The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [113]
“I understand. It was the only flaw in an otherwise superb performance. The men have agreed to return to work, I take it?”
“Yes. Abdullah will be on guard tonight, though I don’t expect any trouble.”
I opened our door. Emerson struck a match and lighted the lamp. The wick flared up and a hundred fiery sparks reflected the light from the neck of the cat Bastet, who sat on the table by the window. As soon as she caught sight of Emerson she let out an eager, throaty mew and trotted toward him.
“What did you use to attract the animal?” I inquired, watching Bastet claw at Emerson’s coattails.
“Chicken,” Emerson replied. He withdrew a greasy packet from his trouser pocket. I was pained to observe that it had left a nasty spot. Grease is so difficult to get out.
“I spent an hour training her earlier this afternoon,” Emerson said, feeding the remainder of the chicken to the cat.
“You had better get Lady Baskerville’s bracelet off her neck,” I said. “She has probably knocked half the stones out already.”
And indeed it proved that she had. Seeing Emerson’s face fall, as he tried to calculate the weight and value of the rubies and emeralds he would be obliged to replace, I quite forgave him for being so puffed up about his performance.
II
When I went to see Arthur next morning the Sister gave me a smiling “bon jour” and informed me that the patient had spent a quiet night. His color was much better—which I attributed to the strengthening effect of the chicken broth— and when I placed my hand on his brow he smiled in his sleep and murmured something.
“He is calling for his mother,” I said, brushing a tear from my eye with my sleeve.
“Vraiment?” the sister asked doubtfully. “He has spoken once or twice before, but so softly I could not make out the word.”
“I am sure he said ‘Mother.’ And perhaps by the time he wakes he will see that good lady’s face bending over him.” I allowed myself the pleasure of picturing that exquisite scene. Mary would be there, of course (I really must do something about the child’s clothes; a pretty white gown would be just the thing); and Arthur would hold her hand in his thin, wasted fingers as he told his mother to greet her new daughter.
To be sure, Mary had announced her intention of devoting the rest of her life to her mother, but that was just a young girl’s romantic fancy. A fondness for martyrdom, especially of the verbal variety, is common to the young. I had dealt with this phenomenon before and did not doubt my ability to bring this love affair also to a happy conclusion.
However, time was passing, and if I expected to see Mary become the new Lady Baskerville, it was up to me to make sure her bridegroom survived to take that step. I repeated my caution to the nun, to give the sick man nothing except what was brought to her by myself or by Daoud.
I then went to my next patient. A peep into the room assured me that Madame was in no need of my attention. She slept the calm, deep-breathing sleep of the wicked. It is a misconception that the innocent sleep well. The worse a man is, the more profound his slumber; for if he had a conscience, he would not be a villain.
When I reached the dining room Emerson growled at me for being late. He and Mary had already finished breakfast.
“Where are the others?” I inquired, buttering a piece of toast and ignoring Emerson’s demands that I bring it with me and eat as we walked.
“Karl has gone ahead,” Mary said. “Kevin has crossed to Luxor, to the telegraph office—”
“Emerson!” I exclaimed.
“It is all right, he showed the story to me,” Emerson replied. “You will enjoy reading it, Amelia; the young man has an imagination almost as uncontrolled as yours.”
“Thank you. Mary, your mother seems better this morning.”
“Yes, she has had these attacks before and made a remarkable recovery. As soon as I have finished the copy of the painting I will make arrangements to move her back to Luxor.”
“There is no hurry,” I said sympathetically. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough; you will be worn out this evening after