Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (153 page)

Whatever Ramses said had the desired effect. Bastet accompanied us when we left the house. Donald had declared his intention of escorting his beloved and seeing her safely to her tent. They followed at a discreet distance, whispering in the starlight. It was a perfect night for lovers – as indeed most nights in Egypt are – and I would have been content to walk in dreamy silence, with Emerson’s hand holding mine. However, Emerson was being stubborn.

‘If they are determined to go to Cairo and give themselves up tomorrow, it is essential that some responsible person accompany them,’ I insisted.

‘Absolutely not, Peabody. We will be shorthanded as it is once they have gone – although
she
was never much use, and
he
is too distracted by
her
to carry out his duties. I don’t know why you keep encouraging people like that. You always have a few of those vapid young persons hanging about, interfering with our work and complicating our lives. I have nothing against them, and I wish them well, but I will be glad to see the last of them.’

I let Emerson rant, which he did, scarcely pausing to draw breath, until we had reached our tent. I stopped to call a pleasant good night to the two shadowy forms behind us. Emerson took my hand and pulled me inside. For a long time thereafter, the only sounds that broke the stillness were the far-off cries of jackals.

When I woke in the pre-dawn darkness, it was not, for once, a burglar or an assassin who had disturbed my slumber. I had dreamed again – a dream so vivid and distinct that I had to stretch out my hand to Emerson in order to reassure myself that I was really in the tent with my husband at my side. The contours of those familiar features under my groping fingers brought a great sense of relief. Emerson snorted and mumbled but did not wake up.

I could have wished just then that he did not sleep so soundly. I felt a ridiculous need for consultation – even, though I am reluctant to confess it, for comforting. It was not so much the scenario of the dream that made me tremble in the darkness, but, if I may so express it, the psychic atmosphere that had prevailed. Anyone who has wakened shrieking from a nightmare will know what I mean, for in dreams the most innocuous objects can arouse extraordinary sensations of apprehension. I yearned to discuss my sensations with Emerson and hear his reassuring ‘Balderdash, Peabody!’

My better nature prevailed, as I hope it always does, and, creeping closer to his side, I sought once again to woo Morpheus. The fickle god would not be seduced, though I tried a variety of sleeping positions. Through all my tossing and turning Emerson lay like a log, his arms folded across his breast.

At last I abandoned the attempt. As yet no light penetrated the heavy canvas of the walls, but an indefinable freshness in the air told me that dawn could not be far off. Rising, I lighted a lamp and got dressed. As those who have attempted to perform this feat in the narrow confines of a tent can testify, it is impossible to do it gracefully or quietly, yet Emerson continued to sleep, undisturbed by the light or by my inadvertent stumbles over his limbs, or even by the jingling of my tool belt as I buckled it on. I had to pound gently on his chest and apply a variety of tactile stimuli to his face and form before his regular breathing changed its rhythm. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Without opening his eyes he put out his arm and pulled me down upon him.

As I believe I have mentioned, Emerson dislikes the encumbrance of sleeping garments. The vigour of his movement brought my belt and its fringe of hard, sharp-edged objects in sudden contact with a vulnerable portion of his anatomy, and the benevolent aspect of his countenance underwent a dreadful change. I clapped my hand over his mouth before the shriek bubbling in his throat could emerge.

‘Don’t cry out, Emerson. You will waken Enid and frighten the poor girl out of her wits.’

After a while the rigidity of Emerson’s muscular chest subsided, and his bulging eyes resumed their normal aspect. I deemed it safe to remove my hand.

‘Peabody,’ he said.

‘Yes, my dear Emerson?’

‘Are we surrounded by hostile Bedouin on the verge of a murderous attack?’

‘Why no, Emerson, I don’t think so.’

‘Did a shadowy figure creep into the tent, brandishing a knife?’

‘No.’

‘A mummified hand, perhaps? Slipping through the gap between the tent wall and the canvas floor, groping for your throat?’

‘Emerson, you are particularly annoying when you try to be sarcastic. There is nothing wrong. At least nothing of the sort you mention. It is almost morning, and I … I could not sleep.’

I removed my elbows from his chest and sat up. I said no more; but Emerson then demonstrated the sterling qualities that have won him the wholehearted affection of a woman who, I venture to assert, insists upon the highest standards in a spouse.

Once again his sinewy arms reached out and drew me into a close embrace – not quite so close, and with some degree of caution. ‘Tell me about it, Peabody,’ he said.

‘It sounds foolish,’ I murmured, resting my head against his breast.

‘I love you when you are foolish, Peabody. It is a rare event – if by foolish you mean gentle and yielding, timid and fearful…’

‘Stop that, Emerson,’ I said firmly, taking his hand. ‘I am not fearful; only puzzled. I had the most peculiar dream.’

‘That is also a rare event. Proceed.’

‘I found myself in a strange room, Emerson. It was decorated in the most luxurious and voluptuous fashion – rosy-pink draperies covering the walls and windows, a soft couch strewn with silken pillows, antique rugs, and a tiny tinkling fountain. Upon a low table of ebony and mother-of-pearl was a tray with fruit and wine, silver bowls and crystal glasses. A dreaming silence filled the chamber, broken only by the melodious murmur of the fountain.

‘I lay upon the couch. I felt myself to be wide awake, and my dreaming self was as bewildered by my surroundings as I myself would have been. My eyes were drawn to a fringed and embroidered curtain that concealed a door. How I knew this I cannot say; but I did, and I also knew something was approaching – that the door would soon open, the curtain lift – that I would see …’

‘Go on, Peabody.’

‘That was when I woke, Emerson – woke in a cold sweat of terror, trembling in every limb. You know, my dear, that I have no patience with the superstition that dreams are portents of things to come, but I cannot help but believe there is some deeper meaning in this dream.’

I could not see Emerson’s face, but I felt a hardening of the arms that held me. ‘Are you sure,’ he inquired, ‘that the emotion you felt was terror?’

‘That is a strange question, Emerson.’

‘It was a strange dream, Peabody.’ He sat up and put me gently from him, holding me by the shoulders and looking deep into my eyes. ‘Who was it, Peabody? Who was approaching the door?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Hmmm.’ He continued to gaze at me with that peculiar intensity. Then he said quietly, ‘I believe I can identify the origin of your dream, Peabody. Your description sounds like the one Father Todorus gave of his prison.’

‘Why, of course,’ I exclaimed. ‘You are quite right, Emerson. No doubt that explains it. Even my emotions were the same as those the poor old man must have felt.’

‘I am glad to have relieved your apprehension. Have I done so, Peabody?’

‘Yes, Emerson, and I thank you. Only – only I still have a sensation of approaching doom – that something lies in wait on the threshold of our lives–’

‘That is a sensation to which you should be accustomed,’ said Emerson, in his old sardonic manner. ‘Never mind, Peabody, we will face the danger together, you and I – side by side, back to back, shoulder to shoulder.’

‘With Ramses running around getting in the way,’ I said, emulating his light tone. ‘Emerson, I apologize for disturbing you with my nonsense. Do you dress now and I will go out and light the spirit stove and make some tea.’

I handed him his trousers, knowing he could never find them without a prolonged and profane search. Emerson’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug, and he accepted the offering.

I crawled to the entrance of the tent. The flap had been secured by a simple slip knot, running through a ring in the canvas floor. Unloosening this, I saw a slit of daylight outside. It was morning, though still very early. Rising, I pushed the flap aside and went out.

Immediately I felt myself falling. I had tripped over some object that lay before the tent. My outstretched hands struck the hard ground, but I felt the obstruction under my shins. Not until I stumbled to my feet did I see what it was.

Donald Fraser lay on his back. His limbs had been arranged, his hands were folded on his breast. A blackened hole like a third eye marked the centre of his forehead; his blue eyes were wide open and their surfaces were blurred by a faint dusting of sand.

I did not scream, as an ordinary woman might have done, but a loud, shrill cry of surprise did escape my lips. It brought Emerson rushing out of the tent with such precipitation that the most strenuous efforts on my part were required to prevent both of us from falling onto the corpse a second time. An oath broke from Emerson; but before he could enlarge upon the theme, he was distracted by a third person who came running toward us.

‘The assassin,’ Emerson exclaimed, freeing himself from my grasp and raising his fist. As he recognized the newcomer his arm fell nervelessly to his side and I myself staggered under the shock of the impression. I looked from Donald, alive and on his feet, to Donald recumbent and slain; and then, somewhat belatedly, the truth dawned on me.

‘It is Ronald, not Donald,’ I exclaimed. ‘What is he doing here? What is either of them doing here?’

Donald had seen his brother. The rays of the sun warmed the dead man’s face with a false flush of life, but there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Ronald was no more. With a cry that sent a thrill of sympathy through my veins, Donald dropped to his knees beside the body.

‘Don’t touch him,’ Emerson said sharply. ‘There is nothing anyone can do for him now. He has been dead for hours; the rigidity of the limbs is well advanced.’

Donald might not have heeded this sensible advice, but the sound of someone approaching reminded him of a more important duty. He rose and ran to meet Enid, taking her in his arms and holding her head against his breast. ‘Don’t look,’ he said in broken tones. ‘It is Ronald – my poor brother, dead, foully slain!’

The cat Bastet was at Enid’s heels. After a curious but cursory inspection of the body she sat down and began washing herself. I was tempted to speak severely to her about her failings as a watch cat, but upon reflection I decided she could not be blamed for failing to warn us of the killer’s presence, if, as I assumed, she had been shut in Enid’s tent. Her primary responsibility had been to watch over the girl and that aim had been achieved, though how much of the credit was due to the cat Bastet only she (the cat) and heaven knew.

Emerson went into the tent and return with a blanket, which he threw over the dead man. ‘A suspicion of murder does indeed arise,’ he said grimly. ‘Aside from the fact that I see no weapon in his hand, he must have been carried to this spot after the deed was done. I am a sound sleeper, but I rather think a pistol shot five feet from my ear would have awakened me. Come, come, Donald, pull yourself together. Your grief is somewhat absurd, considering the fact that your brother has done his best to ruin you. Explain your presence.’

Holding Enid in the curve of his arm, Donald turned. With his free hand he dashed the tears from his eyes. ‘I do not apologize for my womanly weakness,’ he muttered. ‘At such a time resentment is forgotten and a thousand tender memories of childhood soften the recent past. Professor, surely my brother’s death casts a doubt upon his culpability. He cannot have taken his own life.’

‘Precisely,’ Emerson said.

Enid, more quick-witted than her lover, instantly understood Emerson’s meaning. ‘How dare you, Professor! Are you suggesting that Donald murdered his brother?’

‘What?’ Donald cried. ‘Enid, my darling, you don’t believe–’

‘No, my darling, of course not. But he–’

Emerson let out a roar. ‘If I hear one more maudlin phrase or sentimental endearment, I will abandon you to your fate! You are in a pretty fix, Mr Donald Fraser, and I have a feeling we may be short on time. Answer me without delay. What brought you here at this hour?’

‘I have been here all night,’ Donald said.

‘I see.’ Emerson’s critical frown softened. ‘Well, Mr Fraser, I must say that demonstrates better sense than I had expected from you. Miss Debenham can testify that you were with her–’

‘Sir,’ Donald exclaimed, his cheeks flushed with indignation. ‘You are casting aspersions upon the noblest, the purest girl who ever–’

Enid’s face was as rosy as his. ‘Oh, Donald, you dear, adorable idiot … He
was
with me, Professor. I shall swear to it in court.’

Donald protested, of course, and it took several roars from Emerson to silence the pair. To summarize the confused and impassioned statements that were eventually produced, it seemed that Donald had spent the night stretched out on a rug before the entrance to his beloved’s sleeping quarters. She had not been aware of his presence, and neither had heard anything out of the way.

Emerson gave the young man a look of blistering contempt. ‘It is this cursed public-school spirit,’ he muttered. ‘Of all the pernicious, fatuous attitudes … What of Ramses, you irresponsible young fool?’

‘He promised me solemnly he would not leave the house during the night. I felt I could take his word–’

‘Oh yes,’ I said hollowly. ‘But, Donald, the night is spent.’

Across the desert, from out of the sunrise, galloped a splendid horse, with a small figure perched on its back.

Ramses tried to bring the mare to a spectacular, rearing stop. The feat was of course quite beyond his strength; he rolled off the animal’s back and hit the ground with a thump. Rising to hands and knees, he began, ‘Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Papa. Good–’

Emerson hoisted him to his feet. ‘Eschew the formalities, my son,’ he said.