Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (73 page)

‘Bedad, but it’s the Cinderella story,’ said Mr O’Connell. ‘The lock of hair, the glass slipper – ’

‘You have made your point, Mr O’Connell,’ I said.

Unabashed, O’Connell grinned broadly. ‘It never hurts to make sure,’ he remarked.

‘Go on, Karl,’ I said.

‘One day the older brother Anubis saw that his cup of beer was clouded, and he knew what it meant. He searched, and he found his brother, and he found the heart of his brother in the fallen tree. He put the heart in a cup of beer and Bata drank it and came back to life. But the woman – ’

‘Well, well,’ Emerson said, ‘that was splendidly told, Karl. Let me synopsise the rest, it is just as long and even more illogical than the first part. Bata eventually avenged himself on his treacherous wife and became pharaoh.’

There was a pause.

‘I have never heard anything so nonsensical in my life,’ said Lady Baskerville.

‘Fairy tales are meant to be nonsensical,’ I said. ‘That is part of their charm.’

The general reaction to ‘The Tale of the Two Brothers’ was approximately the same as Lady Baskerville’s. All agreed that Madame’s references to it had been meaningless, the product of a deranged mind. Emerson seemed content to let the subject drop, and it was not until we were almost finished with dinner that he again electrified the company by introducing a controversial topic.

‘I intend to spend the night at the tomb,’ he announced. ‘After tomorrow’s revelations I will be able to procure all the workmen and guards I need; until then, there is still some slight risk of robbery.’

Vandergelt dropped his fork. ‘What the devil do you mean?’

‘Language, language,’ Emerson said reproachfully. ‘There are ladies present. Why, you have not forgotten my messenger, have you? He will be here tomorrow. Then I will know the truth. A simple “yes” or “no”; the message will be no more than that; and if it is “yes” … Who would suppose that one person’s fate could hang on such a little word?’

‘You are overdoing it,’ I said, out of the corner of my mouth. Emerson scowled at me, but took the hint.

‘Are we all finished?’ he enquired. ‘Good. Let us retire. I am sorry to rush you, but I want to get back to the Valley.’

‘Then perhaps you wish to be excused now,’ said Lady Baskerville, her raised eyebrows showing what she thought of this piece of rudeness.

‘No, no. I want my coffee. It will help keep me awake.’

As we left the room, Mary came up to me. ‘I don’t understand, Mrs Emerson. The story Karl told was so strange. How can it have any bearing on my mother’s death?’

‘It may have no bearing at all,’ I said soothingly. ‘We are still walking in a thick fog, Mary; we cannot even see what objects are hidden by the mist, much less know if they are landmarks to guide us on our quest.’

‘How literary we all are tonight,’ remarked the ubiquitous Mr O’Connell, smiling. It was his professional, leprechaun’s smile; but it seemed to me his eyes held a glint of something more serious and more sinister.

With a defiant glance at me Lady Baskerville took her place behind the coffee tray. I smiled tolerantly. If the lady chose to make this trivial activity a show of strength between us, let her. In a few more days I would be in charge officially, as I already was in actuality.

We were all extremely polite that evening. As I listened to the genteel murmurs of ‘black or white?’ and ‘two lumps, if you please’, I felt as if I were watching the commonplace, civilised scene through distorting glasses, like those in a fairy tale I had once read. Everyone in the room was acting a part. Everyone had something to conceal – emotions, actions, thoughts.

Lady Baskerville would have done better to let me serve the coffee. She was unusually clumsy; and after she had managed to spill half a cup onto the tray, she let out a little scream of exasperation and clapped her hands to her head.

‘I am so nervous tonight I don’t know what I am doing! Radcliffe, I wish you would reconsider. Stay here tonight. Don’t risk yourself, I could not stand another…’ Smiling, Emerson shook his head, and Lady Baskerville, summoning up a faint answering smile, said more calmly, ‘I ought to know better. At least you will take someone with you? You will not go alone?’

Stubborn creature that he is, Emerson was about to deny this reasonable request, but the others all joined in urging him to accept a companion. Vandergelt was the first to offer his services.

‘No, no, you must stay and guard the ladies,’ Emerson said.

‘As ever, Herr Professor, I would be honoured to be of service to the most distinguished – ’

‘Thank you, no.’

I said nothing. There was no need for me to speak; Emerson and I habitually communicate without words. It is a form of electrical vibration, I believe. He felt my unspoken message, for he avoided looking at me as he scanned the room in a maddeningly deliberate fashion.

‘The chosen victim must be Mr O’Connell, I believe,’ he said at last. ‘I hope we will have a restful night; he can work on his next dispatch.’

‘That suits me, Professor,’ said the young Irishman, taking his cup from Lady Baskerville.

Suddenly Emerson rose to his feet with a cry. ‘Look there!’

Every eye went to the window, where he was pointing. O’Connell rushed across the room and pulled back the curtains.

‘What did you see, Professor?’

‘A flutter of white,’ Emerson said. ‘I thought someone passed rapidly by the window.’

‘There is nothing there now,’ O’Connell said. He went back to his chair.

No one spoke for a time. I sat gripping the arms of my chair, trying to think; for a new and terrible idea had suddenly occurred to me. I had no idea what Emerson was up to, with his ridiculous suggestions of flutters of white and his dramatic cries; the matter that concerned me was of quite another nature. I might be wrong. But if I was not wrong, something had to be done, and without delay.

‘Wait,’ I cried, rising in my turn.

‘What is it?’ Emerson demanded.

‘Mary,’ I exclaimed. ‘Quickly – she is about to swoon – ’

The gentlemen all converged on the astonished girl. I had hoped, but had not really expected, that she would have the wits to follow my lead. Evelyn would have done it instantly. But Evelyn is used to my methods. It did not matter; the distraction gave me the opportunity I needed. Emerson’s coffee cup and mine were on a low table next to my chair. Quickly I exchanged them.

‘Honestly, there is nothing wrong with me,’ Mary insisted. ‘I am a little tired, but I don’t feel at all faint.’

‘You are very pale,’ I said sympathetically. ‘And you have had such a dreadful day, Mary; I think you ought to retire.’

‘So should you,’ Emerson said, looking at me suspiciously. ‘Drink your coffee, Amelia, and excuse yourself.’

‘Certainly,’ I said, and did so without hesitation.

The group dispersed soon thereafter. Emerson offered to escort me to our room; but I informed him I had other matters to take care of before I retired. The first and most imperative I will not describe in detail. It had to be done, and I did it; but the process was unpleasant to experience and distasteful to recount. If I had been able to anticipate Emerson’s plans I would not have eaten quite so much at dinner.

I then felt obliged to look in on Mary. She was still in the state of false composure that often follows a shock, whether the shock be one of joy or sorrow – but sooner or later she must give way to the bewildering mixture of emotions that filled her heart. I treated her as I would a hurt or frightened child, tucking her into bed, and leaving a candle burning for comfort; and she seemed pathetically grateful for the attentions, which, I have no doubt, were new to her. I took the opportunity of speaking to her about Christian fortitude and British spunk in the face of adversity, adding that, with all due respect to her mother, the future could only appear bright. I might have said more, but at this point in the conversation she fell asleep. So I tucked the netting around her and tiptoed out.

Emerson was waiting outside the door. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his look of ‘I would stamp and shout if I were not such an unusually patient man’ on his face.

‘What took you so cursed long?’ he demanded. ‘I am in a hurry.’

‘I did not ask you to wait for me.’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘We have nothing to talk about.’

‘Ah!’ Emerson exclaimed, in the surprised tone of someone who has just made a discovery. ‘You are angry because I didn’t ask you to share the watch with me tonight.’

‘Ridiculous. If you wish to sit there like Patience on a monument waiting for a murderer to attack you, I will not interfere.’

‘Is that what you are thinking?’ Emerson laughed loudly. ‘No, no, my dear Peabody. I was bluffing about the message, of course – ’

‘I know.’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson. ‘Do you suppose the others know?’

‘Probably.’

‘Then what are you worried about?’

He had me there. The message was such a transparent subterfuge that only a fool would fail to see it for the trick it was.

‘Humph,’ I said.

‘I had hoped,’ Emerson admitted, ‘that the device would stimulate our suspect, not to murder me – I am no hero, my dear, as you may have observed – but to flee. Like you, I believe now that the trick has failed. However, just in case the killer is more nervous or more stupid than we believe, I want you here to observe whether anyone leaves the house.’

We had been pacing slowly around the courtyard as we spoke. Now we reached the door of our room; Emerson opened it, shoved me in, and enveloped me in a bruising embrace.

‘Sleep well, my darling Peabody. Dream of me.’

I flung my arms around his neck. ‘My dearest husband, guard your precious life. I would not attempt to keep you from your duty, but remember that if you fall – ’

Emerson pushed me away. ‘Curse it, Peabody, how dare you make fun of me? I hope you fall over a chair and sprain your ankle.’

And with this tender farewell he left me, cursing under his breath.

I addressed the cat Bastet, whose sleek form I had seen outlined against the open window.

‘He deserved that,’ I said. ‘I am inclined to agree with you, Bastet; cats are much more sensible than people.’

Bastet and I kept watch together while the hands of my little pocket watch crept on toward midnight. I was flattered that the cat stayed with me; always before she had seemed to prefer Emerson. No doubt her keen intelligence told her that the truest friend is not always the one who offers chicken.

I had not been deceived for a moment by Emerson’s glib excuses. He did hope the murderer would believe his lies about messages and decisive clues; he expected to be attacked that very night. The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I became. A sensible murderer (if there is such a thing) would not have been fooled for a moment by Emerson’s play-acting. But if my theory was correct the murderer was stupid enough, and desperate enough, to react as Emerson had planned.

After I put on my working costume I blackened my face and hands with soot from the lamp and removed every touch of white from my attire. Opening my door a crack, I ascertained that the watchman was on duty in the courtyard. I could not see anyone outside the window. When midnight finally came I left the cat sleeping quietly on my bed and slipped out the window.

The moon was gibbous, but it gave too strong a light for my purposes. I would rather have walked unseen under heavy clouds. Despite the cool of the night air I was perspiring by the time I reached the cliff that overlooked the Valley.

Below me the abode of the dead lay at peace under the light of Egypt’s eternal moon. The fence around the tomb obstructed my view until I was quite near. I had not expected to hear sounds of revelry, so the dead silence that enveloped the place was not in itself alarming, nor was the fact that I saw no glow from the lantern Emerson usually kept burning. He might have left it unlit in the hope of luring the killer close. Yet the now only too familiar grue of apprehension chilled my limbs as I glided on.

I approached the barrier cautiously. I did not want to be mistaken for the criminal and knocked down by my own husband. My approach was certainly not noiseless, for the stony ground was littered with pebbles and gravel that crunched underfoot. Reaching the fence, I peered through the gap between two stakes.

‘Emerson,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t shoot; it is I.’

No voice replied. Not the slightest sound broke the uncanny stillness. The enclosed space was like a badly focused photograph, crisscrossed by the shadows of the fence stakes and blurred by the shapes of boulders and miscellaneous objects. Instinct told me the truth even before my straining eyes made out a huddled, darker shape beside the stairwell. Abandoning caution, I ran forward and flung myself down beside it. My groping hands found creased fabric, thick tumbled hair, and features whose shape would have been familiar to me in the darkest night.

‘Emerson,’ I gasped. ‘Speak to me! Oh, heavens, I am too late. Why did I wait so long? Why did – ’

The motionless body was suddenly galvanised into life. I was seized – throttled – muffled – pulled down to the ground with a force that left me breathless – enclosed in an embrace that held the ferocity of a deadly enemy instead of the affection of a spouse.

‘Curse you, Amelia,’ Emerson hissed. ‘If you have frightened my quarry away I will never speak to you again. What the devil are you doing here?’

Being unable to articulate, I gurgled as meaningfully as I could. Emerson freed my mouth. ‘Softly,’ he whispered.

‘How dare you frighten me so?’ I demanded.

‘How did you … Never mind; get back out of sight, with O’Connell, while I resume my position. I was pretending to be asleep.’

‘You
were
asleep.’

‘I may have dozed off for a moment…. No more talk. Retire to the hut where O’Connell – ’

‘Emerson – where is Mr O’Connell? This encounter has not been exactly silent; should he not have rushed to your assistance by this time?’

‘Hmmm,’ said Emerson.

We found the journalist behind a boulder on the hillside. He was breathing deeply and regularly. He did not stir, even when Emerson shook him.