XIII

IT need not be supposed that I slept a wink that night. Huddled by the dying fire or pacing the length of the room; bending at frequent intervals over the couch whereon reposed my wounded and heroic husband, brushing the dark hair from his brow, or listening in an agony of joyful relief to his deep and sonorous respiration – so I passed the hours before dawn. He slept soundly; I had taken the precaution of adding a soupc¸on of laudanum to his cup of tea, since I knew his restless spirit would never take the repose his body required without it.

Often as I strove to quiet my mind, my thoughts kept returning to the horrors of that memorable evening. Images flashed onto the screen of my agitated brain with the vividness of nightmare: the fixed, staring eyes of Ayesha, who had given her life for us – one of us, at any rate; the blessed and beautiful scowl of my dear Emerson as he returned to consciousness and discovered that once again his quarry had escaped him; the round, red, bewildered face of the constable who had pursued a thieving little street arab into Victoria Gardens and found himself confronting a dead body, a wounded man, and a woman who was in scarce better case, what with agitation and being half strangled . . .

My throat still ached, despite the prompt and efficient medical assistance that had been provided to me and to Emerson. But the pain of that was nothing to the mental anguish that filled me. I had erred. Yes, I – Amelia Peabody Emerson – had failed to pursue the rigorous and logical deductions that are essential to a criminal investigation.

There is some excuse for me, I believe. The events of that exhilarating day had followed one upon the next with such bewildering speed that I had never had the leisure to think them through. Yet I knew that was not the real reason for my failure. Jealousy had blurred my mind; mistrust had prevented me from following the path of reason. How true it is, as the Scripture says, that ‘jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.’

Once again I hovered over Emerson and pressed my lips to his wounded brow. The physician had been forced to shave a patch of hair before bandaging the furrow that had creased his scalp. One of the glossy black locks reposed even now in my bosom, for I had picked it up from the (rather dirty) floor and vowed I would carry it always, to remind me how close I had come to losing something dearer than life itself. Never again would I doubt him. Never!

After repeating the gesture and the vow a number of times, I discovered I was calm enough to resume ratiocination. I began with Miss Minton’s revelations. It was no coincidence that the police should have chosen that hour and that evening to visit that particular opium den. Miss Minton had got the message to a colleague; and he had notified the police. Had he warned them we would be there, or had he used some other device to persuade them to investigate? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that the second alternative was the right one. Our presence had gone unnoticed until Emerson announced it with his customary vim and vigour. The fact that the police had been so swift to respond to a suggestion, however cleverly worded, from a member of the press, strongly suggested that they had already been suspicious of Ayesha and her establishment.

The despicable Inspector Cuff had deceived me. He had never believed Ahmet was the murderer. He had put the man under arrest for two reasons: one, to arouse consternation and alarm among his associates, in the hope of provoking a careless move or injudicious statement; and two, because he expected that that well-known informer might disclose useful information under the pressure of police interrogation. What did Cuff know? I did not have the answer, but I was certain of one thing: if Cuff believed the man he was after was an Englishman and a member of the aristocracy, he would proceed with extreme caution. An accusation against such a man would have to be supported by the strongest possible evidence.

That Ayesha had known the truth was confirmed by her own words. ‘He’ had ordered her to lure me into a trap. Her reluctance to carry out the mission of betrayal must have aroused his suspicions and caused him to fear she would betray him instead (as I am convinced she would eventually have done). He had therefore followed her; perhaps he had been close enough to hear her warn me.

The fact that he had been sufficiently alarmed to attack me was encouraging. Less encouraging was the fact that I had no idea what I had said or done to alarm him. Was it possible that my visit to Ayesha had been enough in itself? That did not seem likely. It was, surely, more likely that I had stumbled on some clue whose meaning I had overlooked.

Ayesha had let slip one word during our initial conversation that I had considered significant. She had spoken of an English ‘lord.’ I had never used that word. But on reconsideration I was inclined to wonder if it meant to her what it meant to me. As I have said, the Arabic word for ‘husband’ – even the one for ‘man’ – carries that degrading implication, and in the course of her earlier business dealings Ayesha must often have used it to flatter her clients. A man is always ready to believe he is truly the lord and master of all he surveys, especially any women he encounters.

Though it was still far from conclusive, the evidence all pointed in the same direction: namely, that the false priest and the murderer of Oldacre were one and the same, and that he was either Lord Liverpool or his demonic mentor. Both must be involved in the plot, along with others, for there had been at least six masked intruders at the lecture hall.

At this stage the ratiocinative process was broken by a muffled cry from Emerson. I flew to his side. He had not awakened, but he moved restlessly, turning his head from side to side and groping with his hand. I listened with beating heart to the broken syllables that escaped his lips; and with inexpressible joy recognized them for the syllables of my name.

As soon as I lay down beside him and took his hand in mine, he grew quieter. One last murmur stirred the ambient air. ‘Curse it, Peabody,’ he whispered. I drew his dark head to my breast and was about to resume my train of thought when for some unaccountable reason I fell asleep.

Upon waking my first thought was of Emerson. A quick glance into the countenance so near my own reassured me; he was sleeping sweetly. I then heard again the sound that had roused me.

‘Ramses,’ I whispered. ‘What are you doing there?’

Ramses’ head appeared at the foot of the bed. ‘I was very quiet, Mama. I only wanted to know if you were awake.’

‘I am now, thank you. But your papa is still sleeping, so –’

Emerson’s lips parted. ‘He is not sleeping.’

‘Your eyes are closed,’ I said.

They opened. ‘What the devil is the time?’ Emerson asked.

I pulled myself to a sitting position. I had gone to sleep in my dressing gown, so that was all right. Ramses’ round, interested eyes followed my every movement.

Emerson rolled over onto his back. ‘Urgh,’ he said. ‘What the devil is –’

‘I don’t know, Emerson, I cannot see the clock from here.’

‘It is ten minutes past two,’ said Ramses. ‘I trust you will forgive this intrusion, Mama and Papa, but having learned from Gargery of Papa’s most recent brush with death, my anxiety prompted –’

‘Two!’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘In the afternoon? It must be, the sun is shining . . . good Gad, Peabody, why did you let me sleep so late?’

My efforts to restrain him were vain; he swung his feet to the floor and headed for the bathroom. After hesitating for a moment Ramses followed him. He liked watching his father shave. He had been strictly forbidden to touch any of Emerson’s razors, after once almost cutting his throat while imitating that (in his case unnecessary) procedure.

After ringing the bell I followed them, to discover Ramses sitting on the commode while Emerson splashed cold water on his face. ‘That’s better,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What a night, eh, Peabody?’

‘It is not better. You have got the bandage wet. Emerson, how often must I tell you –’

Ramses spoke at the same time. ‘I presume, Papa, that your question refers to your latest encounter with the criminous masquerader. I would be most interested in learning what –’

Before either of us could finish, the bedroom door opened and a positive parade of servants entered – one of the maids carrying a tea tray, another with hot water, Mrs Watson to supervise their activities, and Gargery . . . well, I knew why Gargery was there. He did not even pretend to have a reasonable excuse.

‘How is the professor, madam?’ he demanded.

‘Fine, fine,’ Emerson shouted. ‘Good morning, Gargery. Who else is there? Mrs Watson? Splendid. I shall want a very large breakfast, Mrs Watson – or lunch – or whatever meal seems appropriate . . . as soon as possible, eh? Oh – excuse me – er – Susan –’ He backed up, to allow the maid (Mary Ann) to put a pitcher of hot water on the table.

Behind Gargery I saw what appeared to be the entire household staff – four footmen, the cook, and three other maids, including the kitchenmaid, who was supposed never to show her face abovestairs. I said resignedly, ‘As you observe, Gargery – and the rest of you – Professor Emerson is himself again. I hope that now your minds are set at ease, you will return to your duties.’

‘Oh, Mrs Emerson,’ the housekeeper exclaimed. ‘I am sorry – I don’t know what has come over them, they don’t usually behave like this –’

‘It is quite all right, Mrs Watson. I have seen it happen before. It is not your fault.’

‘I beg your pardon, madam,’ Gargery began.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘With all respect, madam, they – and I – would like to inquire about yourself, madam. You sound a little hoarse, madam. Wouldn’t you like me to send for the doctor, madam, to have a look at you?’

It took some time to reassure them, but at last they dispersed, after the cook had informed me she knew a fine remedy for sore throats, consisting in part of honey, horehound, and brandy, which she would concoct immediately. I closed the door and sank into a chair. For once, I felt quite incapable of speech.

It would have been impossible to carry on a conversation while Ramses was present anyway. So I sat quietly and drank tea – it hurt a little to swallow, but the hot liquid revived me wonderfully – and listened to the vigorous sounds of Emerson completing his toilette, assisted by admiring comments, questions, and suggestions from Ramses.

Eventually they emerged, arm in arm. Emerson kindly allowed me to change the bandage – it, and his hair, were both soaking wet. I then retired to tidy myself, while Emerson sat down and took Ramses on his knee, and started to tell him all about it.

My timing was excellent. When I came out of the bathroom, I heard Ramses say, ‘Just who was this unfortunate lady, Papa? And how did it happen that she was fatally injured during the struggle? I understand that you had been rendered unconscious and were as a result unaware of what occurred during the final moments, but from what you have said it is clear that the villain fired first at you and would no doubt have shot Mama next, for if I know Mama, and I am sure I do, she would never run away but would attack your assailant with the utmost energy, and indeed the bruises on her throat make it evident that she closed with him – and he with her – so to speak –’

‘I understand what you mean, Ramses,’ said Emerson. He glanced at me. ‘Er – did you speak, Peabody?’

‘No.’

‘And no wonder,’ Emerson exclaimed, putting Ramses aside and jumping to his feet. ‘My poor dear Peabody, your beautiful swanlike throat resembles a fragment of a Turner painting. It is turning all the colours of the sunset. Where is cook? She spoke of a remedy –’

Ramses trotted towards the bathroom, remarking, ‘Cold water, constantly applied –’

I caught hold of him. ‘No, thank you, Ramses, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need you dripping water all over me and the bathroom. Run along now, I want to get dressed.’

‘Yes, Mama. May I first inquire –’

‘Later, Ramses.’

Emerson offered to help me dress, but before there was time for anything to develop, Mrs Watson appeared, to announce that luncheon was ready. Emerson glanced at his watch. ‘Hmmmmm, yes, time is getting on. Ready, are you, Peabody? Here, take my arm.’

‘There is first a little matter of buttoning me up the back,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps, Mrs Watson, you would oblige?’

Emerson looked hurt. I pretended not to observe it.

Cook had most considerately prepared a cold luncheon, with a variety of aspics, jellies, and other smooth substances that slid down without discomfort. Emerson ate quickly – with any other man, I would say he gobbled his food – and kept sneaking surreptitious glances at his watch. For once his conversation was as bland and correct as any hostess could desire. ‘Lovely spring weather, isn’t it, my dear? I am making excellent progress with my manuscript; did I remember to thank you, my dear Peabody, for your helpful suggestions? Have you heard from Evelyn and Walter lately? How are Raddie and Johnny and Willy and little Amelia?’

I replied in monosyllables; I was afraid to leave my mouth open too long for fear of what might come out of it. A rational person might suppose my anger and jealousy had been dispelled by the sad death of that unhappy woman who had loved ‘not wisely but too well’; but oh, Reader, jealousy is not rational. She had died to save him. The gun had been pointing at Emerson, not at her, when she seized the assassin’s arm and clung, with the fierce strength of passion, to prevent him from administering the coup de grace. She had not struggled to escape, but only to turn the weapon away from the man she adored. Dead and martyred, she was a greater rival than she had been living.

A strangled sound escaped my lips. It might have been a sob; but I rather think it was a smothered cry of fury. Emerson looked anxiously at me. ‘You had better spend the rest of the day in bed, my dear. Have a nice rest –’

I crumpled my napkin and threw it on the floor. ‘So you can creep out of the house unbeknownst to me? Where are you going, Emerson? To make arrangements for a fitting funeral and a marble monument? To have the coffin opened, that you may kiss her lips for the last time? Who was that woman, Emerson? What did she mean to you?’

Emerson sat gripping the arms of his chair, eyes bulging and mouth ajar. Gargery’s reaction was more explosive; he dropped the platter he was holding, and the cook’s beautiful three-layer jelly collapsed into a rainbow puddle.

‘Oh, madam,’ he gasped.

‘Wait a minute,’ Emerson said. ‘Peabody, you take my breath away! You think I . . . You think she . . . Was that why you . . . Upon my word, Peabody, I assumed you were joking.’

‘Joking! About a subject so serious as fidelity, lifelong devotion, trust –’

‘Now, just a bloody minute, Peabody,’ Emerson exclaimed.

‘Oh, madam!’ Gargery advanced towards me, his feet squelching in the ruins of the jelly. ‘Madam, the professor would never – he could not – he is utterly devoted, body and soul –’

I took a deep breath. ‘Emerson,’ I said, quite calmly, ‘I really do not think I can control myself much longer. I am very fond of Gargery here, and I appreciate his friendly interest in us, but –’

‘Oh, quite, Peabody,’ said Emerson. ‘Pas devant les domestiques, eh? At least not this time. Excuse us, Gargery, there’s a good chap. Don’t worry, everything is quite all right.’

He offered me his arm. I took it. We proceeded, with measured pace and in perfect dignity, to the drawing room.

The moment the door closed, Emerson picked me up in his arms and carried me to the sofa.

‘My darling Peabody–’ he began.

‘Caresses will not avail you in the present instance,’ I cried, struggling to free myself.

‘Oh, no? Peabody, were you really jealous? Were you? How good of you, my darling. I cannot remember when I have felt so highly complimented.’

‘Emerson, you are really . . . Emerson, don’t do that. I cannot think clearly when you . . .’

Emerson stopped what he was doing, and assisted me to sit up. When I sat on his knee, my eyes were on a level with his. Holding me by the shoulders, he looked gravely at me. ‘Have you forgotten, Peabody, what happened last winter in Cairo?’

My eyes fell before his. ‘No, Emerson. I have not forgotten.’

‘I will not insist I had greater cause than you to feel the pangs of jealousy,’ Emerson continued seriously. ‘For that might start one of those amiable little arguments of ours, which tend to go on and on without ever arriving at a conclusion. I will only repeat the words you said to me shortly afterwards. “If the years we have spent together,” you said, “and the intensity of my devotion, have not convinced you that I never have, never will, and never could love another, no words of mine can change your opinion.” I beg to remind you, Peabody, of that eloquent speech.’

I hid my crimson face and trembling lips against his breast and placed my arms around his neck.

A short time later, when we were sitting side by side in mutual accord, I remarked, ‘All the same, Emerson – and I hope you will take the question in the spirit in which it is meant, as a simple request for information –’

Emerson’s arm tightened around my shoulders. ‘You are incorrigible, Peabody! Not only am I willing to answer the question you are about to ask, I insist on doing so.

‘I don’t know what Ayesha told you. She said you had been to visit her, and gave me her version of your conversation; but I place no more credence in that than you ought to place on the accuracy of what she said to you. What I am about to tell you is the simple truth – no more, no less.

‘I knew her – yes, my dear Peabody, I admit it – I knew her in every sense of the word. It happened during my first visit to Egypt, not as an archaeologist but as a beardless boy just down from Oxford, and as naïve about the world as poor little Ramses. I do myself the credit, however, of claiming that I soon learned to loathe the way of life to which I was introduced by so-called friends. The degradation of those poor women horrified me. It made me think less of myself and of the men who had condemned them to a life of fawning slavery.

‘It was Ayesha who really opened my eyes. She was not like the others. To see a woman like her – intelligent, beautiful, as capable as any man – reduced to such an existence only because she was a woman, beautiful, intelligent and capable . . . I believe I offered to take her away from it all, as the saying goes. She laughed at me. It was already too late for her.

‘As in your case, my dear Peabody, that first trip to Egypt convinced me I had found my life’s work and I threw myself into it with what you are pleased to call my enthusiastic exuberance. From time to time I encountered Ayesha, who was by then one of the most famous (and expensive) practitioners of her profession. A few years later she left Egypt. I heard from mutual acquaintances that she had gone to Paris with a wealthy admirer, who gave her her own establishment. Her history thereafter was a sad one. Her protector was a man of violent temper. Whether she betrayed him or not I do not know; he claimed she had, and he cast her off, after giving her a beating that scarred her for life. She had saved her money, however, and later I heard that she had moved to London and set herself up in business. But – and this I swear by everything I hold dear, Peabody – I had not set eyes on her for years. I almost dropped in my tracks the other night when I recognized her.’

‘That is what she told me,’ I said softly. ‘Poor thing. Poor, poor woman.’

‘Peabody.’ Emerson took me by the chin and looked intently into my eyes. ‘Did you really offer to help her move to the country and find solace in the beauties of nature?’

‘Why, yes. Even then I recognized her quality – Emerson, don’t squeeze me so hard. I can’t breathe.’

‘Peabody, Peabody! You are the thirteenth wonder of the world. Was there ever anyone like you?’

‘We are all unique in the eyes of Heaven, Emerson,’ I replied, smoothing my tumbled hair. ‘But, Emerson –’

‘Now what, Peabody?’

‘I am thinking of what I said a little while ago – and a cruel, unkind statement it was – about a proper burial and a monument. It is the least we can do, Emerson, don’t you agree? She did give her life for yours. Not that I am at all jealous now, and I don’t blame you, because you cannot help it if women –’

‘Wait a moment, Peabody. I am in full agreement with your suggestion, and I will see to it at once. But giving her life for mine? What nonsense is that?’

I felt he ought to know all that had transpired, so I told him what Ayesha had said, about being forced to lure me into a trap, and what I had said, trying to persuade her to accept our protection.

‘I didn’t overhear the conversation,’ he said soberly. ‘I was too far away, and concerned, besides, with keeping watch. I saw him coming, Peabody, but before I could move, she ran straight into his arms. And after that –’

‘He shot you and you fell. Oh, Emerson, I will never forget that moment!’

It was some time before I could continue. Emerson listened without comment while I described what had happened. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘It will be a very handsome monument, Peabody. And before the stonemason starts work, I will see to it that her killer gets his just deserts. Confound it, Peabody, don’t you see? It was not I she fought to save. It was you.’

‘My dear,’ I began.

‘You are not what I would call a humble woman, Peabody, but you are singularly obtuse about some things. Think it through. I was already down – dead, for all she knew. Upon whom would that murderous weapon have turned next, Peabody? He came there to kill you, and she knew it. She took the risk of warning you, and at the end she fought to the death, not to save me, but to save you. You were the first woman in years – perhaps the first in all her life – to speak to her like an equal and to express concern for her well-being. Nothing in her life became her like the leaving of it.’

He pressed me close to him and I felt his breast heave with a long sigh.

It was a touching moment, and I respected his senti-ments, so I did not point out the flaws in his logic. If he chose to believe the poor soul had given her life for mine, let him enjoy the illusion; I knew better and would always cherish the memory of Ayesha because she had given her life for his.

After a moment of respectful silence I remarked, ‘Emerson, I have only one more question.’

‘That,’ said Emerson, ‘I find hard to believe. Well, my dear?’

‘You say you never thought I could be jealous.’

‘Quite right, Peabody.’

‘Then why have you been acting so confoundedly peculiar?’ I demanded. ‘If I ever saw guilt writ large upon a human countenance, it was writ upon yours. You have been painfully polite, disgustingly considerate – you never complained when I corrected your manuscript –’

Emerson gave me a hearty hug. ‘I said you were obtuse, Peabody. Don’t you know what was worrying me? Have you not read the inscription on the ushebti?’

‘Men-maat-Re Sethos . . . Emerson! Oh, Emerson, you were jealous too!’

‘Madly, furiously, desperately,’ Emerson declared, squeezing me till my ribs creaked. ‘Well, curse it, Peabody, it is an odd coincidence, to find that abominable name cropping up again, in a criminal case . . . It is only a coincidence – isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Emerson, it must be. Shall I swear to you, as you were good enough to swear to me, that never –’

‘No, Peabody. It is not necessary. I will never doubt you again.’

‘Oh, my dear Emerson!’

‘My darling Peabody!’

After a considerable period of time had passed, I got off his knee and straightened my dress. ‘You are closer to the bellpull than I am, Emerson. Will you ring for Gargery? It is rather early, but I think we might have a little whiskey and soda, to calm our nerves.’

‘Splendid idea, Peabody,’ Emerson declared. ‘And then what do you say to another of our little competitions in crime? We have enough information now, I believe, to construct a theory or two. I’ve seen you do it with much less, my dear.’

‘Thank you, my dear Emerson,’ I replied, with considerable emotion. ‘I accept the challenge in the spirit in which it was offered, and in the spirit which always rules us in these situations: May the best person win, devil take the hindmost, and no fair cheating.’

‘Would you care to begin, my dear Peabody?’

‘No, my dear Emerson, I yield to you.’

‘I expected you would,’ Emerson remarked. ‘Oh, there you are, Gargery. Bring the whiskey, if you please.’

‘And, Gargery,’ I added, ‘you will be glad to hear that everything is quite all right, just as the professor said.’

‘I can see that, madam,’ said Gargery, beaming. ‘Not that I ever doubted it would be.’

‘I tell you what, Peabody,’ said Emerson, after Gargery had brought the whiskey and departed, still beaming. ‘We might have Wilkins and Gargery trade places, eh? Wilkins would be much happier in a quiet, well-regulated household like this.’

‘It is worth considering,’ I agreed. ‘Now, Emerson, you were about to begin . . .’

‘Yes.’ Emerson went to the desk and began rummaging around. ‘Where did I put that confounded . . . ah, here it is.’

He handed me a sheet of paper. I glanced at it and burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Emerson, how amusing! No, my dear, don’t glower, I am not laughing at you, but at another coincidence. There is an almost identical list upstairs in the drawer of my desk.’

‘Is that so? Well, my dear Peabody, I have often said our minds are as one.’

‘We seem to agree on the major points,’ I mused, studying his list. ‘I see you mention the scraps of glass and paper found by the body of the night watchman. I confess I thought you would miss that, Emerson.’

‘Oh, you did, did you? What do you make of it, Peabody?’

‘I haven’t had an opportunity to speak to Mr Budge,’ I replied. ‘My answer depends on how recently the room was swept.’

‘Oh.’ Emerson’s brows lowered. ‘Oh, yes. I didn’t think of that.’

‘There was nothing that might not have accumulated in the normal course of events, as a result of the untidy habits of the museum-visiting public.’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson, scowling.

‘However,’ I went on, ‘there is confirmatory evidence of my tentative theory from another source.’

‘The unwrapped mummy,’ said Emerson.

‘And the speech the priest delivered – the invocation to Isis.’

‘“Whose speech fails not,”’ said Emerson, unable to repress a smile.

‘Quite. I see we agree so far, Emerson. Do we also agree that the man we saw last night is not only the murderer of Ayesha but of Mr Oldacre?’

‘Certainly, Peabody. Is he also the false priest?’

‘Yes and no, Emerson.’

‘Curse it, Peabody –’

‘That is not the important question, Emerson. The killer is the man who sent the ushebtis and abducted Ramses. But who the devil – that is, who is he really? Which of our suspects is the mastermind behind all this?’

‘That seems obvious,’ said Emerson.

‘It does.’

‘Would you care –’

‘Not just yet. We are still lacking one or two vital bits of evidence. Wasn’t it you who said it is a capital error to theorize before one has all the facts?’

‘No, it wasn’t. What evidence do we lack?’

‘Well – here is a question you omitted.’ Taking a pencil, I scribbled a few sentences and handed the paper to him.

Question: ‘Who is the man in the turban who called on Professor Emerson, and where did they go yesterday?’ What to do about it: ‘Ask Professor Emerson.’

Emerson crumpled the paper in his hand. ‘Confound it, Peabody –’

I held up a hand. ‘Wait, Emerson. I vowed this evening never to admit a doubt of your devotion to enter my mind. I do not doubt it. But my dear Emerson, I made no promise about anything else. If you are concealing evidence from me –’

‘Have a little more whiskey, Peabody.’

‘No, thank you, I don’t believe I will.’

‘Then I will,’ Emerson muttered, suiting the action to the words. ‘Listen to me, Peabody. I am not concealing evidence. The individual to whom you referred knows nothing, and told me nothing, that would be of the slightest assistance in solving the case.’

‘Then why won’t you tell me who he is and what he wanted?’

‘Because he . . . because I . . . I gave my word, Peabody. I swore I would not tell a living soul of what transpired yesterday afternoon. Would you have me break my solemn oath?’

‘Did the words “forever” and “never” appear in that oath you took, Emerson?’

Emerson burst out laughing. ‘Yes, my dear Peabody. I seem to recall someone also using the phrase “eternal silence.” People can be so cursed theatrical at times . . .’ Then he sobered. ‘My dear, it appears we are facing a test of that utter confidence you just expressed. The test was not of my making, but there it is. Will you live up to your word and not try to make me break mine? For you know you could make me break it, Peabody. I can’t resist you when you try.’

‘My dear Emerson, how can you possibly suppose I would do such a thing?’

Emerson took me in his arms.

For a moment we stood motionless. Emerson’s chin rested on the top of my head. I could not see his face, and I would have given a great deal to be able to read his expression. He was planning something underhanded, I had not the least doubt of it.

In the silence I heard the faint chime of the clock in the hall. Emerson moved slightly. ‘It is almost time for tea,’ I said.

‘Hmmm, yes. The day has flown by. I suppose we have to have those wretched . . . those children downstairs?’

‘How unkind you are, Emerson.’

‘They are really very boring children, Peabody.’

‘I know. But we agreed to take them and do our best for them, and we must stick to our promise, Emerson.’

Emerson’s grasp tightened. ‘We have half an hour, Peabody. If we went upstairs directly . . . I could face the ordeal in a much better frame of mind after . . .’

I suppose I ought to have known better. But I defy any Reader to say she would have acted otherwise under the circumstances, which included a number of those little gestures to which I was susceptible under all circumstances and which were particularly poignant just then.

When we came out of the drawing room arm in arm I saw Gargery behind the curve of the stairs, grinning like the sentimental idiot he was; and then I saw no more of him, because Emerson swept me into his arms and ran up the stairs in, as I assumed, a burst of affectionate impatience. So impatient was he that he neglected to close the door, and I exclaimed, ‘Emerson, don’t you think . . . a little privacy . . .’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Emerson, breathing heavily. ‘One moment –’

Without going into improper details as to my position at the time, I will only say that I did not see the door close. I heard it, though. And then I heard another sound that affected me like a dash of icy water in the face. It was the sound of the key turning in the lock.

I bounded up from the bed. I was alone. I heard his footsteps retreating; he made no attempt to tiptoe. One touch of the knob confirmed what I already knew. He had locked me in.

I ran to the window and drew back the curtains. I was in time to see him leave the house. It was still bright daylight outside, though the shadows were lengthening. As he walked, with the rapid stride that could cover miles of desert terrain as quickly as another man might run, he shrugged into his coat. He was bareheaded. At the gate he turned for a moment and looked up at the window.

I doubt that he saw me, for the sun was directly opposite the house and when it was in that position it reflected blindingly from the front windows. But he knew I would be there. Raising his hand to his lips, he blew me a kiss. Then he broke into a run; within seconds he had vanished.

How long I remained at the window, prey to sensations I prefer not to recall, I cannot say; but it could not have been more than a minute before I heard the rattle of the key in the lock, and the voice of Gargery.

‘Madam? Mrs Emerson, are you there?’

‘Where else would I be, you idiot?’ I replied. ‘Unlock the door instantly.’

‘Yes, madam, of course. That is what the professor said I should do. But I don’t understand . . .’ The door opened. ‘I don’t understand what is going on,’ Gargery continued. ‘He said the lock was jammed, and went to get tools, but why it should be locked at all, and you inside, and the professor outside –’

‘“Outside” is the key word, Gargery, if you will excuse a vile pun. I don’t suppose he mentioned where he was going?’

‘To get tools, madam. He . . .’ Gargery’s jaw dropped. ‘Blimey!’ he exclaimed. ‘’E ’asn’t got away from us, ’as ’e?’

‘’E certainly ’as,’ I replied, in considerable bitterness of spirit. ‘He fooled us very nicely, Gargery – both of us. Never mind –’ For Gargery had begun pounding himself on the forehead with his clenched fist and was using expressions I had never heard him employ. ‘It was not your fault – and I apologize for calling you an idiot, Gargery. If you are, I am a greater one.’

‘Oh, madam.’ Gargery took a long, quivering breath and regained control of his speech. ‘I beg your pardon – I am afraid that in the ’eat – the heat – of the moment I forgot myself. There is no use going after him, I suppose?’

‘No, he has made good his escape. We can only wait, and exhibit that fortitude for which English persons of both sexes and all social classes are famous. It is time for tea, Gargery. I will be down shortly.’

‘Yes, madam.’ Gargery drew himself up to his full height. ‘And may I say, madam –’

‘No, Gargery, I would rather you did not. For my shell of calm is about to crack and I would prefer to express my sentiments in private.’

Gargery went away.

Of course I did not break into hysterics or tears. That is not my habit. I was not even angry with Emerson. He was always complaining about his inability to prevent me from rushing headlong into danger, but that was only his little joke; never before had he made any real effort to stop me. He must be desperate to resort to a trick like this, which he knew would bring down vehement reproaches on his head . . . Oh, my dear Emerson, I thought – my shell of calm breaking for an instant – only return, safe and sound, and I will never speak a word.

I forced myself to sit down and use my head instead of my heart. Naturally I had no intention of sitting idly by, waiting for Emerson to come back. I had no idea where he might have gone. However, from his guarded remarks earlier I knew he and I were on the same track, insofar as the solution of the murder case was concerned. Obviously he knew more than I – or thought he did. Surely, if I applied my intelligence to the matter, I ought to be able to arrive at the same conclusion he had reached – and, in due course of time, at the same place to which those conclusions had led him.

Something was nagging at my mind. I knew the sensation well, for it had happened to me before – a sense of something seen or heard to which I had not paid proper attention at the time. Something overlooked or misunderstood . . . something of consummate importance. I sat down and pressed my hands over my eyes – not because they were damp with incipient tears, but in order to blot out external distractions. What could it have been? For long, agonized seconds I had dangled helplessly from the throttling hands of the killer, my face only inches from his. I had been somewhat distracted at the time, but might there not have been a clue – a scent or a sound or a sensation – to that villain’s identity?

I felt I was on the right track, but before I could pursue my recollection, the prattle of childish voices without reminded me of another duty. If I did not get downstairs at once, Violet would eat all the biscuits.

She had consumed several before I arrived on the scene, so I put an end to that, and ordered them all to their places. ‘And what have you been doing today?’ I asked pleasantly.

‘We went to the park,’ said Percy. ‘I took my hoop and my butterfly net.’

‘There was a muffin man,’ murmured Violet. ‘A nice, nice muffin man.’

‘And did you catch any butterflies, Percy?’ I inquired. I did not bother to ask whether Violet had caught any muffins; I felt sure she had. The child was swelling up like a toad.

‘Yes, Aunt Amelia. Only a few Monarchs, but it was good exercise, you know, running after them.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied encouragingly. ‘And you, Ramses – did you help Percy catch butterflies?’

‘I wonder that you can ask, Mama, since you know my views on the needless murder of living creatures,’ Ramses replied in his stateliest manner. ‘If you will excuse my changing the subject – which is boring in the extreme – I would like to ask whether Papa has gone out? In his present weakened condition –’

‘He has gone out,’ I replied somewhat sharply. ‘And no – I do not know where he has gone or when he will return. He is not accountable to you, Ramses – or to me – for his actions.’

‘Not in the legal sense,’ Ramses replied. ‘But the gentle urging of domestic affection implies a moral obligation, and I am surprised to find that Papa, who is as a rule most considerate of our concern –’

‘Please, Ramses.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

A brief silence followed. I moved the plate of biscuits out of Violet’s reach and tried to think of something to say. I was not really in a fit state for idle conversation.

After a moment Percy coughed. ‘May I ask you some-thing, Aunt Amelia?’

‘Certainly, Percy. What is it?’

‘Well, you see, I have been wondering . . . The matter has been on my mind for some time.’

‘If it is your mama you are worrying about,’ I began.

‘No, it isn’t that, Aunt. In fact, it isn’t about any person, any person I know. What Ramses would call a theoretical question, I suppose.’

‘Well?’ I said impatiently.

‘Supposing,’ said Percy slowly, ‘supposing someone knew that someone had done something. Something he wasn’t supposed to do.’

I wondered how I could ever have complained about Ramses’ speech patterns. At least he knew more than fifty words, and could arrange them into a coherent sentence. Percy went on, even more slowly, ‘Something bad, Aunt Amelia. Really bad, I mean. Should the person – the person who knew about it – tell?’

‘Tell whom?’ I inquired.

‘Oh . . . someone else.’

I knew perfectly well what he was aiming at. He kept glancing sideways at Ramses, who returned his look with a concentrated glare of dislike.

‘I believe I understand you, Percy,’ I said. ‘You are posing a hypothetical question on a moral issue. There is never a simple answer to such questions. It depends on a number of things. For example, on whether the first individual had been sworn to secrecy, or had promised to keep silent. A Roman Catholic priest, hearing confession –’

‘It wasn’t like that, Aunt Amelia,’ said Percy.

‘And also,’ I continued, ‘on how serious was the action in question. If it was only a harmless prank –’

‘It was bad,’ said Percy – metaphorically licking his chops. ‘Very, very bad. Very, ver –’

Ramses rose up from the sofa and launched himself at Percy’s throat.

They fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, taking a small table down with them and spilling the biscuits, which had been on the table, far and wide. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Violet pounce, like a cat on a mouse, but I could do nothing about her until I got the boys separated.

It was not as easy as I had expected. The first time I reached out, someone kicked me – I could not tell which it was. They rolled from side to side, arms and legs flailing; Percy was yelping and crying out, but Ramses fought in ominous silence; the only sounds I heard from him were grunts of pain and/or effort. Seizing the teapot, I took off the lid and threw the contents onto the combatants.

The water was no longer boiling, but it was hot enough to induce a momentary lull. I took advantage of it to pluck Ramses from the tangle and pull him to his feet.

Percy promptly rolled out of reach and got to his hands and knees. In comparing the two, I was interested to observe that Ramses, though slighter and shorter than his cousin, had managed to hold his own. Perhaps his father had given him those lessons in boxing after all. His nose was bleeding copiously – considering the size of the member, it was not surprising that Percy should have managed to strike it – his hair was standing straight up, and it appeared that Percy had bit him on the thumb. But Percy was in worse case. He too was bleeding, from a split lip, and his face was beginning to swell.

Having eaten all the biscuits, Violet was able to turn her mind to another matter. She darted at Ramses and pounded him with her fists. ‘Nasty, nasty, bad,’ she screamed. ‘Nasty!’

Maintaining my grip on Ramses – who made no attempt to retaliate, only shielding his face with his arms – I put my free hand over Violet’s face and shoved. She flew backwards onto the sofa with force enough to drive the breath out of her.

There was no need for me to ring the bell. The sounds of battle had brought Gargery, as well as Mrs Watson, into the room. I turned Violet over to Mrs Watson and Percy over to Gargery.

‘Well, Ramses,’ I said.

‘I am confined to my room,’ Ramses remarked, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve.

‘Yes.’ I plucked a few tea leaves out of his hair. ‘Do you require assistance in washing, changing, and tending your bruises?’

‘No, thank you, I would prefer to deal with the matter myself. As you see, my nose has stopped bleeding. The application of cold water –’

‘A great deal of cold water, I should think.’

‘Yes, Mama. At once.’ He started from the room. Then he stopped and turned. ‘One question, Mama, if I may.’

‘I will discuss this disgraceful incident with you at a later time, Ramses. At present I have other things on my mind.’

‘Yes, Mama. You refer, I suppose, to Papa’s whereabouts, and I quite agree that that is a more urgent matter. However, I wanted to ask you about Miss Minton. She has gone.’

‘Yes, Ramses, I know. I sent her away. She left the house this morning.’

‘She left the house last night,’ said Ramses. ‘At least so I have been informed. And she left behind her clothing and other possessions.’

‘There is nothing strange about that, Ramses. She had with her, I suppose, only those articles a housemaid might be expected to possess. No doubt she abandoned them as worthless reminders of an action of contemptible treachery.’

‘No doubt,’ said Ramses. ‘However, it seemed to me that you might wish to be informed –’

‘And now you have informed me. Thank you. To your room, Ramses.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

I stood pondering for a moment. Then I rang the bell. When Gargery answered, I said, ‘I want a letter delivered at once, Gargery. Give the footman money for cab fare, and tell him to make haste.’

By the time the footman came, I had the note written. I instructed him to wait for an answer. Next I summoned Mrs Watson and told her I would have dinner on a tray in my room, since the professor would not be there for dinner. The good kind woman approved of my having a nice rest and an early night after all I had been through.

I could make no definite plans until I received the answer to my message. If it was not the one I expected . . . well, then there was a fatal flaw in my theory, and I would have to revise it. But I did not see how I could be mistaken. Why, oh why had I ignored that one significant statement? Being half-strangled was no excuse for such negligence.

I forced myself to remain calm. There was no hurry. If I was right, and if I had correctly estimated the eccentricities of the man I was after, nothing of importance would happen for a good many hours. I took out my list and went through it again. It was too late now to finish my inquiries, but the list raised another question. To call, or not to call, upon the police?

After weighing the pros and cons, I decided upon a compromise. There was only one police officer who might – and I stress the word ‘might’ – give credence to the admittedly bizarre solution I had arrived at. I could not fathom the behaviour of Inspector Cuff; was he shrewd and secretive, or only very stupid? In either case I had to assume he suffered from the same unaccountable prejudice towards the female sex that afflicted most men, and that he would therefore strenuously object to my taking part in the evening’s entertainment – even supposing he could be persuaded to participate himself. Cuff would have no compunctions about locking me in a cell, and keeping me there as long as he considered necessary.

Still, it seemed only fair to give him a chance to show his quality – and it was possible I might be in need of assistance if matters did not work out quite as I hoped. I sat down at my table and began to write. It proved to be a rather lengthy epistle, since I had to explain a lot of things in detail, in order to add verisimilitude to the narrative, and I had not finished when Gargery brought me the answer to my letter.

He waited while I read it, and then exclaimed, ‘Is it – I hope it is not bad news, madam.’

‘It was the answer I expected,’ I replied. ‘Thank you, Gargery.’

Miss Minton had not returned to her lodging. Her landlady had not seen her or heard from her since the preceding Friday.

So that was settled. It was not likely that she had set off for Northumberland dressed like a housemaid and without luggage or money. It was even more unlikely that she would have accepted the protection of Kevin or Mr Wilson. No; I knew where she was. It must be she to whom Ayesha had referred in that breathless and unfortunately neglected speech. ‘He’ had her now, and I knew where he had taken her – to the ruined wing of Mauldy Manor, behind that massive door whose lock had been so recently repaired that traces of oil had transferred themselves to my fingers when I tried the latch.