical performance, my dear – a regular Egyptian fantasia. It will take place this evening.’

‘Indeed! And where is the performance to take place?’

‘At the tomb.’

‘What do you want me to do? I don’t promise,’ I added, ‘that I will do it; I simply ask.’

Emerson chuckled and rubbed his hands together. ‘I rely on you, Peabody. Announce my intentions to Lady Baskerville and Vandergelt. If they wish to spend the night at the hotel, they may do so, but not until my performance is ended. I want everyone there.’

‘Including Madame Berengeria?’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson. ‘As a matter of fact, yes; she might add a certain
je ne sais quoi.’

Alarm seized me. Emerson never speaks French unless he is up to something.

‘You are up to something,’ I said.

‘Certainly.’

‘And you expect me to submit tamely – ’

‘You have never submitted to anything tamely in your life! You will work with me, as I would with you, because we are as one. We know one another’s minds. You suspect, I am sure, what I intend.’

‘I do.’

‘And you will assist me?’

‘I will.’

‘I need not tell you what to do.’

‘I… No.’

‘Then
à bientôt,
my darling Peabody.’

He embraced me so fervently that I had to sit down on a bench for a few moments to catch my breath.

In fact, I had not the slightest idea what he meant to do.

When he rises to heights of emotional intensity Emerson can carry all before him. Mesmerized by his burning eyes and fervent voice, I would have agreed to anything he proposed, up to and including self-immolation. (Naturally, I never let him know he has this effect on me, it would be bad for his character.) Once he had departed I was able to think more calmly, and then, indeed, a glimmer of an idea occurred to me.

Most men are reasonably useful in a crisis. The difficulty lies in convincing them that the situation has reached a critical point. Being superior to others of his sex, Emerson was more efficient than most – and harder to convince. He had finally admitted that there was a murderer at large; he had agreed that the responsibility of identifying the miscreant was ours.

But what, in fact, was Emerson’s chief concern? Why, the tomb, of course. Let me be candid. Emerson would cheerfully consign the entire globe and its inhabitants (with a few exceptions) to the nethermost pits to save one dingy fragment of history from extinction. Therefore, I reasoned, his activities of that evening must be designed to attain his dearest wish, the resumption of work on the tomb.

I am sure, dear reader, that you can follow my reasoning to its logical conclusion. Remember Emerson’s fondness for playacting; bear in mind the regrettable susceptibility of all segments of the human race to crass superstition; stretch your imagination – and I have no doubts you will look forward as eagerly as I did to Emerson’s
fantasia
.

T
HE
moon was up when we set out on our journey to the Valley. It was on the wane, no longer a perfect silver globe; but it emitted enough light to flood the plain with silver and cast deep shadows across the road.

I would have preferred to lead our caravan over the lofty path behind Deir el Bahri, but such a walk would have been beyond Lady Baskerville’s powers, and Madame Berengeria was also incapable of self-locomotion. Therefore I resigned myself to a prolonged and bumpy ride. I was the only one of the ladies who was sensibly dressed. Being unable to anticipate what might eventuate from Emerson’s performance, I thought it best to be prepared for anything; so my working costume was complete, down to the knife, the revolver, and the parasol. Madame Berengeria was decked out in her decaying Egyptian costume; Lady Baskerville was a vision in black lace and jetty jewels; and Mary wore one of her shabby evening frocks. The poor child did not own a gown that was less than two years old. I wondered if she would be offended if I made her a present of the best Luxor had to offer. It would have to be done tactfully of course.

Though I did not really believe Arthur was in any danger that evening, since all the suspects would be under my watchful eyes, I had taken the precaution of requesting Daoud to remain on guard at the window with his cousin Mohammed at the door. They were not pleased at missing the
fantasia
, but I promised to make it up to them. I also told them the truth about Arthur’s identity. I felt sure they already knew, since such news has a way of spreading, but they appreciated being taken into my confidence. As Daoud remarked, nodding sagely, ‘Yes; if he is rich, it is not surprising that someone should wish to kill him.’

It was easier to arrange matters with my loyal men than to persuade the others to agree with my plans. Lady Baskerville at first refused to join the party; it had required all my persuasion, and that of Mr Vandergelt, to convince her. The American was mightily intrigued and kept pestering me (as he put it) to give him a hint of what was going to transpire. I did not yield to his importunities, in order to maintain an air of mystery and suspense (and also because I was not sure myself).

Knowing that Emerson would appreciate any little dramatic touches I could add, I had mounted several of our men on donkeys and set them at the head of the procession with lighted torches in their hands. Any superstitious fears they may have had were overcome by anticipation, for Emerson had already spoken to them, promising them wonders and revelations. I suspected that Abdullah had some idea of what my husband meant to do, but when I asked him he only grinned and refused to answer.

As the carriages proceeded along the deserted road, the scene cast its spell on all our hearts; and when we turned into the narrow cleft in the cliffs I felt myself an intruder, pushing rudely into byways that rightfully belonged to the thronging ghosts of the past.

A great fire blazed before the entrance to the tomb. Emerson was there; and when he advanced to meet us I did not know whether to laugh or exclaim in astonishment. He wore a long flowing crimson gown and a most peculiar cap with a tassel on top. The cap and the shoulders of the robe were trimmed with fur, and although I had never seen this particular dress before, my familiarity with the academic world enabled me to deduce that it was the robe of a doctor of philosophy, probably from some obscure European university. It had obviously been designed for a much taller person, for as Emerson reached out to help me from the carriage, the full sleeves fell down and enveloped his hand. I assumed he had bought this amazing creation in one of the antiquities shops of Luxor, where a remarkable variety of objects is to be found; and although its effect on me, at least, was rather more productive of hilarity than awe, Emerson’s complacent expression indicated that he was enormously pleased with the ensemble. Shaking back his sleeve, he took my hand and led me to one of the chairs that had been arranged in a semicircle facing the fire. Surrounding us on all sides was a sea of brown faces and turbans. Among the Gurnawis I saw two faces I recognised. One was that of the imam; the other was Ali Hassan, who had had the audacity to take up a position in the front row of the spectators.

The others took their chairs. No one spoke, though Vandergelt’s lips were twitching suspiciously as he watched Emerson bustling about in his trailing finery. I had feared Madame Berengeria would be unable to resist the opportunity to make a spectacle of herself, but she sat down in silence and folded her arms across her breast like a pharaoh holding the twin sceptres. The flames were beginning to die down, and in the growing gloom her bizarre costume was much more effective than it had been in the brightly lit hotel. As I studied her sombre and unattractive countenance I found a new source of uneasiness. Had I, after all, underestimated this woman?