The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [112]
“What do you mean?” Fatigue forgotten, O’Connell sat up alertly and reached for his notebook and pencil. “You hope to enter the tomb by then?”
“Of course. But that is not what I meant. You will be one to announce to the world the identity of the murderer of Lord Baskerville.”
CHAPTER
Fifteen
THE listeners were galvanized by this announcement. Vandergelt let out a loud “by Jimminy!” Mary’s eyes opened wide. Even the phlegmatic young German stared at Emerson in surprise.
“Murderer?” O’Connell repeated.
“He was murdered, of course,” Emerson said impatiently. “Come now, Mr. O’Connell, you have always suspected as much, though you did not have the effrontery to suggest it in your newspaper stories. The succession of violent tragedies that has occurred here makes it impossible that Lord Baskerville could have died a natural death. I have been working on the case and I will soon be in a position to announce results. I await one last piece of evidence. It will be here late tomorrow or the following morning. By the way, Amelia,” he added, looking at me, “don’t try to intercept my messenger; the news he carries has meaning only to me; you won’t understand it.”
“Indeed?” I said.
“Well, well,” said O’Connell. He crossed his legs, put his notebook on his knees, and gazed at Emerson with the impish grin that betokened his professional mood. “You wouldn’t care to drop a hint, would you, Professor?”
“Certainly not.”
“There is nothing to prevent me from speculating a bit, is there?”
“At your own risk,” Emerson replied.
“Never fear, I am no more anxious to commit myself prematurely than you are. Hmmm. Yes, this will require some rather delicate phrasing. Excuse me, please; I had better get to work.”
“Don’t forget your promise,” I said.
“You may see the story before I send it off,” O’Connell said. He departed with a springy step, whistling.
“The rest of us had better retire too,” Emerson said. “Vandergelt, can I count on your assistance tomorrow morning when I reopen the tomb?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for… That is, if you don’t mind, my dear?”
“No,” Lady Baskerville replied wearily. “Do as you like, Cyrus. This latest news has quite overwhelmed me.”
When she had taken her departure, leaning on Vandergelt’s arm, Emerson turned to me. Before he could speak I made a warning gesture.
“I believe Karl wishes to ask you something, Emerson. Either that, or he has fallen asleep there in the shadows.”
Emerson looked startled. Karl had been so still, and the corner where he sat was so far distant from the nearest lamp, that he might have fallen into a doze; but I suspected another, more sinister explanation. Now he roused himself and came forward.
“Not to ask do I wish, Herr Professor, but to warn. An act very foolish it was, to say what you said. A gauntlet of defiance you have thrown down to a killer.”
“Dear me,” Emerson said. “That was careless of me.”
Von Bork shook his head. He had lost considerable weight during the past week, and the lamplight emphasized the new hollows under his cheekbones and in his eye sockets.
“A stupid man you are not, Professor. I myself ask why you have so acted. But,” he added, with a faint smile, “I do not an answer expect. Gute Nacht, Herr Professor, Frau Professor—Schlafen Sie wohl.”
Frowning, Emerson watched the young man go. “He is the most intelligent of the lot,” he muttered. “I may have made a mistake there, Peabody. I ought to have handled him differently.”
“You are tired,” I said magnanimously. “No wonder, after all that shouting and jumping around. Come to bed.”
Arm in arm, we sauntered across the courtyard, and as we went Emerson remarked, “I believe I detected a slight note of criticism in your comment, Amelia. To describe my masterful performance as ‘shouting and jumping around’ is hardly—”
“The dancing was an error.”
“I was not dancing. I was performing a grave ritual march.