Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [58]
I thrust them at him with playful impetuosity, so that the lower part of his face was quite smothered by the fading blossoms. Emerson’s eyes bulged. With a cry he struck at my hand. The flowers fell to the floor, and Emerson began jumping up and down on them.
Miss Marshall leaped from her chair and retreated to the farthest corner of the room, staring. Knowing Emerson, I did not share her alarm, but I considered his reaction exaggerated, and I did not hesitate to say so. “Emerson, Mr. Baehler only meant to make a gallant gesture. You really must—”
“Gallant?” Emerson glared at me, and with a start of horror I saw that his brown cheek was disfigured by a creeping trail of blood. “A gallant gesture, upon my word,” he cried. “Inserting a poisoned insect or an asp into a bouquet!” He resumed jumping up and down on the flowers. If a beaten earth floor could have reverberated, this one would have done so. “When my face—thump—turns black—thump—remember—thump—I gave my life—thump—for you!”
“Emerson, my dearest Emerson!” I rushed to his side and attempted to lay hold of him. “Do stop jumping; violent physical activity will increase the rapidity of the movement of the poison through your veins!”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson, standing still. “That is a good point, Peabody.”
My heart pounded in profound agitation as I turned his face to the light. The wound was no more than a scratch, and it had already stopped bleeding. Shallow and uneven, it did not in the least resemble the bite of a venomous reptile or insect. Yet my tender anxiety was not entirely assuaged until I heard Ramses remark calmly, “There is no animal life of any kind here, Papa. I believe this bit of metal must have scratched you. It seems exceedingly unlikely—”
Emerson flung himself at Ramses. “Drop it at once, my boy!”
Ramses eluded him with eellike sinuosity. “I am confident there is no danger, Papa. The object is—or was, until you trampled it underfoot—a trinket of some kind. The material appears to be gold.”
Gold! How often in the course of human history has that word trembled through the air, rousing the strongest of passions! Even we, who had learned in the course of our archaeological endeavors that the smallest scrap of broken pottery may be more important than jeweled treasures—even we, I say, felt our pulses quicken.
Ramses held the scrap near the lamp. The sensuous shimmer of light along its surface proved him right.
“I don’t like you holding it, my boy,” Emerson said nervously. “Give it to Papa.”
Ramses obeyed, remarking as he did so, “Your fears for my well-being are, I assure you, Papa, without foundation. Mysterious poisons unknown to science are rare indeed; in fact, I believe I am safe in asserting that they exist only in sensational fiction. Even the most virulent substances in the pharmacopoeia require dosages of several milligrams in order to ensure a fatal result, and if you will stop and consider the matter for a moment, you will agree that it would be impossible for a bit of metal this size to contain enough—”
“You have made your point, Ramses,” I said.
Emerson turned the twisted metal over in his fingers. “It appears to be a ring,” he said in a quiet voice.
“I do believe you are correct, Emerson. How very odd! Wait—turn it this way. I caught a glimpse of something—”
“There are a few hieroglyphic signs still decipherable,” said the shrill voice of my infuriating offspring. “They were stamped upon the bezel of the ring, which had the shape of the cartouche used to enclose royal names. The alphabetic hieroglyph for n was at the bottom; above it you will see the form of an animal-headed god, followed by two reed signs. The name is unquestionably that of Sethos, either the first or the second pharaoh of that name, and I would surmise—”
“Sethos!” I cried. “Good Gad—can it be—but it must be! That he would dare—that he would show such consummate—such incredible effrontery—that—that—”
Emerson took me by the shoulders and shook me so vigorously that quantities of hairpins flew from my head. “You are hysterical,