The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [37]
‘Not poetry.’ I am not certain what prompted that response. It may have been the memory of an uncomfortable discussion with Ramses on the subject of certain verses of Mr Keats. ‘Poetry,’ I continued, ‘is too sensational for young minds. I want you to concentrate on neglected masterpieces of literature composed by women, Miss Marmaduke – Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, George Eliot and others. I have brought the books with me.’
‘Whatever you say, Mrs Emerson. Er – you don’t think that Wuthering Heights, for example, is too sensational for a young girl?’
Nefret gave me an expressive look. She had hardly spoken all evening – a sure sign, with her, that she had not taken a fancy to her new tutor.
‘I would not suggest it if I did,’ I replied. ‘Tomorrow at eight then.’
Emerson had began to fidget. He felt I was making an unnecessary fuss about the children’s education, since in his view the only subjects worthy of study were Egyptology and the languages necessary to pursue this profession. Now he stopped tapping his foot and looked approvingly at me.
‘Eight o’clock, eh? Yes, quite right. You should retire early, Miss Marmaduke, this is your first day out of bed. Ramses, Nefret, it is late.’
So encouraged, the others retired, leaving us, as Emerson had intended, alone.
‘Miss Marmaduke is certainly a changed woman, Emerson.’
‘She looks much the same to me,’ said Emerson vaguely. ‘Have you spoken to her about about trousers, Peabody?’
‘I was not referring to her attire, Emerson, but to her demeanour.’
‘Oh. It seems much the same to me. Come along, Peabody, early to bed, eh?’
Later, when Emerson’s deep breathing assured me he was deep in the arms of Morpheus and the moonlight lay in a silver path across our couch, and the soft sighing of the night breeze and the ripple of water should have induced repose in me – later, I lay sleepless, pondering the transformation of Miss Marmaduke, or Gertrude, as she had asked me to call her.
There was one obvious explanation for the improvement in her appearance and manners. Emerson’s magnificent physical attributes and gentle manners (towards females) frequently prompted women to fall in love with him (hopelessly in love, I hardly need say). This would not have been the first time it had happened.
In fact, now that I came to think about it, it happened almost every year! The young lady journalist, the tragic Egyptian beauty who had given her life for his, the mad High Priestess, the German baroness – and, most recently, the mysterious woman called Bertha, whom Emerson had described as being as deadly and sly as a snake. He denied she had been in love with him, but then he always denied it (either through inherent modesty or fear of recriminations).
Really, it was getting monotonous. I hoped Miss Marmaduke was not going to be another of Emerson’s victims. It was possible that she was something more sinister. Had it been an example of my well-known prescience that made me see her as a great black bird? Not a crow or a rook, however – a larger, more ominious bird of prey.
The vultures were gathering.
When a conqueror passes on, lesser men divide the broken fragments of his conquests. Witness, for example, the events following the death of Alexander the Great, when his generals carved the leaderless empire into kingdoms for themselves. It might seem extravagant to compare Alexander with Sethos, our great and evil opponent, yet they had had much in common: ruthlesness, intelligence, and, above all, the indefinable but potent quality called charisma. Like Alexander’s empire, Sethos’ monopoly over the illegal antiquities trade in Egypt had rested on his abilities alone. Like Alexander’s, his empire was now leaderless – and the carrion birds were hovering.
Riccetti must be one of them. His retirement a decade or more ago might not have been voluntary. No, not voluntary, I thought; he had been forced out of the business by Sethos, who was now removed from the scene. Was ‘Miss Marmaduke’ a hireling of Riccetti’s, or a competitor? How many others