The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [125]
“Drugged,” I said softly. “This is a most alarming development, Emerson.”
“Alarming but hopeful,” was the reply, in tones as soft as Emerson could make them. “It confirms my theory. Stay here out of sight, Peabody, and for heaven’s sake don’t give the alarm too soon. Wait till I actually have my hands on the wretch.”
“But, Emerson—”
“No more. I only hope our animated discussion has gone unheard.”
“Wait, Emerson—”
He was gone. I sat down beside the boulder. To pursue him and insist on being heard was to risk the failure of our scheme; and besides, the information I had meant to give him was no longer pertinent. Or was it? Chewing on my lip, I tried to sort out my thoughts. O’Connell had been drugged. No doubt Emerson’s coffee, which I had drunk, had also been doctored. Fearing such an eventuality, I had drunk Emerson’s coffee, and rid myself of it. Yet when I came upon him just now he had been sound asleep. I could not have mistaken pretense for reality. I had felt the limpness of his body, and if he had only been feigning sleep he would have heard my whispers. He had drunk my coffee. Or had someone else exchanged cups with him? I felt as if my head were spinning like a top.
A soft glow of artificial light roused me from my disquieting thoughts. Emerson had lit the lantern. I approved this decision; if my reasoning was correct, the murderer would expect to find him drugged and helpless, and the lamplight would enable this prostrate condition to be observed more readily. I only wished I could be certain he was free of the influence of some drug. I took a deep breath and clenched my hands. It did not matter. I was on the job. I had my knife, my gun, my parasol; I had the resolve of duty and affection to strengthen every sinew. I told myself that Emerson could not have been in better hands than mine.
I told myself that; but as time wore on I began to doubt my own assurances—not because I had lost faith in my abilities, but because I stood to lose so much if, by some unexpected mischance, I should fail to act in time. Emerson had seated himself on the ground by the stairs, his back against a rock, his pipe in his mouth. After smoking for a while he knocked out the pipe and sat motionless. Gradually his head drooped forward. The pipe fell from his lax hand. Shoulders bowed, chin on his breast, he slept—or was he pretending to sleep? A breeze ruffled his dark hair. I beheld his unmoving form with mounting apprehension. I was at least ten yards away. Could I reach him in time, if action proved necessary? Beside me, Mr. O’Connell rolled over and began to snore. I was tempted to kick him, even though I knew his comatose condition was not his fault.
The night was far advanced before the first betraying sound reached my ears. It was only the soft click of a pebble striking stone, and it might have been made by a wandering animal; but it brought me upright, with every sense alert. Yet I almost missed the first sign of movement. It came from behind the fence, outside the circle of light.
I had known what to expect; but as the shadowy shape emerged cautiously into view, I caught my breath. Muffled from head to foot in clinging muslin that covered even its face, it reminded me of the first appearance of Ayesha, the immortal woman or goddess, in Mr. Haggard’s thrilling romance She. Ayesha veiled her face and form because her dazzling beauty drove men mad; this apparition’s disguise had a darker purpose, but it conveyed the same sense of awe and terror. No wonder the persons who had seen it had taken it for a demon of the night or the spirit of an ancient queen.
It stood poised, as if prepared for instant flight. The night wind lifted its draperies like the wings of a great white moth. So strong was my desire to rush at it that I sank my teeth in my lower lip and tasted the saltiness of blood. I had to wait. There were too many hiding places in the nearby cliffs. If it escaped us now, we might never bring it to