The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [56]
“Humph,” said Emerson. “I assure you, Vandergelt, I am perfectly capable of protecting not only Amelia and Lady Baskerville but any indeterminate number of helpless females.”
I opened my mouth, an indignant comment trembling on my lips; but I was not allowed to make it. With rising heat Emerson went on, “Curse it, Vandergelt, there are three able-bodied men here, not to mention my men from Aziyeh, who are completely reliable and who would defend Amelia and myself to the death. What are you up to?”
“The Professor has it correct,” said Karl, in his Germanic way. “We can defend the ladies; never will they be in danger when here I am.”
There was a faint murmur of agreement from Mr. Milverton. I found the murmur and the young man’s troubled countenance far from reassuring, but Karl was the picture of manly devotion as he rose to his feet, his muscular frame (and his mustache) vibrant with emotion and his gold-rimmed spectacles gleaming. He added, “I only wish, ladies and sirs, that Miss Mary could be here. It is not right that she should be alone in Luxor with her aging and peculiar maternal parent.”
“We can’t ask her to come here unless we invite her mother,” said Mr. Vandergelt.
There was a brief pause while everyone considered the idea. Karl was the first to break the silence. “If it must be—”
“Certainly not,” Lady Baskerville exclaimed. “I will not tolerate that woman’s presence. But if you wish to join us, Cyrus, you know you are always welcome. Not that I feel there is any real danger.”
“Wait until the townspeople hear about the white lady,” I said ruefully.
Lady Baskerville let out an exclamation and gazed on me with burning eyes. “Have you had…” She checked herself for a moment and then went on, “… a conversation with my foolish Atiyah?”
I had the distinct impression that this was not what she had meant to say. “She mentioned seeing a figure in white robes last night, about the time Hassan was killed,” I replied. “To be sure, it might have been imagination.”
“What else could it have been?” Lady Baskerville demanded. “The woman is hopelessly superstitious.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Vandergelt shook his head. “That’s the kind of talk you folks don’t need.”
“It is perfectly ridiculous,” Lady Baskerville exclaimed angrily. She walked toward the windows. The swift desert night had fallen; the evening breeze set the flimsy curtains billowing and carried the sweet, cloying scent of jasmine into the room. With one white hand holding the curtains, Lady Baskerville stood with her back to us, looking out into the night. I had to admit she made a handsome picture in her softly draped black gown, her queenly head with its crown of shining hair poised on her slender throat.
The discussion continued. Emerson could hardly refuse to receive Mr. Vandergelt when the mistress of the house had made him welcome, but he did not attempt to conceal his displeasure. Vandergelt replied with perfect good humor, but I rather thought he enjoyed Emerson’s discomfiture and, in numerous sly ways, added to it.
Suddenly Lady Baskerville gave a sharp cry and stepped away from the window. The warning was too late. With the celerity of a speeding bullet (though of considerably larger dimensions), a missile hurtled through the open window and crossed the room, landing with a crash on the tea table and sending broken china flying in all directions. Before it reached its final destination, however, it achieved its aim. With a violent (and, I am sorry to report, profane) exclamation, Emerson clapped his hand to his head, staggered, and fell full length upon the floor. The impact of his body toppled several small fragile objects from the tables and shelves where they stood, so that the collapse of the colossus (if I may be permitted a literary metaphor) was accompanied by a perfect symphony of breaking glass.
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