The Deeds of the Disturber (38 page)

"Thank you, my dear Emerson," I replied, with considerable emotion. "I accept the challenge in the spirit in which it was offered, and in the spirit which always rules us in these situations: May the best person win, devil take the hindmost, and no fair cheating."

"Would you care to begin, my dear Peabody?"

"No, my dear Emerson, I yield to you."

"I expected you would," Emerson remarked. "Oh, there you are, Gargery. Bring the whiskey, if you please."

"And, Gargery," I added, "you will be glad to hear that everything is quite all right, just as the professor said."

"I can see that, madam," said Gargery, beaming. "Not that I ever doubted it would be."

"I tell you what, Peabody," said Emerson, after Gargery had brought the whiskey and departed, still beaming. "We might have Wilkins and Gargery trade places, eh? Wilkins would be much happier in a quiet, well-regulated household like this."

"It is worth considering," I agreed. "Now, Emerson, you were about to begin ..."

"Yes." Emerson went to the desk and began rummaging around. "Where did I put that confounded . . . ah, here it is."

He handed me a sheet of paper. I glanced at it and burst out laughing. "Oh, Emerson, how amusing! No, my dear, don't glower, I am not laughing at you, but at another coincidence. There is an almost identical list upstairs in the drawer of my desk."

"Is that so? Well, my dear Peabody, I have often said our minds are as one."

"We seem to agree on the major points," I mused, studying his list.

"I see you mention the scraps of glass and paper found by the body of the night watchman. I confess I thought you would miss that, Emerson."

"Oh, you did, did you? What do you make of it, Peabody?"

"I haven't had an opportunity to speak to Mr. Budge," I replied. "My answer depends on how recently the room was swept."

"Oh." Emerson's brows lowered. "Oh, yes. I didn't think of that."

"There was nothing that might not have accumulated in the normal course of events, as a result of the untidy habits of the museum-visiting public."

"Humph," said Emerson, scowling.

"However," I went on, "there is confirmatory evidence of my tentative theory from another source."

"The unwrapped mummy," said Emerson.

"And the speech the priest delivered—the invocation to Isis."

" 'Whose speech fails not,' " said Emerson, unable to repress a smile.

"Quite. I see we agree so far, Emerson. Do we also agree that the man we saw last night is not only the murderer of Ayesha but of Mr. Oldacre?"

"Certainly, Peabody. Is he also the false priest?"

"Yes and no, Emerson."

"Curse it, Peabody—"

"That is not the important question, Emerson. The killer is the man who sent the ushebtis and abducted Ramses. But who the devil—that is, who is he really? Which of our suspects is the mastermind behind all this?"

"That seems obvious," said Emerson.

"It does."

"Would you care—"

"Not just yet. We are still lacking one or two vital bits of evidence. Wasn't it you who said it is a capital error to theorize before one has all the facts?"

"No, it wasn't. What evidence do we lack?"

"Well—here is a question you omitted." Taking a pencil, I scribbled a few sentences and handed the paper to him.

Question: "Who is the man in the turban who called on Professor Emerson, and where did they go yesterday?" What to do about it: "Ask Professor Emerson."

Emerson crumpled the paper in his hand. "Confound it, Peabody—"

I held up a hand. "Wait, Emerson. I vowed this evening never to admit a doubt of your devotion to enter my mind. I do not doubt it.

But my dear Emerson, I made no promise about anything else. If you are concealing evidence from me—"

"Have a little more whiskey, Peabody."

"No, thank you, I don't believe I will."

"Then I will," Emerson muttered, suiting the action to the words. "Listen to me, Peabody. I am not concealing evidence. The individual to whom you referred knows nothing, and told me nothing, that would be of the slightest assistance in solving the case."

"Then why won't you tell me who he is and what he wanted?"

"Because he ... because I ... I gave my word, Peabody. I swore I would not tell a living soul of what transpired yesterday afternoon. Would you have me break my solemn oath?"

"Did the words 'forever' and 'never' appear in that oath you took, Emerson?"

Emerson burst out laughing. "Yes, my dear Peabody. I seem to recall someone also using the phrase 'eternal silence.' People can be so cursed theatrical at times ..." Then he sobered. "My dear, it appears we are facing a test of that utter confidence you just expressed. The test was not of my making, but there it is. Will you live up to your word and not try to make me break mine? For you know you could make me break it, Peabody. I can't resist you when you try."

"My dear Emerson, how can you possibly suppose I would do such a thing?"

Emerson took me in his arms.

For a moment we stood motionless. Emerson's chin rested on the top of my head. I could not see his face, and I would have given a great deal to be able to read his expression. He was planning something underhanded, I had not the least doubt of it.

In the silence I heard the faint chime of the clock in the hall. Emerson moved slightly. "It is almost time for tea," I said.

"Hmmm, yes. The day has flown by. I suppose we have to have those wretched . . . those children downstairs?"

"How unkind you are, Emerson."

"They are really very boring children, Peabody."

"I know. But we agreed to take them and do our best for them, and we must stick to our promise, Emerson."

Emerson's grasp tightened. "We have half an hour, Peabody. If we went upstairs directly ... I could face the ordeal in a much better frame of mind after ..."

I suppose 1 ought to have known better. But I defy any Reader to say
she would have acted otherwise under the circumstances, which included a number of those little gestures to which I was susceptible under
all
circumstances and which were particularly poignant just then.

When we came out of the drawing room arm in arm I saw Gargery behind the curve of the stairs, grinning like the sentimental idiot he was; and then I saw no more of him, because Emerson swept me into his arms and ran up the stairs in, as I assumed, a burst of affectionate impatience. So impatient was he that he neglected to close the door, and I exclaimed, "Emerson, don't you think ... a little privacy ..."

"Oh, yes," said Emerson, breathing heavily. "One moment—"

Without going into improper details as to my position at the time, I will only say that I did not see the door close. I heard it, though. And then I heard another sound that affected me like a dash of icy water in the face. It was the sound of the key turning in the lock.

I bounded up from the bed. I was alone. I heard his footsteps retreating; he made no attempt to tiptoe. One touch of the knob confirmed what I already knew. He had locked me in.

I ran to the window and drew back the curtains. I was in time to see him leave the house. It was still bright daylight outside, though the shadows were lengthening. As he walked, with the rapid stride that could cover miles of desert terrain as quickly as another man might run, he shrugged into his coat. He was bareheaded. At the gate he turned for a moment and looked up at the window.

I doubt that he saw me, for the sun was directly opposite the house and when it was in that position it reflected blindingly from the front windows. But he knew I would be there. Raising his hand to his lips, he blew me a kiss. Then he broke into a run; within seconds he had vanished.

How long I remained at the window, prey to sensations I prefer not to recall, I cannot say; but it could not have been more than a minute before I heard the rattle of the key in the lock, and the voice of Gargery.

"Madam? Mrs. Emerson, are you there?"

"Where else would I be, you idiot?" I replied. "Unlock the door instantly."

"Yes, madam, of course. That is what the professor said I should do. But I don't understand ..." The door opened. "I don't understand what is going on," Gargery continued. "He said the lock was jammed, and went to get tools, but why it should be locked at all, and you inside, and the professor outside—"

" 'Outside' is the key word, Gargery, if you will excuse a vile pun. I don't suppose he mentioned where he was going?"

"To get tools, madam. He ..." Gargery's jaw dropped. "Blimey!" he exclaimed. " 'E 'asn't got away from us, 'as 'e?"

“E certainly 'as," I replied, in considerable bitterness of spirit. "He fooled us very nicely, Gargery—both of us. Never mind—" For Gargery had begun pounding himself on the forehead with his clenched fist and was using expressions I had never heard him employ. "It was not your fault—and I apologize for calling you an idiot, Gargery. If you are, I am a greater one."

"Oh, madam." Gargery took a long, quivering breath and regained control of his speech. "I beg your pardon—I am afraid that in the 'eat—the heat—of the moment I forgot myself. There is no use going after him, I suppose?"

"No, he has made good his escape. We can only wait, and exhibit that fortitude for which English persons of both sexes and all social classes are famous. It is time for tea, Gargery. I will be down shortly."

"Yes, madam." Gargery drew himself up to his full height. "And may I say, madam—"

"No, Gargery, I would rather you did not. For my shell of calm is about to crack and I would prefer to express my sentiments in private."

Gargery went away.

Of course I did not break into hysterics or tears. That is not my habit. I was not even angry with Emerson. He was always complaining about his inability to prevent me from rushing headlong into danger, but that was only his little joke; never before had he made any real effort to stop me. He must be desperate to resort to a trick like this, which he knew would bring down vehement reproaches on his head. . . . Oh, my dear Emerson, I thought—my shell of calm breaking for an instant—only return, safe and sound, and I will never speak a word.

I forced myself to sit down and use my head instead of my heart. Naturally I had no intention of sitting idly by, waiting for Emerson to come back. I had no idea where he might have gone. However, from his guarded remarks earlier I knew he and I were on the same track, insofar as the solution of the murder case was concerned. Obviously he knew more than I—or thought he did. Surely, if I applied my intelligence to the matter, I ought to be able to arrive at the same conclusion he had reached—and, in due course of time, at the same place to which those conclusions had led him.

Something was nagging at my mind. I knew the sensation well, for it had happened to me before—a sense of something seen or heard to which I had not paid proper attention at the time. Something overlooked or misunderstood . . . something of consummate importance. I sat down
and pressed my hands over my eyes—not because they were damp with incipient tears, but in order to blot out external distractions. What could it have been? For long, agonized seconds I had dangled helplessly from the throttling hands of the killer, my face only inches from his. I had been somewhat distracted at the time, but might there not have been a clue—a scent or a sound or a sensation—to that villain's identity?

I felt I was on the right track, but before I could pursue my recollection, the prattle of childish voices without reminded me of another duty. If I did not get downstairs at once, Violet would eat all the biscuits.

She had consumed several before I arrived on the scene, so I put an end to that, and ordered them all to their places. "And what have you been doing today?" I asked pleasantly.

"We went to the park," said Percy. "I took my hoop and my butterfly net."

"There was a muffin man," murmured Violet. "A nice, nice muffin man."

"And did you catch any butterflies, Percy?" I inquired. I did not bother to ask whether Violet had caught any muffins; I felt sure she had. The child was swelling up like a toad.

"Yes, Aunt Amelia. Only a few Monarchs, but it was good exercise, you know, running after them."

"Yes, indeed," I replied encouragingly. "And you, Ramses—did you help Percy catch butterflies?"

"I wonder that you can ask, Mama, since you know my views on the needless murder of living creatures," Ramses replied in his stateliest manner. "If you will excuse my changing the subject—which is boring in the extreme—I would like to ask whether Papa has gone out? In his present weakened condition—"

"He has gone out," I replied somewhat sharply. "And no—I do not know where he has gone or when he will return. He is not accountable to you, Ramses—or to me—for his actions."

"Not in the legal sense," Ramses replied. "But the gentle urging of domestic affection implies a moral obligation, and I am surprised to find that Papa, who is as a rule most considerate of our concern—"

"Please, Ramses."

"Yes, Mama."

A brief silence followed. 1 moved the plate of biscuits out of Violet's reach and tried to think of something to say. I was not really in a fit state for idle conversation.

After a moment Percy coughed. "May I ask you something, Aunt Amelia?"

"Certainly, Percy. What is it?"

"Well, you see, I have been wondering . . . The matter has been on my mind for some time."

"If it is your mama you are worrying about," I began.

"No, it isn't that, Aunt. In fact, it isn't about any person, any person I know. What Ramses would call a theoretical question, I suppose."

"Well?" I said impatiently.

"Supposing," said Percy slowly, "supposing someone knew that someone had done something. Something he wasn't supposed to do."

I wondered how I could ever have complained about Ramses' speech patterns. At least he knew more than fifty words, and could arrange them into a coherent sentence. Percy went on, even more slowly, "Something bad, Aunt Amelia. Really bad, I mean. Should the person—the person who knew about it—tell?"

"Tell whom?" I inquired.