The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [77]
“Another confounded intruder,” Emerson muttered, glowering at Cyrus. He looked back at me… And this time there could be no mistake. The brilliant blue orbs were clear and conscious, and cool with indifference. They narrowed and his brows drew together. “Wait, though—the features are familiar, though the costume is not. Is she the unsuitably attired female who popped into my pleasant little room last night, like a cork forced into a bottle, and then proceeded to pepper the empty doorway with bullets? Females should not be allowed to handle firearms.”
“It wasn’t last night, it was three days ago,” snapped Cyrus, his goatee quivering. “She saved your life with that pistol, you—you—” He broke off, with an apologetic glance at me.
A gleam of white teeth appeared amid the tangle of Emerson’s beard. “I do not know you, sir, but you appear to be a hot-tempered fellow—unlike myself. I am always calm and reasonable. Reason compels me to confess that the doorway may not have been empty, and that this lady may have rendered me some small assistance. Thank you, madam. Now go away.”
His eyes closed. A peremptory gesture from the doctor sent both of us from the room. Cyrus, still quivering with indignation, put a protective arm around me. Gently but decisively I removed it.
“I am quite composed, Cyrus. I do not require to be soothed.”
“Your courage amazes me,” Cyrus exclaimed. “To hear him deny you—sneer at your devotion and daring—”
“Well, you see,” I said with a faint smile, “it isn’t the first time I have heard such remarks from Emerson. I had hoped, Cyrus, but I had not really expected anything else. Having nerved myself to expect the worst, I was prepared for it.”
In silence he placed his hand on my shoulder. I allowed it to remain; and neither of us spoke again until the doctor emerged from Emerson’s room.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Emerson,” he said gently. “Pray don’t be disheartened. He has not forgotten everything. He knows his name and his profession. He asked after his brother Walter, and declared his intention of proceeding at once to his excavations.”
“Where?” I asked intently. “Did he say where he intended to work this season?”
“Amarna,” was the reply. “Is that important?”
“It was at Amarna that he was working when we became… well acquainted.”
“Hmmm. Yes. You may have found the clue, Mrs. Emerson. His memory of events is clear and precise up to a period approximately thirteen years ago. He remembers nothing that has happened since that time.”
“Since the day we… became acquainted,” I said thoughtfully.
The doctor put his hand on my other shoulder. Men seem to think this gesture has a soothing effect. “Don’t despair, Mrs. Emerson. He is out of danger, but he is still much weaker than his—er—peremptory manner might lead you to believe. It may be that his memory will return as his health improves.”
“And maybe it won’t,” muttered Cyrus. “You’re pretty doggoned nonchalant about it, Doc; isn’t there anything you can do?”
“I am not a specialist in nervous disorders,” was the huffy reply. “I would certainly welcome a second opinion.”
“No offense meant,” Cyrus said quickly. “I guess we’re all pretty tired and short-tempered. A specialist in nervous disorders, you said… Hey! Wait a minute!”
His face lit up and he stopped twisting his goatee, which had gone quite limp under his attentions. “I guess the good Lord must be on our side after all. One of the world’s greatest experts in mental disorders is on his way to Luxor at this very moment, if he is not already here. Talk about the luck of the devil!”
“What is his name?” the doctor asked skeptically.
“Schadenfreude. Sigismund Schadenfreude. He’s a crackerjack, take my word for it.”
“The Viennese specialist? His theories are somewhat unorthodox—”
“But they work,” Cyrus declared enthusiastically. “I was a patient of his myself a few years ago.”
“You, Cyrus?” I exclaimed.
Cyrus looked down and shuffled