The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [66]
I paid no attention to this childish exhibition.
“Emerson,” I cried eagerly, “you will never guess what has happened. Despite your stupid interference…” Here he began to expostulate. I raised my voice and went on, “I have won Mr. Milverton’s confidence. He is going to confess!”
“Well, do shout a little louder,” Emerson said. “There must be a few people in the house who haven’t heard you.”
The reproof was justified, if rudely expressed. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “He is deeply disturbed, Emerson. I am sure the murder was unpremeditated; no doubt he was driven to it.”
“Humph.” Standing on a mat, Emerson pulled off his shirt and began to sponge himself off. “What precisely did he say?”
“You are very calm,” I exclaimed. I took the sponge from his hand and washed the sand and dust from his back. “He was unable to give me any details. That will come later. I am to meet him at midnight, in—”
“You have lost your wits,” said Emerson. His voice was calmer, however, and as I continued to move the sponge rhythmically over the hard muscles of his back, he let out an absurd purring murmur of pleasure. “Do you really suppose, my dear Peabody, that I will let you go out to meet a murderer in the middle of the night?”
“I have it all planned,” I said, replacing the sponge with a towel. “You will be in hiding nearby.”
“No, I won’t,” said Emerson. He took the towel from me and hastily finished drying himself. “I am spending the night at the tomb, and you are going to lock yourself in this room and stay in it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We are getting near the end of the passageway. Another day or two should see it cleared. A couple of determined thieves, working in haste, can dig a tunnel through in a few hours.”
I did not ask how he knew the end of the corridor was near. In professional matters Emerson is the greatest archaeologist of this, and perhaps any, age. It is only in the routine aspects of life that he displays a normal degree of masculine incompetence.
“But our men are on guard, are they not?” I asked.
“Two men, who are, by this time, in such a state of nerves that a howling jackal could send them scampering for cover. And two men could not hold out against an assault in force. The Gurnawis have attacked archaeologists before.”
“So you are proposing yourself as one of the victims?”
“They won’t dare attack an Englishman,” Emerson said sublimely.
“Ha,” I said. “I see your real motive for wishing to absent yourself. You are afraid of Madame Berengeria.”
“Ridiculous.” Emerson let out a hollow laugh. “Let us not argue, Peabody. Why don’t you get out of that dusty costume? You must be hot and uncomfortable.”
I skipped agilely back as he put out his hands. “That device will not work, Emerson. And do put on some clothes. If you think the sight of your admittedly muscular and well-developed frame will seduce me from my plain duty—”
This time it was not Emerson who interrupted me, though he was advancing in a manner indicative of intentions along those lines. A knock at the door caused him to fumble for his trousers; and a voice announced that we were summoned by Lady Baskerville.
By the time I had washed and changed, the others had assembled in the drawing room. The atmosphere was not that of a social gathering, but a council of war. I was pleased to see that Madame Berengeria had relapsed into a state of semi-stupor, and the strong smell of brandy that surrounded her did not surprise me in the least. She simpered sleepily at Emerson, but was otherwise incapable of speech or movement.
Relieved of his greatest fear by Madame’s collapse, Emerson expressed his intentions and plans with his usual forcefulness. Lady Baskerville let out a cry of distress.
“No, Radcliffe, indeed you must not think of risking yourself. I would rather have the entire tomb vandalized than see one hair of your head injured.”
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