The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (54 page)

"Don't look like that," I exclaimed. "She is perfectly all right. This sort of thing is ... is not uncommon."

"But it rather compounds my offense, don't you think?" Ramses inquired. "Not only her husband, but her—"

"That is morbid and self-indulgent," I said sharply. "The wretched man was a murderer and you risked yourself trying to save his life."

"Does she know that? My blow knocked him into the shaft. She didn't see what happened afterward."

"She must know. If she doesn't, I will tell her. As for... As for the other, it was not even ... She was only.... I am speaking of weeks, not months."

Ramses pulled himself to his feet. "Excuse me. I will be in my room if I am wanted."

David started after him. Ramses turned on his friend with lowering brows and bared teeth. Never had he so closely resembled his father. "For God's sake, leave me alone!"

"Oh, dear," I said. "Oh, dear! David—"

"Never mind, Aunt Amelia. I understand. I'll be nearby if he should want me." He followed Ramses out.

Emerson took me by the hand. "Sit down, my dearest. You are certain Nefret is safe?"

"Oh yes," I said wearily. "She is young and strong; she will be herself again in a few days. It is Ramses I am concerned about. He seems to blame himself, and there is no need, Emerson, indeed there is not; it was Geoffrey's doing, all of it, from start to finish. I must go to Ramses, Emerson, and tell him—"

"No, sweetheart. Not now."

"Come and sit by me, Emerson, please. And you might just put your arm round me, if you wouldn't mind."

"My darling!" Holding me close, he rocked me gently as he would have rocked a child. "It's all right, Peabody. We'll weather this as we have weathered other troubles. It could be worse, you know."

"Could be, and has been," I agreed, taking heart from his closeness and strength. "Does your wound pain you, my dear? Perhaps I ought to have another look at it. I was in something of a hurry when—"

"No," Emerson said emphatically. "I feel half a mummy as it is."

"When I think what horrible harm that wretched man has done, I am sorry his death was so quick," I said fiercely. "It was money he wanted, wasn't it? No crime was too vile if it brought him wealth—dealing in drugs, robbing a tomb, selling forgeries— even marrying Nefret."

Emerson shook his head. "Her fortune was certainly an attraction, but as you know, Peabody, it is entirely under her control. I think he loved her as much as he was capable of loving anyone. In his own strange way."

"Strange indeed. How could we have been so obtuse, Emerson? All the evidence that made me suspect Jack applied equally well to Geoffrey, once I realized that the wretch had been poor Maude's lover. Why that possibility did not occur to me long ago I cannot imagine."

"Nor can I," said Emerson.

"Jack would never have had the imagination to think of manufacturing forgeries to cover up his sale of illegal antiquities," I went on. "He trusted Geoffrey; it would not have occurred to him that his friend would seduce his sister and use her for his own evil ends. She was putty in his hands, until she lost her heart to another and hoped to win his regard by betraying Geoffrey."

"Well, now, Peabody, that does seem extraordinary," Emerson remarked, in almost his normal voice. "She was a poor, silly little creature, but would she have been fool enough to believe a confession of that sort could win Ramses's affection? And how did Geoffrey get wind of her intention in time to stop her?"

"She warned him, of course," I said wearily. "To a silly, romantic girl, that would seem the honorable thing to do. She never realized how ruthless he was. Women can be perfect idiots where a man is concerned."

"Why, my dear, I believe that is the first time I have ever heard you make a rude generalization about your own gender."

"It is very good of you to make little jokes in an attempt to cheer me, Emerson." I drew away from him and smoothed my hair.

"That was not a joke." But his blue eyes shone with mingled amusement and tenderness, and he put his arm round my waist. "What is it, Peabody? What troubles you? We've come through another bad time relatively unscathed, and the ending, though dreadful enough, was at least... an ending."

"It was mercifully quick and final," I agreed. "Even the ... the other business ... Cruel as it may sound, one must regard the sad event as a blessing in disguise."

"Does she regard it as a blessing in disguise?"

"I didn't say that to her, Emerson! What sort of clumsy fool do you take me for? She wept very much. And oh, Emerson—" My tears could not be restrained. Mumbling incoherent words of affection, Emerson picked me up and took me onto his lap. "She didn't want me," I snuffled, against his shoulder. "Whenever she looked at me she started crying again."

A week later I met the morning train from Luxor and greeted my dear old friend Doctor Willoughby. My telegram had said only that he was needed; good man that he was, he had abandoned his patients and his clinic and come at once. As we proceeded by carriage to the house, I told him the entire story, holding nothing back, for I trusted his discretion as I trusted his expertise in nervous disorders.

"Physically she has fully recovered, Doctor, and she tries to eat and exercise and do all the other things I ask. It is heartbreaking to see how hard she tries—to see the effort it costs her to smile and pretend she is glad to see me. She doesn't want to see me, Dr. Willoughby! She doesn't want any of us. Most of the time she lies there without moving or speaking, and when she thinks we are not looking she starts to cry again."

"My dear Mrs. Emerson, it is not surprising," the good man said soothingly. "I have seldom heard such a tragic story. Wife and widow in the space of only a few weeks—learning that the young husband she had loved was a monster of villainy—seeing him die in such a horrible fashion—and then her hopes of motherhood destroyed! You cannot expect complete emotional recovery in so short a time. Don't apologize for summoning me; I would have been offended if you had not."

I had not told him the thing that worried me most. Try as she might to hide it, she shrank from me and from Emerson, the very sight of whom brought tears to her eyes; but Ramses she would not see at all, and he made no effort to see her. Surely, I told myself, she could not be so unjust as to blame him for what had happened. It was the only interpretation that occurred to me, however, and I dared not ask her point-blank while she was in her present state. Lia, from whom I had hoped to gain additional information, was unable or unwilling to give it. She claimed—and I had no reason to doubt her—that Nefret would not talk to her either. I would have worried about Lia too, if I had not had more pressing matters on my mind; she crept about the house like a little shadow of herself, finding solace only in the company of her husband. I thought I understood the cause of her distress; did we not all feel the same?

Dr. Willoughby stayed with us for two days. On three separate occasions he was alone with Nefret, but he would not discuss his diagnosis until after the final visit. We were all waiting for him in the courtyard that afternoon, and when he joined us Emerson jumped up and poured whiskey and soda for everyone, including Lia, who never drank whiskey and soda. Willoughby took his glass with a nod of thanks.

"I won't mince words, my friends," he said gravely. "The situation is more serious than I thought. I believe I have won her confidence, up to a point, but there is something preying on her mind she won't speak of even to me." His tired, kindly gray eyes—the eyes of a man who has seen too much sorrow—moved around the circle of anxious faces. "One thing you must understand; it may help to relieve you. She holds no one except herself accountable for what happened. The cause of her present illness is not grief, as I supposed, but guilt."

"Guilt!" I cried. "About what, in heaven's name? That is ridiculous, Dr. Willoughby. No one blames her; how could we? I will tell her so."

"If it were only that simple!" Dr. Willoughby sighed and shook his head. "I am not a follower of the new schools of psychological theory, Mrs. Emerson, but years of experience have taught me that the causes of mental illness cannot be countered by rational argument. You cannot cure an individual suffering from melancholia by pointing out that he has many reasons to be happy. You cannot remove Nefret's feelings of guilt by telling her they are groundless. She must come to terms with them herself."

My own experience told me he was right. "But if we could discover why she feels guilty?" I persisted.

"That is a task for an expert," Willoughby replied. "Not for me, or even for you—especially for you, Mrs. Emerson, if I may be so bold as to say so. The power of love is strong, but it can cloud the clinical detachment necessary for diagnosis and cure."

"In other words," said Emerson heavily, "you are telling us to keep out of it."

"I wouldn't have put it quite that way." Willoughby smiled. "Be of good heart, my friends, I gave you the bad news first. The good news is that I feel certain she will make a full recovery, in time."

"Have you any practical suggestions?" Emerson inquired.

"Originally I intended to suggest you bring her to Luxor, to my clinic. Now I think it would be advisable to remove her altogether from anything that reminds her of the tragedy."

"Including us?" Ramses asked. It was the first time he had spoken.

"I don't know," Willoughby admitted wearily. "We could hire a nurse to escort her; there is a private sanitarium in Switzerland that specializes in such cases."

"I will accompany them," I said firmly. "Without Nefret's knowledge, if you think it advisable."

Willoughby smiled at me. "I assumed you would say that. As soon as possible, then."

The arrangements were soon underway. With the doctor's concurrence, I told Nefret what had been planned.

It had been several days since I had ventured to visit her. I dreaded that interview and yet I yearned for it; the sympathetic Reader will understand those conflicting emotions. Nefret was sitting by the window wearing one of her pretty dressing gowns; Kadija, who had been with her, slipped out of the room when I entered, and I knew it was that silent, loving woman who had helped her to dress and brushed her hair. She looked better, I thought, and she summoned a faint smile of welcome.

"Dr. Willoughby told you we are sending you to Switzerland?" I inquired, taking the chair next to hers.

"Yes. I am sorry to cause so much trouble."

The listless voice struck straight to my heart, destroying my habitual self-control. I reached for her hand. "Don't you know that there is no trouble we would not take for you—you, who are as dear as a daughter?"

She flinched as if I had struck her. The fingers of the hand I held twisted, not in rejection, but in order to clasp mine more tightly. "You don't know what I have done."

"I don't know what you think you have done. It could not make me love you less."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she held them back. "I'll be better soon. I promise."

"I am sure you will. Do you want—will you let me come with you to Switzerland?"

She was silent for a moment. Then she murmured, as if to herself, "I must make a start. I am only hurting them more."

I ached with pity—and, yes, with curiosity—but I knew I dared not question her. So I waited, holding her hand in mine, until she nodded. "I would like you to come."

"Thank you," I said warmly. "What about... the others? Emerson has been so worried about you he isn't fit to live with. I don't believe I can stand his fits of temper much longer."

That brought another smile. "Bless him. Would he leave his work, though?"

"He would abandon the richest tomb in Egypt to be with you."

Her lips trembled. "If that is what he wants ..."

I decided I had better not push my luck by asking about Ramses. I hastened to tell Emerson the good news, and came close to tears myself when I saw how his drawn face brightened.

For the past week Emerson had done nothing at the site, not even starting to remove the stones that blocked the passage. We had been busy enough, heaven knows, telegraphing Geoffrey's family and making the arrangements for a quiet private burial, talking with various government officials and Mr. Russell of the police. (I made it quite clear to him that Ramses was not to be a policeman.) Poor Jack Reynolds had to be consoled and nursed,

Karl von Bork had to be lectured and set straight. The Vandergelts had rushed back to Cairo as soon as they learned of the tragedy, and Katherine was a great help to me with the last two; it was she who suggested that Karl be given the responsibility for Jack's care, and our German friend's response encouraged me to hope that this would be the saving of both of them.

Of Geoffrey's burial I will not speak. I was there because I felt I ought to be. The only member of the family who accompanied me was Ramses. I had told him he could not come, but he came anyhow.

I did not know what I was going to do about Ramses. "Leave him alone" was Emerson's advice; "leave me alone" was the unspoken message I received loud and clear from Ramses himself.

Now, with his mind more at ease about Nefret, Emerson declared his intention of investigating the substructure of the pyramid. Privately he explained to me that he was only doing it in the hope of "cheering Ramses up." I did not question his motives— not aloud, at any rate.