The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [133]
‘Curse it,’ I exclaimed. ‘Where are the confounded police? One would suppose –’
A flutter of dark movement and a whimper from Ayesha stopped me. It required no verbal command from the dastardly wretch to warn me that a loud noise or sudden movement would cause him to press the trigger.
Too late, I realized I should have looked before I leaped instead of rushing blindly to the rescue. If I had crept up behind him . . .
Then came another, more abrupt, shift in the shape of darkness. It was hard for me to make out what he was doing; but Ayesha knew. Another scream burst from her, mingling with the sound of a pistol shot. Emerson raised his hand to his head. An expression of profound astonishment crossed his face. Slowly he sank to the ground.
I could not, I dared not, go to him. Emerson might not be slain, only wounded; but the demise of my beloved spouse (not to mention myself) was certain if the killer kept hold of the pistol. Ayesha was struggling with him, clinging to his arm. I rushed to aid her.
The second shot was muffled by her body. She fell like a wounded bird, crumpling at his feet; and as he levelled the pistol to fire again, the shaft of my parasol came down on his forearm.
The pistol fell; the toe of my boot struck it and sent it spinning away into the shrubbery. Emerson was saved! But I was not in such good condition, for the unknown had seized me by the throat. The cruel grip shifted and tightened, cutting off the air to my lungs and the blood to my brain. His hands were gloved; my nails made no impression. I tried to claw at his face, but my arm fell back. My feet dangled, free of the ground. Darkness closed over me. I remember thinking that the confounded police were never around when you needed them . . .
Reader, it came like an answer to prayer – faint and seemingly far away, muted by the pounding of the blood in my deafened ears – the shrill shriek of a police whistle! The hands on my throat loosed their grip. I toppled helpless to the ground, landing on a soft, yielding surface; and as the sight came back to my fogged eyes I found myself staring straight into the dead face of Ayesha.
Shuddering, I scrambled to hands and knees, just in time to see a small dark form dart across the somewhat limited field of my vision. Someone shouted, ‘’Ere, you little devil, come back then – what the ’ell – Jack, go round the other way, ’ead ’im off . . . Wot’s all this, then?’
Rescue had arrived, in the shape of two very large boots. I presumed a constable was attached to them, but I did not pause to investigate. Too weak to rise, I crawled straight to the motionless form of my husband, who lay face down on the gravelled path. My strength came back to me when I touched him; frantically I turned him onto his back.
His eyes opened. They saw me. He lived! Thank Heaven, he lived!
‘Peabody,’ he remarked, ‘this is becoming embarrassing.’
XIII
IT need not be supposed that I slept a wink that night. Huddled by the dying fire or pacing the length of the room; bending at frequent intervals over the couch whereon reposed my wounded and heroic husband, brushing the dark hair from his brow, or listening in an agony of joyful relief to his deep and sonorous respiration – so I passed the hours before dawn. He slept soundly; I had taken the precaution of adding a soupc¸on of laudanum to his cup of tea, since I knew his restless spirit would never take the repose his body required without it.
Often as I strove to quiet my mind, my thoughts kept returning to the horrors of that memorable evening. Images flashed onto the screen of my agitated brain with the vividness of nightmare: the fixed, staring eyes of Ayesha, who had given her life for us – one of us, at any rate; the blessed and beautiful scowl of my dear Emerson as he returned to consciousness and discovered that once again his quarry had escaped him; the round, red, bewildered