The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [88]
“Let me point out, Lady Baskerville, that the decision was not mine,” I broke in. “I fully sympathize with your viewpoint; but we can hardly send her back to Luxor in this condition. How did she get at the brandy? I thought you kept the liquor cabinet locked.”
“I do. I suppose she managed to get at the keys; drunkards are amazingly cunning when it comes to feeding their weakness. But good heavens, what does it matter?” She raised her white hands to her breast and wrung them vigorously. “I am going mad, I tell you!”
Her theatrics assured me that she had a new audience, for she knew I was impervious to that approach; I was therefore not surprised to see Vandergelt enter.
“Holy Jehoshaphat,” he said, with a horrified look at the snoring mound on the floor. “How long has she been like that? My poor girl.” Here he clasped the hand Lady Baskerville had extended, and pressed it tenderly in his.
“We must take her to her room and lock her in,” I said. “Do you take her head, Mr. Vandergelt; Lady Baskerville and I will take—”
The lady let out a plaintive scream. “You jest, Mrs. Emerson; surely you jest!”
“Mrs. Emerson never jokes about such things,” said Vandergelt, with a smile. “If you and I refuse to help, she will do it alone—dragging the woman by her feet. Mrs. Emerson, I suggest we call one—or two, or three—of the servants. There is no hope of concealing the poor creature’s condition, or preserving her reputation.”
This procedure was duly carried out; and I went next to the kitchen to tell Ahmed that Emerson and I would be dining out. As I strode along, deep in thought, out of the corner of my eyes I caught a glimpse of something moving among the trees. A corner of pale fabric, like the blue zaaboots worn by Egyptian men, fluttered and disappeared.
It might have been one of our own people. But there had been something hasty and surreptitious about the darting movement. I therefore took a firm grip of my parasol and went in pursuit.
Since the night on the loggia with poor Arthur I had determined never to go abroad without this useful instrument. To be sure, I had not needed it then; but one never knew when an emergency might arise. I had therefore attached the parasol to my belt, by means of one of the hooks with which this article of clothing was supplied. This was occasionally inconvenient, for the shaft had a tendency to slip between my legs and trip me up; but better to bruise one’s knees than be left defenseless in case of attack.
I moved quietly over the soft grass, taking cover when I could. Peeping out from behind a thorny bush, I beheld the form of a man in native garb behind another bush. After glancing around in a furtive manner that assured me he was up to no good, he glided serpentlike across the turf and passed through the doorway of a small building, one of the mud-brick auxiliary structures used for storage of tools. I caught a glimpse of his face as he glanced slyly over his shoulder, and a villainous countenance it was. A livid scar twisted his cheek and ran down into his heavy grizzled beard.
Normally the door of the storage shed was padlocked. Theft, or worse, was obviously the man’s aim. I was about to raise the alarm when I realized that an outcry would warn the felon and enable him to escape. I decided I would capture him myself.
Dropping flat, in Red Indian style, I slid forward. I did not rise to my feet until I had reached the shelter of the wall, where I pressed myself flat. I heard voices within, and marveled at the effrontery of the thieves. There were at least two of them—unless the original miscreant was talking to himself. They were speaking Arabic, but I could only make out an occasional word.
I took a deep breath and rushed into the hut, striking out with my parasol. I heard a grunt of pain as the iron shaft thudded against a soft surface. Hands seized me. Struggling, I struck again. The parasol was wrenched from my grasp.