The Curse of the Pharaohs (16 page)

"Lie still," I said sharply, "or I will have Mr. Milverton sit on your legs."

Mr. Milverton gave me a startled look. Fortunately the expedient I had proposed was not necessary. Emerson relaxed, and I was able to lower his head onto my lap. At this point, as things were calming down, Lady Baskerville created a new sensation.

"The woman in white!" she shrieked. "I saw her— there—"

Mr. Vandergelt reached her just in time to catch her as
she fainted. If I were an evil-minded woman, I would have
suspected she delayed her collapse long enough to give him
time.

"I will go for a doctor," Mr. Milverton exclaimed.

"There is no need," I replied, pressing the handkerchief against the gash on Emerson's temple. "The cut
is
superficial. There is a possibility of a mild concussion, but I can deal with that."

Emerson's eyes opened. "Amelia," he croaked, "remind me to tell you, when I am feeling a little stronger, what I think of your—"

I covered his lips with my hand. "I know, my dear," I said
soothingly. "You need not thank me."

Now at ease with regard to Emerson's condition, I could
turn my attention to Lady Baskerville, who was draped
becomingly over Mr. Vandergelt's arm. Her eyes were
closed; her long black hair had broken free of its pins and
hung in a dark, shining waterfall, almost touching the floor. For the first time since we had met, Mr. Vandergelt looked mildly disconcerted, though he held the lady's limp form to his breast with considerable fervor.

"Put her on the couch," I said. "It is only a faint."

"Mrs. Emerson, just look at this," said Karl.

In his outstretched hand he held the projectile that had
inflicted so much damage. At first I thought it was only a
rough-hewn rock, approximately eight inches in diameter. A shudder passed through my body as I contemplated what
might have occurred if it had struck its target squarely. Then
Karl turned the rock over, and I found myself staring into a
human face.

The eyes were deep-set, the chin unnaturally long, the lips
curved in a strange, enigmatic smile. Traces of blue paint
still marked the helmet-shaped headdress—the Battle Crown of an Egyptian pharaoh. I had seen that peculiar
physiognomy before. It was, in fact, as familiar to me as the
face of an old friend.

"Khuenaton!" I exclaimed.

In my excitement I had forgotten that this—among other archaeological terms—would have aroused Emerson from a deep coma, much less a bump on the head. Casting off my hand, which I had kept absentmindedly pressed to his lips, he sat up and snatched the carved head from Karl's hand.

"That is wrong, Amelia," he said. "You know Walter believes the name should be read Akhenaton, not Khuenaton."

"He will always be Khuenaton to me," I replied, giving him a meaningful look as I recalled the days of our first acquaintance in the derelict city of the heretic pharaoh.

My tender reference was wasted on Emerson, who continued to study the object that had nearly crushed his skull.

"Amazing," he muttered. "It is genuine—not a copy. Where on earth—"

"This is no time for archaeologizing," I said severely. "You must get to bed at once, Emerson, and as for Lady Baskerville—"

"Bed? Nonsense." Emerson got to his feet, assisted by the assiduous Karl. Dazedly his eyes scanned the room and finally focused on the limp body of Lady Baskerville. "What is wrong with her?" he demanded.

As if on cue, Lady Baskerville opened her eyes.

"The woman in white!" she cried.

Vandergelt dropped to one knee beside the couch and took her hand. "You are perfectly safe, my dear. Don't be alarmed. What did you see?"

"A woman in white, obviously," I said, before the lady could reply. "Who was it, Lady Baskerville? Did she hurl the missile?"

"I don't know." Lady Baskerville passed her hand over her brow. "I caught a glimpse of her—a dim white figure, ghostly, with a gleam as of gold on her arms and brow. Then something came rushing at me, and involuntarily I recoiled. Oh! Oh, Radcliffe, you are covered with blood! How ghastly!"

"I am perfectly well," Emerson replied, oblivious of the crimson stains that disfigured his face. "Where the devil do you suppose the fellow found this carved head?"

This sort of thing might have gone on indefinitely— Emerson speculating about the origin of the head, and Lady Baskerville keening about blood like a banshee—if someone had not intervened. To my surprise, it was Mr. Milverton. An amazing transformation had passed over him. His step was elastic, his color good, his tone firm yet respectful.

"Forgive me, Professor, but we really must have an interlude for rest and reflection. You took quite a crack on the head, you know, and we can't risk anything going wrong with you. Lady Baskerville ought to rest too, she has had a frightful shock. If you will allow me."

With a smiling, conspiratorial glance at me, he took Emerson's arm. My husband allowed himself to be led from the room. He was still crooning over the lethal little head, which he held cupped in his hands.

Lady Baskerville followed, leaning weakly on Mr. Vandergelt's arm. After escorting Emerson to our room, Mr. Milverton drew me aside.

"I will go and tidy up the drawing room," he said. "We don't want the servants to know of this."

"I fear it is already too late," I replied.
"
But
it is a good thought, Mr. Milverton; thank you."

The young fellow went out, whistling under bis breath. I looked at my husband, who was staring as if mesmerized into the strange carved eyes of the heretic pharaoh. But
as I tended Emerson's wound and thanked the Almighty for his
miraculous escape, I realized that there was an explanation for Mr. Milverton's sudden access of good spirits. He could
not be suspected of hurling the deadly missile. Was he
relieved because a second party—a confederate, perhaps— had cleared him of suspicion?

Eight

WHEN I attempted to lead my wounded spouse to his bed I discovered that he was determined to go out. "I must talk to the men," he insisted. "They will have heard of this latest incident, you may be sure, and if I am not completely honest with them—"

"I see your point," I said coldly. "At least change your shirt, will you, please? That one is ruined. I told you you should have ordered another dozen before we left England; you are the most destructive man—"

At this point Emerson precipitately left the room. Of course I followed him.

The men were housed in a building that had been meant to be a storeroom. It was a little distance from the house, and we had had it fitted up with all the necessary comforts. When we reached the place I saw mat Emerson had been right. The men
had
heard the news, and were talking it over.

They stared at Emerson as if he were a ghost. Then Abdullah, who had been squatting by the fire, rose to his impressive height.

"You live, then," he said, the glow of repressed emotion in his eyes belying his calm tone. "We had heard—"

"Lies," Emerson said. "An enemy threw a stone at me. It struck a glancing blow."

He swept the thick waving locks from his brow, baring the ugly wound. The red glow of the fire illumined his stalwart frame. The bloodstains on his shirt looked black. He stood unmoving, his brown hand raised to his brow, his countenance as proudly calm as that of a sculptured pharaoh. Shadows deepened the cleft in his chin and framed his firm lips in dark outline.

After he had given them time to look their fill, he lowered his hand, allowing his black locks to fall back in place.

"The spirits of the dead do not throw stones," he said. "What man of Gurneh hates me enough to wish me dead?"

At that the men nodded and exchanged meaningful glances. It was Abdullah who replied, a humorous gleam warming his austere bearded face.

"Emerson, there are many men in Gurneh and elsewhere who hate you so much. The guilty man hates the judge, and the chidden child resents a stern father."

"You are not guilty men, or children," Emerson replied. "You are my friends. I came at once to you, to tell you what happened.
Allah yimmessikum bilkheir."

Of course if I had really felt Emerson should stay in bed I would have seen that he stayed there, by one means or another. It was apparent, however, that he was in the rudest possible health; he bounded out of bed next morning with all the panache of d'Artagnan preparing to storm La Rochelle. Disdaining my offer of assistance, he affixed a huge square of sticking plaster to his forehead, as if scorning to conceal his injury.

I was out of temper with him. The primeval drama of the confrontation with our men had aroused correspondingly primeval emotions in me; but when I expressed them to Emerson he replied that he had a headache. This was certainly a reasonable excuse, but I could not help being vexed.

Naturally I concealed my feelings with my customary dignity, and as we set out for the Valley my spirits rose. It was a typically glorious Upper Egyptian morning. The rising orb of the sun lifted majestically over the eastern mountains, and its golden rays seemed to caress us with loving arms, as the arms of the god Aten embraced the divine king who was his son.

Yet the day, which began so auspiciously, turned out to be replete with disasters. No sooner had we arrived at the tomb than we came face to face with the imam. Brandishing a long staff, he burst into an impassioned harangue, threatening us with death and damnation and pointing dramatically to Emerson's bandaged brow as evidence of the latest demonstration of the pharaoh's curse.

Emerson may deny it, but I am convinced he enjoys these encounters. His arms folded, he listened with an air of courteous boredom. Once he even yawned. Instead of interrupting, he let the man go on and on and on; and eventually the inevitable happened. The listeners also showed signs of boredom as the imam started to repeat himself, and the hoped-for battle of words degenerated into a monologue. Eventually the imam ran out of imprecations, as even the most fanatical man must. When he had stopped ranting, Emerson waited a little longer, his head tilted at an expectant angle. Then he said politely, "Is that all? Thank you, Holy One, for your interest," and, circling respectfully around the infuriated religious person, he descended into the tomb.

Scarcely an hour later there was another disturbance. Hearing angry voices from the tomb, I went to see what was the matter and found Karl and Mr. Milverton facing one another in combative attitudes. Milverton stood with his feet apart and his fists raised; Karl, restrained by Emerson, was struggling and demanding to be let loose so he could administer some unspecified punishment. A rising lump on Karl's jaw showed that the struggle had gone beyond words.

"He insulted Miss Mary," Milverton cried, without abandoning his pugilistic stance.

Karl burst into impassioned German. He had not insulted the lady; Milverton had. When he had objected, Milverton had struck him.

Milverton's normally pale countenance turned red, and the fight would have broken out again if Emerson had not clamped an iron hand over one young man's bicep and throttled the other by catching hold of his collar.

"How ridiculous!" Mary, who had been standing quietly to one side, now came forward. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. She looked amazingly pretty; and for a moment all the men, including my husband, stopped arguing and stared at her in open admiration.

"No one insulted me," she declared. "I appreciate your efforts to defend me; but you are being very silly, and I insist you shake hands and make up, like good boys."

This speech—accompanied by a languishing glance from under her thick black lashes, impartially divided between Milverton and Karl—did not do much to improve relations between the two, but it forced them to make a pretense at reconciliation. Coldly they touched fingertips. Mary smiled. Emerson threw up his hands. I returned to my rubbish heap.

Early in the afternoon Emerson came up to join me.

"How is it going?" he inquired genially, fanning himself with his hat.

We were talking quietly, about one thing and another, when Emerson's eyes wandered from my face and his own countenance underwent such a dreadful alteration that I turned in alarm.

A fantastic cortege was approaching. Leading it were six men whose bowed shoulders supported two long poles on which was balanced a boxlike structure completely enclosed by curtains. This object swayed dangerously as the bearers staggered along under what was clearly a considerable weight. A straggling crowd of natives in turbans and long robes accompanied the apparition.

The procession made its laborious way to where we stood staring. I then saw a man in European garb walking behind the palanquin. His hat was drawn down over his brows, but a few locks of red hair had escaped to betray an identity he seemed not eager to proclaim.

The panting, sweating bearers came to a halt and lowered the carrying poles. Unfortunately they did not move in unison; the palanquin tilted and spilled a stout form out onto the ground, where it lay emitting cries of pain and alarm. I had already surmised who the occupant of the weird structure must be. No one else in Luxor would have attempted to travel in such a way.

Madame Berengeria was wearing her linen robe, a clumsy copy of the exquisite pleated gowns noble ladies were accustomed to wear in pharaonic times. Her fall had disarranged this garment to betray a truly appalling extent of fat, pallid flesh. Her black wig, which was surrounded by a cloud of small insects, had tumbled over her eyes.

Emerson stood with his hands on his hips, staring down at the writhing form of the lady. "Well, help her up, O'Connell," he said. "And if you want to avert a nasty scene, shove her back into that ridiculous contraption and take her away."

"Mr. O'Connell has no desire to avoid a scene," I said. "He promotes them."

My acerbic comment restored the young man's composure. He smiled and pushed his hat back so that it rested at a jaunty angle.

"How unkind, Mrs. Emerson. Will one of you give me a hand? I can't manage the job alone, and that's the truth."