The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [69]
Milverton’s first remark did nothing to calm my apprehension. “You are a courageous woman, Mrs. Emerson,” said he, in a sinister voice. “To come here alone, in the middle of the night, after a mysterious death and a series of strange accidents.”
“It was rather stupid of me,” I admitted. “I fear that over-confidence is one of my failings. Emerson often accuses me of that.”
“I had no intention of suggesting anything so insulting,” Milverton exclaimed. “I would rather believe that your decision was based on a profound knowledge of human nature and on that womanly compassion for the unfortunate which is so conspicuous in your conduct.”
“Well, since you put it that way…”
“And you were right,” Milverton continued. “Your appraisal of my character was correct. I am weak and foolish, but not vicious, Mrs. Emerson. You are in no danger from me. I am incapable of harming a woman—or, indeed, of harming anyone; and your confidence in me has raised you to a lofty place in my esteem. I would die to defend you.”
“Let us hope the necessity for that does not arise,” I said. Though reassured, I felt a certain flatness. This speech did not sound like the prelude to a confession of murder.
“But,” I went on, “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Milverton. The hour is late; may I request that you tell me… whatever it was you wanted to tell me?”
From the man beside me, no more than a dim outline in the darkness, came an odd stifled sound that might have been a laugh. “You have hit on the essence of my confession, Mrs. Emerson. You have addressed me by a name that is not my own.”
“Who are you, then?” I demanded in surprise.
“I am Lord Baskerville,” was the astonishing reply.
CHAPTER
Nine
MILVERTON had gone out of his mind. That was my first thought. Guilt and remorse take strange forms; wishing to deny the vile deed, his conscience had persuaded the young man that Lord Baskerville yet lived— and that he was he (Lord Baskerville, to be precise).
“I am glad to make your acquaintance,” I said. “Obviously the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated.”
“Please don’t joke,” Milverton said with a groan.
“I was not joking.”
“But… Oh, I see.” Again came the stifled laugh that was more like a cry of pain. “I cannot blame you for thinking me mad, Mrs. Emerson. I am not—not yet—though I am not far from it at times. Let me make myself plain.”
“Please do,” I said emphatically.
“I call myself Lord Baskerville because that is now my title. I am the nephew of his late lordship, and his heir.”
The explanation was as unexpected as my original idea. Even my agile brain required several seconds to assimilate the fact and its sinister connotations.
“Then what on earth are you doing here under an assumed name?” I asked. “Did Lord Baskerville—the late Lord Baskerville—know your true identity? Good Gad, young man, don’t you realize what a suspicious position you have placed yourself in?”
“Of course I do. I have been in such distress since my uncle died that I verily believe it added to the severity of the fever I caught. Indeed, but for that I would have taken to my heels long ago.”
“But, Mr. Milverton… What am I to call you, then?”
“My name is Arthur. I would be honored to have you use it.”
“Then, Arthur—it is just as well you could not flee. That would have been tantamount to an admission of guilt. And you claim, if I understand you, that you had nothing to do with your uncle’s death.”
“On my honor as a British nobleman,” came the tense, thrilling whisper from the darkness.
It was hard to doubt that impressive oath, but my reservations lingered. “Tell me,” I said.
“My father was his late lordship’s younger brother,” Arthur began. “When only a boy he incurred the displeasure of his stern parent because of some youthful peccadillo. From what I have heard, the old gentleman was a tartar, who would have been more at home in the Puritan Commonwealth than in