The Deeds of the Disturber (36 page)

She looked into my eyes. I thought, I truly believed, I had persuaded her. Then her hands released their hold and she glided away.

Impulsively I started to follow; but reason prevailed, and I resumed
my place. She had passed out of sight, behind the obelisk; in the darkness and the thickening mist she could easily elude me. If I went after her I might miss my true quarry—the killer himself. Once I had the villain in my power I would have no need of Ayesha, or she of me. (Though I had every intention of pressing my suggestion that she retire to the rural peace and domestic harmony so necessary to a nature like hers.)

A shriek rent the night! It was abruptly cut off, as if a rough hand had compressed the straining vocal cords. It had to be Ayesha who had screamed, it could be no other. Parasol raised, I rushed impetuously in the direction from which the sound had come.

Conceive of my amazement when the first person I saw was Emerson. To be honest, I had almost forgotten about him. He stood in the circle of light cast by the nearest gas globe, and he was staring across the pavement toward the gardens beyond. They lay in deep shadow, but I made out a shape that was neither shrub nor tree—a huge, monstrous shape, hardly human in outline.

"Wait, Peabody," Emerson shouted. "He has a pistol at her head!"

Now that he mentioned it, I saw that the dull gleam of metal was indeed that of a weapon, and deduced that the pale oval next to it must be Ayesha's face. Her black garments blended with the dark clothing of her assailant, who seemed to be wearing an opera cloak and silk hat. His face was completely concealed behind a tight-fitting cloth of the same somber hue.

"Curse it," I exclaimed. "Where are the confounded police? One would suppose—"

A flutter of dark movement and a whimper from Ayesha stopped me. It required no verbal command from the dastardly wretch to warn me that a loud noise or sudden movement would cause him to press the trigger.

Too late, I realized I should have looked before I leaped instead of rushing blindly to the rescue. If I had crept up behind him . . .

Then came another, more abrupt, shift in the shape of darkness. It was hard for me to make out what he was doing; but Ayesha knew. Another scream burst from her, mingling with the sound of a pistol shot. Emerson raised his hand to his head. An expression of profound astonishment crossed his face. Slowly he sank to the ground.

I could not, I dared not, go to him. Emerson might not be slain, only wounded; but the demise of my beloved spouse (not to mention myself) was certain if the killer kept hold of the pistol. Ayesha was struggling with him, clinging to his arm. I rushed to aid her.

The second shot was muffled by her body. She fell like a wounded bird, crumpling at his feet; and as he leveled the pistol to fire again, the shaft of my parasol came down on his forearm.

The pistol fell; the toe of my boot struck it and sent it spinning away into the shrubbery. Emerson was saved! But I was not in such good condition, for the unknown had seized me by the throat. The cruel grip shifted and tightened, cutting off the air to my lungs and the blood to my brain. His hands were gloved; my nails made no impression. I tried to claw at his face, but my arm fell back. My feet dangled, free of the ground. Darkness closed over me. I remember thinking that the confounded police were never around when you needed them . . .

Reader, it came like an answer to prayer—faint and seemingly far away, muted by the pounding of the blood in my deafened ears—the shrill shriek of a police whistle! The hands on my throat loosed their grip. I toppled helpless to the ground, landing on a soft, yielding surface; and as the sight came back to my fogged eyes I found myself staring straight into the dead face of Ayesha.

Shuddering, I scrambled to hands and knees, just in time to see a small dark form dart across the somewhat limited field of my vision. Someone shouted, '"Ere, you little devil, come back then—what the 'ell—Jack, go round the other way, 'ead 'im off ... Wot's all this, then?"

Rescue had arrived, in the shape of two very large boots. I presumed a constable was attached to them, but I did not pause to investigate. Too weak to rise, I crawled straight to the motionless form of my husband, who lay face down on the graveled path. My strength came back to me when I touched him; frantically I turned him onto his back.

His eyes opened. They saw me. He lived! Thank Heaven, he lived!

"Peabody," he remarked, "this is becoming embarrassing."

Thirteen

I
T NEED NOT BE SUPPOSED that I slept a wink that night. Huddled by the dying fire or pacing the length of the room; bending at frequent intervals over the couch whereon reposed my wounded and heroic husband, brushing the dark hair from his brow, or listening in an agony of joyful relief to his deep and sonorous respiration—so I passed the hours before dawn. He slept soundly; I had taken the precaution of adding a soupcon of laudanum to his cup of tea, since I knew his restless spirit would never take the repose his body required without it.

Often as I strove to quiet my mind, my thoughts kept returning to the horrors of that memorable evening. Images flashed onto the screen of my agitated brain with the vividness of nightmare: the fixed, staring eyes of Ayesha, who had given her life for us—one of us, at any rate; the blessed and beautiful scowl of my dear Emerson as he returned to consciousness and discovered that once again his quarry had escaped him; the round, red, bewildered face of the constable who had pursued a thieving little street arab into Victoria Gardens and found himself confronting a dead body, a wounded man, and a woman who was in scarce better case, what with agitation and being half strangled . . .

My throat still ached, despite the prompt and efficient medical assistance that had been provided to me and to Emerson. But the pain of that was nothing to the mental anguish that filled me. I had erred. Yes, I—Amelia Peabody Emerson—had failed to pursue the rigorous and logical deductions that are essential to a criminal investigation.

There is some excuse for me, I believe. The events of that exhilarating day had followed one upon the next with such bewildering speed that I had never had the leisure to think them through. Yet I knew that was
not the real reason for my failure. Jealousy had blurred my mind; mistrust had prevented me from following the path of reason. How true it is, as the Scripture says, that "jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame."

Once again I hovered over Emerson and pressed my lips to his wounded brow. The physician had been forced to shave a patch of hair before bandaging the furrow that had creased his scalp. One of the glossy black locks reposed even now in my bosom, for I had picked it up from the (rather dirty) floor and vowed I would carry it always, to remind me how close I had come to losing something dearer than life itself. Never again would I doubt him. Never!

After repeating the gesture and the vow a number of times, I discovered I was calm enough to resume ratiocination. I began with Miss Minton's revelations. It was no coincidence that the police should have chosen that hour and that evening to visit that particular opium den. Miss Minton had got the message to a colleague; and he had notified the police. Had he warned them we would be there, or had he used some other device to persuade them to investigate? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that the second alternative was the right one. Our presence had gone unnoticed until Emerson announced it with his customary vim and vigor. The fact that the police had been so swift to respond to a suggestion, however cleverly worded, from a member of the press, strongly suggested that they had already been suspicious of Ayesha and her establishment.

The despicable Inspector Cuff had deceived me. He had never believed Ahmet was the murderer. He had put the man under arrest for two reasons: one, to arouse consternation and alarm among his associates, in the hope of provoking a careless move or injudicious statement; and two, because he expected that that well-known informer might disclose useful information under the pressure of police interrogation. What did Cuff know? I did not have the answer, but I was certain of one thing: if Cuff believed the man he was after was an Englishman and a member of the aristocracy, he would proceed with extreme caution. An accusation against such a man would have to be supported by the strongest possible evidence.

That Ayesha had known the truth was confirmed by her own words. "He" had ordered her to lure me into a trap. Her reluctance to carry out the mission of betrayal must have aroused his suspicions and caused him to fear she would betray him instead (as I am convinced she would eventually have done). He had therefore followed her; perhaps he had been close enough to hear her warn me.

The fact that he had been sufficiently alarmed to attack me was encouraging. Less encouraging was the fact that I had no idea what I had said or done to alarm him. Was it possible that my visit to Ayesha had been enough in itself? That did not seem likely. It was, surely, more likely that I had stumbled on some clue whose meaning I had overlooked.

Ayesha had let slip one word during our initial conversation that I had considered significant. She had spoken of an English "lord." I had never used that word. But on reconsideration I was inclined to wonder if it meant to her what it meant to me. As I have said, the Arabic word for "husband"—even the one for "man"—carries that degrading implication, and in the course of her earlier business dealings Ayesha must often have used it to flatter her clients. A man is always ready to believe he is truly the lord and master of all he surveys, especially any women he encounters.

Though it was still far from conclusive, the evidence all pointed in the same direction: namely, that the false priest and the murderer of Oldacre were one and the same, and that he was either Lord Liverpool or his demonic mentor. Both must be involved in the plot, along with others, for there had been at least six masked intruders at the lecture hall.

At this stage the ratiocinative process was broken by a muffled cry from Emerson. I flew to his side. He had not awakened, but he moved restlessly, turning his head from side to side and groping with his hand. I listened with beating heart to the broken syllables that escaped his lips; and with inexpressible joy recognized them for the syllables of my name.

As soon as I lay down beside him and took his hand in mine, he grew quieter. One last murmur stirred the ambient air. "Curse it, Pea-body," he whispered. I drew his dark head to my breast and was about to resume my train of thought when for some unaccountable reason I fell asleep.

Upon waking my first thought was of Emerson. A quick glance into the countenance so near my own reassured me; he was sleeping sweetly. I then heard again the sound that had roused me.

"Ramses," I whispered. "What are you doing there?"

Ramses' head appeared at the foot of the bed. "I was very quiet, Mama. I only wanted to know if you were awake."

"I am now, thank you. But your papa is still sleeping, so—"

Emerson's lips parted. "He is not sleeping."

"Your eyes are closed," I said.

They opened. "What the devil is the time?" Emerson asked.

I pulled myself to a sitting position. I had gone to sleep in my dressing gown, so that was all right. Ramses' round, interested eyes followed my every movement.

Emerson rolled over onto his back. "Urgh," he said. "What the devil is—"

"I don't know, Emerson, I cannot see the clock from here."

"It is ten minutes past two," said Ramses. "I trust you will forgive this intrusion, Mama and Papa, but having learned from Gargery of Papa's most recent brush with death, my anxiety prompted—"

"Two!" Emerson exclaimed. "In the afternoon? It must be, the sun is shining . . . good Gad, Peabody, why did you let me sleep so late?"

My efforts to restrain him were vain; he swung his feet to the floor and headed for the bathroom. After hesitating for a moment Ramses followed him. He liked watching his father shave. He had been strictly forbidden to touch any of Emerson's razors, after once almost cutting his throat while imitating that (in his case unnecessary) procedure.

After ringing the bell I followed them, to discover Ramses sitting on the commode while Emerson splashed cold water on his face. "That's better," he said cheerfully. "What a night, eh, Peabody?"

"It is not better. You have got the bandage wet. Emerson, how often must I tell you—"

Ramses spoke at the same time. "I presume, Papa, that your question refers to your latest encounter with the criminous masquerader. I would be most interested in learning what—"

Before either of us could finish, the bedroom door opened and a positive parade of servants entered—one of the maids carrying a tea tray, another with hot water, Mrs. Watson to supervise their activities, and Gargery . . . well, I knew why Gargery was there. He did not even pretend to have a reasonable excuse.

"How is the professor, madam?" he demanded.

"Fine, fine," Emerson shouted. "Good morning, Gargery. Who else is there? Mrs. Watson? Splendid. I shall want a very large breakfast, Mrs. Watson—or lunch—or whatever meal seems appropriate ... as soon as possible, eh? Oh—excuse me—er—Susan—" He backed up, to allow the maid (Mary Ann) to put a pitcher of hot water on the table.

Behind Gargery I saw what appeared to be the entire household staff—four footmen, the cook, and three other maids, including the kitchenmaid, who was supposed never to show her face abovestairs. I said resignedly,  "As you observe,  Gargery—and the rest of you—

Professor Emerson is himself again. I hope that now your minds are set at ease, you will return to your duties."

"Oh, Mrs. Emerson," the housekeeper exclaimed. "I am sorry—I don't know what has come over them, they don't usually behave like this—"

"It is quite all right, Mrs. Watson. I have seen it happen before. It is not your fault."

"I beg your pardon, madam," Gargery began.

"Yes, what is it?"

"With all respect, madam, they—and I—would like to inquire about yourself, madam. You sound a little hoarse, madam. Wouldn't you like me to send for the doctor, madam, to have a look at you?"