Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (71 page)

The next section of my little chart was not so neat. Lady Baskerville’s motives for bashing Arthur on the head were obscure, unless there was some clause in his lordship’s will that allowed certain properties to revert to his wife in the event of the death of his heir. That seemed not only unlikely, but positively illegal.

I went doggedly on to the question of opportunity.

Lord Baskerville
. His wife’s opportunity of getting at him was excellent. But how the devil had she done it?

Armadale
. No opportunity. How had Lady Baskerville known the location of the cave? If she had killed Armadale at or near the house, she would have had to transport his body to the cave – obviously impossible for a woman.

Weak, very weak! I could almost hear Emerson’s jeer. The truth of the matter was I wanted Lady Baskerville to be the murderer. I never liked the woman.

I gazed disconsolately at my chart, which was not working as I had hoped. With a sigh I turned to a fresh page and tried another arrangement.

Suspect:
Arthur Baskerville, alias Charles Milverton.

That had a fine, professional look to it. Emboldened, I went on:

Motive:
inheritance and revenge. (So far, so good.)

In fact, Arthur’s motive was particularly strong. It accounted for his imbecilic behaviour in presenting himself to his uncle incognito. This was the act of a romantic young idiot. Arthur
was
a romantic young idiot; but if he had planned in advance to kill his uncle, he had a very good reason for taking a false name. Once Baskerville was dead (how? curse it, how?) Arthur could return to Kenya, and it was most unlikely that anyone would have connected Arthur, Lord Baskerville, with the former Charles Milverton. He could probably claim the title and estates without ever going to England, and if he did have to go, he could make excuses to avoid Lady Baskerville.

With a start I realised that my chart had taken to wandering all over the page. I took a firm grip on my wits and my pencil, and returned to the proper form.

Suspect:
Cyrus Vandergelt. His motives were only too clear. Contrary to the stern warning of Scripture, he had coveted his neighbour’s wife.

It was at that point I realised I had not discussed Arthur’s means or opportunity, or explained who had struck him down if he was the original killer.

Gritting my teeth, I turned the page over and tried again.

This approach was based on the assumption that Lord Baskerville’s death was a red herring – or, to put it more elegantly, that his lordship had died a natural death; that the so-called mark on his brow was a meaningless stain, misinterpreted by sensation-seekers; and that the murderer had taken advantage of the furore following his lordship’s death to commit a murder whose true motive would be obscured.

The obvious suspect here was Mr O’Connell. He had not only taken advantage of the story of the curse, he had invented it. I did not suppose that he had murdered Armadale in cold blood; no, the killing had obviously resulted from a sudden rush of jealous passion. Once the deed was done, a clever man – which O’Connell undoubtedly was – might have seen how he could avert suspicion by making Armadale’s death seem related to that of Lord Baskerville.

The same motive – love of Mary – could apply in the case of Karl von Bork. In my opinion he was not capable of the sort of grand passion that might drive a man to violence. But still waters run deep. And once or twice Karl had displayed hidden depths of feeling and of cunning.

By this time my chart had abandoned all pretence of form, and my random jottings, embodying the thoughts I have expressed in more developed form above, were sprawling all over the page. I studied it in some exasperation. My thought processes are always orderly. The case was simply not susceptible to this means of organisation. It is all very well for writers of crime fiction; they invent the crime and the solution, so they can arrange things the way they like.

I decided to abandon the outline and let my thoughts stray where they would.

Solely on the basis of opportunity one would have to eliminate all the women from suspicion. Madame Berengeria’s motive was excellent; she might not be mad in the medical sense, but she was mad enough to destroy anyone who might wish to interfere with her selfish hold on her daughter. However, she and Mary resided on the east bank. The bodies had all been discovered on the west bank. I could not visualise either Mary or her mother scampering through the dark streets of Luxor, hiring a boat and bribing the boatmen to silence, then running through the fields of the western shore. The idea that Madame could have done this not once but several times was ludicrous – unless she had hired accomplices to do the actual killing. And although Lady Baskerville had been on the scene, such activity on the part of a lady of elegant and languid habits seemed equally unlikely. The murder of Armadale presented particular difficulties, as I had indicated in my initial attempt at a chart.

At this point in my cogitations Mr Vandergelt and Mr O’Connell arrived, having met at the quay. I was glad to abandon my futile outlines; for I had decided I had been right all along.

Mr Vandergelt’s first question concerned the state of our operations on the tomb.

‘You haven’t broken through that wall yet, have you?’ he demanded. ‘I’ll never forgive you, Mrs Amelia, if you didn’t wait for me.’

‘I think you are just in time,’ I retorted, hastily hiding my notebook under a pile of chips. ‘I was about to go down myself to see how matters are progressing.’

We met Mary on her way out. She was in an indescribable state of dampness and dirt, but her eyes shone triumphantly as she displayed a splendid drawing, the result of her uncomfortable labours. It was not, I thought, quite equal to Evelyn’s efforts; but perhaps I am prejudiced. Certainly it was a fine piece of work, and I knew Emerson would be pleased with it.

Crooning in an exaggerated Irish brogue, Mr O’Connell carried Mary off to rest, and Vandergelt and I descended the steps.

Already the newly constructed wooden structure was in place over the shaft, and the men were preparing to make a hole in the wall.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Emerson remarked unnecessarily. ‘I was just about to go and fetch you.’

‘Like fun you were,’ said Vandergelt. ‘Never mind, Professor; if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t want to wait either. What’s the plan?’

I will spare the reader further technical details; they can be found in Emerson’s superb report, which is to appear this fall in the
Zeitschrift für Aegyptische Sprache
. Suffice it to say that the hole was drilled and Emerson looked through it. Waiting with bated breath, Vandergelt and I heard him groan.

‘What is it?’ I cried. ‘A dead end? An empty sarcophagus? Tell us the worst, Emerson.’

Silently Emerson made way for us. Vandergelt and I each put one eye to the opening.

Another corridor stretched down into darkness. It was half filled with debris – not the deliberate limestone fill of the first corridor, but fragments of a collapsed ceiling and wall, mingled with scraps of gilded wood and brown linen – the remains of mummy wrappings.

Withdrawing the candle from the hole, I held it up, and in its light we three contemplated one another’s disappointed faces.

‘That is surely not the burial chamber,’ Vandergelt exclaimed.

Emerson shook his untidy head, now grey with dust. ‘No. It appears that the tomb was used for later burials, and that the ceiling has collapsed. It is going to be a long, tedious job clearing that mess out and sifting the debris.’

‘Well, then, let’s get to it,’ Vandergelt exclaimed, mopping his streaming brow.

Emerson’s lips curved in a reluctant smile as he studied the American. Fifteen minutes in the heat of the corridor had changed Vandergelt from a dapper, handsome man of the world to a specimen that would have been denied entrance to the cheapest London hotel. His goatee dripped, his face was white with dust, and his suit sagged. But his face shone with enthusiasm.

‘Quite right,’ Emerson said. ‘Let us get at it.’

Vandergelt took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

The sun had passed the zenith and begun its westward journey before Emerson halted the work. I remained up above, having a comfortable woman-to-woman chat with Mary. She proved to be remarkably resistant to my efforts to ascertain which of her suitors she preferred. She kept insisting that since she did not intend to marry, her preference did not matter, but I think I was on the verge of winning her confidence when we were interrupted by the approach of two dusty, dishevelled ragamuffins.

Vandergelt collapsed under the awning. ‘I sure hope you ladies will excuse me. I’m not in a fit state for the company of the gentler sex just now.’

‘You look like an archaeologist,’ I said approvingly. ‘Have a cup of tea and a little rest before we start back. What results, gentlemen?’

Again I refer the reader to the technical publications about to appear. We had an animated and extremely enjoyable discussion on professional matters. Mary seemed to enjoy it too; her timid questions were very sensible. It was with visible reluctance that she finally rose and declared she must get back.

‘May I escort Miss Mary?’ Karl asked. ‘It is not right that she should go alone – ’

‘I need you here,’ Emerson replied absently.

‘I’ll be escorting the lady,’ O’Connell announced, smirking triumphantly at his rival. ‘Unless, Professor, that matter of which we spoke last night is imminent?’

‘What on earth is he talking about?’ Emerson asked me.

‘You remember,’ O’Connell insisted. ‘The message – the evidence that would – er – ’

‘Message? Oh, yes. Why can’t you speak out, young man, instead of being so confoundedly mysterious? It must be the effect of your profession; always sneaking and spying. As I think I told you, the messenger will probably not arrive until tomorrow morning. Run along, now.’

Emerson then drew me aside. ‘Amelia, I want you to go back to the house also.’

‘Why?’

‘Matters are rapidly approaching the final crisis. Milverton – curse it, I mean young Baskerville – may not be out of danger. Watch him. And make sure everyone knows that I expect the fatal message tomorrow.’

I folded my arms and looked at him steadily. ‘Are you going to confide your plans to me, Emerson?’

‘Why, surely you know them already, Amelia.’

‘It is impossible for any rational mind to follow the peculiar mental convolutions that pass for logic among the male sex,’ I replied. ‘However, the course of action you have suggested happens to suit my own plans. I will therefore do as you ask.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emerson.

‘You are quite welcome,’ I replied.

Mary and Mr O’Connell had gone off in Vandergelt’s carriage. I took the path over the hills, so was the first to arrive at the house. Though climbing in and out my bedroom window had now become a natural and convenient procedure, I decided on this occasion to make a formal entrance, by way of the gate. I wanted my presence to be noted.

As I entered the courtyard Lady Baskerville came out of her room. She greeted me with unusual warmth. ‘Ah, Mrs Emerson. Another hard day’s work accomplished? Is there any news?’

‘Only of an archaeological variety,’ I replied. ‘That would not interest you, I suppose.’

‘Once it did. My husband’s enthusiasms were my own. He spoke of them constantly. But can you blame me for now regarding the entire subject as darkly stained by unfortunate memories?’

‘I suppose not. Let us hope, however, those memories will fade. It is unlikely that Mr Vandergelt will ever abandon his absorption in Egyptology, and he will want his wife to share it.’

‘Naturally,’ said Lady Baskerville.

‘Was your trip to Luxor a success?’ I asked.

The lady’s sombre countenance brightened. ‘Yes, the arrangements are being made. And I found a few things that were not too bad, considering. Do come to my room and let me show you my purchases. Half the pleasure in new clothes is in showing them to another woman.’

I was about to refuse, but Lady Baskerville’s sudden fondness for my company struck me as highly suspicious. I decided to go along with her in order to ascertain her true motives.

I thought I understood one such motive when I saw the disorder of her room, every surface being strewn with garments that she had taken from their boxes. Automatically I began to shake them out and fold them neatly away.

‘Where is Atiyah?’ I asked. ‘She ought to be performing this service for you.’

‘Didn’t you know? The wretched woman has run away,’ was the careless reply. ‘What do you think of this shirtwaist? It is not very pretty, but – ’

The rest of her speech went unheard by me. I was seized by a grim foreboding. Had Atiyah become another victim?

‘Some effort ought to be made to locate the woman,’ I said, interrupting Lady Baskerville’s criticism of an embroidered combing mantle. ‘She may be in danger.’

‘What woman? Oh, Atiyah.’ Lady Baskerville laughed. ‘Mrs Emerson, the poor creature was a drug addict; did you not realise that? She has probably spent her wages on opium and is in a stupor in some den in Luxor. I can manage without a maid for a few more days; thank heaven I will soon be back in civilization, where decent servants are to be found.’

‘Let us hope you will,’ I agreed politely.

‘But I count on Radcliffe to free me. Did he not promise all our doubts and questions would be settled today? Cyrus – and I, of course – would be reluctant to leave you all unless we were sure you were no longer in danger.’

‘Apparently that longed-for moment will not occur until tomorrow,’ I said drily. ‘Emerson tells me his messenger has been delayed.’

‘Today, tomorrow, what matter? So long as it is soon.’ Lady Baskerville shrugged. ‘Now this, Mrs Emerson, is to be my wedding hat. How do you like it?’

She placed the hat, a broad-brimmed straw trimmed with lavender ribbons and pink silk flowers, on her head and skewered it in place with a pair of jewelled pins. When I did not reply at once, she flushed and a spark of anger shone in her black eyes.