The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [68]
De Morgan glanced at the sun, now high overhead. “I must return to my excavations, madame. I advise you to call in the local authorities. They will deal with your servants.”
A howl of anguish broke out from the huddled group of men. They knew only too well how local authorities dealt with suspects. With a reassuring gesture I turned to the baroness. “I forbid it,” I cried.
“You forbid it?” De Morgan lifted his eyebrows.
“And so do I,” Emerson said, stepping to my side. “You know as well as I do, de Morgan, that the favorite method of interrogation hereabouts consists of beating the suspects on the soles of their feet until they confess. They are presumed guilty until proven innocent. However,” he added, scowling at de Morgan, “that assumption may not seem unreasonable to a citizen of the French Republic, with its antiquated Napoleonic Code.”
De Morgan flung up his arms. “I wash my hands of the whole affair! Already I have wasted half a day. Do as you wish.”
“I fully intend to,” Emerson replied. “Bonjour, monsieur.”
After de Morgan had stamped off, cursing quietly in his own tongue, Emerson addressed the baroness. “You understand, madam,” he said, squaring his splendid shoulders, “that if you call the police, Mrs. Emerson and I will not assist you.”
The baroness was more moved by the shoulders than by the threat. Eyes slightly glazed, she stood staring at my husband’s stalwart form until I nudged her with my indispensable parasol. “What?” she mumbled, starting. “The police—who wants them? What is missing, after all? Nothing I cannot easily replace.”
“I congratulate you on your good sense,” said Emerson. “There is no need for you to concern yourself further at this time; if you would care to retire—”
“But no, you do not understand!” The appalling woman actually seized him by the arm and thrust her face into his. “The stolen objects are unimportant. But what of me? I am afraid for my life, for my virtue—”
“I really don’t think you need worry about that,” I said.
“You will protect me—a poor helpless Mädchen?” the baroness insisted. Her fingers stroked Emerson’s biceps. Emerson’s biceps are quite remarkable, but I allow no one except myself to admire them in that fashion.
“I will protect you, Baroness,” I said firmly. “That is our customary arrangement when my husband and I are engaged in detectival pursuits. He pursues, I protect the ladies.”
“Yes, quite right,” said Emerson, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “I will leave you with Mrs. Emerson, madam, and I will—I will go and—I will inquire—”
The baroness released her hold and Emerson beat a hasty retreat. “You are in no danger,” I said. “Unless you have information you have not disclosed.”
“No.” The baroness grinned knowingly at me. “He is a very handsome man, your husband. Mucho macho, as the Spanish say.”
“Do they really?”
“But I do not waste time on a hopeless cause,” the baroness continued. “I see that he is tied firmly to the apron strings of his good English Frau. I shall leave Dahshoor tomorrow.”
“What of Brother David?” I asked maliciously. “He is not tied to a woman’s apron strings—unless Miss Charity has captured his heart.”
“That pale, washed-out child?” The baroness snorted. “No, no, she adores him, but he is indifferent to her. She has nothing to offer him. Make no mistake, Frau Emerson, the beautiful young man is only saintly in his face and figure. He has, as the French say, an eye pour le main chance.”
The baroness’s French and Spanish were as fractured as her English, but I fancied she was not as ignorant of human nature as she was of languages. She went on with mounting indignation, “I have sent for him today, to come to my rescue, and does he come? No, he does not. And a large donation I have made to his church.”
So Emerson’s surmise had been correct! I said, “You do Brother David an injustice, Baroness. Here he is now.”
She turned. “Herr Gott,” she exclaimed. “He has brought the ugly Pfarrer