Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (70 page)

‘No, my friend, I do not require pity. I need to be reminded of my duty. My mother is a tormented, unhappy person. Whether she is ill or mad or simply evil-minded I do not know, but it does not matter. She is my cross and I will bear it. Lady Baskerville, we will leave you tomorrow. I am ashamed that I have allowed this to go on as long as it has.’

‘Very well, very well,’ Emerson burst out, before anyone else could speak. ‘I am sure we all sympathise with you, Miss Mary, but at the moment I have more pressing matters to discuss. I must have a copy of the painting of Anubis before I demolish the wall. You had better be at work early, before – ’

‘What the – ’ O’Connell sprang to his feet, red as a turkey cock. ‘You cannot be serious, Professor.’

‘Be still, Kevin,’ Mary said. ‘I made a promise and I will keep it. Work is the best medicine for a wounded heart.’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson, kneading his chin. ‘I agree with the sentiment, at least. You might think about it too, Mr O’Connell; how long has it been since you sent off a story to your newspaper?’

O’Connell sank limply into a chair and shook his dishevelled red head. ‘I will probably lose my position,’ he said gloomily. ‘When one is living the news, it is hard to find time to write about it.’

‘Cheer up,’ Emerson said. ‘In forty-eight hours – perhaps less – you will be able to steal a march on your colleagues with a story that will restore you to the good graces of your editor. You may even be able to demand a rise in pay.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fatigue forgotten, O’Connell sat up alertly and reached for his notebook and pencil. ‘You hope to enter the tomb by then?’

‘Of course. But that is not what I meant. You will be the one to announce to the world the identity of the murderer of Lord Baskerville.’

T
HE
listeners were galvanised by this announcement. Vandergelt let out a loud ‘by Jimminy!’ Mary’s eyes opened wide. Even the phlegmatic young German stared at Emerson in surprise.

‘Murderer?’ O’Connell repeated.

‘He was murdered, of course,’ Emerson said impatiently. ‘Come now, Mr O’Connell, you have always suspected as much, though you did not have the effrontery to suggest it in your newspaper stories. The succession of violent tragedies that has occurred here makes it impossible that Lord Baskerville could have died a natural death. I have been working on the case and I will soon be in a position to announce results. I await one last piece of evidence. It will be here late tomorrow or the following morning. By the way, Amelia,’ he added, looking at me, ‘don’t try to intercept my messenger; the news he carries has meaning only to me; you won’t understand it.’

‘Indeed?’ I said.

‘Well, well,’ said O’Connell. He crossed his legs, put his notebook on his knees, and gazed at Emerson with the impish grin that betokened his professional mood. ‘You wouldn’t care to drop a hint, would you, Professor?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘There is nothing to prevent me from speculating a bit, is there?’

‘At your own risk,’ Emerson replied.

‘Never fear, I am no more anxious to commit myself prematurely than you are. Hmmm. Yes, this will require some rather delicate phrasing. Excuse me, please; I had better get to work.’

‘Don’t forget your promise,’ I said.

‘You may see the story before I send it off,’ O’Connell said. He departed with a springy step, whistling.

‘The rest of us had better retire too,’ Emerson said. ‘Vandergelt, can I count on your assistance tomorrow morning when I reopen the tomb?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for … That is, if you don’t mind, my dear?’

‘No,’ Lady Baskerville replied wearily. ‘Do as you like, Cyrus. This latest news has quite overwhelmed me.’

When she had taken her departure, leaning on Vandergelt’s arm, Emerson turned to me. Before he could speak I made a warning gesture.

‘I believe Karl wishes to ask you something, Emerson. Either that, or he has fallen asleep there in the shadows.’

Emerson looked startled. Karl had been so still, and the corner where he sat was so far distant from the nearest lamp, that he might have fallen into a doze; but I suspected another, more sinister explanation. Now he roused himself and came forward.

‘Not to ask do I wish, Herr Professor, but to warn. An act very foolish it was, to say what you said. A gauntlet of defiance you have thrown down to a killer.’

‘Dear me,’ Emerson said. ‘That was careless of me.’

Von Bork shook his head. He had lost considerable weight during the past week, and the lamplight emphasised the new hollows under his cheekbones and in his eye sockets.

‘A stupid man you are not, Professor. I myself ask why you have so acted. But,’ he added, with a faint smile, ‘I do not an answer expect.
Gute Nacht
, Herr Professor, Frau Professor –
Schlafen Sie wohl
.’

Frowning, Emerson watched the young man go. ‘He is the most intelligent of the lot,’ he muttered. ‘I may have made a mistake there, Peabody. I ought to have handled him differently.’

‘You are tired,’ I said magnanimously. ‘No wonder, after all that shouting and jumping around. Come to bed.’

Arm in arm, we sauntered across the courtyard, and as we went Emerson remarked, ‘I believe I detected a slight note of criticism in your comment, Amelia. To describe my masterful performance as “shouting and jumping around” is hardly – ’

‘The dancing was an error.’

‘I was not dancing. I was performing a grave ritual march. The fact that the space was limited – ’

‘I understand. It was the only flaw in an otherwise superb performance. The men have agreed to return to work, I take it?’

‘Yes. Abdullah will be on guard tonight, though I don’t expect any trouble.’

I opened our door. Emerson struck a match and lighted the lamp. The wick flared up and a hundred fiery sparks reflected the light from the neck of the cat Bastet, who sat on the table by the window. As soon as she caught sight of Emerson she let out an eager, throaty mew and trotted toward him.

‘What did you use to attract the animal?’ I enquired, watching Bastet claw at Emerson’s coattails.

‘Chicken,’ Emerson replied. He withdrew a greasy packet from his trouser pocket. I was pained to observe that it had left a nasty spot. Grease is so difficult to get out.

‘I spent an hour training her earlier this afternoon,’ Emerson said, feeding the remainder of the chicken to the cat.

‘You had better get Lady Baskerville’s bracelet off her neck,’ I said. ‘She has probably knocked half the stones out already.’

And indeed it proved that she had. Seeing Emerson’s face fall, as he tried to calculate the weight and value of the rubies and emeralds he would be obliged to replace, I quite forgave him for being so puffed up about his performance.

When I went to see Arthur next morning the Sister gave me a smiling
‘bon jour’
and informed me that the patient had spent a quiet night. His colour was much better – which I attributed to the strengthening effect of the chicken broth – and when I placed my hand on his brow he smiled in his sleep and murmured something.

‘He is calling for his mother,’ I said, brushing a tear from my eye with my sleeve.

‘Vraiment?’
the sister asked doubtfully. ‘He has spoken once or twice before, but so softly I could not make out the word.’

‘I am sure he said
“Mother”.
And perhaps by the time he wakes he will see that good lady’s face bending over him.’ I allowed myself the pleasure of picturing that exquisite scene. Mary would be there, of course (I really must do something about the child’s clothes; a pretty white gown would be just the thing); and Arthur would hold her hand in his thin, wasted fingers as he told his mother to greet her new daughter.

To be sure, Mary had announced her intention of devoting the rest of her life to her mother, but that was just a young girl’s romantic fancy. A fondness for martyrdom, especially of the verbal variety, is common to the young. I had dealt with this phenomenon before and did not doubt my ability to bring this love affair also to a happy conclusion.

However, time was passing, and if I expected to see Mary become the new Lady Baskerville, it was up to me to make sure her bridegroom survived to take that step. I repeated my caution to the nun, to give the sick man nothing except what was brought to her by myself or by Daoud.

I then went to my next patient. A peep into the room assured me that Madame was in no need of my attention. She slept the calm, deep-breathing sleep of the wicked. It is a misconception that the innocent sleep well. The worse a man is,

the more profound his slumber; for if he had a conscience, he would not be a villain.

When I reached the dining room Emerson growled at me for being late. He and Mary had already finished breakfast.

‘Where are the others?’ I inquired, buttering a piece of toast and ignoring Emerson’s demands that I bring it with me and eat as we walked.

‘Karl has gone ahead,’ Mary said. ‘Kevin has crossed to Luxor, to the telegraph office – ’

‘Emerson!’ I exclaimed.

‘It is all right, he showed the story to me,’ Emerson replied. ‘You will enjoy reading it, Amelia; the young man has an imagination almost as uncontrolled as yours.’

‘Thank you. Mary, your mother seems better this morning.’

‘Yes, she has had these attacks before and made a remarkable recovery. As soon as I have finished the copy of the painting I will make arrangements to move her back to Luxor.’

‘There is no hurry,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Tomorrow morning will be soon enough; you will be worn out this evening after working in the heat.’

‘Well, if you really think so,’ Mary said doubtfully. Her morose expression lightened a little. One may be determined to embrace martyrdom gracefully, but a day of reprieve is not to be sneezed at. I am sure even the early Christian saints raised no objection if Caesar postponed feeding them to the lions until the next circus.

Tiring of Emerson’s nagging, I finished my breakfast and we prepared to leave. ‘Where is Mr Vandergelt?’ I asked. ‘He wanted to be with us, I thought.’

‘He has taken Lady Baskerville over to Luxor,’ Emerson replied. ‘There were matters to arrange for their approaching nuptials; and I persuaded the lady to stay there and do a little shopping. That always cheers ladies, does it not?’

‘Why, Professor,’ Mary said with a laugh. ‘I had no idea you were so well acquainted with the weaknesses of our sex.’

I looked suspiciously at Emerson. He had turned his back and was attempting to whistle. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘Let us be off, shall we? Vandergelt will join us later; it will be some time before we can actually breach the wall.’

It was, in fact, midmorning before our preparations were complete. The air in the depths of the tomb was still bad, and the heat was so unbelievable that I refused to let Mary work for more than ten minutes at a time. Impatient as Emerson was, he had to agree that this was reasonable. In the meantime he occupied himself with supervising the construction of a stout wooden cover for the well. Karl had taken over the operation of the camera. And I?

You know little of my character, dear reader, if you are unable to imagine the nature of the thoughts that occupied my mind. I sat under the shade of my awning, supposedly making scale drawings of pottery fragments, but the sound of Emerson’s cheerful shouts and curses as he supervised the carpenter work roused the gravest suspicions. He seemed very sure of himself. Was it possible, after all, that he was right in his identification of Lord Baskerville’s murderer and that I was wrong? I could not believe it. However, I decided it might be advisable to go over my reasoning once more, in the light of the most recent developments. I could always think of a way of changing the name in my envelope if I had to.

Turning over a page of my sketching pad, I abandoned pots for plans. I would make a neat little chart, setting forth the various motives and means and so on.

So I began.

Suspect:
Lady Baskerville.

Motive
in the murder of:

Lord Baskerville.
Inheritance. (How much Lady Baskerville would inherit I, of course, did not know yet; but I felt sure it was enough to account for her willingness to do away with her husband. By all accounts he had been a singularly boring man.)

Armadale.
He witnessed the crime. The room he had occupied was next to Lady Baskerville’s. (To be sure, this did not explain why Armadale had disappeared. Had he lost his mind from horror after seeing Lady B. massacre her husband? And how the devil – as Emerson might have said – did she massacre him? If some obscure and unidentifiable poison had been used, all Armadale could have seen was Lord Baskerville sipping a cup of tea or a glass of sherry.

Hassan.
Hassan had seen Armadale and observed something – perhaps the particular window to which the ‘ghost’ had gone – that betrayed the identity of the murderer. Attempted blackmail; destruction of blackmailer.

I read over this last paragraph with satisfaction. It made sense. Indeed, the motive for Hassan’s murder would apply to all the suspects.