Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (48 page)

I pressed his arm sympathetically. I understood why he had not mentioned the story; even now the memory affected him deeply. The softer side of Emerson’s character is not known to many people, but those who are in trouble instinctively sense his real nature and seek him out, as the unhappy girl had done.

After a moment of thoughtful silence he shook himself and said, in his usual careless tone, ‘So take care with Mr Vandergelt, Amelia. He was not exaggerating when he called himself an admirer of the fair sex, and if I learn that you have yielded to his advances I will beat you.’

‘I will take care that you don’t catch me, never fear. But, Emerson, we are going to have a hard time solving this case if we hope to do it by using you as bait. There are too many people in Egypt who would like to kill you.’

A
magnificent sunset turned the reflecting water to a shimmering scarf of crimson and gold as we set sail for the east bank and our appointment with Lady Baskerville. Emerson was sulking because I had insisted we take a carriage from the house to the quay. No man but Emerson would have considered walking across the fields in full evening kit, much less expect me to trail my red satin skirts and lace ruffles through the dirt; but Emerson is unique. When he behaves irrationally it is necessary to be firm with him.

He cheered up, however, when we embarked, and indeed few people could fail to be moved to enjoyment at such sensations. The cool evening breeze bathed our faces, the felucca slid smoothly across the water, and before us unrolled the glorious panorama of Luxor – the vivid green of palms and gardens, the statues and pillars and pylons of the Theban temples. A carriage was waiting for us and it bore us swiftly through the streets to the Luxor Hotel, where Lady Baskerville was staying.

As we entered the lobby the lady came gliding to meet us, her hands outstretched. Although she wore black I did not consider the gown suitable for a recently bereaved widow.

The abominable bustle, which had so vexed me in the past, was on its way out. Lady Baskerville’s gown was of the latest style, with only a small drapery behind. The layers of black net forming the skirts were so full and the puffs of fabric at her shoulders so exaggerated that her waist looked ridiculously small. She was tightly corseted, and the extent of shoulder and throat exposed was, in my opinion, almost indecent. The waxy white flowers crowning her upswept hair were also inappropriate.

(I do not apologise for this digression into fashion. Not only is it intrinsically interesting, but it shows something of the woman’s character.)

Lady Baskerville gave me her fingertips and clasped Emerson’s hand warmly. She then turned to introduce us to her companion.

‘We met earlier,’ said Cyrus Vandergelt, beaming down at us. ‘It sure is nice to see you folks again. Mrs Emerson, may I say your dress is right pretty. That red colour suits you.’

‘Let us go in to dinner,’ Lady Baskerville said, with a slight frown.

‘I thought Miss Mary and her friend were joining us,’ Vandergelt said.

‘Mary said she would come if she were able. But you know her mother.’

‘I sure enough do!’ Vandergelt rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Have you met Madame Berengeria, Mrs Emerson?’

I indicated that I had not had the pleasure. Vandergelt went on, ‘She claims she came here to study ancient Egyptian religion, but I opine it’s because living is cheap. I don’t like to speak ill of any member of the fair sex, but Madame Berengeria is an awful woman.’

‘Now, Cyrus, you must not be unkind,’ said Lady Baskerville, who had listened with a faint pleased smile. She enjoyed hearing other women criticised as much as she disliked hearing them complemented. ‘The poor thing cannot help it,’ she went on, turning to Emerson. ‘I believe her mind is deficient. We are all very fond of Mary, so we tolerate her mother; but the poor child is kept dancing attendance on the old. . . on the unfortunate creature, and can seldom get away.’

Emerson shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and inserted a finger under his collar, as he does when he is uncomfortable or bored. Reading these signs correctly – as any married woman would – Lady Baskerville was turning toward the dining salon when Mr Vandergelt let out a muffled exclamation.

‘Holy shucks!’ (At least I believe that was the phrase.) ‘How the dickens – look who’s here. You didn’t invite her, did you?’

‘Certainly not.’ Lady Baskerville’s voice had a distinct rasp as her eyes lit on the person who had prompted Vandergelt’s remark. ‘That would not prevent her from coming, though. The woman has the manners of a peasant.’

Coming towards us was a singular pair. One was a young lady dressed modestly in a somewhat out-of-date evening frock of pale-yellow voile. Ordinarily she would have captured anyone’s attention, for she was the possessor of an unusually exotic style of beauty, her olive skin and dark, long-lashed eyes, her delicate features and slender frame were so like those of the aristocratic Egyptian ladies depicted in the tomb paintings that her modern dress looked out of place, like a riding habit on an antique statue of Diana. One expected to see diaphanous linen robes, collars of turquoise and carnelian, anklets and bracelets of gold adorning her limbs.

All these, and more, bedecked the woman who was with her, and whose extraordinary appearance drew the eye from the girl’s pretty face. She was an extremely large woman, standing several inches taller than her daughter and being correspondingly broad. The linen robe she wore was no longer pure white, but a dingy grey. The beaded collar that attempted in vain to cover her ample bosom was a cheap imitation of the jewels worn by pharaohs and their ladies. On her very large feet were skimpy sandals; around the imprecise region of her waist a brightly embroidered sash had been knotted. Her hair was a huge black beehive surmounted by a bizarre headdress consisting of feathers, flowers, and cheap copper ornaments.

I pinched Emerson. ‘If you say just one of the words that are in your mind…’ I hissed, leaving the threat unspecified.

‘I’ll keep quiet if you will,’ Emerson replied. His shoulders were shaking and his voice quivered.

‘And try not to laugh,’ I added.

A stifled whoop was the only answer.

Madame Berengeria swept toward us, towing her daughter along in her wake. A closer examination confirmed what I had suspected – that the unnaturally black hair was a wig, like those worn by the ancients. The contrast between this dreadful object, which appeared to be constructed of horsehair, and Miss Mary’s soft, shining locks would have been amusing if it had not been so horrid.

‘I came,’ Madame Berengeria announced dramatically. ‘The messages were favourable. I was given the strength to endure a meeting devoid of spiritual comfort.’

‘How nice,’ said Lady Baskerville, baring her long white teeth as if she thirsted to sink them in the other woman’s throat. ‘Mary, my child, I am delighted to see you. Let me present you to Professor and Mrs Emerson.’

The girl acknowledged the introduction with a shy smile. She had very pretty, old-fashioned manners – which she had certainly not learned from her mother. Emerson, his amusement forgotten, studied the girl with a blend of pity and admiration, and I wondered if her lovely face, so Egyptian in character, had reminded him of the murdered Aziza.

Without waiting to be introduced, Madame thrust herself forward, catching Emerson’s hand and holding it, with odious familiarity, in both of hers. Her fingers were stained with henna and quite dirty.

‘We need no formal presentation, Professor,’ she boomed, in a voice so loud that the few heads that had not turned to mark her entrance now swivelled in our direction. ‘Or may I call you . . . Set-nakhte?’

‘I don’t see why the devil you should,’ Emerson replied in astonishment.

‘You don’t remember.’ They were almost of a height, and she had come so close to him that when she let out a gusty sigh Emerson’s hair waved wildly. ‘It is not given to all of us to remember former lives,’ she went on. ‘But I had hoped . . . I was Ta-weseret, the Queen, and you were my lover.’

‘Good Gad,’ Emerson exclaimed. He tried to free his hand, but the lady hung on. Her grip must have been as strong as a man’s, for Emerson’s fingers turned white as hers tightened.

‘Together we ruled in ancient Waset,’ Madame Berengeria continued raptly. ‘That was after we had murdered my wretched husband, Ramses.’

Emerson was distracted by this inaccuracy. ‘But,’ he protested, ‘Ramses was not the husband of Ta-weseret, and it is not at all certain that Set-nakhte – ’

‘Murdered!’ Madame Berengeria shouted, causing Emerson to flinch back. ‘Murdered! We suffered for that sin in other lives, but the grandeur of our passion. . . Ah, Setnakhte, how could you forget?’

Emerson’s expression, as he contemplated the self-proclaimed partner of his passion, was one I will long remember with enjoyment. However, the woman was beginning to wear on me, and when my husband cast a look of piteous appeal in my direction, I decided to intervene.

I always carry a parasol. I find it invaluable in many different ways. My working parasol is of stout black bombazine with a steel shaft. Naturally the one I carried that evening matched my frock and was eminently suitable for formal occasions. I brought it down smartly on Madame Berengeria’s wrist. She yelped and let go of Emerson.

‘Dear me, how careless of me,’ I said.

For the first time the lady looked directly at me.

Black kohl, lavishly smeared around her eyes, made her look as if she had suffered a severe beating. The orbs themselves were unusual. The irises were of an indeterminate shade between blue and grey, and so pale that they blended with the muddy white of the eye. The pupils were dilated to an unusual degree. Altogether it was a most unpleasant set of optics, and the concentrated and venomous intelligence with which they regarded me assured me of two things: one, that I had made an enemy; two, that Madame’s eccentricities were not entirely without calculation.

Lady Baskerville seized Mr Vandergelt’s arm; I took possession of my poor gaping Emerson; and leaving Madame and her unfortunate daughter to bring up the rear, we proceeded to the dining salon. A table had been prepared for us, and it was there that the next difficulty arose, caused, as one might have expected, by Madame Berengeria.

‘There are only six places,’ she exclaimed, settling herself at once into the nearest chair. ‘Did not Mary tell you, Lady Baskerville, that my young admirer will also be dining?’

The effrontery of this was so enormous as to leave the hearers with nothing to say. Shaking with fury, Lady Baskerville summoned the maitre d’hôtel and requested that an additional place be set. In defiance of custom I placed Emerson firmly between myself and our hostess, which left Mr Vandergelt to partner Madame Berengeria. Her appearance had thrown the arrangements out in every conceivable way, for there was now an uneven number of ladies and gentlemen. The empty chair awaiting Madame Berengeria’s ‘admirer’ chanced to be between me and Miss Mary. So preoccupied was I with other matters that it did not occur to me to wonder who this person might be. I was taken completely by surprise when a familiar freckled face surmounted by an equally well-known shock of flaming red hair made its appearance.

‘Heartfelt apologies for my tardiness, Lady Baskerville,’ said Mr O’Connell, bowing. ‘’Twas unavoidable, I assure you. What a pleasure to see so many friends! Is this my place? Sure an’ I couldn’t want a better one.’

As he spoke he inserted himself neatly into the vacant chair and bestowed an inclusive hearty smile upon the party.

Seeing, by the intensifying livid hue of his countenance, that Emerson was on the verge of an explosive comment, I trod heavily upon his foot.

‘I did not expect to meet you here, Mr O’Connell,’ I said. ‘I trust you have recovered from your unfortunate accident.’

‘Accident?’ Mary exclaimed, her soft dark eyes widening. ‘Mr O’Connell, you did not tell me – ’

‘It was nothing,’ O’Connell assured her. ‘I clumsily lost my footing and fell down a few stairs.’ He looked at me, his eyes narrowed with amusement. ‘’Tis kind you are, Mrs Emerson, to be remembering such a trivial incident.’

‘I am relieved to hear that you considered it trivial,’ I said, maintaining my pressure on Emerson’s foot, which twitched and writhed under the sole of my shoe.

Mr O’Connell’s eyes were as innocent as limpid pools of water. ‘To be sure I did. I only hope my editors feel the same.’

‘I see,’ I said.

Waiters bustled up carrying bowls of clear soup, and the meal began. Conversation also began, each person turning to his dinner partner. Thanks to Madame, this comfortable social custom was confused by the presence of an extra person, and I found myself with no one to talk to. I did not object; sipping my soup, I was able to eavesdrop on the other conversations in turn, to my edification and entertainment.

The two young people seemed on friendly terms. Indeed, I suspected Mr O’Connell’s feelings were somewhat warmer; his eyes never left the girl’s face and his voice took on the soft, caressing tones that are typical of the Irish. Though Mary evidently enjoyed his admiration, I was not sure that her affections were seriously engaged. I also observed that though Madame Berengeria was regaling Mr Vandergelt with a description of her romance with Setnakhte, she kept a close eye on the young people. Before long she turned abruptly and interrupted O’Connell in the middle of a compliment. This freed Vandergelt; catching my eye, he pantomimed a sigh of relief and joined in the discussion between Emerson and Lady Baskerville.