The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [179]
But there was little room in my heart that day for dark forebodings. I had brought a book from Cyrus’s excellent library, but I read very little; it was pleasure enough watching the rise and fall of my husband’s breast, listening to his deep sonorous breathing, and occasionally yielding to the temptation to stroke the lines of weariness that yet marked his face. Whenever I did, Emerson would mutter “Cursed flies!” and swat at my hand. At such moments the happiness that filled me was well-nigh unendurable. Soon our loved ones at home would know the same happiness; we had dispatched telegrams early that morning with messages of undying affection and assurances that all was well.
Night had spread her sable wings over the ancient city when we arrived. We hired a carriage to take us directly to the Castle. As it rattled away I looked back and saw, or thought I saw, a familiar form dart into the shadows. But no, I told myself, it could not have been. Kevin had left several hours before us, to catch the up-train to Cairo.
The carriage lamps shone dimly through the dark. The slow plodding of the horse’s hooves formed a fitting accompaniment to my melancholy thoughts. It was difficult to imagine the Castle, in which Cyrus had taken such pride, without him. Every room, every passageway, would be haunted by a tall, kindly ghost. I fancied Emerson must feel the same; in respect for my feelings he remained thoughtfully silent, holding my hand in his.
I assumed Rene had notified the servants of our imminent arrival, and indeed we were greeted by the majordomo as welcome and expected guests. Bowing, he led the way; but when I realized where he was taking us, I stopped.
“I cannot face it, Emerson. Not the library—not tonight. We spent so many hours together in that room, his favorite …”
But Anubis had preceded us along the hall, and the servant threw the door open. The scent of smoke—the smoke of a fine cigar—reached my nostrils. From a deep leather chair near the long table, with its scattering of books and periodicals, a man rose. Cheroot, goatee, beautifully tailored linen suit … It was the ghost of Cyrus Vandergelt, exactly as he had appeared in life.
I did not swoon. Emerson claims I did, but he is always trying to find evidence in me of what he calls “proper ladylike” behavior. It is true—and who can blame me?—that my knees gave way and a gray mist swirled before my eyes. When it cleared, I realized that I was seated on the sofa with Emerson slapping my hands and Cyrus bending over me, his goatee quivering with kindly concern.
“Oh, good Gad,” I cried… But the Reader can well imagine the agitated iterations that escaped my lips in the course of the succeeding minutes. The warm clasp of Cyrus’s hand assured me it was he, and not his apparition; the application of a mild stimulant restored my customary calm; and before long we were busily satisfying our mutual curiosity.
Cyrus was thunderstruck to discover he was supposed to be deceased. “I only got here an hour ago,” he exclaimed. “The servants told me you were expected, which was sure good news, but they didn’t tell me I was dead. You’d think one of ’em would have mentioned it. How did I pass on?”
“First we had better hear your story,” said Emerson, with an odd glance at me. “Where have you been for the past weeks?”
As I listened, a queer creeping feeling came over me. It was not the first time I had listened to such a tale.
“They snatched me right after I got off the consarned train in Cairo,” said Cyrus. “I felt a little jab in my arm—reckoned a mosquito bit me.