The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [123]
“Wait,” I cried, rising in my turn.
“What is it?” Emerson demanded.
“Mary,” I exclaimed. “Quickly—she is about to swoon—”
The gentlemen all converged on the astonished girl. I had hoped, but had not really expected, that she would have the wits to follow my lead. Evelyn would have done it instantly. But Evelyn is used to my methods. It did not matter; the distraction gave me the opportunity I needed. Emerson’s coffee cup and mine were on a low table next to my chair. Quickly I exchanged them.
“Honestly, there is nothing wrong with me,” Mary insisted. “I am a little tired, but I don’t feel at all faint.”
“You are very pale,” I said sympathetically. “And you have had such a dreadful day, Mary; I think you ought to retire.”
“So should you,” Emerson said, looking at me suspiciously. “Drink your coffee, Amelia, and excuse yourself.”
“Certainly,” I said, and did so without hesitation.
The group dispersed soon thereafter. Emerson offered to escort me to our room; but I informed him I had other matters to take care of before I retired. The first and most imperative I will not describe in detail. It had to be done, and I did it; but the process was unpleasant to experience and distasteful to recount. If I had been able to anticipate Emerson’s plans I would not have eaten quite so much at dinner.
I then felt obliged to look in on Mary. She was still in the state of false composure that often follows a shock, whether the shock be one of joy or sorrow—but sooner or later she must give way to the bewildering mixture of emotions that filled her heart. I treated her as I would a hurt or frightened child, tucking her into bed, and leaving a candle burning for comfort; and she seemed pathetically grateful for the attentions, which, I have no doubt, were new to her. I took the opportunity of speaking to her about Christian fortitude and British spunk in the face of adversity, adding that, with all due respect to her mother, the future could only appear bright. I might have said more; but at this point in the conversation she fell asleep. So I tucked the netting around her and tiptoed out.
Emerson was waiting outside the door. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his look of “I would stamp and shout if I were not such an unusually patient man” on his face.
“What took you so cursed long?” he demanded. “I am in a hurry.”
“I did not ask you to wait for me.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“Ah!” Emerson exclaimed, in the surprised tone of someone who has just made a discovery. “You are angry because I didn’t ask you share the watch with me tonight.”
“Ridiculous. If you wish to sit there like Patience on a monument waiting for a murderer to attack you, I will not interfere.”
“Is that what you are thinking?” Emerson laughed loudly. “No, no, my dear Peabody. I was bluffling about the message, of course—”
“I know.”
“Humph,” said Emerson. “Do you suppose the others know?”
“Probably.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
He had me there. The message was such a transparent subterfuge that only a fool would fail to see it for the trick it was.
“Humph,” I said.
“I had hoped,” Emerson admitted, “that the device would stimulate our suspect, not to murder me—I am no hero, my dear, as you may have observed—but to flee. Like you, I believe now that the trick has failed. However, just in case the killer is more nervous or more stupid than we believe, I want you here to observe whether anyone leaves the house.”
We had been pacing slowly around the courtyard as we spoke. Now we reached the door of our room; Emerson opened it, shoved me in, and enveloped me in a bruising embrace.
“Sleep well, my darling Peabody. Dream of me.”
I flung my arms around his neck. “My dearest husband, guard your precious life. I would not attempt to keep you from your duty, but remember that if you fall—”
Emerson pushed me away. “Curse it, Peabody, how dare you make fun of me? I hope you fall over a chair and sprain your ankle.”
And with this tender farewell he left me, cursing under