Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (61 page)

I do not claim, nor have I ever claimed, any powers of spiritual awareness. Yet I will assert to this day that a cold wind seemed to touch my shrinking flesh. Something was amiss. I sensed it, even though none of the conventional senses confirmed my feeling of disaster. Again my eyes scanned the room. The wardrobe doors were open, the screen had been flung aside. But there was one place we had not searched. I wondered that I had not thought of it, since it was usually the first place I looked. Dropping to my knees beside the bed, I lifted the edge of the coverlet.

Emerson claims that I shrieked out his name. I have no recollection of doing so, but I must admit he was instantly at my side, panting from the speed with which he had returned.

‘Peabody, my dear girl, what is it? Are you injured?’ For he assumed, as he afterward told me, that I had collapsed or been struck to the floor.

‘No, no, not I – it is he. He is here, under the bed….’ Again I raised the coverlet, which in my shock I had let fall.

‘Good Gad!’ Emerson exclaimed. He grasped the limp hand that had been my first intimation of young Arthur’s presence.

‘Don’t,’ I cried. ‘He is still alive, but in dire straits; we dare not move him until we can ascertain the nature of his injury. Can we lift the bed, do you think?.’

In a crisis Emerson and I act as one. He went to the head of the bed, I to the foot; carefully we lifted the bed and set it to one side.

Arthur Baskerville lay on his back. His lower limbs were stiffly extended, his arms pressed close to his sides; the position was unnatural, and horribly reminiscent of the pose in which the Egyptians were wont to arrange their mummified dead. I wondered if my appraisal had been too optimistic, for if he was breathing, there was no sign of it. Nor was there any sign of a wound.

Emerson slipped his hand under the young man’s head. ‘No mystery about this,’ he said quietly. ‘He has been struck a vicious blow on the head. I fear his skull is fractured. Thank God you stopped me when I was about to drag him out from under the bed.’

‘I will send for a doctor,’ I said.

‘Sit down for a moment, my love; you are as white as paper.’

‘Don’t worry about me; send at once, Emerson, time may be of the essence.’

‘You will stay with him?’

‘I will not leave his side.’

Emerson nodded. Briefly his strong brown hand rested on my shoulder – the touch of a comrade and a friend. He had no need to say more. Again our minds were as one. The person who had struck Arthur Baskerville down had intended to commit murder. He (or she) had failed on this occasion. We must make sure he had no chance to try again.

It was past midnight before Emerson and I were able to retire to our room, and my first act was to collapse across the bed with a long sigh.

‘What a night!’

‘An eventful night indeed,’ Emerson agreed. ‘I believe it is the first time I ever heard you admit you had encountered a case that was beyond your skill.’

But as he spoke he sat down beside me and began loosening my tight gown with hands as gentle as his voice had been sarcastic. Stretching luxuriously, I allowed my husband to remove my shoes and stockings. When he brought a damp cloth and began to wipe my face, I sat up and took it from his hand.

‘Poor man, you deserve consideration too,’ I said. ‘After a sleepless night on a rocky bed you worked all day in that inferno; lie down and let me take care of you. I am better, indeed I am; there was no reason for you to treat me like a child.’

‘But you enjoyed it,’ Emerson said, smiling. I gave him a quick, tactile demonstration of my appreciation. ‘I did. But now it is your turn. Get into bed and try to snatch a few hours’ sleep. I know that in spite of everything you will be up at daybreak.’

Emerson kissed the hand with which I was wiping his brow (as I have had occasion to remark, he is amazingly sentimental in private), but slipped away from me and began pacing up and down the room.

‘I am too keyed up to sleep, Peabody. Don’t fuss over me; you know I can go for days without rest if need be.’

In his rumpled white shirt, open down the front to display his muscular chest, he was again the man I had first adored in the desert wilds, and I watched him for a time in tender silence. I sometimes compare Emerson’s physique to that of a bull, for his massive head and disproportionately wide shoulders do resemble that animal in form, as his fits of temper resemble it in disposition. But he has a surprisingly light and agile walk; when in motion, as on this occasion, one is rather reminded of a great cat, a stalking panther or tiger.

I was in no mood for sleep either. I arranged a pillow behind me and sat up.

‘You have done all you could for Arthur,’ I reminded him. ‘The doctor has agreed to spend the night, and I fancy Mary will not leave him either. Her concern was very touching. It would be quite a romantic situation if it were not so sad. I am more sanguine than Dr Dubois, though. The young fellow has a strong constitution. I believe he has a chance of recovery.’

‘But he will not be able to speak for days, if ever,’ Emerson replied, in a tone that told me romance and tragedy alike were wasted on him. ‘This is getting out of hand, Peabody. How can I concentrate on my tomb with all this nonsense going on? I see I must settle the matter or I will have no peace.’

‘Ah.’ I sat up alertly. ‘So you agree with the suggestion I made some time ago – that we must find Armadale and force him to confess.’

‘We must certainly do something,’ Emerson said gloomily. ‘And I admit that with Milverton-Baskerville out of the picture, Mr Armadale is the leading suspect. Curse the fellow! I was prepared to let him escape justice if he would leave me alone, but if he persists in interfering with my work, he will force me to take action.’

‘What do you propose?’ I asked. Of course I knew quite well what ought to be done, but I had decided it would be more tactful to let Emerson work it out for himself, assisted by occasional questions and comments from me.

‘We will have to look for the rascal, I suppose. It will be necessary to enlist some of the Gurneh men for that job. Our people are not familiar with the terrain. I know some of these sly devils quite well; in fact, there are a few old debts owing me which I now intend to call in. I had been saving them for an emergency. Now, I believe, the emergency has come.’

‘Splendid,’ I said sincerely. Emerson is always surprising me. I had no idea he was so unscrupulous, or that his acquaintance with the criminal element of Luxor was so extensive – for his reference to old debts, I felt sure, must refer to the trade in forgeries and stolen antiquities which is always going on in this region. What he was proposing, in short, was a form of blackmail. I approved heartily.

‘It will take me all morning to arrange it,’ Emerson went on, continuing to pace. ‘These people are so cursed leisurely. You will have to take charge of the dig, Amelia.’

‘Of course.’

‘Don’t sound so blasé. You will have to proceed with extreme caution, for fear of rockfalls and traps; and if you do find the burial chamber and enter it without me, I will divorce you.’

‘Naturally.’

Emerson caught my eye. His frown turned to a sheepish smile, and then to a hearty laugh. ‘We don’t make such a bad team, do we, Peabody? By the way, that costume you are wearing is singularly becoming; I am surprised that ladies haven’t adopted it for daytime wear.’

‘A pair of drawers and a camisole, lace-trimmed though they are, would hardly constitute fitting daytime wear,’ I retorted. ‘Now don’t try to change the subject, Emerson; we still have a great deal to talk about.’

‘True.’ Emerson sat down on the foot of the bed. Taking my bare feet in his hands, he pressed his lips to them in turn. My attempts to free myself were in vain; and, to be honest, I did not try very hard.

T
HE
following morning Arthur’s condition was unchanged. He lay in a deep coma, barely breathing. But the mere fact that he had lived through the night was a hopeful sign. I finally forced the physician to admit this. He was a fussy little Frenchman with ridiculous waxed moustaches and a large stomach, but he had quite a reputation among the European colony of Luxor, and after I had questioned him I was forced to admit that he seemed to know the rudiments of his trade. We agreed, he and I, that a surgical operation was not called for at that time; the bone of the skull, though cracked, did not appear to be pressing on the brain. I was, of course, relieved at this, but it would have been most interesting to assist at such an operation, which was successfully performed by several ancient cultures, including the Egyptian.

In short, there was nothing we could do for Arthur but wait until nature performed her task, and since there was no good hospital closer than Cairo, it would have been folly to move him.

Lady Baskerville offered to do the nursing. She would have been the logical person to assume the responsibility, but Mary was equally determined to tend the young man, and the argument became rather heated. Lady Baskerville’s eyes began to flash and her voice took on the rasping quality indicative of rising temper. When summoned to settle the dispute, Emerson aggravated both ladies by announcing that he had already asked for professional assistance. The professional, a nun from a nursing order in Luxor, duly arrived; and although I have no sympathy with the idolatrous practices of Popery, the sight of the calm, smiling figure in its severe black robes had an amazingly comforting effect.

Emerson and I then set out for the Valley; for he could not bear to carry out his business with the Gurnawis without at least looking in on his beloved tomb. I had a hard time keeping up with him; he went loping along the path as if a few seconds’ delay could be disastrous. I finally persuaded him to slow down because there were several questions I wanted to ask him. But before I could speak, he burst out, ‘We are so cursedly short-handed! Mary won’t be worth much today, she will be mooning over that worthless young man.’

This seemed an auspicious time to introduce the proposal I had formed concerning Mr O’Connell. Emerson responded more calmly than I had hoped.

‘If that young —— comes within six feet of me, I will kick him in the rear,’ he remarked.

‘You will have to abandon that attitude. We need him.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘Yes, we do. In the first place, giving him the exclusive rights to report on our activities means that we can exercise control over what he writes. Moreover, we are increasingly short of able-bodied men. I include myself in that category, of course – ’

‘Of course,’ Emerson agreed.

‘Even so, we are shorthanded. Someone ought to be at the house, with the women. The rest of us are needed at the dig. O’Connell knows nothing about excavation, but he is a sharp young fellow, and it would relieve my mind to know that a capable person was watching over the household. Mary is not incapable, I don’t mean to imply that, but between her work at the tomb and her duties to her mother, she will have more than enough to do.’

‘True,’ Emerson admitted.

‘I am glad you agree. After all, Armadale may strike again. You may think me fanciful, Emerson – ’

‘I do, Amelia, I do.’

‘ – but I am worried about Mary. Armadale once proposed to her, he may yet cherish an illicit passion. Suppose he decides to carry her off?’

‘Across the desert on his fleet white camel?’ Emerson enquired with a grin.

‘Your levity is disgusting.’

‘Amelia, you must overcome your ridiculous weakness for young lovers,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘If Armadale is skulking in the mountains, he has a great deal more on his mind than making love to some chit of a girl. But I agree with your earlier remark. Why do you suppose I called in a professional nurse? The blow aimed at Milverton-Baskerville (curse these people who travel under assumed names) was meant to silence him forever. The attacker may try again.’

‘So that occurred to you, did it?’

‘Naturally. I am not senile yet.’

‘It is not kind of you to expose the poor nun to the attentions of a murderer.’

‘I don’t believe there is any danger until Milverton shows signs of returning consciousness – if he ever does. All the same, your proposal about O’Connell has some merit, and I am willing to consider it. However, I refuse to speak to that fiend of a journalist myself. You will have to make the arrangements.’

‘I will gladly do so. But I think you are a little hard on him.’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘The Egyptians knew what they were about when they made Set, the ancient equivalent of Old Nick, a redheaded man.’

Our workmen had already arrived at the tomb. All of them, as well as Abdullah and Karl, were gathered around Feisal, the second in command, who was telling them about the attack on Arthur. Feisal was the best raconteur in the group, and he was going at it in great style, with furious gestures and grimaces. Our two guards, who of course had known nothing of the event until now, had forgotten their dignity and were listening as avidly as the men. Arabs greatly enjoy a well-told story and will listen over and over to a tale they know by heart, especially if it is narrated by a skilled storyteller. I suspected that Feisal had added a few embellishments of his own.