Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [82]
“It was very stupid, all the same,” said Emerson, as Walter made a feeble gesture of conciliation.
“You are right,” Lucas muttered. “But if you had been in my place—you saw, I know, but you did not feel the recoil of the pistol, and then see that ghastly thing come on and on….” With a sudden movement he pulled the gun from his pocket. “I shall never use this again. There is one bullet left….”
His arm straightened, pointing the gun out the mouth of the tomb. His finger was actually tightening on the trigger when Emerson moved. The man was constantly surprising me; his leap had a tigerish swiftness I would not have expected. His fingers clasped around Lucas’s wrist with a force that made the younger man cry out.
“You fool,” Emerson mumbled around the stem of the pipe. Snatching the gun from Lucas’s palsied hand, he put it in his belt. “The echoes from a shot in this confined place would deafen us. Not to mention the danger of a ricochet…. I will take charge of your weapon. Lord Ellesmere. Now go to bed.”
Lucas left without another word. I felt an unexpected stab of pity as I watched him go, his shoulders bowed and his steps dragging. Evelyn and I followed. As soon as she had dropped off to sleep I went back onto the ledge, and somehow I was not surprised to see Emerson sitting there. His feet dangling over empty space, he was smoking his pipe and staring out at the serene vista of star-strewn sky with apparent enjoyment.
“Sit down, Peabody,” he said, gesturing at the ledge beside him. “That discussion was getting nowhere, but I think you and I might profit from a quiet chat.”
I sat down.
“You called me Amelia, earlier,” I said, somewhat to my own surprise.
“Did I?” Emerson did not look at me. “A moment of aberration, no doubt.”
“You were entitled to be distracted,” I admitted. “Seeing your brother struck down…. It was not entirely Lucas’s fault, Emerson. Walter rushed into the path of the bullet.”
“In view of the fact that his lordship had already fired twice without result, I would have supposed he would have sensed enough to stop.” I shivered.
“Get a shawl, if you are cold,” said Emerson, smoking.
“I am not cold. I am frightened. Are none of us willing to admit the consequences of what we saw? Emerson, the bullet struck that thing. I saw them strike.”
“Did you?”
“Yes! Where were you, that you did not see?”
“I saw its hands, or paws, clutch at its breast,” Emerson admitted. “Peabody, I expected better of you. Are you becoming a spiritualist?”
“I hope I am reasonable enough not to deny an idea simply because it is unorthodox,” I retorted. “One by one our rational explanations are failing.”
“I can think of at least two rational explanations for the failure of the bullets to harm the creature,” Emerson said. “A weapon of that type is extremely inaccurate, even in the hands of an expert, which I believe his lordship is not. He may have fired two clean misses, and the Mummy put on a performance of being hit in order to increase our mystification.”
“That is possible,” I admitted. “However, if I stood in the Mummy’s shoes—or sandals, rather—I should hate to depend on Lucas’s bad marksmanship. What is your other explanation.”
Some form of armor,” Emerson replied promptly. “I don’t suppose you read novels, Peabody? A gentleman named Rider Haggard is gaining popularity with his adventurous tales; his most recent book, King Solomon’s Mines, concerns the fantastic experiences of three English explorers who seek the lost diamond mines of that biblical monarch. At one point in the tale he mentions chain mail, and its usefulness in deflecting the swords and spears of primitive tribes. I believe it would also stop a small-caliber bullet. Have we not all heard of men being saved from bullet wounds by a book—it is usually a Bible—carried in their breast pocket? I have often thought it a pity that our troops in the Sudan are not equipped with armor. Even a padded leather jerkin, such as the old English foot soldiers wore, would save many a life.”
“Yes,” I admitted.