The Deeds of the Disturber (18 page)

"Er—certainly, sir," the butler replied, retreating to the sideboard.

"I long ago abandoned any hope of converting you to correct behavior, Emerson," I said. "And under the present circumstances, rules of that sort need to be relaxed. When I consider the danger that threatens you—"

"Oh, nonsense, Peabody," Emerson shouted. "The idea of a homicidal maniac makes no more sense coming from Ramses than from you. Two deaths, one of them natural, do not constitute a crime wave!" Then he added, glancing at the butler, "Don't pay any attention to Mrs. Emerson, Gargery. She is always going on like that. I am in no danger at all."

"I am—I am relieved to hear it, sir," Gargery said earnestly. "Will you have more roast beef, sir?"

Emerson helped himself. "The priest had nothing to do with the murder of Oldacre," he announced. "A man like that must have had dozens of enemies. I didn't like him either. As for the goings-on at the Museum, they are either the product of a deranged mind, or a peculiar practical joke."

"Ah," I murmured. "So that possibility had occurred to you?"

"Now you are going to claim you thought of it first," Emerson grumbled. "You always do. But you couldn't have done, Peabody, it did not
occur to me until after I realized Lord St. John was mixed up in the business. It is the sort of thing a depraved degenerate like him might find amusing. You know who he is, don't you?"

Since the question was obviously rhetorical, I did not bother to answer, and Emerson proceeded to deliver a brief biographical sketch of his lordship. Even allowing for my spouse's prejudices and circumlocutions, it was an ugly picture, and in one sense a tragic one. Gifted with good looks, ample wealth, and above-the-average intelligence, Lord St. John had been regarded as a young man of great promise. His university career had been without blemish, except for those escapades and crude practical jokes (most involving the arrangement of bathroom utensils in public places) which are considered normal for a young man of good family; and he had served with distinction in the Khartoum campaign of '84. Then he fell in with a certain group centering around that royal rapscallion Prince Albert Victor of Wales, heir apparent after his father to the throne. The premature death of the prince had brought sorrow not unmixed with relief to the nation and to his parents; for it is no secret (hence my lack of reticence on the subject) that Prince "Eddy's" behavior had aroused the gravest doubts as to his capacity to reign.

It was after the prince's death in '92 that Lord St. John had lured the young Earl (then Viscount Blackpool) into his "set." The result (said Emerson) I had seen for myself. There was no vice, natural or unnatural, to which the young man had not been exposed by his Machiavellian mentor.

"Natural or unnatural," I repeated. "To be quite honest, Emerson, I am unsure of the distinction, when applied to vice."

Emerson gave me a freezing stare. "The distinction is one that need not concern you, Peabody."

"Ah," I said. "I believe I understand. Are you suggesting, Emerson, that Lord St. John is the false priest?"

"No," Emerson said reluctantly. "He cannot be. I saw him among the spectators just before the priest made his entrance."

"Are you certain he didn't slip out and assume the disguise at the last moment?"

"Impossible, my dear Peabody. Look here." Emerson drew a pencil from his pocket (he had refused, as usual, to dress for dinner) and began drawing on the tablecloth. "The robe would cover a multitude of sins, including trousers; it was floor-length. The sleeves reached below the elbow; coat- and shirt sleeves could be rolled or pushed up under those of the robe. Those operations would take only a few seconds, but then
he had to adjust the leopard skin, lower the mask over his head, remove his shoes and socks, and slip his feet into sandals."

"Yes," I agreed. "It was not a bad copy of Nineteenth Dynasty garb, in fact. Except that the original would have been of sheer fabric; and the wig is not often seen in representations of priests, who usually had shaven heads."

"The modifications were dictated by the necessity of concealment, obviously," Emerson replied impatiently. "And contrary to Budge and that overquoted authority Herodotus—who was describing, not always accurately, customs prevalent two thousand years later than the period in question—what was I about to say?"

"That there are depictions of individuals wearing both the
sem
priest costume and an ornate wig," I replied. "Not that it matters; as you say, authenticity had to give way to practicality."

"True. Yet there is a certain suggestion of knowledgeability in his behavior, Peabody. Did you happen to hear what he said to the mummy?"

Having observed that Gargery had given up all pretense of serving the food and was leaning over Emerson's shoulder trying to see what he had drawn on the tablecloth, I announced we would retire to the drawing room. Gargery bore the disappointment bravely.

After we were comfortably settled, I answered the question Emerson had asked earlier.

"No, I did not hear what the lunatic said to the mummy, Emerson. There was a great deal of noise."

"But I was closer," Emerson replied. "And, as you know, I am fairly adept at lip reading. This is my best recollection of his remarks."

Since there was no tablecloth at hand, and he was too impatient to search for writing materials, he scribbled on his cuff, pronouncing the hieroglyphs aloud as he wrote them.

"Hmph," I remarked. "Very good, Emerson. But why are you speaking ancient Egyptian if the priest spoke English?"

"He did not speak English, Peabody."

"Good heavens, how astonishing. But that means—that suggests—"

"I don't know what it means, Peabody, and neither do you."

"He spoke English before."

"Precisely. There is no consistency in his behavior, which is what one might expect from a madman, eh? It is obvious that he has some familiarity with Egyptology, but any intelligent amateur could acquire this much information, particularly if, as may well be the case, he has had a lifelong obsession with the subject."

"How well you express yourself, Emerson." I took his hand and turned
it so that I could read the hieroglyphs again. "It is quite acceptable Egyptian."

"A memorized formula, Peabody. 'A thousand loaves of bread and a thousand jars of beer for the spirit of the Lady Henutmehit.' The standard mortuary offering formula."

His fingers twined around mine, holding them fast. This tender gesture—and his interest in a subject he had formerly sworn never to speak of again—persuaded me to share something with him.

"That is a standard formula perhaps; but this is not." I reached into my pocket and drew out the copy of the message that had been found in Oldacre's dead hand.

Emerson's eyebrows drew together. "Where did you get this, Peabody? One of your cursed newspaper friends, I suppose; curse it, Peabody, I told you . . . Hmmmm. What a bizarre hodgepodge this is, to be sure. It certainly is not a standard formula; I have never seen such an inscription."

"Nor I, Emerson. Could it possibly have been taken from the inscriptions on the coffin in question? There is no such thing on the outside, but perhaps the interior surfaces ..."

"Now you are beginning to sound like a cursed journalist, Amelia. To the best of my knowledge, the coffin has never been opened. Are you suggesting the lunatic has second sight—or, no, here's a better plot: he is the reincarnation of the scribe who originally decorated the coffin for his beloved. Ha, ha! I wonder your intimate friend O'Connell hasn't thought of that one."

His eyes shone with amusement and his expressive lips curved in a smile to which I could not fail to respond. "Very good, Emerson. I am glad to see you in such high spirits, my dear."

"Mmmmm," said Emerson, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing each finger in turn. "I hope to be in even better spirits shortly, Peabody. Shall we . . ."

So we did. Yet to me, Emerson's attentions that evening had an even greater poignancy, for they reminded me of what I stood to lose if Ramses'—and my—theory proved to be correct. This thought led, I believe, to a response even more wholehearted than was normally the case, and Emerson expressed his approval in no uncertain terms. However, his last remark was a sleepy chuckle and a murmured "I say, Peabody, will you ever forget how idiotic Budge looked, lying on his back kicking like a dung beetle and bleating like a goat?"

Seven

E
MERSON LEFT THE HOUSE immediately after breakfast, remarking that he meant to get through a great deal of work that day and would not be home for luncheon. He was in an excellent mood (for reasons on which I need not elaborate), and I was careful not to spoil it by allowing him to see the morning newspaper. It contained a spirited account of the riot in the Mummy Room, and a picture of Emerson clutching the fainting lady that made him look like Jack the Ripper contemplating his next victim.

I was having a second cup of tea when Mary Ann came in with a telegram. It was from Rose, announcing Bastet's return and adding, "Tell Master Ramses. All well and happy. Wish you were here."

I did not begrudge her the slight extravagance in verbiage (and expense), for the news was indeed better than I had dared hope. I went upstairs at once to carry out Rose's instructions. Ramses' door was locked and I had to identify myself before he would consent to open it.

"I don't like this business of locking doors, Ramses," I told him. "What if you were to become ill?"

"That is certainly one argument against it," said Ramses, stroking his chin in unconscious imitation of his father. "But it is unlikely, Mama, that I would be so suddenly and violently stricken that I would be unable to call for assistance; and when balanced against opposing arguments, such as my need for privacy, which you have always been good enough to recognize, and the possibility of someone disturbing my specimens—"

"Very well, Ramses. Although," I added, with a disgusted look at the specimen he was holding, by its long naked tail, "it seems to me very
unlikely that any sane person would want to touch your specimens. Where did you get that one?"

"From Ben, the gardener's boy. The setting of traps, particularly in the stables, where such creatures abound, is one of his duties. Greatly as I abhor the use of traps, or the unnecessary murder of any animal, I must bow to necessity in this case, since rats eat grain and also carry fleas, which some authorities believe—"

"Enough, Ramses."

"Yes, Mama. Would you care to inspect a few of the specimens? The process of desiccation is already well advanced in several of the smaller varieties, confirming my belief that solid rather than liquid natron—"

"No, thank you." I glanced at the table near the window, where Ramses' specimens were laid out, each in its own little container. There were other things on the table, which I chose not to examine either, for knowing Ramses' thoroughly logical approach to Egyptological matters, I felt sure he had not overlooked any possible method of preparing a body for the final step in the process of mummification.

I hastened to tell Ramses the good news, adding that I would have done so at once if he had not distracted me by his lecture on mummification. He responded with one of his rare smiles. "Not that I seriously doubted she would return if she were able," he remarked. "But life, as the Koran puts it—"

"Don't tell me how the Koran puts it, Ramses. I must go now; I have a great deal to do. I only stopped for a moment to tell you about Bastet."

"I am deeply grateful, Mama. May I ask whether there have been any new developments in what one might call the British Museum mystery?"

"I believe not, Ramses."

"The theory I proposed yesterday evening was somewhat exiguous," Ramses said thoughtfully. "All the same, Mama, I would be relieved to learn that in your opinion there is not the slightest possibility of Papa being in any danger from this peculiar individual."

His voice was as cool as ever, his countenance unmoved. Patting his rumpled curls, I said reassuringly, "I am sure Papa is in no danger, Ramses. And even if he were—which, as I say, I consider unlikely— he is capable of defending himself with the utmost skill and energy. Just concentrate on your nice mummies and don't worry about your Papa."

It had rained during the night, but when I left the house the sun was
trying to break through London's perpetual blanket of smoke. I was thankful for my stout boots as I splashed through puddles and darted across the muddy streets. As I proceeded eastward along the Strand, the traffic thickened and the noise rose to deafening proportions. Wagons and omnibuses rumbled, horses' hooves clattered, street vendors cried their wares. Yet the scene had a certain lively charm, and straight ahead, like a celestial commentary on the vanity of human bustle, the great dome of St. Paul's lifted against the sky, its swelling curves chastely veiled in wisps of cloud.

The offices of the
Daily Yell
were on Fleet Street. I had never had occasion to visit them, and I was not certain of the hours when Mr. O'Connell might be found there, but I thought I might as well make the attempt. His employers would certainly have his home address.

According to the clerk on duty inside the main door of the building, Mr. O'Connell was indeed within. The clerk directed me up the stairs to a large, crowded, and extremely dirty room filled with desks, most of which were occupied. The air was thick with cigar and cigarette smoke and (if I may be permitted a rude metaphor) blue with profanity, remarks of that nature being made at the top of the speaker's lungs and with no apparent malice. A great deal of the invective was aimed at the young boys who darted from desk to desk, delivering and picking up papers of one sort or another.

Most of the "gentlemen" of the fourth estate were in their shirt sleeves and several had hats perched on their heads. My arrival did not go entirely unnoticed, but no one removed a hat or assumed a coat or rose from his chair or asked how he might assist me. I was not put out. For one thing, it was a pleasure to find a group of men who had worse manners than my own son.