The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [124]
I addressed the cat Bastet, whose sleek form I had seen outlined against the open window.
“He deserved that,” I said. “I am inclined to agree with you, Bastet; cats are much more sensible than people.”
III
Bastet and I kept watch together while the hands of my little pocket watch crept on toward midnight. I was flattered that the cat stayed with me; always before she had seemed to prefer Emerson. No doubt her keen intelligence told her that the truest friend is not always the one who offers chicken.
I had not been deceived for a moment by Emerson’s glib excuses. He did hope the murderer would believe his lies about messages and decisive clues; he expected to be attacked that very night. The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I became. A sensible murderer (if there is such a thing) would not have been fooled for a moment by Emerson’s playacting. But if my theory was correct the murderer was stupid enough, and desperate enough, to react as Emerson had planned.
After I put on my working costume I blackened my face and hands with soot from the lamp and removed every touch of white from my attire. Opening my door a crack, I ascertained that the watchman was on duty in the courtyard. I could not see anyone outside the window. When midnight finally came I left the cat sleeping quietly on my bed and slipped out the window.
The moon was gibbous, but it gave too strong a light for my purposes. I would rather have walked unseen under heavy clouds. Despite the cool of the night air I was perspiring by the time I reached the cliff that overlooked the Valley.
Below me the abode of the dead lay at peace under the light of Egypt’s eternal moon. The fence around the tomb obstructed my view until I was quite near. I had not expected to hear sounds of revelry, so the dead silence that enveloped the place was not in itself alarming, nor was the fact that I saw no glow from the lantern Emerson usually kept burning. He might have left it unlit in the hope of luring the killer close. Yet the now only too familiar grue of apprehension chilled my limbs as I glided on.
I approached the barrier cautiously. I did not want to be mistaken for the criminal and knocked down by my own husband. My approach was certainly not noiseless, for the stony ground was littered with pebbles and gravel that crunched underfoot. Reaching the fence, I peered through the gap between two stakes.
“Emerson,” I whispered. “Don’t shoot; it is I.”
No voice replied. Not the slightest sound broke the uncanny stillness. The enclosed space was like a badly focused photograph, crisscrossed by the shadows of the fence stakes and blurred by the shapes of boulders and miscellaneous objects. Instinct told me the truth even before my straining eyes made out a huddled, darker shape beside the stairwell. Abandoning caution, I ran forward and flung myself down beside it. My groping hands found creased fabric, thick tumbled hair, and features whose shape would have been familiar to me in the darknest night.
“Emerson,” I gasped. “Speak to me! Oh, heavens, I am too late. Why did I wait so long? Why did—”
The motionless body was suddenly galvanized into life. I was seized—throttled—muffled—pulled down to the ground with a force that left me breathless—enclosed in an embrace that held the ferocity of a deadly enemy instead of the affection of a spouse.
“Curse you, Amelia,” Emerson hissed. “If you have frightened my quarry away I will never speak to you again. What the devil are you doing here?”
Being unable to articulate, I gurgled as meaningfully as I could. Emerson freed my mouth. “Softly,” he whispered.
“How dare you frighten me so?” I demanded.
“How did you… Never mind; get back out of sight, with O’Connell, while I resume my position. I was pretending to be asleep.”
“You were asleep.”
“I may have dozed off for a moment…. No more talk. Retire to the hut where O’Connell—”
“Emerson—where is Mr. O’Connell? This encounter has not been exactly silent; should he not have rushed to your assistance by this time?”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson.
We found the journalist