The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [118]
“Some effort ought to be made to locate the woman,” I said, interrupting Lady Baskerville’s criticism of an embroidered combing mantle. “She may be in danger.”
“What woman? Oh, Atiyah.” Lady Baskerville laughed. “Mrs. Emerson, the poor creature was a drug addict; did you not realize that? She has probably spent her wages on opium and is in a stupor in some den in Luxor. I can manage without a maid for a few more days; thank heaven I will soon be back in civilization, where decent servants are to be found.”
“Let us hope you will,” I agreed politely.
“But I count on Radcliffe to free me. Did he not promise all our doubts and questions would be settled today? Cyrus —and I, of course—would be reluctant to leave you all unless we were sure you were no longer in danger.”
“Apparently that longed-for moment will not occur until tomorrow,” I said drily. “Emerson tells me his messenger has been delayed.”
“Today, tomorrow, what matter? So long as it is soon.” Lady Baskerville shrugged. “Now this, Mrs. Emerson, is to be my wedding hat. How do you like it?”
She placed the hat, a broad-brimmed straw trimmed with lavender ribbons and pink silk flowers, on her head and skewered it in place with a pair of jeweled pins. When I did not reply at once, she flushed and a spark of anger shone in her black eyes.
“You think me wrong to wear something so frivolous when I am supposed to be in mourning? Should I replace the ribbons with black and dye the flowers sable?”
I took the question as it was meant, a display of sarcasm rather than a request for information, and did not reply. I had other things on my mind. Lady Baskerville was visibly annoyed at my lack of interest, and when I rose to leave she did not press me to remain.
The carriage was just passing through the gate when I emerged from Lady Baskerville’s room. The young people had had no reason to hurry. After greeting me, Mary asked if I had seen her mother.
“No, I have been with Lady Baskerville. If you can wait a few minutes, until I have visited Arthur, I will accompany you.”
Mary was glad to agree to this.
The nun greeted us with shining eyes and a look of genuine happiness in the news she had to give. “He has shown signs of regaining consciousness. It is a miracle, madame. How great is prayer!”
How great is chicken soup, I thought to myself. But I did not say so; let the good creature enjoy her delusions.
Arthur was painfully thin—there are limits even to the powers of chicken broth—but his improvement in the past twenty-four hours had indeed been astonishing. As I leaned over the bed he stirred and murmured. I motioned to Mary.
“Speak to him, my dear. Let us see if we can rouse him. You may hold his hand, if you like.”
Scarcely had Mary taken the wasted hand in her own and called the young man’s name in a voice tremulous with emotion than his long golden lashes fluttered and his head turned toward her.
“Mary,” he murmured. “Is it you, or a heavenly spirit?”
“It is I,” the girl replied, tears of joy trickling down her cheeks. “How happy I am to see you better!”
I added a few appropriate words. Arthur’s eyes moved to me. “Mrs. Emerson?”
“Yes. Now you know you have not died and gone to heaven.” (I always feel that a little touch of humor relieves situations of this nature.) “I know you are still weak, Arthur,” I went on, “but for your own safety I hope you can answer one question. Who struck you?”
“Struck me?” The sick man’s pallid brow wrinkled. “Did someone… I cannot remember.”
“What is the last thing you remember?”
“Lady… Lady Baskerville.” Mary gasped and looked at me. I shook my head. Now, of all times, we could not leap to conclusions on the basis of a wounded man’s confused recollections.
“What about Lady Baskerville?” I asked.
“Told me… rest.” Arthur’s voice grew even weaker. “Went to my room… lay down…”
“You remember nothing more?”
“Nothing.”
“Very well, my dear Arthur, don’t tire yourself any further. Rest. There is nothing to worry about; I am on the job.”
A smile curved the young man