The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [48]
He was saved from answering by Karl, who had been eagerly examining the pottery fragments in the hope of finding writing on them. Now the young German looked up and said, “Excuse me, Herr Professor, but have you considered my suggestion regarding an artist? Now that paintings have been found—”
“Quite, quite,” Emerson said. “An artist would certainly be useful.”
“Especially,” Vandergelt added, “since there is so much antagonism toward your work. I wouldn’t put it past the local hoodlums to destroy the paintings out of spite.”
“They will have to get to them first,” Emerson said grimly.
“I am sure your guards are trustworthy. All the same—”
“You need not belabor the point. I’ll give the girl a try.”
Milverton had relaxed as the attention of the others was directed away from him. Now he sat up with a start.
“Is it Miss Mary of whom you speak? You cannot be serious. Karl, how can you suggest—”
“But she is a fine artist,” Karl said.
“Granted. But it is out of the question for her to risk herself.”
Karl turned beet red. “Risk? Was ist’s? Was haben Sie gesagt? Niemals würde ich… Excuse me, I forget myself; but that I would endanger—”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” shouted Emerson, who had apparently decided never to let the young German complete a sentence. “What do you mean, Milverton?”
Milverton got to his feet. Despite the grave doubts his peculiar behavior had raised in my mind, I could not help but admire him at that moment: pale as linen, his handsome blue eyes burning, his manly figure erect, he halted the general outcry with a dramatic gesture.
“How can you all be so blind? Of course there is risk. Lord Baskerville’s mysterious death, Armadale missing, the villagers threatening…. Am I the only one among you who is willing to face the truth? Be it so! And be assured I will not shirk my duty as an Englishman and a gentleman! Never will I abandon Miss Mary—or you, Lady Baskerville—or Mrs. Emerson—”
Seeing that he was losing the superb emotional import of his speech, I rose and seized him by the arm.
“You are overexcited, Mr. Milverton. I suspect you are not fully recovered. What you need is a good dinner and a quiet night. Once you have regained your health, these fancies will no longer trouble you.”
The young man gazed at me with troubled eyes, his sensitive lips quivering, and I felt constrained to add, “The natives call me ‘Sitt Hakim,’ the lady doctor, you know; I assure you that I know what is best for you. Your own mother would advise you as I have done.”
“Now that makes good sense,” Vandergelt exclaimed heartily. “You listen to the lady, young fellow; she’s a sharp one.”
Dominated by a stronger personality (I refer to my own, of course), Mr. Milverton nodded submissively and said no more.
However, the effects of his outburst could not be dismissed so easily. Karl was silent and sullen for the remainder of the evening; it was clear, from the angry looks he shot at the other young man, that he had not forgotten or forgiven Milverton for his accusation. Lady Baskerville also seemed upset. After dinner, when Mr. Vandergelt prepared to return to the hotel, he urged her to come with him. She refused with a laugh; but in my opinion the laughter was hollow.
Vandergelt took his departure, bearing with him a note that he had promised to deliver to Mary, and the rest of us retired to the drawing room. I allowed Lady Baskerville to dispense the coffee, thinking that domestic and soothing activity would calm her nerves, which it undoubtedly would have done if the others had cooperated with me in behaving normally. But Karl sulked, Emerson relapsed into the blank-faced silence that is indicative of his more contemplative moods, and Milverton was so nervous he could hardly sit still. It was with considerable relief that I heard Emerson declare we must all retire early, in view of the hard day’s work ahead of us.
Lady Baskerville accompanied us as we crossed the courtyard. I noticed that she stayed close to us, and