The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [131]
I gazed at my husband with tears of affection dimming my sight. How often is Emerson misjudged by those who do not know him! How tender, how delicate are the feelings he conceals beneath a mask of ferocity!
Unaware of my sentiments, Emerson took a stiff drink of whiskey and resumed, in a more practical vein. “The first part of the story of the Two Brothers concerns a faithless wife who turns one man against another by her lies. Think of that story, gentlemen and Peabody, in terms of our tragic triangle. Again, the metaphor was apt; and Lady Baskerville’s guilty conscience led her to choose the wrong reference. She thought herself in danger of exposure—and it was so easy to slip a fatal dose of opium into Madame Berengeria’s bottle of brandy. What was one more murder? She had already committed three. And what was the death of one dreadful old woman? A blessing in disguise, really.”
Silence followed the conclusion of his remarks. Then he addressed Mr. O’Connell, whose pencil had been racing across the page. “Any questions?” he said.
“Wait, just let me get the last part. ‘What was the death of one dreadful…’”
“Old woman,” Emerson supplied.
“Silly old fool,” Mr. Vandergelt muttered, staring into his empty glass.
The door opened and Mary entered.
“He is asleep,” she said, smiling at me. “I am so happy for him. He will so enjoy being Lord Baskerville.”
“And I am happy for you,” I replied, with a meaningful look.
“But how did you know?” Mary exclaimed, blushing prettily. “We have not told anyone yet.”
“I always know these things,” I began.
Fortunately I said no more; for even as I spoke Karl von Bork crossed to Mary’s side. He put his arm around her and she leaned against him, her flush deepening into a rosy glow.
“We have you to thank, Frau Professor,” he said, his mustaches positively curling in the ardor of his happiness. “It is not proper to speak of this so soon after the unhappy, the unfortunate occurrence we have been discussing; but my dear Mary is quite alone in the world now, and she needs me. I have confidence that you will be to her a true friend until comes the blissful time when I can take her to the place which is—”
“What?” Emerson exclaimed, staring.
“Begorrah!” cried Mr. O’Connell, flinging his pencil across the room.
“Silly old fool,” said Mr. Vandergelt to his empty glass.
“My very best wishes to both of you,” I said. “Of course I knew it all along.”
II
“Has it occurred to you,” Emerson inquired, “that you have quite a number of acquaintances in prisons around the world?”
I considered the question. “Why, really, I can only think of two—no, three, since Evelyn’s cousin was apprehended last year in Budapest. That is not a great number.”
Emerson chuckled. He was in an excellent mood, and with good reason. The surroundings, the state of his career, the prospects before us—all were conducive to the most unexampled good spirits.
Two and a half months had passed since the events I have narrated, and we were on our way home. We were sitting on the deck of the steamer Rembrandt; the sun shone down and the white-capped waves curled away from the prow as the boat plunged rapidly toward Marseilles. The rest of the passengers were huddled at the farthest end of the boat (I can never remember whether it is the poop or the