The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [97]
“True enough. But how do you explain Armadale’s death and the attack on Arthur?”
“Armadale may have witnessed the murder and attempted to blackmail the killer.”
“Weak,” I said, shaking my head. “Very weak, Emerson. Why would Armadale run away and remain in hiding so long?”
“Perhaps he has not been in hiding. Perhaps he has been dead all this time.”
“I don’t think he has been dead for over a month.”
“Well, we won’t know until the doctor has examined him. Let us abjure speculation until we have more facts.”
“Once we have the facts, we will not need to speculate,” I replied smartly. “We will know the truth.”
“I wonder,” Emerson said morosely.
II
I had hoped to have time to bathe and change before facing the uproar that would result when Armadale’s death became known to the others. Though I am accustomed to “roughing it,” I had not changed my attire for almost twenty-four hours, and it showed the effects of the strenuous activities I had engaged in since. However, as soon as we entered the courtyard I knew that indulgence must be postponed again. The first thing to strike me was the unnatural silence. The servants ought to have been up and about their labors long since. Then I saw Mary running toward us. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes stained with tears. “Thank God you are here,” she exclaimed.
“Steady, my dear,” I said gently. “Is it Arthur? Has he—”
“No, I thank heaven; if anything, he seems a little better. But, oh, Amelia, everything else is so terrible….”
She seemed on the verge of breaking down, so I said firmly, “Well, my dear, we are here and you have nothing more to worry about. Come into the drawing room and have a cup of tea, while you tell us what has happened.”
Mary’s quivering lips shaped themselves into a valiant attempt at a smile. “That is part of the trouble. There is no tea—and no breakfast. The servants have gone on strike. One of them discovered poor Alan’s body a few hours ago. The news spread rapidly, and when I went to the kitchen to order breakfast for the Sister, I found Ahmed packing his belongings. I felt I had to arouse Lady Baskerville, since she is his employer, and…”
“And Lady Baskerville promptly went into hysterics,” I finished.
“She was not herself,” Mary replied tactfully. “Mr. Vandergelt is talking with Ahmed, trying to persuade him to stay on. Karl has gone to the village to ascertain whether he can hire replacements—”
“Idiotic!” Emerson exclaimed. “He has no business going off like that without consulting me. Besides, it will prove a futile errand. Amelia, do you go and—er—persuade Ahmed to unpack. His decision will be an example to the others. I had planned to send Karl to relieve O’Connell; now I must send Feisal or Daoud. I will see them directly. First things first.”
He started to stride away. Mary put out a timid hand. “Professor…” she began.
“Don’t delay me, child, I have much to do.”
“But, sir—your men are also on strike.”
The words caught Emerson in midstride. His boot remained poised six inches off the ground. Then he lowered it, very slowly, as if he were treading on glass. His big hands clenched into fists and his teeth were bared. Mary gasped and shrank closer to me.
“Now calm yourself, Emerson, or one of these days you will have a stroke,” I said. “We might have anticipated this; it would have happened days ago, if your charismatic personality had not influenced the men.”
Emerson’s mouth snapped shut. “Calm myself,” he repeated. “Calm myself? I cannot imagine what leads you to suppose I am not calm. I hope you ladies will excuse me for a moment. I am going to speak calmly to my men and calmly point out to them that if they do not immediately turn out and prepare to go to