The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [166]
“Never again,” I said earnestly. “My reticence has caused us trouble enough. Henceforth, my dearest, I will tell you everything. And the children too.”
Emerson raised my hand to his lips. “I don’t know that I would go as far as that,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
The school appeared to be closed for the day, but lighted windows shone warmly through the gloomy afternoon air. The streets were virtually deserted; the long skirts of the few pedestrians, male and female, blew out like sails. One guest at least had arrived before me; a closed carriage stood before the door. I wished ours had been of that sort, instead of an open barouche, for the air was foggy with windblown sand.
Our driver drew up behind the other carriage. Emerson helped me out and escorted me to the door. “I will come back for you in an hour.”
He was being absurdly overly cautious, but how could I deny him after those loving words? “An hour and a half would be better. À bientôt, my dear Emerson.”
A neatly garbed male servant opened the door, and just in time too, for my hat was about to leave my head. He waited until I had untied the scarf and straightened my skirts. Then he opened a door, bowed me in, and closed it after me.
The room was not a sitting room. It was small and scantily furnished and windowless. The only light came from a lamp on a low table. It was sufficient to let me make out the form of a woman who advanced to meet me. I could not see her face clearly, but I recognized her bonnet. I have a very keen eye for fashion.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Emerson. So good of you to come.”
“Mrs. Ferncliffe?” I exclaimed.
With a sudden leap she seized me in a grip as strong as that of a man. I knew her then; I had felt that grip before. It was no wonder I had not recognized Mrs. Ferncliffe, a lady of fashion if not of breeding, as Bertha’s formidable lieutenant. Matilda had always worn the severe costume of a hospital nurse and her hard face had been bare of cosmetics. It was my last coherent thought. Her hand clamped over the lower portion of my face and her steely arm defeated my struggles until I had breathed in the stifling fumes permeating the cloth she held.
When I came to my senses my head ached a bit, but the immediate effects of the chloroform had passed. The room in which I found myself was not the one in which I had been captured. It was larger and appeared to be furnished more comfortably, though I could not see much because only a single lamp relieved the gloom. There was a bed, at least; I lay upon it. Ropes bound my ankles and my hands were pinioned in front of me by something stronger than rope. When I tried to move them, a metallic jangle accompanied the gesture.
“Thank heaven!” a familiar voice exclaimed. “You have been unconscious since they brought you here some hours ago. How do you feel?”
I turned onto my side. There was enough slack in my bonds to permit that much movement, though little more.
My companion was in worse condition. Ropes bound him to the chair in which he sat. His hands were behind him, and I doubted he could move so much as a fingertip. His fair hair was disarranged and his coat was torn, and bruises marked his face. Except when he had been working in the heat of the Tetisheri tomb I had never seen Sir Edward Washington so untidy.
“How did you get here?” I croaked.
“Never mind that now. There is a cup of some sort of liquid on the table beside you. Can you reach it?”
I inspected the bonds on my wrists. They were handcuffs, connected by a rigid bar. A chain ran over the bar and up toward the head of the bed, where it was fastened with a padlock. The chain was not long enough to enable me to touch my bound feet, but I could just barely reach the cup.
He saw me hesitate, and said reassuringly, “The fellow who trussed you up so effectively took a swig or two before he left, so I doubt the stuff is drugged. Unsanitary, no doubt, but safe.”
The liquid