The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [68]
Not a whit discouraged, for I had never intended to go that way, I softly closed my door and put on my clothing. Another peep out the door assured me that the house was quiet and that the watchman was still in the courtyard. I then went to the window.
I had one knee on the sill and was preparing to draw the other foot up when a dark bulk loomed up, and a familiar voice murmured in Arabic, “The Sitt desires something? Her servant will bring it.”
If I had not had a firm grip on the sill, I would have tumbled over backward. Recovering myself, I climbed up into the embrasure.
“The Sitt desires to climb out the window, Abdullah,” I replied. “Give me a hand or get out of my way.”
The tall form of the reis did not move. “Efreets and evildoers haunt the darkness,” he remarked. “The Sitt will be better in her bed.”
Seeing that discussion could not be avoided, I sat down, with my feet dangling. “Why did you not go with Emerson, to protect him?”
“Emerson left me here, to guard the treasure dearer to him than the gold of the pharaoh.”
I doubted that Emerson had put it quite that way—though he was florid enough when he spoke Arabic. My compunctions at ignoring his request quite vanished. He had not trusted me!
“Help me down,” I said, holding out my hands.
Abdullah let out a groan. “Sitt Hakim, please do not do this. Emerson will have my head on a pole if harm comes to you.”
“How can harm come to me if you are guarding me? I am not going far, Abdullah. I want you to follow, making sure you are not seen, and conceal yourself behind a bush or a tree when I have reached the loggia.”
I lowered myself to the ground. Abdullah shook his head despairingly, but he knew better than to try and prevent me. As I stole through the shrubbery, trying to avoid the bright patches of moonlight, I knew he was following, though I did not hear a sound. For all his size Abdullah could move like a bodiless spirit when he had to.
Turning the corner of the house I saw the loggia before me, the bright paint of its pillars strangely altered by the eerie light. Its interior was deep in shadow. I made out the shapes of the white wicker chairs and tables, but saw no sign of a human form. Pausing, I spoke softly.
“Wait here, Abdullah. Do not make a sound, or intervene unless I call for help.”
I crept on. Emerson may accuse me of lack of caution, but I knew better than to approach the place openly. I meant to survey the scene from the shelter of a pillar before venturing in.
Emerson’s suggestion that the midnight rendezvous was solely the product of my imagination was of course ridiculous. However, cool reflection had reminded me that I could not be absolutely sure Milverton intended to confess to Lord Baskerville’s murder. He might have other, less interesting information, or—disconcerting thought—he might only wish to avail himself of my sympathy while he talked about Mary. Young men commonly suffer from the delusion that the rest of the world is absorbed in their love affairs.
I felt a thrill pass through me when I saw the round red tip of a cigar at the far end of the loggia. Abandoning my place of concealment, I glided toward it.
“Mrs. Emerson!” Milverton rose and crushed out his cigar. “You did come. God bless you.”
“You must have eyes like a cat’s,” I said, chagrined because I had not been able to reach him unobserved.
I spoke in a low murmur, as did he. “My hearing is preternaturally sharp,” he replied. “I heard you approach.”
I groped for a chair and sat down. Milverton followed my example, selecting a chair next to mine. The cool breeze rustled the vines that wound green arms around the pillars.
For a few moments neither of us spoke. Realizing that the situation was delicate, fearing I would say the wrong thing, I said nothing. Milverton was wrestling with his fears and his awareness of guilt. At least I hoped that