Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [105]
So deeply engrossed was I in ugly speculation that I let out a little shriek and bounded up out of my chair when the door opened.
“Expecting a murderer, were you?” Emerson inquired. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Peabody.”
“Oh, Emerson, I have just had a horrible idea.”
“Nothing new about that,” said Emerson. His smile faded and he caught me in a hard embrace. “My darling girl, you are all atremble. Tell me your horrible idea.”
Emerson likes me to tremble and cling to him. In his opinion I do not do it often enough. So I dutifully clung and trembled, while I explained my latest theory. I had hoped he would scoff and tell me my rampageous imagination had run away with me; but when I looked up into his face his brow was furrowed and his lips compressed. Slowly he shook his head.
“Damnation, Peabody,” he remarked. “I hate to admit it, but it makes a certain amount of sense.”
“I had hoped you would scoff and tell me my rampageous imagination had run away with me.”
The lines in his forehead smoothed out and he smiled a little. “It has, my darling, it has. The plot would do nicely for a sensational novel, but it is all based on surmise. Here, give me a kiss.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“Nothing at all,” said Emerson, removing the remaining pins from my hair with a single sweep of his fingers and tilting my head back.
When he had finished kissing me, he drew a long satisfied breath. “That’s better. Now then, sit down and tell me what other brilliant deductions you have made. I presume that is one of your famous charts?”
Meekly I handed him the paper. He perused it in a single glance—admittedly there wasn’t much to see. “Hmmmm. With all due regard for your abilities, my dear, I can’t see that this gets us any farther. What’s this?” He picked up the other list and ran his eye down it. It was self-explanatory, particularly to a man of Emerson’s intellect. When he looked at me his expression was a mixture of admiration and consternation. “How the devil did you get this? Not from Ramses, surely.”
“Of course not. I would not be ill-bred enough to approach him about such a sensitive subject. I don’t suppose you—”
“Good Gad, no!” Emerson’s handsome countenance changed from bronze to copper.
“Well, then, can you think of anyone I have omitted?”
“I would not be ill-bred enough to speculate,” said Emerson primly. But his eyes remained fixed on the paper. “Hmmmm. Yes, I remember the Bellingham girl. Dreadful young woman. Who is Clara?”
“A girl he met in Germany. He mentioned her in his letters.”
“How do you know he . . . Never mind, don’t tell me. Violet? Oh, Lord, yes, she was in hot pursuit, wasn’t she? But I’m sure he never . . . Good Gad. Not Mrs. Fraser! Though I did wonder at the time . . .” His voice rose from a mumble to a shout. “Layla? See here, Peabody, you cannot possibly be sure they . . .”
“I am not sure of any of them,” I retorted. My composure had returned; it was delightful to engage in detectival speculation with my dear spouse, and even more delightful to see him enjoy the sort of rude gossip he pretends to deplore. “She saved his life, at some risk to herself, and I assume she expected something in return. She was a—er—hot-blooded woman. She had her eye on you at one time, I believe.”
“She had her eye on a good many men,” Emerson retorted. “That was her profession. She couldn’t have been the veiled Hathor, Peabody. Ramses said she was young. Layla was a mature woman ten years ago.”
“She does have one of the qualifications the latest apparition must have possessed, however. She knows every foot of the West Bank.”
“And all the men who live there,” Emerson agreed, with the sort of smile I make it a habit to take