Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [106]
Had I won out, though?
The more I recalled Emerson’s behavior and speech that day, the more I wondered. It was almost as if he had been working to attain the same end; everything he had said was a spur, a prick, a goad, to urge his brother on to a declaration.
I ground my teeth together. If Emerson wanted Evelyn for his brother, he must have some ulterior motive that escaped me.
There came a sound, at the entrance to the tomb chamber. The curtain was lifted.
I rolled over. The rough mattress crackled.
“Who is it?” I whispered. “Lucas, is that you?”
“Yes. What is wrong, Miss Amelia? Can’t you sleep?”
With a gigantic effort I dragged myself from bed and assumed my dressing gown. Evelyn was still sleeping sweetly. I tiptoed to the doorway.
“I can’t sleep,” I said softly. “Perhaps I am too tired. And you, Lucas? Did you have some reason for looking in just now?”
“I don’t know…. I am strangely uneasy tonight. I heard you stirring, and was afraid….”
“I am uneasy too.”
I joined him on the ledge. The night was perfect. The world dreamed peacefully under the moon. The air felt cool; I shivered, and drew my dressing gown close around my throat.
“You ought to sleep,” Lucas said. “Perhaps another glass of wine is what you need.”
“Lucas, you are not drinking more wine? Surely that is unwise.”
“I am not made of iron,” Lucas said; his voice was so savage I recoiled. “I will do what must be done; but allow me something with which to fortify myself. Come; I insist that you join me.”
Fool that I was! I felt sorry for him. His genuine emotion seemed more pathetic to me than the theatrics he had shown earlier. He was pouring the wine when Emerson came out of his chamber and advanced upon us.
“A party, and you did not invite me?” he said. “Or am I interrupting a more personal meeting?”
“Don’t be any more foolish than you can help,” I said. My last words were muffled in a huge yawn. “Oh, dear, I am so tired. I don’t know why I can’t sleep.”
“Evelyn seems to be the only one with a clear conscience,” said Lucas, snapping his teeth together. “Or is the lucky man sleeping too?”
“Yes,” Emerson said. “Walter is asleep.”
“And why not you? It is too early for you to relieve me.”
“Still, you may as well retire now that I am here. There is no point in all of us being awake. Sometimes I never go to bed at all. This seems to be one of those nights. I don’t know why they happen,” said Emerson musingly. “It is unaccountable. But I feel just now as if I should never want to sleep again.”
I knew then that something was badly wrong; and that Emerson was aware of it. His idiotic speech was an unconvincing lie; his lids were half closed, his shoulders drooped; and now that I looked at him more closely, I saw that his thick black hair was damp, as if he had been pouring water on it… to keep awake? I had employed a similar trick myself, the preceding night. All my senses prickled in alarm.
“Oh, very well,” Lucas said sulkily. “Since I am of no use, I may as well remove myself and finish my bottle in private—unless I can persuade you two to join me in a glass? No? Good night, then. I have no desire to go into that stifling hole of a tomb; I shall sleep in the tent down below, and you, my gallant Emerson, can waken me with a shout if we have unexpected visitors.”
Cradling the wine bottle in his arms, he staggered down the path. I had not realized he was so intoxicated. Was that what Emerson feared—that Lucas would fail as a guard because of his drinking?
The moment he was out of sight, Emerson turned