The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [15]
Anxious as I was to return to the scene of the action, I could not in conscience do so until I had made sure Nefret, now abandoned by Ramses, was safe in the charge of Miss Marmaduke. But that lady’s chair was now occupied by someone else, and as I continued to scan the room I caught sight of Nefret, alone and unescorted, entering from the direction of the Moorish Hall.
The sight of her would have aroused the direst suspicions in any maternal breast – the faint smile, the flushed cheeks, the slight disarrangement of her hair. The Moorish Hall, with its soft divans and pearl-inlaid furniture, is the most romantic setting imaginable; mashrabiya screens and painted arches enclose shaded recesses that might have been designed for lovers.
With a muttered ‘Good Gad,’ I hastened to her. When she saw me, an even more betraying flush brightened her face. She began, ‘Oh, Aunt Amelia –’
‘Come with me at once.’
‘I was only –’
‘Not now, Nefret. Hurry.’
By a fortunate chance, the lift was waiting. I directed the attendant to close the door and take us directly to the third floor. The presence of others prevented speech between me and my errant ward; she stood staring straight ahead, biting her lip and – I did not doubt – inventing alibis. However, as I hurried her along the corridor it began to dawn on her that my agitation might have a more serious cause than her misbehaviour.
‘What is wrong?’ she exclaimed. ‘Has something happened? Oh, heavens – not to the Professor!’ For such was her name for Emerson, who would have responded unfavourably to being called ‘Uncle Radcliffe.’ He dislikes his given name, which is one of the reasons why I never employ it.
Not until I heard Nefret’s question and the alarm that deepened her voice did it dawn on me that Ramses might have jumped to a similar if erroneous conclusion. No wonder he had been in such a hurry. ‘Confound the boy,’ I muttered, ‘I would have reassured him if he had waited a moment. It is his own fault.’
He and the captain had not arrived long before us. Ramses, arms folded and shoulders stiff, was looking particularly enigmatic. Cartright knelt by the fallen body. He glanced up as I entered and said, ‘I must have misunderstood, Mrs Emerson. You will be relieved to know that there is no indication of poisoning; it is only –’
A long, quavering cry stopped him. The cry came from my throat, for I had seen that the form sprawled supine and senseless upon the floor was not that of the stranger.
Pushing the doctor aside, I fell on my knees and gathered his bleeding head into my arms.
‘Emerson! Oh, my dear Emerson!’
‘It is only a bump on the head, Mrs Emerson,’ Cartright said, picking himself up. ‘No cause for concern, I assure you.’
‘No cause for concern!’ I cried wildly. ‘You know not whereof you speak, sir. The last time he suffered such a blow . . . Emerson!’ For his eyes had opened, and his gaze had focused on my face. ‘My dearest Emerson, speak to me. Who am I?’
II
A Lady Cannot Be Blamed If a Master Criminal Takes a Fancy to Her
NOW be fair, Peabody,’ Emerson said. ‘It is no wonder the poor chap believed you to be hysterical. That was a damned – er – deuced idiotic question.’
I rubbed my cheek. It still stung.
‘The phraseology was certainly open to misinterpretation,’ I admitted. ‘But is it any wonder I was overwrought? Are you certain . . .’
‘You are my wife,’ Emerson said. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he employed the stem as a pointer. ‘That is our son Ramses. That is our daughter Nefret. The animal presently occupying her lap is the cat Bastet. The larger four-footed creature is another cat, Anubis by name. This bit of material on my head, placed there over my strenuous objections, is called sticking-plaster. It covers, quite unnecessarily, a slight bump and a small cut.’
‘I do wish you wouldn’t be sarcastic, Emerson. It is particularly trying to my nerves.’
‘I am endeavouring to change the subject, my dear.’
The reminder was justified. Neither of the children knew the whole truth about the terrible events of the previous