The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [72]
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
Abdullah groaned.
III
I could hardly wait to tell Emerson I had solved the murder of Lord Baskerville. Of course there were a few small details to be worked out, but I felt sure that if I applied myself seriously to the matter I would soon discover the answers. I meant to begin working on it that very night, but unfortunately I fell asleep before I could arrive at any conclusions.
My first thought on awakening was a renewal of concern over Emerson’s safety. Reason assured me that the household would have been roused if there had been a disturbance; but affection, never susceptible to logic, hastened my preparations to proceed to the Valley.
Early as I was, Cyrus Vandergelt was already in the courtyard when I emerged from my room. For the first time I saw him in his working costume, instead of one of the snowy linen suits he habitually wore. His tweed jacket was as beautifully tailored as his other clothes; it bore little resemblance to the shabby garments in which Emerson was wont to attire himself. On his head the American wore a military-looking solar kepi with a band of red, white, and blue ribbon. He doffed this with a flourish when he saw me and offered his arm to escort me to the breakfast table.
Lady Baskerville seldom joined us at this meal. I had heard the men speculating on her need for prolonged rest; but of course I knew she spent the time on her toilette, for the artificial perfection of her appearance was obviously the result of hours of work.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when we found the lady already at her place. She had not taken the time that morning to make up her face, and consequently she looked her age. Shadows circled her heavy-lidded eyes, and there were lines of strain around her mouth. Vandergelt was so struck by her appearance that he exclaimed with concern. She admitted that her night’s sleep had been disturbed and would have elaborated had not Milverton—or rather, Arthur Baskerville —rushed in full of apologies for having overslept.
Of all the persons in the room he, the guilty man, alone appeared to have had a refreshing, dreamless rest. The looks of smiling gratitude he kept shooting at me assured me he had quite cast off his melancholy. It was another demonstration of the immaturity that had already struck me; having confessed to an older, wiser individual, he now felt completely relieved of responsibility.
“Where is Miss Mary?” he asked. “We ought not linger; I am sure Mrs. Emerson is anxious to see her husband.”
“Attending on her mother, I suppose,” Lady Baskerville replied, in the sharp tone she always employed when referring to Madame Berengeria. “I cannot imagine what you were thinking of, to allow that dreadful woman to come here. Since the damage is done, I must accept it, but I absolutely refuse to be left alone in the house with her.”
“Come with us,” Vandergelt suggested. “We’ll fix you up a nice little place in the shade.”
“Thank you, my friend, but I am too tired. After what I saw last night…”
Vandergelt rose to the bait, expressing concern and demanding details. I summarize the lady’s reply, for it was replete with gasps and sighs and theatrical descriptions. Stripped of these meaningless appendages, it was simple enough. Unable to sleep, she had gone to the window and seen the now notorious white-clad apparition gliding through the trees. It had disappeared in the direction of the cliffs.
I looked at Arthur and read his intentions in his ingenuous countenance. The young idiot was on the verge of exclaiming that we had also seen the White Lady—which would have brought out the whole story of our midnight meeting. It was necessary to stop him before he could speak. I kicked out under the table. In my haste I missed my object and administered a sharp blow on Mr. Vandergelt’s calf. This served the purpose, however; his shout of pain and the ensuing apologies gave Arthur time to recollect himself.