The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [70]
“Did not his brother intercede for him?”
Arthur hesitated for a moment. “I will hide nothing from you, Mrs. Emerson. The late Lord Baskerville was in complete agreement with his father’s cruel behavior. He came to the title only a year after his brother had been sent into exile, and one of his first acts was to write Pater informing him that he need not waste time applying for assistance, for both personal conviction and filial respect compelled him to cast his brother off as he had been cast off by their parent.”
“How unfeeling,” I said.
“I was brought up to consider him a veritable fiend,” Arthur said.
A shudder passed through my body when I heard this damning admission. Did not the young man realize that every word deepened the pit he was digging for himself? Did he believe I would keep silent about his identity—or did he count on other means of rendering himself safe from detection?
Arthur went on with his story. “I heard my father curse him nightly, when he was… Well, not to put too fine a face upon it, when he had taken too much to drink. This happened, I regret to say, with increasing frequency as time went on. Yet when he was himself, my father was the most delightful of men. His engaging character won the heart of my mother, who was the daughter of a gentleman of Nairobi and, despite her parents’ objections, they were wed. My mother had a small income of her own, and on this we lived.
“She loved him devotedly, I know. Never did I hear a word of complaint or accusation from her lips. But six months ago, after he had succumbed to the inevitable consequences of his indulgence, it was my mother who persuaded me that my hatred of my uncle might be unjust. She did this, mark you, without the slightest criticism of my father—”
“Which must have been no small feat,” I interrupted. I had formed a clear mental picture of Arthur’s father and I felt great sympathy for his wife.
Ignoring my comment, Arthur continued. “She also pointed out that since Lord Baskerville was childless, I was his heir. He had made no attempt to communicate with me, even though she had, in duty bound, notified him of his brother’s death. But as she said, omissions and unfairness on his part did not justify my behaving badly. I owed it to myself and to my family to present myself to the man whom in the course of time I must succeed.
“She convinced me; but I never admitted to her that she had, for I had formed a foolish, thoughtless scheme of my own. When I left Kenya I told her only that I meant to seek my fortune in the wide world, by means of the photography which had been my youthful hobby. I am sure she has read of the mystery surrounding my uncle’s death, but she does not dream that the Charles Milverton of the newspapers is her miserable son.”
“But she must be beside herself with worry about you,” I exclaimed. “She has no idea where you are?”
“She believes I am on my way to America,” the young man confessed in a low voice. “I told her I would send an address when I was settled.”
I could only shake my head and sigh. But there was no point in urging Arthur to communicate at once with his mother; the truth would be far more painful than any uncertainty she presently felt, and though I had only the most dismal forebodings as to his future, there was always a possibility, however remote, that I might be wrong.
“My scheme was to present myself to my uncle as a stranger and win his regard and confidence before proclaiming my true identity,” Arthur said. “You needn’t comment, Mrs. Emerson; it was a naive idea, worthy of a sensational novel. But it was harmless. I swear to you, I had no intention of doing anything except proving myself, by hard work and devotion. Naturally I knew of my uncle’s plans to winter in Egypt—most of the English-speaking population of the globe must