The Deeds of the Disturber (19 page)

Peering through the clouds of blue smoke, I caught a glimpse of fiery auburn hair. It was a flash, no more; but it was enough. I called out.

"Mr. O'Connell!"

All conversation abruptly ceased. In the profound silence a sound, as of shuffling footsteps, could be heard. "I hear you, Mr. O'Connell," I cried. "Come here at once, if you please."

A man at the side of the room leaned sideways out of his chair and addressed a muttered remark to someone who was invisible to me. After a moment O'Connell rose sheepishly to his feet and the man behind whose desk he had been hiding said with a grin, "Here he is, ma'am. What's he done—got you in the family way?"

"If that is an example of journalistic humor, I don't think much of
it," I replied, as Kevin gave the humorist an outraged stare. "Come here, Mr. O'Connell. Don't be such a coward, I only want to talk to you."

"Coward, is it? There's never been an O'Connell, male or female, that was afraid to face—"

"Yes, to be sure. Only make haste."

Kevin snatched his coat from the back of a chair, clapped his hat onto his head, and approached me. "Make haste indeed," he muttered. "You've ruined my reputation for a certainty, Mrs. E."

Once we were outside, Kevin blew out his breath in a long sigh. "I apologize, Mrs. Emerson. I'll be having a few words with Bob later. But really, you know, you shouldn't be coming to such places."

"I have been in worse," I replied. "And what about Miss Minton? She is employed in just such a place."

"Oh, now, you don't suppose such a fine lady would share the same room with common, low journalists."

"I don't suppose the common, low journalists would want her in the same room," I said dryly. "They cannot have lost all the instincts of gentlemen; the presence of a lady might make them uncomfortable, incredible as it might seem. Where is she, then, if not at the offices of the
Mirror?"

"She lives with a widow lady in Godolphin Street," Kevin replied. "Sends her bit stories to the paper by messenger; the old dowager fancies herself a suffragette, but she'd not approve of the Honorable granddaughter rubbing elbows with rough, vulgar men. 'Twas pure accident that the death of the watchman turned into a cause celebre, her editor only assigned her to the story to keep her out of harm's way, hoping, no doubt, she would soon tire of her little hobby—"

"Nonsense. She was the one who turned the story into a sensation, you said so yourself. And she writes very well—journalistically speaking."

"She's learning," Kevin said grudgingly. "But it's the family connections and her acquaintance with that prim bespectacled stick at the Museum—"

"Jealousy, Mr. O'Connell! Pure jealousy, and your masculine blindness to the superior abilities of women. I believe I will go along to her lodging and see if she is in. What is the address?"

"I'll walk with you, if I may. Tis a fine, bright day, and too pleasant to be indoors."

I knew his true reason; but I flatter myself he got as little out of
me as—regretfully—I was able to learn from him. The only time he forgot himself and spoke without calculation was when I mentioned Lord St. John.

"That filthy spalpeen! May goats—er—sit on his grandmother's grave!"

"What do you have against his lordship?" I asked.

Mr. O'Connell had a great deal against his lordship. "We learn things we can never print, Mrs. Emerson, not even in the
Daily Yell.
'Tis not so much a question of news fit for the eyes of ladies and children, as of legal action. If I were to tell you all I know of his lordship—"

"I doubt I would be shocked or surprised," I replied sedately. "Yet he makes a favorable impression, don't you think?"

"Oh, he's charming to the ladies! And," said Kevin grudgingly, "he's kept fairly quiet the last year or two. Says he's reformed. Maybe he's turned over a new leaf, as he claims, but I have me doubts."

Godolphin Street was in an old-fashioned neighborhood, between the river and the Abbey; it was lined on both sides with rows of houses built in the last century, including the one in which Miss Minton resided. They were tall and narrow houses, almost forbiddingly respectable in appearance, with steep steps leading up to the front door. As we approached, the door opened and out came Mr. Eustace Wilson.

He was deep in thought, frowning over a paper he held in his hand, and did not see me until we were almost face to face. "Oh," he exclaimed, removing his hat. "Is it you, Mrs. Emerson? I did not expect ..."

"I came to call on Miss Minton."

"As did I. We were to have luncheon together. But she is not here."

"She broke an engagement with you?"

The young man's lips relaxed into a shy, rather engaging smile. "That would be nothing new, Mrs. Emerson. She . . . But you know how young ladies are. She was kind enough to leave a note for me, saying she was suddenly called away from London for an indeterminate time."

"Ah, well, in that case there is some excuse for her rudeness. Perhaps her grandmama has been taken ill."

O'Connell had remained at a distance until he heard that Miss Minton was not there. Now he joined us, hands in his pockets, cap pulled low, slouching in a manner that suggested he was trying to look as different as possible from the dapper young Wilson.

"No doubt she's run away to hide her shame," he said with a sneer. "After having the secret of her birth exposed—"

"She has nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. O'Connell," I said severely.

"High rank involves no blame; she has an equal claim with those of humble name to be respected."

"Very well said, Mrs. Emerson," said Mr. Wilson, with an indignant glance at O'Connell. "Miss Minton deserves credit for refusing to use her position to derive special favors. Though I, for one, hate to see her in such a disgusting, degrading profession—"

"Degrading, is it?" O'Connell doubled his fists. "Use that word again, me fine young cockerel, and I'll be pushing it back down your scrawny throat!"

"Well, really," exclaimed Mr. Wilson, adjusting his glasses.

"Now, boys, don't fight," I said. "At least not on the public street."

"I apologize, ma'am," said Mr. Wilson politely. "May I say I am glad you took no injury yesterday. Your husband was quite the hero of the affair, I understand."

"Mr. Budge certainly was not," I replied.

Wilson smiled. "He was in a vile temper this morning. I was glad to claim my half day and escape."

"I expect his nerves are a bit on edge," I said. "And so should yours be, Mr. Wilson. The maniac appears to hold a grudge against the British Museum and its employees."

Wilson's smile faded. "What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Emerson? The fellow is harmless enough."

"Don't be too sure, Mr. Wilson. There have been two deaths already—and both of them connected, not just with the Museum, but with the Oriental Department! The priest may be harmless, or he may not; he may or may not be the killer; but it seems more than likely that the killer is a man who feels some grievance against Orientalists. A disaffected scholar, whose theories have been contemptuously dismissed, perhaps, or a student who has been passed over for promotion or recognition, or ... But there, I am talking too freely. These are only unproved theories as yet, Mr. Wilson. I may be altogether mistaken."

"Oh dear," gasped Mr. Wilson.

"Excuse me, Mrs. E." O'Connell edged closer. "Are you saying . . . Did I hear you use the words 'homicidal maniac'?"

"No, you did not, and if you quote me to that effect . . ." I raised my parasol in a playful manner. O'Connell did not even blink. Journalistic fervor had overcome his fear of my opinion and my parasol. Mr. Wilson was fingering his eyeglasses and muttering, "Oh dear, oh dear," like the White Rabbit in
Alice.

"What an idea," O'Connell exclaimed. "I wonder I didn't think of it myself! In fact . . . begorra, I did think of it myself! It's not quoting
yourself I'll be, Mrs. E., me dear; I thank you for recalling my theory to my mind. Aha! Wait till the Honorable Miss Minton reads tomorrow's
Daily Yell!"

Chortling fiendishly, he trotted away.

"Were you serious, Mrs. Emerson?" Wilson asked. He was rather pale.

"I prefer not to commit myself, Mr. Wilson. But I promise you this. Professor Emerson and I are on the trail, and we have never yet failed to capture . . . Well, at least we have never failed to foil a foe. Which is not a particular compliment to us, since the criminal mind is so inferior. Have no fear, Mr. Wilson. You may not be the next victim. Perhaps it will be Mr. Budge."

Mr. Wilson did not appear especially cheered by the suggestion.

As he walked away, shoulders bowed and head bent, I was tempted to call him back and offer him a friendly word of advice on dealing with young ladies of Miss Minton's sort, for it was clear to me that his feelings for her were more than those of a friend. However, I decided not to bother. He was too timid and insecure ever to succeed with such a young lady—nor, in my opinion, did he deserve to.

I spent a few hours in the shops, for my wardrobe was in sad need of refurbishing. Costumes suitable for the vigorous activities of excavation are not the thing in London. I also ordered shirts for Emerson, who had an absent-minded habit of ripping them off when he was in haste to disrobe, and several suits for Ramses, whose habits were just as destructive to clothing as were his father's, though not, I hardly need add, for the same reasons.

I returned to the house early, for I felt I needed a brief time of repose and contemplation before the teatime encounter with the children. Mrs. Watson and Gargery were both waiting for me, Mrs. Watson to inform me that she had taken the liberty of confining Ramses to his room, for knocking Percy down and jumping on him, and Gargery to announce there was a gentleman waiting to see me.

I was just as happy to postpone the inevitable visit to Ramses, so I proceeded to the green drawing room. This very formal and handsomely appointed chamber (so called from the green China silk that draped walls and ceilings) was seldom used; I deduced that the caller must be someone of distinguished rank and title to be granted such an honor by Gargery; and as it proved, I was correct.

Lord St. John was absorbed in contemplation of a fine Gainsborough portrait of the third Duke that hung over the malachite mantel. As soon as I entered he hastened to apologize for his intrusion.

"It was an unwarranted liberty on my part, Mrs. Emerson, but your butler insisted you were expected back directly and I have something important I want to say to you."

"Not at all, your lordship. Please sit down." Ringing for the housemaid, I directed her to bring tea. "But not the children," I added quickly. "Not just yet."

"Don't keep the little dears out on my account," his lordship begged. "I would deem it an honor to meet your children."

"You don't know what you are saying," I assured him. "In fact, the professor and I have only one son, but we are watching over two of my brother's children for the summer."

"How good of you. But it is only what I might have expected; your kind heart, Mrs. Emerson, is as well known as your tireless pursuit of learning."

His smile changed his entire aspect, smoothing out the lines of weariness (or, as Emerson would probably have said, of dissipation). I flatter myself that I am too much a woman of the world to be deceived by fine manners and a bland smile, however. I acknowledged his compliment with an inclination of my head; apologized for Emerson's absence; and poured the tea.

"But perhaps you would prefer something stronger, your lordship? May I offer you a whiskey and soda?"

"No, thank you." He added, with a sly little laugh, "I have reformed, Mrs. Emerson. Most people would say it was time I did."

I was a trifle put out by his refusal; I would have joined him in the cup that cheers, but I could hardly sit there swigging down spirits while he genteelly sipped tea. Accepting his cup and a watercress sandwich, he went on more seriously, "I have been a sad rascal in my time, Mrs. Emerson. Most young men have sowed their fields of wild oats—"

"And yours, I understand, would cover most of England."

His lordship laughed heartily. "Bravo, Mrs. Emerson. It is so refreshing to find a woman—or an individual of either sex—who doesn't mince words. Your blunt candor suits me. Yes, I am heartily ashamed of some episodes in my past. Time mellows us and improves us, if we are wise. It is time I settled down. I am discovering the pleasures of learning; I am looking for a good woman with whom I can glide smoothly and peacefully into middle age."

"Miss Minton, perhaps?"

"Good heavens, Mrs. Emerson! Miss Minton's path will never be smooth and peaceable. I require someone more tranquil, more aware
of life's simple pleasures." He leaned forward and placed his cup and saucer on a table. "That is one of the reasons why I ventured to call, Mrs. Emerson, to explain my caddish behavior yesterday. I have known Margaret since childhood; our families come from the same part of Gloucestershire. I feel quite like a brother to her and I can't get over the habit of teasing her in a brotherly fashion. The poor little dear takes herself so seriously! But it was too bad of me to expose her secret— though it can hardly be secret from most people ..."

"It
was
too bad of you. (Will you be pleased to hand me your cup, your lordship? Thank you.) But it is Miss Minton, not I, who deserves your apology. And if that is the important matter on which you wanted to consult me—"

"No, not at all. Though your good opinion, Mrs. Emerson, is important to me." His lordship smiled in a friendly way at the housemaid who had passed the tray of sandwiches. She blushed furiously; she was very young and quite pretty, and since this was the first time I had noticed her, I assumed she had just been promoted to a higher position in the household following the departure of the girls Mrs. Watson had mentioned.

Time was getting on; Emerson would soon be returning, and although I found his lordship's conversation interesting in the extreme, I was forced to indicate that he ought to be getting on with it. "Then—" I prompted.

"I wanted to consult you about the odd incidents at the Museum, of course. Is it true that you and the professor are investigating the case? I would not venture to ask, except that as a patron of the Museum and a friend of Mr. Budge—"

"You need not explain your interest. But it would be an exaggeration to claim that we are investigating anything. Like others, we are curious. The matter is very odd. However, we have not been formally approached by the authorities."

"I have reason to believe you may be, in the near future."

"Indeed?"

"Mr. Budge is ... well, to be quite honest, he is frightened. This notion of a vendetta, or feud, against Egyptologists—"

"So I am not the only one to whom this interpretation has occurred," I exclaimed. "Ha! It is the only sensible explanation, your lordship; but has anything else happened that would support my theory? Any murderous attacks, any threatening letters?"

"Not to my knowledge," his lordship said slowly. "But the recipient
of an anonymous letter might not make it known, for fear of ridicule."

"True. Yet I have every reason to believe—"

We were interrupted, at this juncture, by the last person I had expected to see—my errant offspring, Ramses. He flung the door open and stood panting, too short of breath to speak.

I sprang to my feet. "Ramses, you were told to remain in your room."

"I took it for granted . . . the usual exceptions. . . prevailed," Ramses gasped. "Mama, my room—"

"Go back upstairs at once."

"My room is on fire," Ramses said.

And indeed it was. The truth of Ramses' statement was confirmed as soon as I reached the hall, by the outcries abovestairs, and by a pervasive smell of scorched linen. Rushing up the stairs—closely followed by his lordship and Ramses—I found a gaggle of agitated servants clustered in the doorway of the boy's room, while one of the footmen, ably assisted by Percy, tore down the blackened and smoldering curtains.

A quick examination assured me that no great damage had been done, but that only quick thinking and quicker action had prevented a serious fire. I commended the footman, who replied, "It's the young gentleman who should be thanked, madam. He had the flames out when I got here."

Percy had modestly retired to the corner. His hands and face were smeared with soot, but he assured me he was not burned. "It was only a little fire, Aunt Amelia. You see, I was helping Ramses perform a chemical experiment. It was my fault, my hand struck the Bunsen lamp. I take full responsibility."

I reached for Ramses, anticipating that the phrase would have its usual effect; but he only stood staring at Percy, with an odd look of calculation. "The responsibility is mine," he said in a quiet voice. "I ought not to have allowed Percy to help me with the experiment."

"What sort of experiment? No, don't tell me, I really do not want to know. Well, Ramses, I did not forbid you to entertain a guest in your room, and since it never occurred to me you would be carrying out chemical experiments, I neglected to prohibit the Bunsen lamp; so I suppose I cannot hold you accountable. You can thank your cousin for being let off so leniently."

Ramses' lips moved; but since he did not pronounce the word aloud, I chose to take no notice of it.

His lordship, lounging in the doorway, chuckled softly. "What were
we saying about wild oats, Mrs. Emerson? I feel quite an affinity with these two lads. Which is yours?"

I introduced the boys, who responded in characteristic fashion: Percy with a bow and an apology for not shaking hands—the sooty palm he displayed being sufficient excuse; and Ramses with a long impertinent inspection of his lordship, from head to toe and back again. He was about to begin one of his interminable speeches when a piercing shriek from the corridor turned all our heads in that direction. It was the familiar and haunting refrain, "Dead, dead, oh, dead ..."

"Curse the child," I said, without stopping to watch my words. "Call to her, Percy, and assure her you are not injured, before she has another of her fits."

It was Lord St. John, however, who deftly intercepted the shrieking, ruffled bundle that rolled toward us, and scooped it up into his arms. "Hush, little darling," he said fondly. "No one is dead; it was only a small fire, and your dear brother is not harmed in the least."

Violet's shrieks stopped as if they had been cut with a knife. Watching her simper and giggle and twine her arms around Lord St. John's neck, I was tempted to snatch her from him and shake her till her curls came unhitched from the bows.

"Go back to your room at once, Violet," I said sternly. "Put her down, your lordship; I am sorry you should have beheld such a spectacle."

His lordship gave Violet a hug. She squealed with delight. "Please don't apologize, Mrs. Emerson. I love children. Especially little girls."

My dear Emerson professes to despise the works of Mr. Dickens ("next to you, Peabody, the most rampageous sentimentalist I have ever encountered"), but I notice that he often quotes him. On Sunday morning as we sat around the breakfast table, he launched into a diatribe on the English Sabbath, and although he did not mention the source, I recognized it as a passage from
Little Dorrit.

"Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish relief to an overworked people . . . Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets, streets, streets . . . Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think what a weary life he led, and make the best of it—or the worst, according to the probabilities."

Emerson (and Mr. Dickens) had a point. The Sabbath should, of course, be dedicated to rest and reflection and the pursuit of higher ideals; but the same people who saw nothing wrong in requiring a
coachman to drive them to and from church, and in returning to a hearty dinner prepared by their servants, were adamant about allowing the workingman any access to the means of edification or wholesome entertainment—including the British Museum, which was, I suspected, the main source of Emerson's discontent.

Ramses, of course, wanted to know what Mr. Dickens meant by "the worst." On my advice, Emerson refused to answer.

Emerson never attends church services, since he is opposed to organized religion in any form. I always took Ramses when we were at home in Kent, though I did not suppose he profited from the sermons, since dear old Mr. Wentworth, who had been vicar of St. Winifred's since time immemorial, was so extremely decrepit one could not understand a word he said. However, the murmur of his soft voice was very soothing, and the members of the congregation took advantage of the time to doze or meditate, according to their habits.

That Sunday I took the children to St. Margaret's in Westminister to hear Archdeacon Frederick William Farrar, who was one of the most famous preachers in the country. It was a most edifying discourse, and I hoped the subject, "Brotherly Love," would have its effect on my contentious companions, for the process of getting them to the church had taxed all my stock of patience. Violet had been the worst offender. Her shrieks of rage had disturbed me while I was dressing; when I reached the nursery, expecting to find that Ramses had offered her a mummified mouse or ancient femur (from his collection of treasures), I found the nurserymaid cowering in a corner and Violet standing atop a heap of discarded garments, screaming that they were all too ugly, too tight, or too crumpled. They certainly were crumpled by that time, for she had stamped on them. The topic of her attire was one of the few subjects that roused her from her simpering sluggishness; even before that episode I had begun to wonder if reforming Violet was beyond my capacities.

The sermon, for all that it was clearly audible, had no noticeable effect. Violet whined all the way home about her frock and Ramses called Percy a confounded coprolite.

"Where did you learn that word?" I demanded.

"From a guide to London that is in the library," Ramses replied. "In accordance with your suggestion, I was attempting to broaden my interests, and I soon came upon a sentence that read, 'The upper stratum of the Strand soil is composed of a reddish-yellow earth containing coprolites.' Naturally I consulted the dictionary, since I am always
eager to expand my vocabulary, and I was interested to discover—"

I confined Ramses to his room for the remainder of the day. After brief reflection I confined Percy and Violet to their rooms as well. This was unfair, but necessary to my sanity.

Emerson had gone out, leaving a message that he would return about half past six. I spent the afternoon in the library looking over his manuscript and making a few little corrections, and then had a nice quiet tea all by myself, in my own snug room.

Shortly after the designated hour I was pleased to hear the well-loved footsteps. The door burst open, but instead of entering, Emerson lingered on the landing, and the first sentence I heard made it clear that he was not alone.

"Now, Mrs. Watkins, I cannot imagine why you are making such a fuss. This can is much too heavy for the girl, she is no bigger than a kitten. You should have sent one of the footmen to carry it."

"But, Professor, she offered—"

"Very commendable. But she ought to have known better. Here— give it to me—now, if you will kindly step out of the way—"

Before he could proceed, he was halted by the arrival of Gargery. "This is for you, Professor. A messenger has just now delivered it."

"Well, don't stand there brandishing it at me," Emerson replied. "How do you expect me to take it when both my hands are holding a water can? Give it to Mrs. Emerson."

He entered the room, bade me a cheerful "Good evening, Peabody," and went on to the bathroom. A thump and a splash followed; Emerson emerged, brushing vaguely at the wet spots on his coat and trousers.

"Good evening, my dear Emerson," I replied.

Mrs. Watson had retreated (shaking her head, I am sure, over the professor's peculiar behavior). The housemaid, head averted in understandable embarrassment, sidled into the bathroom; and Gargery advanced toward me carrying a silver tray and looking very composed and dignified except for the grin he was unable to hide. It was only too clear that he, like so many others, had succumbed to Emerson's charismatic personality (which for some reason is more appreciated by servants and other members of the lower classes than by Emerson's peers).

"Thank you, Gargery," I said, taking the object that reposed genteelly on the silver salver. It was not a letter, as I had supposed, but a small parcel, wrapped, tied, and sealed.

Emerson threw himself into a chair next to mine and put his feet on the fender.

"Ah," he said, with a long sigh. "It is good to be home, Peabody. Especially without . . . that is to say, where are the children?"

I explained. Regrettably, Emerson was more amused than shocked at his son's most recent addition to his vocabulary. "Coprolite! Upon my word, Peabody, it could be worse. Other than that, my dear, did you have a pleasant day?"

"Part of it was pleasant," I replied. "And you, my dear Emerson? Where have you been so long?"

"I went for a long walk. Then I paid a call on Budge."

"Mr. Budge? Good heavens, Emerson, why? I can't remember your ever paying a social call on Budge?"

"He seemed surprised too," said Emerson, with an evil smile. "Only imagine, Peabody, that bloody idiot—"

"Please, Emerson, watch your language." I indicated the door of the bathroom.

"Why the devil should I? Oh. Is that girl still there? What the ... what is she doing?"