The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [94]
Under the cold moonlight the rocky cliffs might have been part of a lunar landscape, desolate of life for millions of years. We spoke little at first. Finally O’Connell let out a deep sigh.
“Is your hand paining you?” I inquired. “I apologize for not tending to your wound; concern for my husband must be my excuse.”
“No, the wound, as you call it, is a mere scratch and does not trouble me. I am concerned about other things. Mrs. Emerson, this situation was only a journalistic sensation to me before—the greatest story of my life, perhaps. Now that I find myself acquainted with all of you, and increasingly attached to some of you, my viewpoint has changed.”
“May I assume, then, that we have your wholehearted cooperation?”
“You may indeed! I only wish I could do more to relieve you. How did that poor chap meet his end? So far as I could tell there was not a mark on him—just like Lord Baskerville.”
“He may have died a natural death from hunger and thirst,” I said cautiously. I was inclined to believe O’Connell’s protestations, but he had tricked me too often to deserve my full confidence. “Remember,” I went on, “you have promised to show me your stories. No more speculations about curses, if you please.”
“I feel like Dr. Frankenstein,” O’Connell admitted with a rueful laugh. “I have created a monster which has come to life. The curse was my own invention, and a wholly cynical one; I have never believed in such things. But how are we to explain—”
He did not finish the sentence. Breaking into his speech came the sharp crack of a gunshot.
In the silence the sound carried and echoed, but I knew whence it had come. Logic would have told me as much even if domestic affection had not sharpened my senses. I broke into a run. Another round of firing followed. Loosening my revolver from its holster and removing my parasol from its hook in order to prevent it from tripping me, I plunged down the slope into the Valley at a speed that would have been unsafe even in daylight. Perhaps it was my very velocity that prevented me from falling. My parasol in my left hand, my revolver in my right, I rushed on, firing the latter as I went. I shot most often into the air, I believe, though I would not care to take my oath on it; my aim was to assure the attackers that assistance was rapidly approaching.
I heard no more shots. What did the deadly silence presage? Victory for us, the robbers wounded or in flight? Or… But I refused to consider an alternative theory. Running ever faster I saw before me, pallid in the moonlight, the pile of limestone chips we had removed from the tomb. The opening itself was just ahead. There was no sign of life.
Then a dark form loomed up before me. Leveling my revolver, I pulled the trigger.
A click sounded as the hammer struck the empty chamber. The voice of Emerson remarked, “You had better reload, Peabody; you fired the last bullet some time ago.”
“All the same,” I said breathlessly, “it was very foolhardy of you to step out in front of me.”
“I assure you I would not have done so had I not counted the shots. I know your reckless temperament too well.”
I was unable to reply. A belated realization of what I had done robbed me of my remaining breath. Although I knew Emerson had spoken the truth when he said he would not have faced me without the knowledge that my revolver was empty, I was sick with remorse and distress. Sensing my emotion, Emerson put his arm around me.
“Are you all right, Peabody?”
“I am sick with remorse and distress. Indeed, in the future I must endeavor to act more calmly. I believe the situation is affecting my nerves. Ordinarily I would never behave so foolishly.”
“Humph,” said Emerson.
“Truly, my dear Emerson—”
“Never mind, my dear Peabody. The panache with which you plunge headlong into danger is what first drew me to you. But devil take it, you didn’t come alone, did you?”
“No, Mr. O’Connell is with me or he was. Mr. O’Connell?”
“Is it safe to come out now?” inquired the young man’s voice.
“You heard me say her