The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [133]
“When it comes to that,” said Emerson, now thoroughly aroused, and on the defensive, “how did you come to suspect Lady Baskerville? And don’t tell me it was intuition.”
“I told you before. It was Arthur’s bed. Besides,” I added, “it was not difficult for me to understand why a woman might be driven to murder her husband.”
“Vice versa, Peabody, vice versa.” Emerson slid down into a semirecumbent position and pushed his hat over his eyes.
“There is one other point I never raised with you,” I said.
“And what is that?”
“You,” I said, “were overcome with sleepiness that last night. Don’t deny it; you were stumbling and muttering for hours afterward. If I had not tied Lady Baskerville up with her own veils, she would have escaped. What did you put in my coffee, Emerson?”
“I never heard such nonsense,” Emerson mumbled.
“You drank my coffee,” I continued remorselessly. “Unlike you, I suspected Lady Baskerville might take steps to ensure that you would be asleep and helpless that night. I therefore drank the poison myself, like… well, like a number of heroines I have read about. So, my dear Emerson —what was in my coffee, and who put it there?”
Emerson was silent. I waited, having discovered that cold forbearance is more effective than accusations in loosening a witness’s tongue.
“It was your own fault,” Emerson said at last.
“Oh?”
“If you would stay peacefully at home, like a sensible woman, when you are told to—”
“So you put opium in my coffee. Lady Baskerville put it in yours, and in Mr. O’Connell’s, after you had chosen him to accompany you. Really,” I said, in some vexation, “the affair is positively farcical. Emerson, your carelessness astonishes me. What if Lady Baskerville had wished to render me hors de combat too? Your little contribution, which I presume you obtained from my medical chest, added to hers, would have put an end to my nocturnal activities permanently.”
Emerson leaped to his feet. His hat, lifted from his head by the vigor of his movement, floated around for a few seconds and then dropped onto the head of Sat Hathor, the Chantress of Amon. It was a rather amusing sight, but I had no impulse to laugh. Poor Emerson’s face had gone white under his deep tan. Careless of the watchers on the lower deck he lifted me up out of my chair and crushed me to him.
“Peabody,” he exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with emotion, “I am the stupidest idiot in creation. My blood runs cold when I think… Can you forgive me?”
I forgave him, with gestures instead of words. After a long embrace he released me.
“In fact,” he said, “we should call it a draw. You tried to shoot me, I tried to poison you. As I said before, Peabody, we are well matched.”
It was impossible to resist him. I began to laugh, and after a moment Emerson’s deep-throated chuckle blended with mine.
“What do you say we go down to the cabin?” he inquired. “The mummies will do very well alone for a while.”
“Not just yet. Bastet was just waking when we came up; you know she will prowl and howl for some time before she resigns herself.”
“I should never have brought that cat,” Emerson growled. Then he brightened up. “But just think, Peabody, what a pair she and Ramses will make. Never a dull moment, eh?”
“It will toughen him up for next season,” I agreed.
“Do you really think—”
“I really do. Good heavens, Emerson, Luxor is becoming known as a health resort. The boy will be better off there than in that nasty damp winter climate of England.”
“No doubt you are right, Peabody.”
“I always am. Where do you think we should excavate next winter?”
Emerson retrieved his hat from the Chantress of Amon and clapped it onto the back of his head. His face had the look I loved to see—baked as brown as a Nubian’s by the Egyptian sun, his eyes narrowed speculatively,