The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [80]
“He has fled,” I exclaimed. “I knew he was weak; I ought to have anticipated this.”
“Wait a moment, Amelia, before you jump to conclusions,” Emerson replied, striking a match and lighting the lamp. “He may have gone for a walk, or…” But as the lamp flared up, the sight of the room put an end to this and every other innocent explanation.
Though not equipped with the degree of luxury that marked the quarters of Lord Baskerville and his lady, the staff rooms were comfortable enough; Lord Baskerville held, quite correctly in my opinion, that people could work more effectively when they were not distracted by physical discomfort. This chamber contained an iron bedstead, a table and chair, a wardrobe and chest of drawers, and the usual portable offices, chastely concealed behind a screen. It was in a state of shocking disarray. The wardrobe doors stood open, the drawers of the dresser spilled garments out in utter confusion. In contrast, the bed was made with almost military precision, the corners of the spread tucked in and the folds falling neatly to the floor.
“I knew it,” I groaned. “I had a feeling of…”
“Don’t say it, Peabody!”
“… of impending doom!”
“I asked you not to say that.”
“But perhaps,” I went on, more cheerfully, “perhaps he has not fled. Perhaps the disorder is the result of a frantic search—”
“For what, in God’s name? No, no; I am afraid your original idea is correct. Curse the young rascal, he has a ridiculously large wardrobe, doesn’t he? We shall never be able to determine whether anything is missing. I wonder…”
He had been rummaging through the strewn garments as he spoke. Now he kicked the screen away and examined the washbasin. “His shaving tackle is still here. Of course he may have had an extra set, or planned to purchase replacements. I confess it begins to look bad for the new Lord Baskerville.”
A sharp cry from the doorway betokened the presence of Lady Baskerville. Her eyes wide with alarm, she leaned on the arm of Mr. Vandergelt.
“Where is Mr. Milverton?” she cried shrilly. “And what did you mean, Radcliffe, by your reference to… to…”
“As you see, Milverton is not here,” Emerson replied. “But he is not… that is to say, his real name is Arthur Baskerville. He is your late husband’s nephew. He promised to go to the authorities today, but it looks as if he— Here— look out, Vandergelt—”
He jumped to assist the American; for on hearing the news Lady Baskerville had promptly fainted, in the most graceful manner imaginable. I watched in aloof silence as the two men tugged at the lady’s limp form; finally Vandergelt won out, and lifted her into his arms.
“By Jimminy, Professor, tact is not your strong point,” he exclaimed. “Was that the truth, though, about Milverton— Baskerville—whoever he is?”
“Certainly,” Emerson replied haughtily.
“Well, this has sure been a day of surprises all around. I’ll just take the poor lady to her room. Then maybe we’d better have a little council of war, to decide what to do next.”
“I know what we ought to do next,” Emerson said. “And I mean to do it.”
Scowling in magisterial fashion, he strode to the door. Vandergelt vanished with his burden. I lingered, scanning the room in hopes of seeing a hitherto unnoticed clue. Though Arthur’s cowardly flight had confirmed my suspicions of his guilt, I felt no triumph, only chagrin and distress.
Yet—why should he flee? That very morning he had seemed cheerful, relieved of his anxiety. What had happened in the intervening hours to make him a fugitive?
I do not claim, nor have I ever claimed, any powers of spiritual awareness. Yet I will assert to this day that a cold wind seemed to touch my shrinking flesh. Something was amiss. I sensed it, even though none of the conventional senses confirmed my feeling of disaster. Again my eyes scanned the room. The wardrobe doors were open, the screen had been flung