The Deeds of the Disturber (24 page)

Kevin's story in the
Daily Yell
made no reference to the Bow Street affair (for reasons which should be evident); but he made a nice, lurid yarn out of the Affair of the Sinister Statues, as he termed it. The shawabtys had been received by several other scholars, but, as might have been expected, Emerson was again the featured player.

Poor Evelyn. However, one would suppose that by now she ought to be getting used to it.

I directed the maid to take away the newspapers, for although I knew I could not prevent Emerson from seeing them, I hoped to postpone the painful moment until after he had enjoyed a quiet breakfast. I was barely in time; Mary Ann was leaving the room when Emerson entered, and greeted her with his customary affability. "Hallo, there, Susan. (He has great difficulty in remembering the names of the servants.) Are those by chance . . . Well, never mind, I haven't time to read them, I am in a great hurry this morning."

His greeting to me was equally cheerful—but he was careful to avoid meeting my eyes. "Good morning, good morning, my dear Peabody. What a splendid morning. (The fog was so thick one could not see as far as the park railings.) Good morning—er—Frank. (The footman's name was Henry.) What have we this morning? Kippers—no, I thank you, I loathe the creatures, they are all bones and pickle. Eggs and bacon, if you please, John. (The footman's name had not changed, it was still Henry.) I am in a great hurry this morning."

As he spoke he looked through his letters, ripping them apart and giving them a cursory glance before tossing them over his shoulder.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry, Emerson?" I inquired. "John—er—Henry—bring fresh toast. This is quite leathery."

"Why, to the Museum, of course," Emerson replied. "I must finish that manuscript, Peabody; here is another impertinent inquiry from the Press, wanting to know when they may expect to receive it. Curse their impudence!" And the communication from Oxford University Press followed the other letters to the floor.

It was as well I had determined to maintain dignified silence on
all
issues, for Emerson never gave me a chance to speak. "And how are the dear children this morning? You have visited them, I know; your maternal devotion is so—er—so . . . Don't you agree, Mrs. Waters?"

The housekeeper, who was waiting to discuss the day's domestic arrangements, nodded and smiled. "Yes, sir. The children are well, sir. Except that Master Ramses is still asleep; and although I am sorry to mention it, there is a peculiar smell of—"

"Er, hem, yes," said Emerson. "I know about that, Mrs. Watkins. It is quite all right."

"That reminds me," I said, addressing my remark to the housekeeper, "Miss Violet seems to me to have gained weight at an astonishing rate the past week. What has she been eating?"

"Everything," said the housekeeper briefly. "Her appetite is quite incredible, and I suspect she is buying sweets and tarts and the like whenever she goes out. Her papa must have given her a large amount of pocket money."

"That doesn't sound like my worthy brother-in-law," remarked Emerson.

I ignored the remark. "Tell the nurserymaid not to permit her to buy such things. Too many sweets are not good for her."

"I have told her, madam, but she is young and rather timid; and Miss Violet ..."

"Yes, I know, Mrs. Watson. I will have a little talk with Miss Violet. And perhaps another nurserymaid? I have forgot which it is, Kitty or Jane."

"Jane, madam. Kitty expressed some doubts as to her ability to handle the duties required."

"That was after she had met Miss Violet, I expect. Well, Mrs. Watson, try another of the maids. Were none of the applicants who responded to my advertisement suitable?"

"No, madam. I hired one young person to replace Jane; she had excellent references, from the Dowager—"

"Very well, Mrs. Watson. As usual, I leave it to you. Emerson—"

"I must be off," exclaimed Emerson, stuffing the rest of his slice of toast into his mouth. "Have a pleasant day, my dear. Have you any particular plans?"

I looked at him. My look was severe and unsmiling; but although I take care never to admit it to Emerson, for fear of making him vain, the sight of him seldom fails to soften my resentment. The keen blue eyes, now a trifle narrowed with anxiety, the firm lips, now wearing a tentative smile, the broad brow with its tumbled waves of black hair— every lineament of his face touches chords of tender memory.

"I am going to Scotland Yard, Emerson," I said quietly. "I wonder that you need to ask, since you heard me make the appointment with Inspector Cuff."

"I heard no such thing," Emerson cried indignantly. "But I might have known you would go. There is no use, I suppose, in asking you not to go? No. I thought not. Oh, curse it!"

He stamped out, with, I was pleased to observe, all his old vigor. I do not like to see Emerson subdued and apologetic; those little differences of opinion which add so much to the enjoyment of marriage lack their usual spice when he does not meet me on equal terms. (And I am bound to say that such occurrences are extremely rare.)

"Scotland Yard, Mrs. Emerson?" the housekeeper said uneasily. "I trust you have no complaints concerning any of the servants?"

How the dear innocent woman had managed to remain ignorant of our activities I cannot imagine. I hastened to reassure her. "No, Mrs. Watson, it is another matter entirely. I am about to interview a man wrongly accused of murder and free him from captivity."

"How—how nice, ma'am," said Mrs. Watson.

The fog was lifting by the time I reached New Scotland Yard. Inspector Cuff was delighted to see me.

"My dear Mrs. Emerson! I trust you suffered no ill effects from your adventure of last night?"

"No, thank you, I am in excellent health. You were expecting me, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, ma'am. In fact, in anticipation of your visit I had the suspect brought here from Bow Street."

"Suspect? He is under arrest for murder—"

"My dear Mrs. Emerson?" Cuff smiled angelically. "I don't know where you got your information. Perhaps your informant was guilty of a certain amount of dramatic exaggeration. We have simply asked Mr. Ahmet to assist us in our investigations. You know that according to
the standards of British justice, every man is innocent until proven guilty."

"A very pretty speech, Inspector. Yet the fact remains that Mr. Ahmet is in police custody, and that you have yet to explain to me why you determined to detain him. What is your evidence? What, in your no doubt honest but unquestionably misguided opinion, was his motive for murdering Oldacre?"

"Perhaps you would prefer to speak with him and form your own opinions," Cuff said, with the greatest politeness imaginable. "This way, Mrs. Emerson, if you please."

A sturdy uniformed constable guarded the captive, but one glance assured me no such precaution was necessary. Ahmet had all the stigmata of the long-time user of drugs—the pasty, yellow face, the extreme emaciation, the tremulous hands and wandering look.

"Salaam aleikhum, Ahmet il Kamleh,"
I said. "Do you know me? I am Sitt Emerson, sometimes called Sitt Hakim; my lord (unfortunately, the Arabic word for 'husband' carries this connotation) is Emerson Effendi, Father of Curses."

He knew me. A dim spark of intelligence woke in his eyes; he stumbled to his feet and made a deep, if wobbly, obeisance. "Peace be with you, honored Sitt."

"U'aleikhum es-sdlam,"
I replied.
"Warahmet Allah wabarakdtu.
Though it does not seem likely, Ahmet, that you can expect mercy, even from the All-Merciful. What does the Holy Book, the Koran, say about the sin of murder?"

His eyes shifted. "I did not kill the effendi, Sitt. I was not there. My friends will say so."

It was a singularly unconvincing declaration of innocence. Nevertheless, I believed it. "But you know something you have not told, Ahmet. If you keep silence, you will be hanged for the murder. Save yourself. Confide in me."

He did not move or speak; but I caught a flickering sideways glance in the direction of the constable.

"He does not understand Arabic," I said.

"That," said Ahmet cynically, "is what they say—that they do not understand. But they set spies among us, Sitt Hakim. Some of them speak our tongue." He spat, suddenly and shockingly.

"Then I will send him away."

The constable objected, as one might have expected, but I soon overcame his scruples. "Do you suppose this miserable wreck of a man would dare threaten me, Constable? Aside from the fact that I am fully
armed"—I flourished my parasol, to the visible alarm of both the constable and Ahmet—"he knows my husband, Emerson Effendi; he knows the fearful vengeance that would fall on his head and the heads of all his family should a single hair of mine be ruffled."

This threat was not lost upon Ahmet. His voluble and tremulous protestations (addressed, some of them, to the single barred window, as if he suspected Emerson might be hovering without, like a disembodied spirit) convinced the constable.

Once he had gone, I waved Ahmet to a chair. "Sit and be at ease, my friend. I mean you no harm; I have come to help you. Only answer my questions and you will be restored to your friends and your family."

This happy prospect obviously did not appeal to Ahmet. An expression of deep gloom spread over his unprepossessing features. "What is it you want to know, Sitt?"

I cleared my throat and leaned forward. "There is a certain woman— her name is Ayesha—who is sometimes to be found in the opium den on Sadwell Street. I want—I want to know ..."

I caught myself in the nick of time. Had I, Amelia Peabody Emerson, been about to ask this wretched little creature whether my husband, the dreaded and dignified Father of Curses, was in the habit of visiting a low woman of the streets? In point of fact, I had. How degrading, and how despicable!

I had struck some kind of nerve, though not, thank Heaven, the one I feared. Ahmet eyed me warily. "Ayesha," he repeated. "It is not an uncommon name, Sitt; for Ayesha bint Abi Bekr was the honored wife of the Prophet, in whose arms he died—"

"I know that. And you know the woman I mean, Ahmet. Don't try to deny it. Who is she? She does not have the look of an eater of opium. Why does she go to that place?"

Ahmet shrugged. "She is the owner, Sitt."

"Of the opium establishment?"

"Of the building, Sitt."

"Good gracious." I pondered this bit of news. Incredible as it might sound, there was no reason why Ahmet should lie about it. "She is a wealthy woman, then—or at least, a woman who has money. Why does she dress in rags and sit with the wretched smokers of opium?"

Another shrug. "How should I know, Sitt? The ways of a woman are beyond understanding."

"Venture an opinion, my friend," I said, placing my parasol on the table between us.

But Ahmet insisted he never allowed himself to hold opinions. Considering the condition of his opium-soaked brain, one might have been inclined to believe him. Further questioning, however, elicited the reluctant admission that the Lady Ayesha did not live on the premises, but had her own house, elsewhere in London.

"Park Lane?" I repeated skeptically. "That is one of the best neighborhoods in London, my friend. A woman like that—the proprietress of an opium den—would not be rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy."

Ahmet produced a meaningful leer. "Rub shoulders, Sitt? That is not all she does."

Men can never resist the opportunity to make a vulgar joke. Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, a look of terror transformed his features and betrayed the fact that he had said more than he meant to say. He refused to elaborate, however, and I could not bring myself to insist. There are limits of common decency beyond which a lady cannot go, even when she is in pursuit of a murderer.

I was about to leave when I remembered I had not asked him about Mr. Oldacre. On this subject he was even less informative, insisting he did not know the man, had never heard of him, had never seen him, and had no opinion whatever about anything. I quoted the remark I had overheard in the paddy wagon. Ahmet rolled his eyes.

"They come," he murmured. "True believers and heretics, men and women, princes and beggars. Hashish and opium are the great levelers, Sitt, they give of their bounty to all Allah's creatures. Even a low, crawling insect like Ahmet ... It has been so long—too long—since I dreamed . . . Find me opium, Sitt—and a pipe—only one . . . We will talk, and dream together ..."

Whether he was wandering in his wits or only pretending to, he had found a good way of ending the discussion. I summoned the constable and left Ahmet to his conscience, such as it was; but not, of course, before I had offered him my protection and urged him to summon me at any hour of the day or night.

Cuff was waiting for me in the corridor. "Well?" he said.

"Why ask?" I retorted. "I observed the opening in the left wall, Inspector. Who was listening outside? Mr. Jones?"

The Inspector shook his head admiringly. "You are too sharp for me, Mrs. Emerson. Not Jones; I told you, he is on holiday. We have several officers who speak Arabic, though none as fluently as you. Why were you so interested in the woman Ayesha?"

I countered with another question. "What do you know about her, Inspector?"

"Nothing that would justify an official inquiry," Cuff replied. "I do
beg, ma'am, that you will not approach that person. She is not a fit associate for a lady like yourself."

"I do not intend to invite her to dinner, Inspector," I said ironically. "However, she is obviously a person of influence in the Egyptian community, including the criminal part of it—for persons who own and operate opium dens can hardly be called pillars of society. I cannot understand why you are being so evasive. You should interrogate the woman immediately. And furthermore ..."

We had descended the stairs to the lower floor. Here Cuff stopped, and, turning to face me, said earnestly, "Mrs. Emerson, I have the greatest respect for your character and your abilities. But insofar as the Department is concerned, you are a civilian and a lady—both of them attributes that make it impossible for me to take you into my confidence. Were I to do so without the explicit permission of my superiors I would risk reprimand, demotion, possibly even the loss of my position. I have spent thirty years in the police force. I hope shortly to retire, with my well-earned pension, to my little house in Dorking, where, following the example of my respected father and eminent grandfather, I will spend a peaceful old age cultivating my roses. It is truly beyond my powers—"

"Spare me the rest of the speech, Inspector," I cut in. "I have heard it before—the same tired old excuses based on masculine arrogance and contempt for women. I don't blame you; you are no better and no worse than the rest of the men, and I have no doubt that your superiors are as blind and bigoted as you."

Cuff's sallow face took on a look of deep distress. Pressing his hand to his heart he began, "Mrs. Emerson, please believe me—"

"Oh, I believe your intentions are of the best. Forgive me if I became trifle heated. I bear you no ill will. In fact, when I catch the real murderer I will hand him over to you. I want no credit save the satisfaction of doing my duty. Good day, Inspector."

Cuff was too moved to speak. He bowed deeply, and remained in that position as I left the building.

Waving my umbrella, I summoned a hansom cab. As it drove away I saw, entering Scotland Yard, a form that was strangely familiar; but before I could get a good look, it vanished within.

Emerson at Scotland Yard? Somehow I was not surprised.

Where to go next? The reader can hardly suppose I had any doubt about that. It was possible that Ahmet had invented a false address in order to get rid of me, but it was worth a try at any rate.

In recent years the fine old street bordering Hyde Park had undergone
a transition from aristocratic elegance to pure ostentation. This change was due in large part to people like the Rothschilds and their great good friend, the Prince of Wales. Why His Royal Highness preferred the company of upstart millionaires to that of his peers was something of a mystery. Some claimed it was an inherent coarseness of character, or rather, an absence of the delicate sensibility one would like to find in a British monarch. But if that were the case, the inevitable question arose: Whence derived this deplorable tendency? Certainly not from his father, the primmest, properest prince of all time. As for Her Gracious Majesty his mother . . . she may have been stuffy, priggish, and somewhat inferior in intelligence, but vulgar? Never! (I give no credence whatever to the disgusting rumors concerning Her Majesty and a certain Mr. Brown. Admittedly her servants sometimes took advantage of her good nature in order to elevate themselves above their proper station. Brown had certainly done so, and her latest favorite, Abdul Karim, who called himself the Munshi, was almost as arrogant and unpopular. But that they were anything more than favored servants I would vehemently deny.)

As the hansom proceeded along Park Lane, I saw the opulent gray stone mansion owned by Leopold Rothschild, where, it was said, the Prince had often been entertained in the lavish style to which he had become only too accustomed. Not far away was the ostentatious outline of Aldford House, which had been completed, since I last was in London, by a South African diamond magnate. Another South African millionaire had the lease of Dudley House, and at Number 25 work was in progress on a structure which would, according to rumor, surpass all the others in expense and lavishness. The builder, one Barney Bar-nato, had been born a cockney in the slums of Whitechapel. To such had the dignity of Park Lane fallen, from dukes and earls to the nouveau riche. Perhaps Ayesha was not so out of place after all. She and Barney Barnato ought to get on well.

The cab stopped in front of a handsome old house not far from the corner of Park Lane and Upper Brook Street. A neat parlormaid answered my knock. She wore the usual black frock, crisp white apron, and ruffled cap, but her olive complexion and liquid black eyes betrayed her nationality. Evidently Ahmet was more reliable than I had expected.

I gave her my card. "Tell your mistress I would like to speak to her."

The maid's behavior made it all too evident that she was not accustomed to visitors of my sort. Overcoming her surprise, she took my card and invited me to step into the parlor while she went to see if "the lady" was in.

If I had not by then been certain I had found my quarry, the room into which I was shown might have made me wonder, for there was not a single object in it that might not have been found in the most up-to-date, well-furnished English parlor. In fact, a cynical person might wonder if it was not meant to be a caricature of an up-to-date, well-furnished English parlor. The walls were thickly covered with pictures and mirrors in gold frames so wide they dwarfed the space enclosed. One could scarcely see the carpet for the furniture: heavy carved sofas, plump upholstered chairs and hassocks, tables, tables, and still more tables—all chastely draped in heavy cloths that hid their "nether limbs," as prim ladies of the time were wont to say.

Before long the maid returned and indicated that I was to follow her. We ascended a staircase to the first floor and went along a carpeted corridor. She opened a door and waved me in.

It was like stepping from the nineteenth century to the fifteenth— crossing in a single stride the thousands of miles that separate London from Old Cairo.

Persian carpets covered the floor in careless profusion, layer on layer of them. Walls and ceiling were draped with gold brocade, even to the windows—if there were windows, for not a beam of light entered. The only illumination came from hanging lamps pierced in intricate patterns and suspended from chains so fine that the slightest movement of air set them swaying and sent golden specks of light darting through the gloom like falling stars, or the small fiery insects that inhabit the western continent.