The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [71]
“Forged?” I inquired.
“I could hardly offer him genuine recommendations, now could I? The ones I produced were impressive, I assure you. He hired me on the spot. And that is how matters stood when he died. He did not know my identity, although…”
He hesitated. Feeling sure I knew what he was about to say, I finished the sentence for him. “You think he suspected? Well, that does not matter now. My dear Arthur, you must make a clean breast of this to the authorities. Admittedly it places you under grave suspicion of murder—”
“But there is no evidence of murder,” Arthur interrupted. “The police were satisfied that his lordship died a natural death.”
He was correct; and his quickness to point out this minor flaw in my reasoning did not augur well for his innocence. However, unless I could prove how Lord Baskerville was murdered, there was no sense in asking who had murdered him.
“All the more reason for you to tell the truth,” I insisted. “You must proclaim yourself in order to claim your inheritance—”
“Sssh!” Arthur clapped his hand over my mouth. The fear for my own safety, which had been forgotten in the interest of his narrative, now came back to me; but before I had time to experience more than a momentary alarm he went on in a whisper, “There is someone out there in the shrubbery. I saw movement—”
I pulled his hand from my mouth. “It is only Abdullah. I was not so foolish as to come alone. But he did not overhear—”
“No, no.” Arthur rose to his feet and I thought he was about to rush out into the shrubbery. After a moment he relaxed. “It is gone now. But it was not Abdullah, Mrs. Emerson. It was slighter, and shorter—dressed in gauzy robes of snowy pallor.”
I caught my breath. “The Woman in White,” I gasped.
II
Before we parted I asked Arthur’s permission to tell his story to Emerson. He agreed, probably because he realized I meant to do so with or without his approval. My suggestion that he go next day to Luxor to confess his true identity was rejected, and after some argument I had to admit that his reasoning had validity. The proper persons to receive this intelligence were, of course, the British authorities, and there was no one in Luxor of sufficient rank to deal with the matter, the consular agent being an Italian whose primary occupation was to supply Budge of the British Museum with stolen antiquities. Arthur promised he would accept Emerson’s judgment as to what action he ought to take, and I promised I would assist him in any way I could.
They say confession is good for the soul. It had certainly improved Arthur’s peace of mind. He went off with a springy step, whistling softly.
But oh, my own heart was heavy as I went to reassure my faithful Abdullah of my safety. I liked the young man—not, as Emerson claims, because he was a handsome specimen of English manhood, but because he was kind and amiable. However, I was unfavorably impressed with certain aspects of his character, which reminded me of his description of the charming ne’er-do-well who had sired him. The levity he had displayed concerning his forged credentials, the immature folly of his romantic scheme of gaining his uncle’s regard, and other things he had said indicated that his good mother’s influence had not overcome the shallowness he had inherited from the paternal side. I wished him well; but I was afraid his plausible story was only an attempt to win my goodwill before the truth came out, as it inevitably would when he claimed his title.
I found Abdullah concealed (more or less) behind a palm tree. When I questioned him about the apparition in white, he denied having seen anything. “But,” he added, “I was watching you, or rather the dark place into which you went; never did I take my eyes away. Sitt Hakim, there is no need to tell Emerson of this.”
“Don’t be such a coward, Abdullah,” I replied. “I will explain that you did your best to stop me.”
“Then will you strike me hard on the head so I may have a bruise to show him?”
I would have