Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [45]
“Kalenischeff was lured to your room by a message purporting to come from you. He had made advances to you? No, you need not answer, I felt sure he had; he was a vain man with an inordinately high opinion of his attraction for the opposite sex. He would not be suspicious of a request for an assignation.
“The assassin was waiting for him. Fortunately for you, your awakening was brief and incomplete, for you were spared the horror of seeing Kalenischeff dispatched; and if you had seen the deed done, the murderer would have felt it necessary to dispose of you as well. Either you are unusually resistant to drugs or you did not drink much of the water; your guardian angel, still on active duty, again wakened you before you were meant to awaken. If matters had gone according to plan, you would have been discovered with the dead body of your presumed lover, and would have been placed under arrest. As it was, you had time to dress and creep out of the hotel unseen. The safragi had been bribed to leave his post, possibly by Kalenischeff himself. It was early morning, and if you avoided the public rooms, few people would see you, or recognize the frivolous, fashionable Miss Debenham in the costume you are presently wearing. You then went into hiding—never mind where, you can tell me about it later—and, remembering my offer of assistance, you determined to seek me out. I commend you on your presence of mind, Miss Marshall. Few women would have had the strength of character to behave so sensibly after such a frightful shock. Thank you. You told your story very nicely.”
“But—but—”
“Hush. We have not time for more.”
I was correct. A sound behind the curtain preceded by no more than a few seconds the appearance of Ramses. “Papa wishes me to tell you that the water has boiled. He also wishes to know what—I omit the qualifying phrase, since it is one you have specifically forbidden me to repeat—what you are doing in here without a chair or a table or a lamp. I confess that my own curiosity on that point—”
“Will probably never be satisfied,” I said, rising. I permitted myself that small jest, since I was in excellent humor. Matters were working out nicely. “We are coming, Ramses.”
The girl caught my hand. “But, Mrs. Emerson,” she whispered. “What am I to do? You believe me—”
“Yes.”
“How can you trust me? You don’t even know me!”
“It is very simple,” I murmured. “I know who the murderer really is.”
“What?” Her cry rang out. Ramses turned. Silhouetted against the light from the adjoining room, his thin limbs and mop of hair, and the inquiring tilt of his head, made him look exactly like an oversized vulture.
“Later,” I hissed, and escorted Miss Marshall to the chair Emerson had set for her, and the cup of stewed tea he had prepared. Emerson’s talents, though diverse, do not extend to the culinary arts.
* * *
Revising our sleeping arrangements was more complex than I had anticipated. I could not send Ramses up to sleep on the roof: he might decide to climb down the wall and go off on some peculiar errand of his own. Ramses seldom disobeyed a direct order, but he had a diabolical facility for finding a loophole in my commands.
Emerson and I could not sleep on the roof and leave the young lady and the young man down below. Emerson thought I was being uncharacteristically prudish, and said so at length. I did not bother to explain my true reasons, since they would have aggravated him even more. By a fortuitous combination of circumstances, Miss Marshall had eluded the Master Criminal. I could hardly leave her at the mercy of a man whom I strongly suspected of being the M.C.’s lieutenant.
The same objection applied to having Miss Marshall sleep on the roof. The only solution was for Emerson and me to place our mattresses in the sitting room, which adjoined the small chamber I had assigned to Miss Marshall. No one could reach her without stepping over our recumbent forms, for the only doorway opened out of the sitting room, and the window was too narrow to permit