The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [106]
“Of course there must. All the same—he sounded rather like Madame Berengeria in one of her fits, didn’t he? Though his ravings were a great deal more accurate than hers.”
“Curse it,” I exclaimed, “he must have heard the titles from Lord Baskerville or Armadale at some time. They say the sleeping brain retains everything, though the waking mind cannot recall it.”
“Who says?”
“I forget. I read it somewhere—one of those newfangled medical theories. However farfetched it may be, it makes more sense than…”
“Precisely,” Emerson agreed. “All that aside, Peabody, has it struck you that the young man’s ravings may have a bearing on who murdered Lord Baskerville?”
“Naturally that aspect of the matter had not escaped me.”
Emerson let out a roar of laughter and flung his arms around me. “You are indestructible, Peabody. Thank God for your strength; I don’t know what I would do without it, for I feel like an antique chariot driver trying to control half a dozen spirited steeds at once. Now I must be off again.”
“Where?”
“Oh—here and there. I am arranging a little theatrical performance, my dear—a regular Egyptian fantasia. It will take place this evening.”
“Indeed! And where is the performance to take place?”
“At the tomb.”
“What do you want me to do? I don’t promise,” I added, “that I will do it; I simply ask.”
Emerson chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “I rely on you, Peabody. Announce my intentions to Lady Baskerville and Vandergelt. If they wish to spend the night at the hotel, they may do so, but not until my performance is ended. I want everyone there.”
“Including Madame Berengeria?”
“Humph,” said Emerson. “As a matter of fact, yes; she might add a certain je ne sais quoi.”
Alarm seized me. Emerson never speaks French unless he is up to something.
“You are up to something,” I said.
“Certainly.”
“And you expect me to submit tamely—”
“You have never submitted to anything tamely in your life! You will work with me, as I would with you, because we are as one. We know one another’s minds. You suspect, I am sure, what I intend.”
“I do.”
“And you will assist me?”
“I will.”
“I need not tell you what to do.”
“I… No.”
“Then à bientôt, my darling Peabody.”
He embraced me so fervently that I had to sit down on a bench for a few moments to catch my breath.
In fact, I had not the slightest idea what he meant to do.
When he rises to heights of emotional intensity Emerson can carry all before him. Mesmerized by his burning eyes and fervent voice, I would have agreed to anything he proposed, up to and including self-immolation. (Naturally, I never let him know he has this effect on me; it would be bad for his character.) Once he had departed I was able to think more calmly, and then, indeed, a glimmer of an idea occurred to me.
Most men are reasonably useful in a crisis. The difficulty lies in convincing them that the situation has reached a critical point. Being superior to others of his sex, Emerson was more efficient than most—and harder to convince. He had finally admitted that there was a murderer at large; he had agreed that the responsibility of identifying the miscreant was ours.
But what, in fact, was Emerson’s chief concern? Why, the tomb, of course. Let me be candid. Emerson would cheerfully consign the entire globe and its inhabitants (with a few exceptions) to the nethermost pits to save one dingy fragment of history from extinction. Therefore, I reasoned, his activities of that evening must be designed to attain his dearest wish, the resumption of work on the tomb.
I am sure, dear reader, that you can follow my reasoning to its logical conclusion. Remember Emerson’s fondness for playacting; bear in mind the regrettable susceptibility of all segments of the human race to crass superstition; stretch your imagination—and I have no doubts you will forward as eagerly as I did to Emerson’s fantasia.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
THE moon was up when we set out on our journey to the Valley. It was on the wane, no longer a perfect silver globe; but it emitted enough light to flood the plain with silver