The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [14]
“Pray don’t apologize.” The lady lifted a delicate white hand, adorned with a huge mourning ring made of braided hair—that of the late Sir Henry, I presumed. She turned a charming smile on my husband. “I know Radcliffe’s good heart too well to be deceived by his gruff manner.”
Radcliffe indeed! I particularly dislike my husband’s first name. I was under the impression that he did also. Instead of expressing disapproval he simpered like a schoolboy.
“I was unaware that you two were previously acquainted,” I said, finally managing to dispose of my glass of whiskey behind a bowl of potpourri.
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Baskerville, while Emerson continued to grin foolishly at her. “We have not met for several years; but in the early days, when we were all young and ardent—ardent about Egypt, I mean—we were well acquainted. I was hardly more than a bride—too young, I fear, but my dear Henry quite swept me off my feet.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a black-bordered kerchief.
“There, there,” said Emerson, in the voice he sometimes uses with Ramses. “You must not give way. Time will heal your grief.”
This from a man who curled up like a hedgehog when forced into what he called society, and who never in his life had been known to utter a polite cliché! He began sidling toward her. In another moment he would pat her on the shoulder.
“How true,” I said. “Lady Baskerville, the weather is inclement, and you seem very tired. I hope you will join us for dinner, which will be served shortly.”
“You are very kind.” Lady Baskerville removed her handkerchief from her eyes, which appeared to be perfectly dry, and bared her teeth at me. “I would not dream of such an intrusion. I am staying with friends in the neighborhood, who are expecting me back this evening. Indeed, I would not have come so unceremoniously, unexpected and uninvited, if I had not had an urgent matter to put before you. I am here on business.”
“Indeed,” I said.
“Indeed?” Emerson’s echo held a questioning note; but in fact I had already deduced the nature of the lady’s business. Emerson calls this jumping to conclusions. I call it simple logic.
“Yes,” said Lady Baskerville. “And I will come to the point at once, rather than keep you any longer from your domestic comforts. I gather, from your question about poor Alan, that you are au courant about the situation in Luxor?”
“We have followed it with interest,” Emerson said.
“We?” The lady’s glowing black eyes turned to me with an expression of curiosity. “Ah, yes, I believe I did hear that Mrs. Emerson takes an interest in archaeology. So much the better; I will not bore her if I introduce the subject.”
I retrieved my glass of whiskey from behind the potpourri. “No, you will not bore me,” I said.
“You are too good. To answer your question, then, Radcliffe: no trace has been found of poor Alan. The situation is swathed in darkness and in mystery. When I think of it I am overcome.”
Again the dainty handkerchief came into play. Emerson made clucking noises. I said nothing, but drank my whiskey in ladylike silence.
At last Lady Baskerville resumed. “I can do nothing about the mystery surrounding Alan’s disappearance; but I am in hopes of accomplishing something else, which may seem unimportant compared with the loss of human life, but which was vital to the interests of my poor lost husband. The tomb, Radcliffe—the tomb!”
Leaning forward, with clasped hands and parted lips, her bosom heaving, she fixed him with her great black eyes; and Emerson stared back, apparently mesmerized.
“Yes, indeed,” I said. “The tomb. We gather, Lady Baskerville, that work has come to a standstill. You know, of course, that sooner or later it will be robbed, and all your husband’s efforts wasted.”
“Precisely!” The lady turned the clasped hands, the lips, the bosom, et cetera, et cetera, on me. “How I do admire your logical, almost masculine, mind, Mrs. Emerson. That is just what I was trying to express, in my poor silly way.”
“I thought you were,” I said. “What is it you want my husband to do?”
Thus directed, Lady