The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [58]
My tender reference was wasted on Emerson, who continued to study the object that had nearly crushed his skull.
“Amazing,” he muttered. “It is genuine—not a copy. Where on earth—”
“This is no time for archaeologizing,” I said severely. “You must get to bed at once, Emerson, and as for Lady Baskerville—”
“Bed? Nonsense.” Emerson got to his feet, assisted by the assiduous Karl. Dazedly his eyes scanned the room and finally focused on the limp body of Lady Baskerville. “What is wrong with her?” he demanded.
As if on cue, Lady Baskerville opened her eyes.
“The woman in white!” she cried.
Vandergelt dropped to one knee beside the couch and took her hand. “You are perfectly safe, my dear. Don’t be alarmed. What did you see?”
“A woman in white, obviously,” I said, before the lady could reply. “Who was it, Lady Baskerville? Did she hurl the missile?”
“I don’t know.” Lady Baskerville passed her hand over her brow. “I caught a glimpse of her—a dim white figure, ghostly, with a gleam as of gold on her arms and brow. Then something came rushing at me, and involuntarily I recoiled. Oh! Oh, Radcliffe, you are covered with blood! How ghastly!”
“I am perfectly well,” Emerson replied, oblivious of the crimson stains that disfigured his face. “Where the devil do you suppose the fellow found this carved head?”
This sort of thing might have gone on indefinitely— Emerson speculating about the origin of the head, and Lady Baskerville keening about blood like a banshee—if someone had not intervened. To my surprise, it was Mr. Milverton. An amazing transformation had passed over him. His step was elastic, his color good, his tone firm yet respectful.
“Forgive me, Professor, but we really must have an interlude for rest and reflection. You took quite a crack on the head, you know, and we can’t risk anything going wrong with you. Lady Baskerville ought to rest too, she has had a frightful shock. If you will allow me.”
With a smiling, conspiratorial glance at me, he took Emerson’s arm. My husband allowed himself to be led from the room. He was still crooning over the lethal little head, which he held cupped in his hands.
Lady Baskerville followed, leaning weakly on Mr. Vandergelt’s arm. After escorting Emerson to our room, Mr. Milverton drew me aside.
“I will go and tidy up the drawing room,” he said. “We don’t want the servants to know of this.”
“I fear it is already too late,” I replied. “But it is a good thought, Mr. Milverton; thank you.”
The young fellow went out, whistling under his breath. I looked at my husband, who was staring as if mesmerized into the strange carved eyes of the heretic pharaoh. But as I tended Emerson’s wound and thanked the Almighty for his miraculous escape, I realized that there was an explanation for Mr. Milverton’s sudden access of good spirits. He could not be suspected of hurling the deadly missile. Was he relieved because a second party—a confederate, perhaps— had cleared him of suspicion?
CHAPTER
Eight
WHEN I attempted to lead my wounded spouse to his bed I discovered that he was determined to go out. “I must talk to the men,” he insisted. “They will have heard of this latest incident, you may be sure, and if I am not completely honest with them—”
“I see your point,” I said coldly. “At least change your shirt, will you, please? That one is ruined. I told you you should have ordered another dozen before we left England; you are the most destructive man—”
At this point Emerson precipitately left the room. Of course I followed him.
The men were housed in a building that had been meant to be a storeroom. It was a little distance from the house, and we had had it fitted up with all the necessary comforts. When we reached the place I saw that Emerson had been right. The men had heard the news, and were talking it over.
They stared at Emerson as if he were a ghost. Then Abdullah, who had been squatting by the fire, rose to his impressive height.
“You live, then,” he said, the glow of repressed emotion in his eyes belying his calm tone. “We had heard—”
“Lies,” Emerson said. “An enemy threw