The Deeds of the Disturber (6 page)

"I got my information from Mrs. Fraser," Kevin exclaimed. "The effusions, as you call them, were direct quotations from the young lady and her husband."

It was difficult for me to be angry with him, since I secretly agreed. Enid Fraser, nee Debenham, had spoken no more than the truth, and the word "effusions" was Emerson's, not mine.

Watching me shrewdly, O'Connell went on, "She and the others whom you have rescued from death and disgrace have sung your praises to the world. And why not? How seldom are courage and kindness given the recognition they deserve! You are an inspiration to the entire British nation, Mrs. E."

"Hmmm. Well. Since you put it that way ..."

"Risking your life—and a commodity more precious than life—in the defense of the innocent," Kevin went on enthusiastically. "How the professor must have suffered—what anguish he must have endured—fearing that even your indomitable spirit and physical courage must falter before that desperate villain . . . What were
your
feelings, Mrs. E.?"

I had been nodding and smiling like an idiot. Then the sense of what he was saying penetrated, and I emitted a cry that made him cringe
away and raise his arms in a posture of defense. "Curse you, Kevin— how dare you insinuate . . . Who told you? There is no truth whatever in ... Wait till I speak with Enid. I will—"

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Amelia," Kevin begged. "Mrs. Fraser did not betray your confidence; indeed, she absolutely denied the story after her husband (he is not the most intelligent of men, is he?) let something slip. She threatened me with the direst consequences if I printed a word."

"Her threats will pale, I assure you, in comparison to Emerson's," I informed him. "If the slightest hint of . . ."

I did not finish the sentence; there was no need. Kevin's countenance had paled visibly. With a sincerity I could not doubt, he exclaimed, "Sure, an' don't you think I was aware of that? My high regard for you, Mrs. Emerson, would prevent me from besmirching your reputation. Besides, my editor told me it would be actionable."

This last remark was more convincing than his claim of concern for my reputation; adding to it his terror of Emerson (a terror which, in this case, was well founded), I thought I could count on his silence. "Very well," I said, finishing my whiskey and looking about, in vain, for anything resembling a serviette. "I cannot dally, Mr. O'Connell. It is quite dark and Emerson will be looking for me. I leave you to pay the tab, since it was your invitation."

He insisted on walking me back to the house, and although I felt no trepidation—after some of the areas through which I have walked after dark, London held no fears for me—I acceded to his request. As we approached the door the young woman sidled up to me and offered me my scarf. I rearranged it around her neck, tucking the ends in securely, and told her to keep it, as I had others.

I was glad of Kevin's company, if only because my hold of his arm kept me from slipping. The mixture of mud, water, and various slimy substances underfoot made walking treacherous. The fog had closed in, dimming the gaslights to ghostly globes of sickly yellow-gray and distorting monstrously the forms of passersby. Yet there was a certain grisly charm in the scene, and I was moved to remark that dear old London need not yield even to the slums of Cairo in sinister and malodorous fascination. Kevin's only response was to tighten his grip and hurry me forward.

At the spot where York Street debouched into the square, he stopped and announced his intention of leaving me. "You will be all right now, Mrs. E."

"I have never been anything other than all right, Mr. O. Thank you
for entertaining me at the public house; it was a most interesting experience. But don't forget what I told you."

"No, ma'am."

"You will not use my name again."

"Certainly not, Mrs. E. Unless," Kevin added, "some incident of unusual interest occurs, and the other newspapers learn of it, and report it. You surely would not expect me to be the only journalist in London who refrained from printing the story, would you?"

"Good Gad, O'Connell, you sound just like Ramses," I said in exasperation. "No such incident will occur. I have no intention of becoming involved with the nonsensical doings at the British Museum."

"Oh, indeed?" His rather wide mouth opened, not in a smile but in a snarl of rage. "Sure an' begorra, but I might have known . . . The spalpeen! The treacherous little serpent—"

"Who? Where?"

"There." Kevin pointed. "D'ye see that big yellow umbrella?"

"The weather being inclement, a number of parasols are to be seen," I replied. "But in this dreadful fog it is impossible to make out colors with any degree of—"

"There, just there—in front of Chalfont House." Kevin growled deep in his throat. "Lying in wait, lurking like a ghoul . . . Och, the shame of the creature then!"

The umbrella he had mentioned was not difficult to distinguish after all, for unlike the others on the pavements it remained stationary, just outside the high iron fence enclosing the grounds of Chalfont House. Though there was a lamppost not far away, I could see very little more than the umbrella itself. It was a very large umbrella.

"Who is it?" I asked, squinting in an effort to see better.

"Who else but that creeping snake Minton? You had better go round to the back, Mrs. E."

"Nonsense. I will not skulk into a house as if I had no right to be there. Run along, Mr. O'Connell (and make sure you change your boots and your socks as soon as you get home). A confrontation between you and Minton could only lead to acrimony and to delay."

"But, Mrs. E.—"

"I am quite capable of dealing with impertinent journalists. As you ought to know."

"But—"

The heavy doors of Chalfont House burst open. Light spilled out onto the steps; from the form silhouetted against it came a voice weirdly
distorted by the damp and the fog. "Peabody! Where are yooooooou, Peabody? Curse it!"

I could see the butler plucking at Emerson's coattails, trying to calm him; but 'twas of no avail. Sans hat, coat, scarf, or umbrella, Emerson plunged down the stairs and ran to the gate. In his passion he was unable to deal with the latch; he clung there, bellowing and banging on the railings. "Peeeeeea-body! Devil take it, where are yooooooou?"

"I must go," I said. But I spoke to empty air; a rapidly fading shadow was the only sign of Kevin O'Connell.

I called to my agitated spouse, but his irritable iterations drowned out my voice. By the time I reached him, the yellow umbrella had pounced. Emerson confronted it head-on, with only the gate between them. He had fallen silent; I heard another voice, high-pitched and rapid. "And what is your opinion, Professor . . ."it was asking.

"Emerson, what the—what are you doing out in this fog without a hat?" I demanded.

Emerson glanced at me. "Oh, there you are, Peabody. The most extraordinary thing . . . Only have a look."

Whereupon he seized the umbrella and spun it like a wheel. The person under it, who seemed to be attached to it in some fashion I could not make out, spun with it, and the lamplight fell full upon her face. Yes, dear Reader—
her
face! The journalist—was a woman!

"Good Gad," I exclaimed. "I was under the impression that you were a man."

"I am as capable as any man," was the fierce reply, as a notebook was brandished in my face. She had attached her umbrella to her belt in order to leave her hands free for writing, and I had to admire the ingenuity of the concept even as I deplored her forward behavior. "Tell me, Mrs. Emerson," she went on, without scarcely a pause to draw breath, "are you working with Scotland Yard on the murder case?"

"What murder case? There is no indication—"

"Amelia!" Emerson had recovered from his surprise at discovering that the assiduous reporter was female—for that was my interpretation of his mention of the word "extraordinary." Now he seized me by the arm and attempted to draw me inside the railing. Since the gate was still closed, this did not succeed. "Don't talk to that—that person," he insisted. "Don't speak a word. Even a 'yes' or 'no' will
be misquoted by these vultures—excuse me, young lady—and you know your unfortunate tendency to babble—"

"I beg your pardon, Emerson!" I exclaimed. "But we will go into
that at another time. I have no intention of permitting an interview; I particularly object to being waylaid and accosted at my front door. However, let me point out that I cannot enter until you open the gate."

I moved as I spoke, edging in between Emerson and Miss Minton. She was forced to retreat in order to avoid being jabbed by the spokes of my open parasol, but once out of its range she stubbornly stood her ground and repeated her question. I could make out her features more clearly now. She was younger than I had expected. One could not have called her pretty. Her features were too strongly marked, her chin positively masculine in outline, her brows heavy and forbidding. The pins and combs that attempted to confine her thick black hair had lost the struggle; jetty locks straggled damply over her ears.

Cursing (but, let me do him justice, cursing under his breath), Emerson fumbled with the latch. Miss Minton stood poised on tiptoe, as if ready to leap forward, and I verily believe she would have done so, following us to the very door of the house, if something had not happened to distract her.

It was I who first caught sight of the weird, the unbelievable vision, and my exclamation of astonished incredulity caused Miss Minton to turn and Emerson to look up. For a moment we all three stood frozen in disbelief; for the form we saw, advancing with measured strides along the pavement opposite, was that of an ancient Egyptian priest clad in long white robes and a leopard-skin cloak. Long wisps of pale fog clung to his garments like trailing mummy wrappings, and the lamplight glimmered in the ebon waves of his curled wig. He passed into the clustering mist and vanished.

Three

M
iss MINTON was the first to move. With a yelp like that of a hunting dog, she went in pursuit, the umbrella bouncing up and down as she ran.

I started to follow. Emerson's fingers clamped over my shoulders and slammed me against the iron bars of the gate.

"Move on your peril, Peabody," he hissed. "Take one step—just one—and I will ..." The gate finally yielded to his efforts, so I never heard the remainder of the threat. Firmly he drew me to him; briskly he marched me to the door of the house. He maintained an ominous silence, and discretion would have suggested I do the same; but I am proud to say discretion has never yet prevented me from doing what was right.

"Emerson," I cried, attempting to free myself from his steely grip. "Emerson, think! She has qualities I would not like to see in a daughter of mine, but she is young—impulsive—a woman! Can you abandon her to what may be grave danger? I cannot believe it—you, the most gallant of your sex!"

Emerson's steps slowed. "Er—hmmm," he remarked.

I had known my appeal would not be in vain. Emerson is himself somewhat impulsive (indeed, it is a distinctly masculine trait, unjustly attributed to women), but he is the kindest of men. He had rushed me off without stopping to consider the young woman, but once reminded he was ready, as always, to do an Englishman's duty.

"I intended to go after her as soon as I had got you indoors," he grumbled. "I cannot trust you, Amelia, indeed I cannot."

"But by then it may be too late," I exclaimed. "Who knows what that ill-omened figure portends? Once in its vile clutches—"

Emerson had come to a stop at the bottom of the steps. He shook me absent-mindedly. "Amelia, I beg you will not go on in that fashion. Certain citizens of this metropolis enjoy wandering about the streets and the museums in bizarre costumes. No doubt the climate has addled their brains. Lunatics, who ought to be confined—"

"Precisely, Emerson. Miss Minton may even now be in the power of an escaped lunatic. Let us not waste time arguing, but instantly pursue—"

Emerson's face relaxed. He turned me around. "Your concern is needless, Amelia."

Miss Minton was no longer alone; facing her was a tallish, thin young man wearing a long overcoat and a silk hat. They appeared to be arguing; two voices, one baritone, the other a piercing alto, blended in passionate duet.

Emerson called out. "Are you in need of assistance, Miss—er—or is that a friend of yours?"

The young lady abandoned her companion and darted across the pavement, splashing recklessly through puddles. Emerson had taken the precaution of closing the gate behind him; she could advance no further, but stood clutching the bars and peering between them like a prisoner in gaol.

"Please, Professor and Mrs. Emerson—a brief interview? It will only take a few moments—"

Emerson let out a roar. "Curse it, young woman, have you no sense of decency? We delayed only to make certain your rash action had not led you into difficulty, and you reward our charitable concern with—"

"Now, Emerson," I interrupted. "You have made your point and I am sure it has been taken."

"Quite," said the young man, who had joined Miss Minton at the gate. He was wearing eyeglasses; they kept slipping, perhaps because of the damp, and throughout the ensuing conversation he was perpetually adjusting them. "Good evening, Mrs. Emerson—Professor. I had the pleasure of meeting you last year in Mr. Budge's office at the Museum. My name is Wilson. I don't suppose you remember me."

"Vaguely," Emerson replied. "What the devil are you—"

"Emerson, you can be heard clear across the square," I said. "If we were to join the young people at the gate, it would not be necessary to shout."

"Not on your life, Peabody," my husband replied, taking a firmer grip on me.

"I am a friend of Miss Minton's," the young man went on. "Thank you for your concern, but you need not worry about her. I did my best to keep her from bothering you and Mrs. Emerson, but could not prevail; naturally I felt obliged to accompany her, though at her request I kept at a distance."

"Shame should have kept you at a distance," Emerson shouted. "What an outrageous thing! You, a fellow professional, aiding and abetting—"