The Deeds of the Disturber (17 page)

"It appears, my dearest Emerson, that the aristocratic element has entered the case after all."

"Yes, curse it," Emerson grumbled. "I had believed myself safe from the journalists, at least. Do your long-suffering spouse one favor, Peabody. Do not take the young lady under your wing. I have resigned myself to danger and distraction, but I cannot endure another of your sentimental rescues of young lovers."

"I doubt that the eventuality will arise, Emerson," I replied soothingly. "Miss Minton doesn't appear to have a romantic interest. Unless his lordship—"

"Good Gad, Peabody, she struck him in the face!"

"You lack experience in these matters, Emerson. Such demonstrations are not infrequently indicative of affection. If you recall some of our earlier—"

"I don't want to recall them, Peabody."

"Then there is young Wilson, who was with her the other evening," I went on. "You said you knew him—"

"He will probably turn out to be the Prince of Wales," Emerson said gloomily. "I do draw the line at members of the royal family, Peabody. The aristocracy is bad enough."

When the cab stopped before the house, Emerson helped me out and turned to pay the driver. A fine drizzle, more soot than rain, darkened the twilight; at first I took the shapeless object by the gate for a bag of trash. Then it stirred and I recognized it for one of the poor vagabonds who frequent the streets of London—their only home. Usually the constables on duty kept these unfortunates away from St. James's Square and other fashionable neighborhoods. This one had apparently eluded the law.

As we approached the gate, the figure drew itself to its feet and held out its hand in mute appeal. I said pitifully, "It is only a child, Emerson. Can't we—"

Emerson was already fumbling in his pocket. "We can't take them all in, Amelia," he grumbled—not his usual grumble, but the softer sound that expressed pity and helpless anger. "Here you are, my boy" —coins chinked heavily with the solid ring of silver—"buy yourself some dinner and a lodging for the night; the constable will be along shortly, so you had better move on."

A whine of wordless gratitude was the response as the small hand closed tightly over Emerson's bounty. Emerson cursed softly as we proceeded to the house.

"Yes," I agreed. "It is a sad world, Emerson. Let us hope there is a better one somewhere for such people."

"Humbug," snarled Emerson.

"So you say, my dear, but even you cannot be certain of that. At least one little lad will have hot food and a warm bed tonight. How late we are! Our own dear little ones will be waiting for tea; we must count our blessings and teach them to do the same."

But only two dear little ones were waiting in the drawing room. Violet's voluminous ruffles and huge sash made her look almost as wide as she was tall. Percy jumped to his feet when we entered the room. "Good evening, sir. Good evening, Aunt Amelia."

"Good evening, Percy," I replied. "I am sorry we are late. Mrs. Watson, will you send one of the maids to call Ramses?"

The housekeeper wrung her hands. "Oh, madam—"

"Ah," I said. "Gone again, is he?"

"I don't know how he could have got out," the poor woman groaned. "I kept a close eye on him—I know the dear boy's habits—"

"My dear Mrs. Watson, Ramses has eluded wilier keepers than you," I assured her. "Emerson, do sit down and stop tearing at your hair."

"I will not sit down," Emerson replied furiously. "See here, Amelia, your calm does you no credit. I know, Ramses has done this before and
has never taken any harm, but there is always a first time, and this cursed city—"

"I suppose I had better go and fetch him, then," I said, rising. "Have a cucumber sandwich, Emerson, it will cool your temper."

But of course Emerson followed me into the hall, and so did the others. At my direction the butler opened the door; he tried to fetch me my coat, but I waved it away.

It was as well I acted when I did; the wretched beggar child had not escaped, but was held in the clutches of a very large constable. His shrill expostulations mingled with the growls of the police officer. "Move along, my lad, you can't stay here. Ow—oh, you would, would you, you little—"

"Constable," I called, hurrying down the walk. "Let the child go."

"But ma'am, he was lurking here, waiting to—"

"No, I fancy he was trying to get back into the house," I replied. "Ramses, did you kick the policeman?"

"I was forced to bite him, since I am not wearing shoes," Ramses replied.

"Oh dear. Emerson, would you—"

Coins chinked again. The constable touched his hat and moved away, shaking his head. I reached for my son's collar and then thought better of it, waving him inside the gate without touching him. In ominous silence we returned to the house.

In the full glow of artificial illumination the effect of Ramses' appearance was little less than breath-taking. I had to give him credit; when he did something, he did a thorough job of it. His bare feet were black and blue—black with dirt and blue with cold—for the evening had turned sharply cooler. He wore the most indescribably horrible rags I have ever seen, the great rents in shirt and pantaloons gaping wide or held precariously together by huge pins; the cloth was sodden with a vile mixture of rain, soot, and mud. He smelled as bad as he looked. Mrs. Watson backed away, pinching her nose.

Ramses snatched off his cap. (I was pleased to see that my lectures on the subject of manners had had some effect.) Reaching inside his foul shirt, he drew out a bedraggled bunch of daffodils—culled, I did not doubt, from the neatly tended beds in the park—and advanced on Violet. "I have brought you . . ." he began.

Violet backed away, hands flapping, as if she were warding off an attack of bees or wasps. Her face was distorted. "Ugh, ugh, nasty, nasty," she screamed. "Ugh, nasty—"

Ramses' face fell, but he mastered his disappointment manfully. Turning
to me, he dragged another miserable bundle (mostly stems) from inside his shirt.

"For you, Mama."

"Thank you, Ramses," I said, taking the slimy offering between my fingertips. "It was a kind thought, but I am afraid we are going to have to garnishee your pocket money to pay for the
pourboires
we are forced to offer persons you offend. It is beginning to mount up, Ramses."

Emerson had been opening and closing his mouth like a frog. "Why is he dressed like that, Peabody?" he inquired weakly.

"I am practicing my disguises," Ramses explained. "You remember, Papa, I was allowed to take the things we found in the lair of that master of disguise, the person known by his soubriquet of—"

I hastened to interrupt, for Emerson's face was as black as a thundercloud. Any reminder of that incredible episode and even more incredible man had a deplorable effect on my worthy spouse's blood pressure.

"You must never leave the house without permission, Ramses," I said—knowing full well the prohibition was fruitless, for Ramses was already considering ways of getting around it. "Go upstairs and . . . Wait a moment. What is that scrape on your forehead? And don't tell me Percy did it."                                                     

"I had no intention of doing so," said Ramses.

Percy cleared his throat and stepped forward. "But it is my fault, sir, and Aunt Amelia—Ramses leaving the house without permission, I mean. I was teasing him to play with me; I wanted to go into the garden, to look for butterflies for my collection, you know—and when he wouldn't, I may have said something about him being afraid to go out without a nursemaid or his mama ... It was only a joke, sir, but I take full responsi------"

Ramses rounded on his cousin with a snarl that would have done credit to his admirable sire. Emerson caught him by the collar.

"Don't shake him, Emerson," I shrieked. "For pity's sake, don't shake—"

But it was too late.

We all went upstairs to change. The only one who had avoided the spatter of unspeakable liquid was Violet. As Ramses skulked past her she pointed a plump white finger at him. "Ugh," she said. "Nasty." Ramses' disheveled head drooped lower.

Tea was rather late that evening, but I was determined to go through with the ritual since my theories of child-raising required that we all be
together as a family for one hour a day, if possible. It was a sacrifice, but one I felt morally obliged to make. Emerson did not feel morally obliged to make it, but he did it anyway, because I insisted.

Violet sat playing with her favorite doll, a simpering waxen-headed thing almost as large as she, and (truth compels me to remark) bearing a striking resemblance to her in its porcelain simper and fat yellow curls. She pretended to feed it bits of sandwich and sips of tea (heavily laced with milk, as I am sure I need not mention). Observing Ramses' fixed stare, she smiled and invited him to join her and her "friend Helen," adding, "I am sorry I was rude about the flowers, Cousin Ramses. But you know, they were very, very nasty."

I expected Ramses would respond with courteous disdain, but he accepted the invitation, and went so far as to ride the doll on his knee and smooth her golden curls. No further reference was made to his misadventure; I do not hold with endless recriminations, and Ramses had already accepted his punishment—the confiscation of all the bits and pieces of disguise which, against my better judgment, he had been allowed to remove from the secret headquarters of the Master Criminal. These consisted for the most part of paints, powders, and dyes designed to change the color of hair and skin. There were also some ingenious pads which could be inserted in the mouth in order to change the shape of the face; several sets of false teeth; mustaches, beards, and wigs, all cunningly constructed of human hair. Among the wigs was one any lady of fashion might have envied: masses of golden waves and curls, soft as silk and smooth as honey. Ramses had rather cleverly altered this to fit his own head, trimming the hair and padding the interior.

Emerson manfully tried to chat with Percy, but found sensible conversation impossible with a lad who knew nothing whatever of predy-nastic pottery or the principles of stratification, so he soon gave it up. Picking up the evening newspaper, he turned through the pages, and I remarked, "You will not find any mention of today's adventure, Emerson; that edition must have gone to press before it happened."

"Adventure, Aunt Amelia?" Percy exclaimed. "What adventure, if I may ask, sir?"

I would have preferred to keep the children—particularly Ramses— in the dark, but Emerson, who has not my sensitive understanding of the juvenile mind, at once launched into a spirited narrative. His sarcastic comments about Mr. Budge were wasted on Percy, I fancy, but the lad listened openmouthed to Emerson's description of the lunatic priest and the near riot.

"I say, sir, how exciting!"

"Nasty," Violet murmured.

"Nasty?" Emerson repeated indignantly.

"She means the mummies, sir. You know how girls are, sir. I think you were frightfully brave, sir. What a pity you couldn't catch the fellow."

Ramses cleared his throat. "The individual in question would appear to have an excellent sense of timing and an appreciation of what might be called the habits of the mob. He anticipated a large crowd and counted on being able to make use of it in order to elude pursuit. It makes one wonder whether the word 'lunatic,' which has been carelessly applied, really suits a man as clever as that."

He continued to stroke the doll's curls as he spoke. I found the spectacle as alarming as it was ludicrous; for if Ramses would sink to such folly, his infatuation with his cousin must be greater than I had supposed.

"An interesting idea, Ramses," said his father thoughtfully. "However, so-called lunatics are not feeble-witted. They have one mental quirk or aberration, and their over-all intelligence need not be diminished thereby."

"Like that Jack the Ripper chap," suggested Percy. "They never caught him either, did they, sir?"

"Good heavens, Percy," I exclaimed. "I am surprised that your mama and papa allowed you to hear about that horrible business."

"The servants are still talking about it, Aunt Amelia. You know how servants gossip."

"Nasty," said Violet. She added pensively, "Dead."

"Good Gad!" said Emerson, contemplating the child with open horror.

"She doesn't know what she is saying, Emerson," I assured him, hoping I spoke the truth.

"Let us trust," said Ramses, "that this is not a parallel case. For if the murderer is a homicidal maniac with an obsessive hatred of one particular profession, no one connected with the Museum will be safe."

This statement raised so many hideous possibilities that I rang the bell and ordered the tea-things to be removed. I had no desire to hear Ramses explain how
he
happened to know of Jack the Ripper, and most especially how he had found out that the homicidal slaughterer of unfortunate young women had an obsessive hatred of what could only loosely be called a particular "profession."

Having observed Emerson's reaction to Ramses' mention of the phrase "homicidal maniac" (a term that affects him almost as painfully as "Master Criminal"), I decided to give him time to cool off before I raised the subject again. I waited until we were midway through dinner before I did so.

"Much as I deplore Ramses' interest in such things, he does have a certain (possibly inherited) flair for crime," I remarked. "You observed, Emerson, that he proposed the same theory I did?"

Emerson was in the act of attacking a rather tough slice of beef. The knife slipped, and the beef slid onto the floor.

"A pity the cat Bastet is not here to tidy up," he remarked, watching Gargery crawl under the table to retrieve the food. "Has there been any word of her, Peabody?"

"Not yet. I instructed Rose to send a telegram as soon as she returns. Don't try to change the subject, Emerson. I won't have it. The situation is too serious."

"You are the one who is always telling me not to discuss serious matters before the servants," Emerson retorted. "A nonsensical rule, I have always thought. Gargery here is just as interested in sensible conversation as any other man, isn't that right, Gargery?"