The Curse of the Pharaohs (28 page)

"What?" I cried. "You know—"

Emerson clapped a large hard hand over my mouth. "I will make the announcement myself, at the proper time," he growled.

I peeled his fingers from my lips. "That was unnecessary." I said. "I was only surprised at your statement, after you have consistently disclaimed any interest in the matter. In fact, I too have discovered the identity of the person in question."

"Oh, you have, have you?"

"Yes, I have."

We studied one another warily.

"Would you care to enlighten me?" Emerson inquired.

"No. I think I know; but if I am wrong you will never let me hear the end of it. Perhaps
you
will enlighten
me."

"No."

"Ha! You are not sure either."

"I said as much."

Again we exchanged measuring glances.

"You have no proof," I said.

"That is the difficulty. And you—"

"Not yet. I hope to obtain it."

"Humph," said Emerson. "Peabody, please refrain from any reckless actions while I am away. I wish you could bring yourself to confide in me."

'Truly, Emerson, I would if I had anything useful to suggest. At the present time my suspicions are based on intuition, and I know how scornful you are of that; you have mocked me often enough. I promise that the moment I obtain concrete evidence I will tell you."

"Very well."

"You might return the compliment," I said pointedly.

"I will tell you what I will do. Let us both write down the name of the person we suspect and put it in a sealed envelope. When this is over, the survivor, if there is one, can see who was right."

I found this attempt at humor not at all amusing, and said so. We proceeded to do as Emerson had suggested, placing the sealed envelopes in a table drawer in our room.

Emerson then departed. I had hoped to have a few moments to myself, in order to jot down a few notes about the case and consider methods of obtaining the evidence I had spoken of. I was not given time for reflection, for one duty succeeded the next. After sending Karl to the Valley to relieve Mr. O'Connell I interviewed Dr. Dubois, who had come to visit Arthur. When I suggested broth to strengthen the patient, his response was positively rude.

I then led the medical man to the building where Armadale's body had been placed. I was pleased to see that an attempt had been made to lend some dignity to the poor fellow's resting place. The body had been decently swathed in a clean white sheet and upon the breast of the still form lay a bouquet of flowers. I fancied that Mary must have supplied these, and regretted I had not been there to support the girl as she carried out this sad task.

Dubois was of no help whatever. His examination was cursory in the extreme; his conclusion was that Armadale had died of exposure—a perfectly ridiculous idea, as I pointed out. He was even more vague about the time of death. The atmospheric conditions that produced so many excellent mummies prevailed in the cave where Armadale had been found, so that desiccation rather than decay had affected the body. Dubois declared he had been dead no less than two days and no more than two weeks.

I then turned to the needs of the living, first ordering the chicken broth from Ahmed and then hastening to my room to carry out a task which had been too long delayed. Only the succession of unnerving incidents that had required all my attention had made me neglect this pressing duty. At least by waiting I had more hopeful news to send Arthur Baskerville's long-suffering mother. As I sat trying to compose a message that would be both peremptory and soothing, it occurred to me that I did not know Mrs. Baskerville's full name or address. After some thought I decided to send the message to the authorities in Nairobi; surely, with all the publicity attendant on Lord Baskerville's death, they would be able to locate his brother's widow.

Scarcely had I finished this task when I was summoned to the drawing room to assist Lady Baskerville in explaining to the police how Armadale's body had been discovered. After much fuss and bureaucratic delay the requisite documents were completed. Armadale had no living relatives, except for distant cousins in Australia. It was decided that he should be buried in the small European cemetery in Luxor, delay in this matter being bom insanitary and unnecessary; and when Lady Baskerville showed signs of relapsing into sobs and sighs, I assured her I would make the necessary arrangements.

It was midafternoon before Emerson returned, and by then even my iron constitution was beginning to feel some strain, for in the meantime, in addition to the tasks I have described, I had visited the sick man and forced some broth down his throat, had interviewed Mr. O'Connell on his return from the Valley, dressed his injured hand and put him to bed, and had enjoyed an acrimonious argument with Madame Berengeria over the luncheon table. Like many drunkards, she had astonishing powers of recuperation; a few hours' rest completely restored her, and when she forced her way into the dining room she was again dressed in her appalling costume. The strong perfume she had poured over her frame did not entirely cover the unmistakable olfactory evidences of her lack of interest in the most rudimentary personal cleanliness. She had learned of Armadale's death, and her dire predictions of further disasters to come were interrupted only by intervals of munching and mumbling as she crammed food into her mouth. I did not blame Lady Baskerville for her precipitate departure from the table. Vandergelt followed, but I felt obliged to remain until Madame had eaten herself into a semistupor. My request that she return to her room revived her and was the cause of the argument, during the course of which she made a number of unwarranted personal remarks and asserted her intention of reclaiming her reincarnated lover, Thutmosis-Ramses-Amenhotep the Magnificent-Setnakhte.

When Emerson entered our room, by way of the window, he found me recumbent on the bed with the cat at my feet. He hastened to my side, dropping the armful of papers he was carrying.

"Peabody, my dear girl!"

"Everything is under control," I assured him. "I am a little tired, that is all."

Emerson sat down beside me and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "You cannot blame me for being alarmed, my love; I don't recall ever seeing you in bed during the daytime—to rest, that is. And," he added, with an amused glance at the sleeping cat, "you looked for all the world like a small Crusader on a tombstone with your faithful hound at your feet. What is the cause of this unusual weariness? Have the police been here?"

I gave him a succinct, well-organized summary of the events of the day.

"What a frightful time you have had," he exclaimed. "My poor girl, I only wish I could have been with you."

"Bah," I said. "You don't wish that at all. You are relieved to have missed all the fuss, particularly Madame."

Emerson smiled sheepishly. "I confess that the lady comes as close to throwing me off balance as any living creature— with the exception of yourself, my love."

"She is more appalling every day, Emerson. The ways of Providence are inscrutable, to be sure, and I would never dream of questioning its decree; but I cannot help but wonder why Madame Berengeria is allowed to flourish when good young men like Alan Armadale are cruelly cut off. It would be an act of positive benevolence to remove her from this world."

"Now, Amelia, be calm. I have something for you that will restore your equanimity; the first mail from home."

Shuffling through the envelopes I came upon a familiar hand and a sentiment long repressed, through stern necessity, would not be denied. "A letter from Ramses," I exclaimed. "Why did you not open it? It is addressed to bom of us."

"I thought we could read it together," Emerson replied. He stretched out across the bed, his hands supporting his head, and I opened the envelope.

Ramses had learned to write at the age of three, disdaining the clumsy art of printing. His hand, though unformed, proclaimed the essentials of his character, being large and sprawling, with emphatic punctuation marks. He favored very black ink and broad-nibbed pens.

"'Dearest mama and papa,'" I read. "'I miss you very much.'"

Emerson let out a choked sound and turned his head away.

"Do not yield to emotion yet," I said, scanning the next lines. "Wait till you hear his reasons for missing us. 'Nurse is very cruel and will not give me any sweets. Aunt Evelyn would, but she is afraid of Nurse. So I have not been to a sweetshop since you left and I think you were cruel and vishus [I reproduce Ramses' spelling literally] to leave me. Uncle Walter spanked me yesterday—'"

"What?" Emerson sat up. The cat, disturbed by his violent movement, let out a grumble of protest. "The wretch! How dare he lay hands on Ramses! I never thought he had it in him."

"Neither did I," I said, pleased. "Pray let me continue, Emerson. 'Uncle Walter spanked me yesterday only because I tore some pages out of his dikshunary. I needed to use them. He spanks very hard. I will not tear any more pages out of his dikshunary. Afterwards he taught me how to write "I love you, mama and papa," in hieroglyphs. Here it is. Your son, Ramses.'"

Together Emerson and I contemplated the untidy little row of picture signs. The signs blurred a trifle as I looked at them; but, as always when Ramses was concerned, amusement and irritation tempered sentimentality.

"How typical of Ramses," I said, smiling. "He misspells dictionary and vicious, but misses not a letter of hieroglyphs."

"I fear we have bred a monster," Emerson agreed, with a laugh. He began to tickle the cat under the chin. The animal, annoyed at being awakened, promptly seized his hand and began to bite it.

"What Ramses needs is discipline," I said.

"Or an adversary worthy of his steel," Emerson suggested. He pried the cat's teeth and claws from his hand and studied the animal thoughtfully. "I have just had an inspiration, Amelia."

I did not ask what it was. I preferred not to know. Instead I turned to the rest of the mail, which included a long, loving letter from Evelyn reassuring me as to Ramses' health and happiness. Like the good aunt she was, she did not even mention the dictionary incident. Emerson opened his own mail. After a while he handed two items to me for perusal. One was a telegram from Grebaut, canceling Emerson's permission to excavate and demanding that he re-hire the guards he had dismissed. After I had read it Emerson crumpled it up and tossed it out the window.

The second item was a clipping from a newspaper, sent us by Mr. Wilbour. The story, under the byline of Kevin O'Connell, described in vivid detail not only the kicking of the reporter down the stairs of Shepheard's Hotel, but also the knife in the wardrobe. Mr. O'Connell's informant had played him false with the latter incident, however; the knife, "a bejeweled weapon worthy of being worn by a pharaoh," was said to have been found driven into the center of the bedside table.

"Wait till I get my hands on that young man," I muttered.

"At least he did not break his word," Emerson said with surprising tolerance. "This story was written some days ago, before we made our agreement. Do you want to change the name in that envelope, Amelia?"

It took me a moment to understand what he meant. When I did, I replied, "Certainly not. Though this does raise a point I cannot yet explain. What about you?"

"My opinion is unchanged."

A low growl from the cat warned us that someone was approaching. A moment later there was a knock at the door. I opened it and admitted Daoud.

"The holy woman calls you to come," he said. "The sick man is awake and speaking."

"Curse it," Emerson exclaimed, shaking his fist in the astonished man's face. "Keep your voice down, Daoud. No one must know of this. Now get back to your post and hold your tongue."

Daoud obeyed and we proceeded, posthaste, to Arthur's room.

The Sister was bending over the sick man, as was Mary. Worn by illness as he was, it required both women's strength to keep him from sitting up.

"He must not move his head!" I exclaimed in alarm.

Emerson went to the bed. His big brown hands, so strong and yet so gentle, took hold of the injured member, immobilizing it. 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 realized 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 farfetched 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 antique 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
a bientot,
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 forward as eagerly as I did to Emerson's fantasia..

Fourteen

THE 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 recognized. 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 scepters. 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 lighted hotel. As I studied her somber and unattractive countenance I found a new source of uneasiness. Had I, after all, underestimated this woman?

With a loud "hem!" Emerson called us to attention. My heart swelled with affectionate pride as I looked on him, his hands tucked in his flowing sleeves like a Chinese mandarin, the silly cap perched on top of his thick black hair. Emerson's impressive presence invested even that absurd garb with dignity, and when he began to speak no one had the slightest inclination to laugh.

He spoke in English and in Arabic, translating phrase by phrase. Instead of making the audience impatient, this deliberate pace was all the more effective theatrically. He mocked the cowardice of the men of Gurneh and praised the courage and intelligence of his own men, tactfully omitting their recent lapse.

Then his voice rose to a shout that made his audience jump.

"I will tolerate this no longer! I am the Father of Curses, the man who goes where others fear to tread, the fighter of demons. You know me, you know my name! Do I speak the truth?"

He paused. A low murmur responded to this peculiar jumble of ancient formulas and modern Arabic boasting. Emerson went on.

"I know your hearts! I know the evildoers among you! Did you think you could escape the vengeance of the Father of Curses? No! My eye can see in the blackness of night, my ear can hear the words you think but do not utter!"

He strode quickly back and forth, moving his arms in mystic gestures. Whenever his steps took him toward the staring crowd, those in the front ranks drew back. Suddenly he came to a complete standstill. One arm lifted, the forefinger rigid and quivering. An almost visible current of force emanated from this extended digit; the awestruck watchers fell back before it. Emerson bounded forward and plunged into the crowd. The blue and white robes undulated like waves. When Emerson emerged from the human sea he was dragging a man with him—a man whose single eye glared wildly in the firelight.

"Here he is," Emerson bellowed. "My all-seeing eye has found him where he cowered among his betters."

The surrounding cliffs flung his words back in rumbling echoes. Then he turned to the man he held by the throat.

"Habib ibn Mohammed," he said. "Three times you have tried to kill me. Jackal, murderer of children, eater of dead man's bones—what madness seized you, that you dared to threaten me?"