The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [61]
“It came to me as I meditated before the shrine of Amon and Serapis, lord of the underworld. Danger! Disaster! It was my duty to come, at whatever effort, to warn those who profane the tomb. A mother’s heart gave a dying woman strength to fly to the aid of her child—”
“Mother!” Mary stamped her foot. So might the divine Cleopatra have looked as she defied Caesar—if one could picture Cleopatra in a shirtwaist and walking skirt, with tears of embarrassment flooding her eyes.
Madame Berengeria stopped speaking, but only because she had finished what she wanted to say. Her mean little mouth was set in a self-satisfied smirk.
“I am sorry, Mother,” Mary said. “I didn’t mean to be impertinent, but—”
“I forgive you,” Madame said.
“But you must not talk like this. You must go home at once.”
One of the bearers understood English. He let out a howl and addressed Mary in impassioned Arabic. Though embroidered with expletives and complaints, the gist of his speech was simple enough. His back was broken, the backs of his friends were broken; they could not carry the lady another step.
Emerson settled the difficulty with a combination of threats and bribery. When the price had gone high enough the men discovered that their backs were not broken after all. We bundled Madame Berengeria unceremoniously into her palanquin, resisting her efforts to embrace Emerson, whom she addressed affectionately as Ramses the Great, her lover and husband. Groaning piteously, the men were preparing to lift the palanquin when Madame’s disheveled head once more appeared between the curtains. Thrusting out an arm, she prodded the nearest bearer.
“To the house of Lord Baskerville,” she said.
“No, Mother,” Mary exclaimed. “Lady Baskerville does not want… It would be rude to call on her without an invitation.”
“An errand of mercy requires no invitation,” was the reply. “I go to cast the mantle of my protection over that house of blood. By prayer and meditation I will avert the danger.” Then, with a sudden descent from her lofty tone, she added, “I have brought your things too, Mary; there is no need for you to return to Luxor tonight.”
“You mean—you mean you are planning to stay?” Mary gasped. “Mother, you cannot—”
“I certainly don’t intend to spend another night in that house where I was almost murdered in my bed yesterday.”
“Why don’t you avert the danger by prayer and meditation?” I inquired.
Madame Berengeria glowered at me. “You are not the mistress of Baskerville House. Let her ladyship deny me, if she can.” Again she prodded the bearer. “Go—now—Baskerville House.”
“It may be just as well,” I said to Emerson in a low voice. “We can keep her under observation if she is actually living in the house.”
“What an appalling idea,” said Emerson. “Really, Amelia, I don’t think Lady Baskerville—”
“Then stop her. I don’t see how you can do it, short of binding and gagging her. But if that is your desire—”
“Oh, bah!” Emerson folded his arms. “I wash my hands of the entire affair.”
Mary, overcome by shame, had also withdrawn from the discussion. Seeing she had won, Madame Berengeria’s face split into a narrow toadlike grin. The procession set out, leaving Mr. O’Connell behind like a small dapper whale stranded on a sandy beach.
Emerson’s chest swelled as he turned on the young man, but before he could speak Mary anticipated him.
“How dare you, Kevin? How could you encourage her to do this?”
“Ah, my dear, but I did my best to stop her, and that’s the truth. What else could I do but come along to protect her in case of trouble? You do believe me, don’t you, Mary?”
He attempted to take her hand. She snatched it away with a gesture of ineffable disdain. Tears of distress sparkled in her eyes. Quickly she turned and walked back toward the tomb.
Mr. O’Connell’s freckled face fell. The faces of Karl and Milverton took on identical expressions of smug pleasure. As one man they wheeled and followed Mary.
O’Connell caught my eye. He shrugged and tried to smile. “Spare me your comments,