The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [120]
“Are you sure you didn’t do it? You said the other day that the world would be a better place if the lady were removed from it.”
“I am still of that opinion. Apparently I was not the only one who thought so.”
“I would say the viewpoint was virtually unanimous,” Emerson agreed. “Well, well, I must change. Do you go to the parlor, Amelia; I will be with you shortly.”
“Don’t you want to discuss the motives for Madame’s murder? I have a theory.”
“I felt sure you would.”
“It has to do with her wild ravings last night.”
“I prefer to defer discussion of that.”
“You do, eh?” Absently I stroked my own chin, and we eyed one another suspiciously. “Very well, Emerson. You will find me ready for you.”
I was the first one in the drawing room. By the time Emerson made his appearance the others had assembled. Mary, in a black dress borrowed from Lady Baskerville, was tenderly supported by Mr. O’Connell.
“I persuaded her to come,” the young man explained in a proprietary manner.
“Quite right,” I agreed. “After all, there is nothing like a nice hot cup of tea to comfort one.”
“It will take more than a cup of tea to comfort me,” Lady Baskerville announced. “Say what you will, Radcliffe, there is a curse on this place. Even though Madame’s death was an unfortunate accident—”
“Ah, but are we sure of that?” Emerson inquired.
Vandergelt, who had taken his agitated fiancée in the shelter of his white linen arm, looked sharply at my husband.
“What do you mean, Professor? Why look for trouble? It’s no secret that the poor woman was—er—”
He broke off, with an apologetic look at Mary. She was staring at Emerson in wide-eyed surprise. I quickly passed her a cup of tea.
“We may never know the truth,” Emerson replied. “But it would have been easy to slip a dose of poison into the lady’s favorite beverage. As for the motive…” He glanced at me, and I took up the narrative.
“Last night Madame made a number of wild accusations. Pure malice and hysteria, most of them; but now I wonder if there might not have been a grain of wheat in all that chaff. Do any of you know the ancient tale to which she referred?”
“Why, sure,” Vandergelt replied. “Anyone who knows the least little thing about Egyptology must be familiar with it. ‘The Tale of the Two Brothers,’ isn’t that right?”
His reply was prompt. Too prompt, perhaps? A stupid man might have pretended ignorance of that potentially dangerous story. A clever man might know his ignorance would be suspect, and admit the truth at once.
“What are you talking about?” Mary asked pathetically. “I don’t understand. These hints—”
“Let me explain,” Karl said.
“As a student of the language you probably know the story best,” Emerson said smoothly. “Go on, Karl.”
The young man cleared his throat self-consciously. I noted, however, that when he spoke his verb forms were in perfect English alignment. That meant something.
“The tale concerns two brothers. Anubis the elder and Bata the younger. Their parents were dead, and Bata lived with his older brother and his wife. One day when they were working in the fields, Anubis sent Bata back to the house to fetch some grain. The wife of Anubis saw the young man’s strength and desired—er—that is, she asked him—er—”
“She made advances to him,” Emerson said impatiently.
”Ja, Herr Professor! The young man indignantly refused the woman. But, fearing that he would betray her to her husband, she told Anubis Bata had—er—made advances to her. So Anubis hid in the barn, meaning to kill his younger brother when he came in from the field.
“But,” Karl continued, warming to the tale, “the cattle of Bata were enchanted; they could speak. As each entered the barn it warned Bata that his brother was hiding behind the door, intending to murder him. So Bata ran away, pursued by Anubis. The gods, who knew Bata was innocent, caused a river full of crocodiles to flow between them. And then Bata, across the river, called out to his brother, explaining what had really happened. As a sign of his innocence he cut off—er—that is—”
Karl turned