The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [99]
“Alors,” I concluded, “vous comprenez bien, ma soeur, that the young man must not be left alone for a single instant. Guard yourself as well. I do not think you are in danger, but it is possible that the villain may try to drug you so he can reach his victim. Touch no food that I have not brought you with my own hands.”
“Ah, mon Dieu,” the sister exclaimed, reaching for her rosary. “Mais quel contretemps!”
“I could not have put it better myself. But you will not abandon us in our need?”
After a moment of struggle, the nun bowed her head. “We are all in the hands of God,” she remarked. “I will pray.”
“An excellent idea, so far as it goes,” I replied. “But I suggest you also keep your eyes open. Do not be alarmed, Sister, I am about to arrange for a guard. You can trust him completely.”
On this errand I went, via my window, to the building where our men were housed. Several of them were lounging on the grass in carefree attitudes. At the sight of me they precipitately vanished inside the house. Abdullah alone remained, his back against a palm tree, a cigarette between his fingers.
“I am unworthy of your confidence, Sift,” he murmured, as I sat down beside him. “I have failed you.”
“It is not your fault, Abdullah; the circumstances are extraordinary. I promise you, before many hours have passed Emerson and I will settle this case as we settled the other you know of, and will convince the men that these tragedies were also caused by human evil. I come now to ask a favor. Will the men help with the work at the house? I want someone to watch under the window of the sick man and protect him and the holy woman in black.”
Abdullah assured me that the men would be glad to relieve their guilty consciences by assisting me in any way that did not directly involve the accursed tomb, and I found myself able to choose between a dozen volunteers. I selected Daoud, one of Abdullah’s many nephews, and introduced him to the sister. With my mind at ease on that point, I could at last go to my breakfast.
Emerson was already at the table, attacking his bacon and eggs furiously. Karl had returned; sitting as far as possible from Emerson, he ate in timid little bites, his mustache drooping. I deduced that he had felt the sharp edge of Emerson’s tongue, and felt sorry for him. Vandergelt, always the gentleman, rose to hold a chair for me.
“Things are sure in a mess,” he said. “I don’t know how much longer we can go on this way. How is the patient today, Mrs. Amelia?”
“No change,” I replied, helping myself to tea and toast. “I doubt that he will ever speak again, poor fellow. Where is Lady Baskerville?”
Scarcely had I spoken when the lady swept into the room. She was in dishabille—gray chiffon ruffles, sweeping flounces, her hair flowing around her shoulders. Seeing my astonished gaze, she had the grace to blush.
“Forgive my attire; my stupid maid has run away and I am too nervous to be alone. What are we to do? The situation is dreadful.”
“Not at all,” I replied, eating my toast. “Sit down, Lady Baskerville, and have some breakfast. You will feel better when you have eaten.”
“Impossible!” Lady Baskerville paced up and down wringing her hands. She required only an armful of weedy flowers to make a somewhat mature Ophelia. Karl and Vandergelt followed her, trying to calm her. Finally she allowed herself to be helped to a chair.
“I cannot eat a mouthful,” she declared. “How is poor Mr. Milverton—Lord Baskerville, I suppose I should say; I cannot take it all in. I tried to see him earlier, but was denied, most officiously. Mary had the effrontery to tell me, Radcliffe, that it was by your orders.”
“I feared it would distress you,” he replied coolly. “Rest assured that everything possible is being done. It is little enough, I am sorry to say. Don’t you agree, Amelia?”
“He is dying,” I said bluntly. “I doubt that he will ever regain consciousness.”