The Deeds of the Disturber (11 page)

"However, under some circumstances ..." Ramses wheezed.

"Enough, Ramses! Upstairs with him, John. I will follow directly."

John obeyed, Rose led the sobbing Violet away, and I turned my attention to Percy, who stood straight as a little soldier awaiting punishment. He flinched visibly when I placed my hand on his shoulder, and I hastened to reassure him.

"No one is flogged or beaten in this house, Percy—not people, not animals, not even children. What happened was an unfortunate accident, and it was courageous of you to take all the blame on yourself."

The boy's astonished look told me he was unaccustomed to kindly, reasonable treatment from adults. It made me all the more determined to demonstrate the superiority of our methods of child-rearing over those of his parents.

Toward the end of the week I began to be less optimistic about the good effects of well-behaved children on Ramses. Percy took to moping
around the house; when pressed he admitted he was lonely, not only for "dearest Mama and Papa" but for his playmates. Ramses would not play with him. Ramses—said Percy sadly—did not like him.

I took Ramses aside and gave him a little lecture about courtesy to guests. "Percy misses his Mama and Papa, Ramses, which is only natural. You must put yourself out a little; give up your own hobbies for a while and join in the things that amuse Percy."

Ramses replied that Percy's ideas of amusement were not to his taste and that, to judge by Percy's remarks about his papa, he did not at all miss him. Since I abhor gossip of all kinds, especially from the mouths of young children, I cut Ramses off rather sharply. "Percy says you don't like him."

"He is quite correct," said Ramses. "I don't."

"Perhaps you would, if you would try to know him better."

"I doubt that very much. I am busy, Mama, with my work. My study of mummification—"

Again my retort was prompt and sharp; for Ramses' study of mummification had already prompted one unpleasant incident, when he attempted to impress Violet by showing her some of his better specimens. The ensuing fit of hysterics had brought Emerson raging out of the library.

Before long I had the opportunity to discuss my concern about the children with a person whose opinion on such matters I valued. She was one of the few ladies in the neighborhood with whom I was on speaking terms—the headmistress of a girls' school nearby, who shared my views on such important matters as education for women, votes for women, sensible dress for women, and the like. I had sent her a note announcing our arrival and inviting her to call, but it was not until the end of the week that she was able to accept.

She was a Scotswoman, ruddy of face and stout of figure, with gray-streaked brown hair and shrewd, deepset eyes. Observing her tweed bloomers and stout boots I asked, "Surely you didn't bicycle the whole distance?"

"Surely I did. It is scarcely ten miles—and," she added, with a laugh, "the good women of the village have stopped throwing stones when I pass along the High Street."

I made Emerson's excuses, explaining that he was hard at work on his book. In fact, he was not overly fond of Helen's company, claiming that between the two of us he could not get a word in. Helen accepted the excuses with equanimity; she was not overly fond of Emerson's company either.

"All the better," she said. "We can have a woman-to-woman chat. Tell me about your latest adventures, Amelia. I read about them in the newspapers, but one cannot credit anything one learns from that source."

"You certainly should not believe what you read in the newspapers. It is true that we were able to assist Miss Debenham—now Mrs. Fraser—in a critical situation ..."

"And uncover a murderer and free an innocent man from suspicion?"

"That, yes. But anything else you may have read—"

"Then the lurid hints of Master Criminals (excuse me, I cannot help smiling; it is such a ridiculous name, straight out of a novel), and abduction—"

"Greatly exaggerated," I assured her. "In fact, Helen, I would prefer to say no more about it."

I gave her a brief description of our excavations, concluding, "Emerson feels sure the pyramid belonged to Senefru of the Third Dynasty. We hope next season to finish the excavation of the funerary temple and perhaps begin the exploration of the interior."

Helen had listened with a slightly glazed look. She was a classical historian and was relatively uninformed about Middle Eastern archaeology. She turned the subject, asking about Ramses.

"He has now taken up the study of mummification," I said, with a grimace.

Helen laughed heartily. She found Ramses quite entertaining—no doubt because she saw very little of him. "He is a remarkable child, Amelia. Don't try to make him into a little English schoolboy, the breed is detestable."

"There is no making Ramses into anything he doesn't choose to be," I said. "To be honest, Helen, I am glad we have this chance to chat. I am concerned about the boy, and your expertise on the subject of children—"

"Girls only, Amelia. However, what little knowledge I have is, as always, at your disposal."

I told her about Ramses' antipathy toward his cousin Percy. "They fight, Helen, I know they do; and it must be Ramses who starts the squabbles, for he makes no secret of disliking Percy, and Percy is pathetically anxious to be friends. I thought Ramses would profit from having other children to play with, but it seems to have made him worse."

"That only shows you know little about the breed," Helen said comfortably.  "Ramses is an only child, reared in—what shall I say?—unusual surroundings. He is accustomed to the full attention of his parents. Of course he resents having to share them with other children."

"Do you really think so?"

"I know so. I have seen the same thing with my girls. The advent of a new baby into the household frequently brings about a change in behavior."

"But Percy is no baby."

"That makes it all the worse. All little boys fight, Amelia—yes, and some little girls as well, though they are usually slyer and more subtle in their means of getting back at those they dislike."

She went on to tell me some stories about her charges that made me glad I had taken up another line of work.

Some of her theories sounded outlandish to me; they certainly were not in accord with the authorities I had read, but then I had no particular respect for the said authorities anyway.

When the time came for her to go, she suggested I might like to take a spin on her new safety bicycle, whose design she strongly recommended.

But when we emerged from the house, there was no cycle to be seen. "I left it just there," Helen said, looking about with a puzzled expression.

Then I saw Violet, crouched behind one of the tall urns that line the terrace. "What are you doing there, Violet?" I asked. "Have you seen the lady's cycle?"

"Yes, Aunt 'Melia."

"Don't cower," I said sharply. "Come out of there."

"You are frightening the child, Amelia," Helen said.

"I? Frightening a child? How can you suppose—"

"Let me speak to her." She advanced, holding out her hand and smiling. "You are Violet? Your aunt has told me what a good girl you are. Come and give me a kiss."

Violet sidled forward, one finger in her mouth, her eyes rolling sideways to watch me. Anyone seeing her would have supposed I beat her daily. Helen stooped to take the child in a motherly embrace. "Tell me what has happened to my bicycle, little Violet," Helen cooed.

Violet pointed. "Ramses took it."

From the door of the house to the gates of the park is a good quarter mile. The graveled drive forms a circle before the terrace; because of plantings of trees and shrubbery, the far half of the circle and the straight stretch are hidden from sight. I now beheld, emerging from the enclosing trees, the bicycle. On the high seat perched Ramses. His legs were too short to touch the pedals except when they were at the topmost point
of their circle, so he progressed in a series of rushes, wobbling erratically from one side of the drive to the other and prevented from falling—or so it seemed—by Percy, who was running alongside the machine.

Helen let out a gasp of outrage and concern, and as the ensemble came closer I realized that instead of helping to hold the cycle, Percy was, in fact, attempting to stop it. I was assisted in this deduction by his cries of "Stop, Cousin; indeed, you must not, you didn't ask permission," and the like.

Ramses caught sight of me. His legs stopped moving, and at the same instant Percy snatched at the handlebars. The results were predictable. Cycle and rider fell to the ground with a grating crash. Percy saved himself from following them only by an agile twist of his body.

Helen ran toward the wreckage. Violet began to scream. As her cries of "Dead! Dead!" rang morbidly through the welkin, I hastened to join Helen.

At first sight Ramses appeared to be inextricably entwined with the bicycle, but we finally managed to free him. His arms and face were scraped and bleeding and his new sailor suit was a total wreck. So was the bicycle.

Having ascertained that he was unharmed, I gave him a little shake. "Whatever possessed you to do such a thing, Ramses? In addition to being foolhardy and dangerous, it was also very wrong. The bicycle was not yours and you had no right to ride it without asking permission."

"Violet told me—" Ramses began.

"Ramses, Ramses." Helen shook her head sadly. "A little gentleman does not excuse his actions by blaming them on a young lady. You were under no compulsion to do as Violet asked."

"Excuse me, ma'am—Aunt Amelia," Percy said quietly. "Violet only said she would dearly love to see Ramses ride a bicycle; he was bragging a little about how well he could ride. I should have prevented him. I take full responsibility."

Ramses turned and kicked his cousin on the shin. "I won't have you take responsibility for me! Who the devil are you to take responsibility for me?"

Percy made no outcry, though his face twisted with pain and he made haste to back away from Ramses. The latter would have gone after him if I had not twisted my hand in his collar.

"Ramses, stop it! I am bitterly ashamed of you. Your language, your attack on your cousin, your destruction of Miss Mclntosh's machine ..."

Ramses stopped squirming. "I apologize to Miss Mclntosh," he gasped,
swabbing his bleeding face with his bloody sleeve. "I will repay her as soon as is possible. I presently possess twelve shillings sixpence ha'penny, and will soon . . . Mama, your grasp on my collar has twisted it about my windpipe in a manner painfully suggestive of what a criminal must experience when the hangman's noose—"

"Let him go, Amelia," Helen ordered. I complied, all the more readily since the color of Ramses' face had visibly darkened; I had not intended to be quite so rough. Helen stooped to touch the boy's lacerated cheek.

"I am not angry with you, Ramses, but I confess I am disappointed. Not about the cycle; you didn't intend to damage it. Do you know why I am disappointed in you?"

Ramses had always been fond of Helen, in his peculiar fashion, but if he had looked at me as he was looking at her, I would have sent for a constable. Then his abused countenance took on its habitual expression of phlegmatic unconcern. "You feel I am not behaving like a little gentleman?" he suggested.

"Quite right. A gentleman does not take the property of others without permission; he does not seek to excuse his behavior by referring to others; he does not use bad language; and he never, never kicks another person."

"Hmmm." Ramses thought it over. "In justice to my Mama and Papa, let me say that they have endeavored to impress such standards upon me, without, however, presenting them in such a pontifical manner, but until the present time I have never fully considered the difficulties of—"

"Go to your room, Ramses," I exclaimed.

"Yes, Mama. But I would like to say—"

"To your room!"

Ramses left. I observed he limped.

I ordered the carriage for Helen, commended Percy on his good intentions and manly behavior, spoke to Violet—who had stopped wailing as soon as she realized no one was paying any attention to her— and went wearily into the house.

I had a long, serious talk with Ramses. He condescended to let me examine his leg and apply cold compresses to the purpling bruise thereon, but to judge by his sole comment, my kindly lecture had little effect. "Being a little gentleman," he remarked, more to himself than to me, "seems hardly worth the trouble."

After the incident of the bicycle, conflict between the children lessened—perhaps because I had confined Ramses to his room for three
days. I was thus able to finish my household chores and make plans to leave for London. Emerson had been locked up in the library, emerging only to take his meals and grumble at the rest of us. At first I used to hear angry cries, resulting from his discovery of another of Ramses' revisions of the manuscript; but these lessened as time went on, and at length he informed me that he had reached a point where consultation of reference materials at the British Museum was necessary. I informed him, in turn, that I was ready whenever he was.

Wishing to avoid any possible source of controversy between us, I had made no reference to the strange case of the malignant mummy; but rest assured, dear Reader, I eagerly consulted the newspapers each day to see what, if anything, had happened. The results were disappointing in the extreme. Mr. O'Connell and his rival did their best, but the only one who provided them with copy was the accommodating lunatic in the priestly vestments, who made regular calls on the mummy case. No visitor or official of the museum suffered so much as a paper cut.

I had virtually forgotten the matter when one morning—I believe it was on the Tuesday—Wilkins came to announce that I had a visitor. The young lady was unknown to him, nor had she consented to give a name; "but I believe, madam, you will wish to receive her," said Wilkins, with a most peculiar look.

"Indeed, Wilkins? And why do you believe that?"

Wilkins coughed deprecatingly. "The young lady was most insistent, madam."