Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [78]
“But there soon will be,” I assured him. “Abdullah and Hassan are bringing it—the body of one of the Master Criminal’s henchmen, dead by his own hand after he had failed his dread master in the assignment of abducting me. That is to say, he did not know it was me; I was disguised as Enid, and he—”
“You were disguised,” Emerson repeated slowly, “as Miss Debenham?”
I explained. Emerson listened without interrupting once. Then he turned to Nemo—or Donald, as I must call him.
“You, sir, were present, when these remarkable events occurred?”
“Emerson, do you doubt my word?” I demanded.
“Not at all, Amelia. The only thing I doubt is that anyone could mistake you for Miss Debenham.”
“Donald did,” I declared triumphantly. “Is that not true, Donald? You followed me, believing I was Enid. No doubt you were trying to work up courage enough to reveal yourself.”
But the untenability of this assumption was apparent as soon as I voiced it, for Nemo had remained in concealment for an hour and a half without making his presence known. The deep flush of shame that dyed his manly cheeks betrayed his true motive. He loved her—deeply, hopelessly, desperately—and his only joy was to worship her dainty form (or what he believed to be hers) from afar.
Tactfully I turned the subject. “The evidence will soon be forthcoming, Emerson. I believe I hear Abdullah coming now.”
It was indeed Abdullah, with Hassan close on his heels.
“Where have you put the body?” I asked.
Abdullah shook his head. “There was no body, sitt. We found the spot you described; there were signs of a struggle, and bloodstains upon the ground. We searched far and wide, thinking the man might have recovered and crawled away—”
“Recovered from being dead?” I exclaimed. “Abdullah, do you think I don’t know a corpse when I see one?”
“No, sitt. But dead or alive, he was gone. No doubt he was dead, as you say, for we heard his ghost calling in a high, thin voice, as spirits do.”
Hassan nodded in emphatic confirmation. “We ran away then, sitt, for we did not want the dead man to mistake us for his murderers.”
“Oh, good Gad,” I said disgustedly. “That was not a ghost you heard, you foolish men. There are no such things. It must have been a bird, or a—or a—”
“Never mind, Peabody, I will conduct my usual exorcism,” said Emerson. The use of that name instead of “Amelia” indicated that he had forgot his annoyance with me in the pleasurable anticipation of the theatrical performance to which he had referred. Emerson had often been called upon to perform exorcisms, Egypt being, in the opinion of its citizens, a particularly demon-ridden country. He has quite a reputation as a magician and is deservedly proud of it.
“Emerson,” I said, interrupting his description of how he meant to go about the ritual. “Emerson—where is Ramses?”
We looked in Ramses’ room, purely as a matter of form; I knew, as did Emerson, that if he had been anywhere about, he would have come to see what the commotion was, talking and interrupting and asking questions and making comments. . . .
We set out en masse for the Bent Pyramid. Emerson soon outstripped the rest of us, but Donald was not far behind him. The young man’s look of haggard reproach was so poignant I had not the heart to reproach him for neglecting his duty. Love, as I reflected philosophically, has a corrosive effect on the brain and the organs of moral responsibility.
Since I had not mentioned to Emerson the collapse of the subsidiary pyramid, he had no idea where to start looking; when I arrived on the scene he was rushing around like a dog on a scent and making the evening hideous with his stentorian repetitions of Ramses’ name.
“Be silent a moment,” I begged. “How can you hear him reply if you keep shouting?”
Emerson nodded. Then he turned like a tiger on poor Abdullah and clutched him by the throat of his robe. “From what