Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [143]
“How very interesting! But without the signal of my flannel belt—”
“That was the decisive factor, Peabody.”
“You were never out of my thoughts, Emerson.”
“Nor you from mine, Peabody. I imagined that fellow holding you in his arms—I thought I would go mad with rage.”
“He was very courteous. He explained that he wanted to win my love, not force his upon me.”
“Curse the rascal!”
“He did have a strange charm, Emerson. Not that he would have succeeded with me, but I imagine many women—”
“I don’t care for the tenor of the conversation, Peabody. Stop talking.”
Before we admitted the police, who were making agitated assaults upon the door, it was necessary to tidy ourselves up a bit. After a refreshing splash in the fountain I reassumed my dear familiar clothes. Fortunately there was a great deal of fabric at hand, so I was able to bind up the cut in Emerson’s arm, though I promised myself I would tend to it properly as soon as we got to the hotel. We then unbarred the door.
The anteroom was filled with constables, led by Major Ramsay. He beamed with almost amiable pleasure when he beheld us unharmed, though he was not at all happy to learn of Sethos’ escape. After we had satisfied his curiosity as to the events (most of them, at least) which had preceded our opening the door, I asked curiously, “Where is Ramses?”
“He is somewhere about,” Ramsay replied.
Ramses came running out of an adjoining room, his face alight with a boyish enthusiasm seldom seen upon that saturnine countenance. “Mama,” he cried. “Mama, look here!”
He swept his hand across his mouth and then curled his lips back, displaying a set of brown, rotten teeth, like those of an old Egyptian beggar. “They are a trifle large,” he explained indistinctly, “but in time—”
“Take them out at once,” I exclaimed in disgust.
Ramses complied, all the more readily because the dentures were in fact considerably oversized for his mouth. “There are wonderful things in there,” he exclaimed, his eyes shining. “Paints for the face and hands, pads to fit in the cheeks, wigs and beards and . . . Oh, Mama, may I have them? Please, Mama?”
It was hard for a mother to disappoint a little lad, to wipe the shining joy from his face. “I think not, Ramses,” I said. “The police will want those things as evidence.”
(However, it appears they did not; for since we returned to England, the servants have complained of seeing strange individuals wandering around the house and the grounds. One apparition is that of a little golden-haired girl, and Rose is convinced we have a ghost.)
So ended our second encounter with the strange and mysterious personage known as Sethos. The second, and perhaps the last—for several days after that battle of Titans we received a letter. It was delivered to us at Dahshoor, whither we had returned after seeing Ronald—or Donald, rather—and his bride-to-be cleared of all charges and rejoicing in their approaching nuptials. As Emerson had pithily expressed it, “Now that nonsense is over, thank heaven, and I can get back to work.”
But was it over? An unseen messenger had delivered the letter, eluding our watchful men, gliding like a ghost through the barred gates of the compound. We found it on the doorstep one morning at dawn. Actually, it was Ramses who found it, since he was usually the first one to arise, but it was Emerson’s deep voice that intoned the message aloud.
“ ‘You might have redeemed me,’ ” it began.
Emerson stopped. “It seems to be directed to you, Peabody,” he said drily.
“Read on, Emerson. There are not now and have never been any secrets between us.”
“Humph,” said Emerson. He proceeded. “ ‘From this time on, when the unhappy world reels under the miseries of the blows I shall deal it, remember that its suffering is on your head. My Amelia—my beloved . . .’ Curse the fellow’s impertinence! I have half a mind to rip this paper to shreds!