The Deeds of the Disturber (12 page)

His repetition of the word "lady" was emphatic and meaningful; Wilkins, snob that he is, is careful to make such distinctions.

"Show her in, then," I said, putting down my pen. "Or, no—better that I should go to her, I can excuse myself more easily. Where have you put her, Wilkins?"

He had put her in the drawing room—another indication of social status. I proceeded to that chamber.

The "young lady" was busily engaged in examining the family photographs ranged along the mantel. Though her back was turned to me, I recognized her at once from the inquisitive tilt of her head and the fact that she was scribbling in a pocketbook.

"Young
lady,
did you say, Wilkins?" I exclaimed loudly.

She let out a yelp and spun around. It was indeed Miss Minton, looking very smart in a neat blue tweed tailor-made and striped shirt. A straw sailor hat perched atop her head.

Wilkins tactfully withdrew and Miss Minton proved herself no lady.

Without greeting or apology she rushed at me, brandishing her notebook. "You must hear me, Mrs. Emerson, indeed you must!"

I drew myself up. "Must, to ME, Miss Minton? You know not to whom you speak!"

"Oh, but I do—I do! Why else would I be here? Excuse me, Mrs. Emerson, I know I am behaving badly, but I haven't time to be polite, indeed I haven't. I hired the only trap at the railway station, but I don't underestimate his devilish resourcefulness, he will soon find other means of transport and follow—" The speech ended in another small yelp or scream as a fusillade of knocking and calling broke out, clearly audible even through the closed door.

Miss Minton stamped her foot. "Devil take it! He is quicker than I would have believed possible. Mrs. Emerson, will you—"

She did not finish; the turmoil without culminated in the bursting open of the drawing-room door. On the threshold stood Kevin O'Connell. Hatless, windblown, his complexion matching his hair in intensity if not in precise shade, his cheeks streaked with perspiration, he was momentarily bereft of speech by haste, exertion, and outrage.

Beyond him I saw Wilkins, seated on the floor of the hallway. Whether he had slipped, tripped, or been pushed, I did not know; but he continued to sit there without moving or blinking.

The two young people burst into speech at one and the same time. Miss Minton insisted that I do something—what, I could not ascertain. Kevin's conversation consisted solely of imprecations directed at Miss Minton. A recurring refrain was "Ah, begorra, if you were a man, now ..."

Needless to say I did not permit this to continue unchecked. After considering the situation I decided that Wilkins must wait; he appeared to be unharmed, only stupefied. I first shut the door. Then I said, "Be quiet!"

I have had ample opportunity to practice that speech with Ramses. Silence instantly ensued.

"Sit down," I ordered. "You there, Miss Minton, and you, Mr. O'Connell, take that chair, on the far side of the room."

I remained standing as I continued severely, "Seldom have I beheld such an unseemly spectacle. You especially, Mr. O'Connell, should know you risk severe bodily injury by bursting into the house in this manner. I only pray the professor has not heard the ruckus. He is not in a happy frame of mind these days."

Kevin was sobered by the reminder. "Indeed, but you've the right of it, Mrs. E.," he said uneasily. "To be honest I was so beside myself with rage at the way I was outmaneuvered by this bold-faced wench—"

Miss Minton bounced up from her chair, her small fists clenched. I pushed her back into it. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Explain this intrusion at once. No, Mr. O'Connell, be silent, you will have your turn to speak."

The girl reached into her bag and took out a newspaper. She thrust it at me. Her eyes were bright with excitement. "The mummy has struck again. There has been another murder!"

F
ive

K
EVIN AND Miss MINTON continued to exchange whispered imprecations while I perused the newspaper. It was the latest edition of the
Mirror,
fresh off the press (as the ink that transferred itself to my fingers testified).

Miss Minton had been guilty of journalistic hyperbole in saying "another murder," since the death of the watchman had never been proved to be other than natural. However, the latest event must cast serious doubts upon that diagnosis, for the second death was unquestionably homicide. It is possible for a man to cut his own throat, but the severity of the wound, which had actually severed the windpipe and damaged the spinal cord, made such a conclusion extremely unlikely. Nor was the second victim a lowly workingman. (I speak in the social sense only; for a person of humble rank may be worthier in the eyes of Heaven than a peer of the realm.) He had been identified as an assistant keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities, one Jonas Oldacre.

"The body was discovered on the Embankment," I murmured. "Not in the Museum—"

"But where on the Embankment?" Miss Minton demanded, her pencil poised. "At the foot of Cleopatra's Needle!"

"It is a pity that inaccurate name has taken hold," I remarked, continuing to peruse the newspaper. "Cleopatra had nothing to do with that monument, which is properly termed an obelisk. It was raised by, and bears the name of, King Thut-mose III. If you continue to scribble in that notebook, Miss Minton, I will be forced to take it from you."

"Yes, ma'am." The young woman closed the book and slipped it into
her pocket. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Emerson. It is an Egyptian monument, though?"

"Obviously. Pray let me finish . . . This purported scrap of paper found in the hand of the dead man—do you have a copy of the message?"

"No," Miss Minton admitted.

"Then how do you know what it said? For you have quoted it here, word for word—and in English translation."

For the first time Miss Minton had no ready reply. Before she could think of a reasonable explanation, Kevin, who had been controlling himself with difficulty, burst out, "She bribed the constable! Not only with money—I tried that, and failed—but with her despicable woman's wiles—"

"How dare you!" Miss Minton cried, reddening.

"Smiles and dimples and sweet words," Kevin went on angrily. "Touching his muscles with a timid finger and telling him how brave and strong—"

Miss Minton leaped up, ran to Kevin, slapped him across the face, and returned to her chair. I had not the heart to scold her, for I would have done the same.

"Shame, Mr. O'Connell," I said severely.

Kevin rubbed his flaming cheek. The blow must have stung; it had certainly made a loud enough noise. "Och, well," he muttered.

I laid the newspaper on the table. "I won't ask you how you got the message translated, Miss Minton, for I think I know. If there was a message ..."

"There was a message," Kevin said. "The police have admitted as much."

"Then one of you probably wrote it. I have never seen an inscription remotely resembling this one. Hmmmm. The facts of the case seem clear enough ..."

"To a keen, incisive brain like yours, perhaps," said Kevin. "I confess that I myself am completely baffled."

I was about to enlighten him when I saw that Miss Minton had surreptitiously removed her notebook from her pocket, and that Kevin was watching me with a keenness I had good cause to remember. "Then you must remain baffled," I said shortly. "If you have come pelting all the way from London in order to obtain an interview, you are doomed to disappointment. What ghouls you are, snapping and snarling over me like dogs over a moldy bone!"

They burst into simultaneous protestations. I gathered that I had been quite mistaken; they had not come to interview me, but to offer me fame and fortune as the official consultant of their respective newspapers.

It was a most intriguing offer. Even more intriguing was the rapidity with which the fee rose, from fifty guineas to a hundred and fifty, within the space of a few minutes. Though I was tempted to remain silent, and ascertain precisely how much I was worth to the publishing industry, I feared interruption, from a source I am sure I need not name, if the racket continued.

"Quite out of the question," I said firmly. "Not under any circumstances. The discussion is terminated. I am sorry I cannot offer you refreshments before you leave, but after all, I did not invite you to come. Good day to you."

The refusal was accepted more graciously than I had expected. From the gleam in Kevin's eye I knew he had not given up, but meant to try again at another time. Miss Minton murmured, "So long as you don't accept
his
offer ..."

I had hoped to get them out of the house without a further scene, but alas, it was not to be. Once again the abused door of my drawing room was flung open, this time by a brawnier arm than that of Kevin O'Connell.

Emerson believes that physical comfort is essential to intellectual labors (an opinion in which I heartily concur), so he was in his shirt sleeves, without cravat or vest. His hair was tousled and his face was liberally besprinkled with ink spots, unmistakable signs of a desperate (though victorious) struggle with his recalcitrant prose. His blue eyes sparkled, his brows were lowered, a flush of choler added a becoming pink to his lean brown cheeks.

"Ah," he said mildly. "I thought I recognized your voice, Mr. O'Connell."

Kevin retreated behind the sofa, a massive structure of carved rosewood and crimson plush. Nodding politely to Miss Minton, Emerson addressed me. "Amelia, why is Wilkins sitting on the floor of the hall?"

"I have no idea, Emerson. Why don't you ask Wilkins?"

"He appears incapable of speech," Emerson replied.

"I never laid a hand on him," Kevin exclaimed. "Sure an' begorra, I wouldn't touch an old soul like that—"

"You never laid a hand on him," Emerson repeated. He began to roll up his shirt sleeves.

"No, Emerson, no," I cried, attaching myself to him as he moved
toward the cowering journalist. "You will only provide Mr. O'Connell with the copy he ardently desires if you descend to blows."

This argument had more effect on Emerson than my attempt at physical restraint. "You are in the right, as always, Peabody," he said. "But I beg you will get the fellow out of my house at once. I am the most reasonable of men, but even a temper as equable as mine must crack under such provocation. The effrontery of invading a man's own house to interrogate that man's wife—"

"It is not what you suppose, Emerson," I explained. "There has been another murder!"

"Another murder, Peabody?"

"Well—a murder. Mr. Oldacre, the assistant keeper of Oriental Antiquities."

"Oldacre? I knew him. A pompous idiot, as you would expect any protege of Budge's to be ... What happened to him?"

I explained. Emerson listened politely. "A sad tragedy. But it has nothing to do with us. Let us bid these young people good-bye and return to our work."

Moving on tiptoe and using the furniture as cover, Kevin had edged his way to the door. He knew Emerson only too well and was not at all reassured by the deceptive mildness of my impulsive husband's demeanor. Emerson watched him out of the corner of his eye; though his face remained preternaturally grave, a tiny twitch at the extremities of his well-shaped lips gave evidence of inner amusement. Having reached the doorway, Kevin stopped.

"Yes, Mr. O'Connell?" Emerson inquired.

"I—er—I was waiting to escort Miss Minton . . . that is, I had hoped she might give me a lift to the railroad station."

"Ah, yes. Miss Minton." Emerson's eyes turned to the young lady. She raised a nervous hand to her hat. "I understand how Mr. O'Connell managed to invade my house," Emerson went on. "Sheer brute force, perpetrated against a man old enough to be his grandfather. Splendid example of Hibernian manners, eh, Peabody? But you, Miss Minton; how did you persuade Wilkins to admit you? For I am certain that had he presented your card to Mrs. Emerson, she would not have consented to receive you."

"You are quite in the right, Emerson," I assured him. "Miss Minton refused to give her name. In some manner, I cannot imagine what, she convinced Wilkins that her errand was urgent."

"You cannot imagine," Emerson said musingly. "But I believe I might
hazard a guess. That oh-so useful resemblance . . . What did you tell Wilkins, Miss Minton? That you were Mrs. Emerson's long-lost sister or the abandoned memento of a youthful indiscretion—"

Miss Minton's indignant rebuttal was scarcely louder than mine. "Emerson, how dare you!"

"Very
youthful indiscretion," Emerson amended. "Well, Miss Minton?"

"I said nothing of the sort," Miss Minton replied. "If your butler chose to reach a false conclusion, that is not my fault."

"Ah, but I think it is your fault," Emerson said jovially. "Go away, Miss Minton."

The young lady's smile faded as he moved toward her. "You wouldn't strike a woman," she gasped.

"I am deeply hurt that such an idea should enter your mind," Emerson answered. "However, there is nothing to prevent me from picking you up and carrying you, gently and respectfully, out of my house."

"I'll go, I'll go" was the agitated response.

"Then do so." Emerson followed her as she backed toward the door. But there she paused. "You haven't heard the last of me, Professor," she cried, her eyes snapping. "I don't give up so easily."

Kevin caught her arm and dragged her out. Wilkins was still sitting on the floor, and I was vexed, though not at all surprised, to see that Ramses stood beside him, studying his frozen form with grave curiosity. I did not doubt that Ramses had heard every word that had been spoken—or shouted, rather—in the drawing room; as Miss Minton and O'Connell appeared, he turned an even more curious stare on them. Emerson called, "Get up, Wilkins, and close the door. Make sure you bolt it."

He then closed the drawing-room door and turned to me. "Dear me, Peabody. Dear me," he remarked.

"Of all the absurd things," I said. "This presumed resemblance you fancy you see—"

"If it pleases you to deny it, Peabody, by all means continue to do so. The matter is entertaining, but irrelevant. I confess I rather admire the young woman's ingenuity in making use of it." Picking up the newspaper, he sank into an armchair and began reading.