Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [31]
I broke off, for his bent shoulders were heaving convulsively and sounds like muffled sobs escaped from his lips. I had touched some tender chord; I had roused some forgotten spark of manhood! He had not fallen so low as I had feared. He might yet be redeemed, not only from his loathsome habit but from the despicable toils of the Master Criminal. What a triumph that would be!
Nemo sat up straight and raised his head. The rays of the setting sun cast his features in sharp outline and glittered off the tears that streaked his cheeks. “Mrs. Emerson . . .” But he could not master his emotion; his voice failed, and his chest heaved with sighs he could not restrain.
“I understand, Mr. Nemo. Say no more. Or rather, say only that you will try.”
He nodded speechlessly.
“Would you care for another whiskey?” I asked, reaching for the bottle.
The kindly gesture was too much for the young man. With a broken cry he rose and fled into the house.
I had another small whiskey. I felt I deserved it. The interview had gone much better than I had expected. In judging the young man I had forgotten to take into account the well-known habits of master criminals. Their evil webs snare rich and poor, guilty and innocent in their tangled strands (as I had once put it, rather neatly, in my opinion). In the case of young Mr. Nemo, some relatively harmless escapade might have rendered him vulnerable to blackmail and enabled the M.C. (if I may be permitted to use that more convenient abbreviation) to entwine him in his toils. Perhaps he (Mr. Nemo) yearned to free himself and return to decent society.
Lost in such delightful thoughts, I sat musing until the sudden night of Egypt eclipsed the dying sun and the moonlight crept crepuscularly across the courtyard. Lamplight and the sound of laughing voices issued from the hut in which our men had taken up their abode. Reluctantly I rose to return to the duties I had mentioned.
I had selected the larger of the two front rooms to serve as our sitting room and office. Our camp chairs and little stove had been set up, and a few oriental rugs on the floor added a colorful note; but there were still half a dozen boxes to be unpacked. I set to work arranging my medical supplies, for I knew the first light of dawn would bring the usual pathetic sufferers to our door. Doctors, much less hospitals, were almost unknown outside of the large cities, and the villagers naively assumed all Europeans were physicians. In my case, at any rate, their hopes were not disappointed.
Ramses and Emerson finally came in, both wanting to tell me about the site. I cut their raptures short, for there was really no sense to be got out of them, and sent Ramses to bed. The cat Bastet seemed disinclined to join him, but when Ramses lifted her off the packing case she was sniffing and carried her away, she did not resist.
“Drinking again, I see, Peabody,” said Emerson, inspecting the remains of my whiskey. “How often have I warned you about the evils of the demon rum?”
“You will have your little joke, Emerson. It was an experiment, in fact, and one that succeeded brilliantly. Mr. Nemo is a cashiered army officer! He was once in the service of Her Majesty—”
“Calmly, Peabody, if you please. What did you do, get him drunk and induce a confession?”
I explained. Emerson was in an excellent humor; for once he listened without interrupting. Then he said, “You deduced Mr. Nemo’s entire military history solely from his response to your toast?”
“No, no, that was merely the final proof. Everything points to it, Emerson—the young man’s carriage, his manner, his speech.”
“Well, you may be right, Peabody. I had begun to wonder about that myself.”
“Ha,” I exclaimed.
Emerson grinned.