The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [52]
Once again my trusty parasol proved its usefulness. By poking it at the backs of the crowd, I won a path through to the stairs. One of the basket men was just coming up. I greeted him effusively. He mumbled something and would not meet my eye. Again my apprehensions rose. Before they could flower into hysteria I heard the sound I yearned to hear—Emerson’s voice raised in a blistering Arabic swear word.
It was echoed, bizarrely, by a girl’s soft laugh. Squinting into the shadows below, I saw Miss Mary perched on a stool at the bottom of the stairs. Her position must have been uncomfortable, for she was pressed against the wall in order to leave a path for the basket men. But she appeared quite cheerful; greeting me with a shy smile, she said softly, “The Professor does not realize, I am sure, that my Arabic is quite fluent. Pray don’t tell him; he needs some outlet for his feelings.”
I did not doubt that she found her cramped, hot position a pleasant change from her usual morning’s occupation, for any activity that did not include her mother must be pleasurable. However, I found her cheerfulness somewhat frivolous under the circumstances, and I was about to utter a kindly reproof when her pretty face grew sober and she went on, “I am so sorry you had such a distressing experience this morning. I did not learn of it until I arrived here; but I assure you, Mrs. Emerson, that I want to help in any way I can.”
This speech convinced me that my initial appraisal of the girl’s character had not been at fault. Her cheerfulness was simply an effort to keep her chin up, in the best British tradition. I replied warmly, “You must call me Amelia; we will be working together, I hope, for a long time.”
She was about to reply when Emerson came storming out and told me to get to work. I drew him aside. “Emerson,” I said in a soft voice, “it is time we took action to end this nonsense about the curse, instead of simply ignoring it. We can only lose that way; every incident will be interpreted as a new instance of supernatural hostility unless—”
“For the love of heaven, Amelia, don’t make a speech,” Emerson snapped. “I see the point you are attempting to make; proceed, if you are able, to a specific suggestion.”
“I was about to do so when you so rudely interrupted me,” I replied spiritedly. “The men seem perturbed by last night’s accident. Give them a day or two away from the tomb; set them to work searching for Armadale. If we can find him and prove he was responsible for Lord Baskerville’s death—”
“How the devil can we hope to find him when weeks of search produced nothing?”
“But we know he was here, on our very doorstep (so to speak) less than twelve hours ago! Hassan saw the man himself, not his ghost; Armadale must have returned last night and murdered Hassan in order to escape discovery. Or Hassan may have attempted to blackmail him—”
“Good Gad, Amelia, will you attempt to control your rampageous imagination? I admit that what you have suggested is possible. It had, of course, already occurred to me as one explanation among many—”
“You never thought of it until this moment,” I said indignantly. “It is just like you to claim the credit for my—”
“Why should I wish to claim credit for such a wild, farfetched—”
“Kindly lower your voice.”
“I never raise my voice,” Emerson bellowed. A ghostly echo came rolling back from the depths of the tomb, as if the king’s spirit were objecting to being awakened.
“Then you will not do as I suggest?”
Emerson’s voice dropped to a thunderous growl. “I came here to excavate, Amelia, not to play Sherlock Holmes, a role, let me point out, for which you are no better equipped than I. If you wish to assist me, get to work. If you do not, return to the house and drink tea with Lady Baskerville.”
Whereupon he charged back into the tomb. Turning, I met the wide, apprehensive gaze of Mary. I smiled at her.
“Pay no attention to the Professor, Mary. His bark is worse than his bite.”
“Oh, I know that. I…” The girl raised a