The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [86]
“It is some poor village woman fleeing a cruel husband or tyrannical father,” I cried, my sympathies immediately engaged.
“Hell and damnation,” Emerson exclaimed.
Her eyes found him where he sat bolt upright, hands clutching the arms of his chair. With a sudden effort she tore herself free and flung herself at his feet.
“Save me, O Father of Curses! I risked my life for you, and now it hangs by a thread.”
Exaggeration seemed to be in the air that day, I thought to myself. She had tried to keep the murderous guard from entering Emerson’s prison, but how could her dread master know of that? Was this even the same woman? Her voice sounded different—huskier, deeper, and with a distinct accent.
“You are safe with me,” Emerson said, studying the bent black head with—I was happy to observe—a rather skeptical expression. “If you speak the truth.”
“You doubt me?” Still on her knees, she sat back and wrenched the veil from her face.
I cried out in horror. No wonder I had not recognized her voice; the prints of fingers showed dark on her bruised throat. Her face was equally unrecognizable, swollen and stained by the marks of brutal blows.
“This is what he did to me when he learned you had escaped,” she whispered.
Pity had not altogether wiped out my suspicions. “How did he learn…” I began.
Replacing the veil, she turned to me. “He beat me because I had shown compassion and because… because he was angry.”
Emerson’s face was impassive. Those who had never beheld a demonstration of the seething sea of sentiment his sardonic exterior conceals might have believed him to be unmoved; but I knew he was thinking of the child-woman he had been unable to save from her murderous father. * Nothing of this showed in his voice when he said gruffly, “Find her a room, Vandergelt. God knows you’ve enough useless space on this boat.”
She kissed his hand, though he tried to stop her, and followed Cyrus out. Frowning, Emerson took out his pipe. I heard Cyrus summon his steward; after directing the fellow to show the lady (he stumbled a bit over the word, but I had to give him credit for the effort) to a vacant stateroom, he returned.
“Are you loony, Emerson? The da—er—darned woman’s a spy.”
“And her bruises were incurred in an effort to give verisimilitude to an otherwise unconvincing story?” Emerson asked dryly. “How devotedly she must love her tormentor.”
Cyrus’s lean face darkened. “That’s not love. It’s a kind of fear you’ll never know.”
“You are right, Cyrus,” I said. “Many women know it—not only the helpless slaves of a society such as this, but Englishwomen as well. Some of the girls Evelyn has taken in off the streets … It does you credit, Cyrus, that you can understand and sympathize with a condition so alien from any you could ever have experienced.”
“I was thinking of dogs,” Cyrus said, blushing at my praise but too honest to accept it when it was undeserved. “I’ve seen ’em come fawning back to the feet of the varmint that had beaten and kicked them. You can reduce a man to that state too, if you go about it right.”
Emerson blew out a great cloud of blue smoke. “If you two have quite finished your philosophical discussion, we might try to settle this matter. The girl’s arrival raises another point which I was about to make when Miss—er—Peabody got me off the track. Vincey may not be the only one involved.”
Cyrus expressed surprise at the name, and I took it upon myself to explain. “I thought at the time his voice was familiar, Cyrus, but he had disguised his appearance so well I could not be certain. Emerson has just now confirmed my assumption, and I suppose he could hardly be mistaken. Do you know Mr. Vincey?”
“By reputation,” Cyrus replied, frowning. “From what I’ve heard I wouldn’t put such a trick past him.”
“He certainly was not the only one involved,” I went on. “Abdullah claims to have killed at least ten of the enemy.”
This little sally produced a smile from Cyrus, but not from Emerson. “Local thugs,” he said curtly. “Such men can be hired in any city in Egypt or in the