The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [65]
Once he had gotten his breath back, the moonlit scene again echoed to the fervor of his cries, now entirely profane and almost entirely directed at me. Taking a seat on a convenient boulder, I waited until he had calmed himself.
“This is too much,” he remarked, raising himself to a sitting position. “Not only am I under attack by every malcontent and religious maniac in Luxor, but my own wife turns against me. I was in pursuit, Amelia—hot pursuit! I would have caught the rascal if you had not interfered.”
“I assure you, you would not,” I said. “There was no one else in sight. He undoubtedly crept away among the rocks while you were rushing around and howling. Who was it?”
“Habib, I suppose,” Emerson replied. “I caught only a glimpse of a turban and a fluttering robe. Curse it, Amelia, I was just about—”
“And I was just about to become the repository of a confidence from Mr. Milverton,” I said, in considerable bitterness of spirit. “He was on the verge of confessing to the crime. I do wish you could learn to control that juvenile joie de vivre which leads you to act before you—”
“That is certainly a case of the pot reprimanding the kettle,” Emerson cried. “Joie de vivre is too kind a word for the inveterate conceit that leads you to believe yourself—”
Before he could finish this insulting comment we were joined by the others. Agitated questions and explanations followed. We then proceeded, Emerson conceding reluctantly that there was no sense in continuing a pursuit of someone who had long since vanished. Rubbing his hip and limping ostentatiously, he headed the procession.
Once again I found myself with Mr. Milverton. As he offered me his arm I saw that he was struggling to repress a smile.
“I could not help overhearing part of your conversation,” he began.
I tried to recall what I had said. I knew I had made some references to a confession. But when Milverton continued I was relieved to learn that he had not heard that part of my speech.
“I don’t mean to be impertinent, Mrs. Emerson, but I am intrigued by the relationship between you and the Professor. Was it really necessary for you to knock him flat?”
“Of course it was. Nothing short of physical violence can stop Emerson when he is in a rage, and if I had not stopped him he would have gone on running until he tumbled over the cliffs or caught his foot in a hole.”
“I see. He did not seem to—er—appreciate your concern for his safety.”
“Oh, that is just his manner,” I said. Emerson, still limping in a vulgar and unconvincing fashion, was not far ahead, but I did not trouble to lower my voice. “Like all Englishmen, he does not care to display his true emotions in public. In private, I assure you, he is the tenderest and most affectionate—”
This was too much for Emerson, who turned and shouted, “Hurry up, you two; what are you doing, dawdling along back there?”
So, with considerable vexation, I abandoned hope of regaining Milverton’s confidence. As we made our way down the winding and dangerous descent, there was no opportunity for a private conversation. We had gone only a short distance toward the house, whose lights we could see gleaming through the palm fronds, when we were met by Mr. Vandergelt, who, anxious at our tardiness, had come out in search of us.
As we entered the courtyard Milverton caught my hand.
“Did you mean it?” he whispered. “You assured me—”
A flame of exultation soared from the dying embers of hope.
“Every word,” I whispered back. “Trust me.”
“Amelia, what are you muttering about?” Emerson demanded pettishly. “Hurry up, can’t you?”
I took a firm grip on my parasol and managed not to hit him with it.
“I am coming,” I replied. “Do you go on.”
We were almost at the door. I heard a voice in my ear murmur, “Midnight; on the loggia.”
II
As soon as we stepped into the house Emerson fled toward our room like a man pursued by demons, and, indeed, the distant echo of a resounding voice which could only