The Curse of the Pharaohs (13 page)

A late tea was set out when we went to the elegant drawing room. The windows opened onto the vine-shaded loggia, and the scent of jasmine pervaded the chamber.

We were the first to come, but scarcely had I taken my seat behind the tea tray when Karl and Mr. Milverton made their appearance, and a moment later we were joined by Mr. Vandergelt, who strolled in through the French doors with the familiarity of an old friend.

"I was invited," he assured me, as he bowed over my hand. "But I'm bound to admit I'd have butted in anyhow, I am so anxious to hear what you found today. Where is Lady Baskerville?"

Even as he inquired the lady swept in, trailing ruffles and laces, and carrying a spray of sweet white jasmine. After a (I hardly need add) courteous discussion as to which of us should dispense the genial beverage, I filled the cups. Emerson then condescended to give a brief but pithy lecture on the day's discoveries.

He began, generous creature that he is, by mentioning my own not inconsiderable contributions. I had spent the last hours of the afternoon sifting through the debris removed from the passageway. Few excavators bother with this task when they are in quest of greater goals, but Emerson has always insisted on examining every square inch of the fill, and in this case our efforts had been rewarded. With some pride I displayed my finds, which had been set out on a tray: a heap of pottery shards (common buff ware), a handful of bones (rodent), and a copper knife.

Lady Baskerville let out a gasp of laughter.

"My poor dear Mrs. Emerson: All that effort for a handful of rubbish."

Mr. Vandergelt stroked his goatee. "I'm not so sure about that, ma'am. They may not look like much, but I'll be doggoned surprised if they don't mean something—something not too good. Eh, Professor?"

Emerson nodded grudgingly. He does not like to have his brilliant deductions anticipated. "You are sharp, Vandergelt. Those bits of broken pottery came from a jar that was used to hold scented oil. I very much fear, Lady Baskerville, that we are not the first to disturb the pharaoh's rest."

"I don't understand." Lady Baskerville turned to Emerson with a pretty little gesture of bewilderment.

"But it is only too clear," Karl exclaimed. "Such perfumed oil was buried with the dead man for his use in the next world, as were foodstuffs, clothing, furniture, and other necessities. We know this from the tomb reliefs and from the papyrus that—"

"Very well, very well," Emerson interrupted. "What Karl means, Lady Baskerville, is that such shards could be found in the outer corridor only if a thief had dropped one of the jars as he was carrying it out."

"Perhaps it was dropped on the way in," suggested Milverton cheerfully. "My servants are always breaking things."

"In that case the broken jar would have been swept up," said Emerson. "No; I am almost certain that the tomb was entered after the burial. A difference in the consistency of the filling material indicates that a tunnel had been dug through it."

"And re-filled," said Vandergelt. He shook his finger playfully at Emerson. "Now, Professor, you're trying to get us all het up. But I'm on to you. The thieves' tunnel wouldn't have been filled up, and the necropolis seals re-applied, if the tomb had been empty."

"Then you believe there are treasures yet to be found?" Lady Baskerville asked.

"If we found nothing more than painted reliefs of the quality we have uncovered thus far, the tomb would be a treasure," Emerson replied. "But, in fact, Vandergelt is right again." He gave the American a malignant look. "I do believe there is a chance the thieves never reached the burial chamber."

Lady Baskerville exclaimed with delight. I turned to Milverton, who was seated beside me, his expression one of poorly concealed amusement.

"Why do you smile, Mr. Milverton?"

"I confess, Mrs. Emerson, that I find all this fuss over a few bits of broken pottery somewhat bewildering."

"That is a strange thing for an archaeologist to say."

"But I am no archaeologist, only a photographer, and this is my first venture into Egyptology." His eyes shifted; they continued to avoid mine as he continued rapidly. "In fact, I had begun to have doubts about my usefulness even before Lord Baskerville's unfortunate death. Now that he is gone I don't believe... that is, I feel I can do better___"

"What?" Lady Baskerville had overheard, despite the fact that Milverton's voice had been scarcely louder than a murmur. "What are you saying, Mr. Milverton? You cannot be thinking of leaving us?"

The wretched young man turned all colors of the rainbow. "I was telling Mrs. Emerson that I don't believe I can be of use here. My state of health—"

"Nonsense!" Lady Baskerville exclaimed. "Dr. Dubois assured me you are making a splendid recovery, and that you are better off here than alone in a hotel. You mustn't run away."

"We need you," Emerson added. "We are desperately understaffed, Milverton, as you know."

"But I have no experience—"

"Not in archaeology, perhaps. But what we need are guards and supervisors. Besides, I assure you, your special skills will be required as soon as you are able to come out with us."

Under my husband's keen regard the young man squirmed like a schoolboy being quizzed by a stern master. The analogy was irresistible; Milverton was the very model of a young English gentleman of the finest type, and it was difficult to see in his fresh, candid face anything except normal embarrassment. I flatter myself, however, that I can see beyond the obvious. Milverton's behavior was highly suspicious.

He was saved from answering by Karl, who had been eagerly examining the pottery fragments in the hope of finding writing on them. Now the young German looked up and said, "Excuse me, Herr Professor, but have you considered my suggestion regarding an artist? Now that paintings have been found—"

"Quite, quite," Emerson said. "An artist would certainly be useful."

"Especially," Vandergelt added, "since there is so much antagonism toward your work. I wouldn't put it past the local hoodlums to destroy the paintings out of spite."

"They will have to get to them first," Emerson said grimly.

"I am sure your guards are trustworthy. All the same—"

"You need not belabor the point. I'll give the girl a try."

Milverton had relaxed as the attention of the others was directed away from him. Now he sat up with a start.

"Is it Miss Mary of whom you speak? You cannot be serious. Karl, how can you suggest—"

"But she is a fine artist," Karl said.

"Granted. But it is out of the question for her to risk herself."

Karl turned beet red. "Risk?
Was ist's? Was haben Sie gesagt? Niemals wurde ich...
Excuse me, I forget myself; but that I would endanger—"

"Nonsense, nonsense," shouted Emerson, who had apparently decided never to let the young German complete a sentence. "What do you mean, Milverton?"

Milverton got to his feet. Despite the grave doubts his peculiar behavior had raised in my mind, I could not help but admire him at that moment: pale as linen, his handsome blue eyes burning, his manly figure erect, he halted the general outcry with a dramatic gesture.

"How can you all be so blind? Of course there is risk. Lord Baskerville's mysterious death, Armadale missing, the villagers threatening.... Am I the only one among you who is willing to face the truth? Be it so! And be assured I will not shirk my duty as an Englishman and a gentleman! Never will I abandon Miss Mary—or you, Lady Baskerville—or Mrs. Emerson—"

Seeing that he was losing the superb emotional import of his speech, I rose and seized him by the arm.

"You are overexcited, Mr. Milverton. I suspect you are not fully recovered. What you need is a good dinner and a quiet night. Once you have regained your health, these fancies will no longer trouble you."

The young man gazed at me with troubled eyes, his sensitive lips quivering, and I felt constrained to add, "The natives call me 'Sitt Hakim,' the lady doctor, you know; I assure you that I know what is best for you. Your own mother would advise you as I have done."

"Now that makes good sense," Vandergelt exclaimed heartily. "You listen to the lady, young fellow; she's a sharp one."

Dominated by a stronger personality (I refer to my own, of course), Mr. Milverton nodded submissively and said no more.

However, the effects of his outburst could not be dismissed so easily. Karl was silent and sullen for the remainder of the evening; it was clear, from the angry looks he shot at the other young man, that he had not forgotten or forgiven Milverton for his accusation. Lady Baskerville also seemed upset. After dinner, when Mr. Vandergelt prepared to return to the hotel, he urged her to come with him. She refused with a laugh; but in my opinion the laughter was hollow.

Vandergelt took his departure, bearing with him a note that he had promised to deliver to Mary, and the rest of us retired to the drawing room. I allowed Lady Baskerville to dispense the coffee, thinking that domestic and soothing activity would calm her nerves, which it undoubtedly would have done if the others had cooperated with me in behaving normally. But Karl sulked, Emerson relapsed into the blank-faced silence that is indicative of his more contemplative moods, and Milverton was so nervous he could hardly sit still. It was with considerable relief that I heard Emerson declare we must all retire early, in view of the hard day's work ahead of us.

Lady Baskerville accompanied us as we crossed the courtyard. I noticed that she stayed close to us, and I wondered if she was afraid to be alone with one or another of the young men. Had there been a veiled threat in Milverton's speech? Had Karl's sudden display of anger suggested to her that he was not incapable of violence?

Milverton was not far behind us. I was relieved to see him leave the room, not only because he needed his rest, but because it seemed inadvisable for the two men to be left alone, in view of the antagonism between them. His hands in his pockets, his head bowed, he strolled slowly along, and he was still in the courtyard when we reached our doors. Lady Baskerville's was next to ours; we paused to bid her a courteous good night. Scarcely had she stepped into the room, however, when an appalling shriek burst from her lips and she staggered back, her arms outthrust as if to ward off an attacker.

I reached the lady first and supported her swaying frame while Emerson snatched a lantern and ran into the room to see what had caused such alarm. As usual, Lady Baskerville was rudely unappreciative of my attentions. She wrenched herself from me and flung herself into the arms of Milverton, who had rushed to her side.

"Help me, Charles, help me!" she cried. "Save me from —from—"

I itched to slap her, but could not do so because her face was buried against Milverton's shoulder. At that moment an incongruous sound reached my ears. It was the sound of my husband's hearty laugh.

"Come and see, Amelia," he called.

Pushing Lady Baskerville and Milverton out of the way, I entered the room.

Though smaller than the chamber formerly occupied by his lordship, it was of ample size and decorated with feminine delicacy. Soft matting covered the floor; the china vessels were of fine porcelain, painted with flowers. Under the window stood a dressing table equipped with crystal lamps and polished mirrors. Emerson stood by the table, holding the lantern high.

Firmly planted in the center of the tabletop, surrounded by the little pots and jars that contained Lady Baskerville's beauty aids, was a huge brindled cat. Its shape and its pose were startlingly similar to the statues of felines that have come down to us in great number from ancient Egypt, and the color of its fur was like that shown in the paintings—a ticked brownish and fawn pattern. The triple mirror behind the animal reflected its form, so that it seemed as if not one but an entire pride of ancient Egyptian cats confronted us. Unsympathetic as I am with female vapors in any form, I could not entirely blame Lady Baskerville for behaving as she had; the lantern light turned the creature's eyes to great luminous pools of gold, and they seemed to stare directly into mine with a cold intelligence.

Emerson is insensitive to subtler nuances. Putting out his hand, he tickled the descendant of Bastet, the cat goddess, under its lean chin.

"Nice kitty," he said, smiling. "Whose pet is it, I wonder? It is not wild; see how sleek and fat it is."

"Why, it is Armadale's cat," Milverton exclaimed. Supporting Lady Baskerville, he advanced into the room. The cat closed its eyes and turned its head so that Emerson's fingers could reach the spot under its ears. With its glowing orbs hidden and its purr resounding through the room, it lost its uncanny appearance. Now I could not imagine what Lady Baskerville had made such a fuss about, especially since the cat was known to her personally.

"I wonder where it has been all this time?" Milverton went on. "I haven't seen it since Armadale disappeared. We called it his, and he made himself responsible for its care, but in fact it was something of a house mascot, and we were all fond of it."

"I was not fond of it," Lady Baskerville exclaimed. "Horrid, slinking beast, always leaving dead mice and insects on my bed—"

"That is the nature of cats," I replied, studying the beast with more favor. I had never been particularly fond of cats. Dogs are more English, I believe. I now began to realize that felines may be excellent judges of character, and this belief was confirmed when the cat rolled over and embraced Emerson's hand with its paws.

"Precisely," Milverton said, helping Lady Baskerville to a chair. "I remember hearing his lordship explain that. The ancient Egyptians domesticated cats because of their ability to control rodents—a useful talent in an agricultural society. When Bastet brought her mice to you, Lady Baskerville, she was paying you a delicate attention."

"Ugh," said Lady Baskerville, fanning herself with her handkerchief. "Get the dreadful creature out of here. And do make certain, Mr. Milverton, that it has not left me any other 'attentions.' Where is my maid? If she had been here, as was her duty—"

The door opened, and the apprehensive visage of a middle-aged Egyptian woman appeared.