The Deeds of the Disturber (23 page)

"Now keep cool and don't lose your temper, Peabody," Emerson muttered. "Er—Constable—"

"Ow, ain't it pretty," said the individual addressed—speaking not to Emerson but to his companion. "A touchin' sight to see this 'ere gent protectin' of 'is ..."

He never said the word. Emerson's fist hit him cleanly on the chin and toppled him over.

"How dare you speak that way in the presence of a lady," Emerson roared. "Not only a lady, you villain, but my—my . . . oh, good Gad!"

A burst of illumination and a puff of black smoke prompted this final comment. Emerson's action had unfortunately captured that very degree of attention he had warned me to avoid.

I stepped forward and addressed the nearest policeman. "Please take me and this gentleman immediately to a private room. We must communicate with Inspector Cuff of Scotland Yard; I beg you will send someone to fetch him."

I daresay it was the unmistakable accents of cultivation and breeding in my voice, as much as the name of Inspector Cuff, that prevented the officer from laying rough hands on Emerson, who had assumed a posture of defense, while at the same time keeping a wary eye on the camera. The officer's arm fell to his side, and the others who were hastening to his assistance stopped in their tracks. I reached into my pocket. "My card," I said.

"What in the name of heaven possessed you to bring your calling cards on this expedition?" Emerson demanded.

We were seated side by side in the private room I had requested, a small windowless cubicle containing only a few chairs and a deal table. The air was heavy with the accumulated aromas of countless years of fear and despair, terror and grief. Emerson had lit his pipe, which added another dimension to the smell, but I did not deem it appropriate to protest.

"You forbade me to bring my knife, Emerson. I thought some eventuality might arise in which it would be useful to be able to prove our identity. As indeed it did."

"Why didn't you hand the rest of the cursed things around to the press?" Emerson inquired.

"As I have had occasion to mention in the past, my dear, sarcasm does not become you. Once you had struck the policeman in your inimitable and characteristic fashion, any hope of concealing our identity was gone. What was that word to which you objected so strongly? I didn't hear it."

"Never mind," Emerson growled.

I took off my cap, which no longer sufficed to keep my hair in place; I seemed to have lost quite a quantity of hairpins over the course of the evening, what with one thing and another. I smoothed the heavy locks as best I could and began to braid them.

"Who was that woman, Emerson?"

"Woman?" Emerson took a box of matches from his pocket. He struck a match and put the flame to the bowl of his pipe. "What woman?"

"She must have been very beautiful once upon a time."

"Mmmmm," said Emerson, striking another match.

"She knew you, Emerson."

"A good many people know me, Peabody." Emerson lit a third match.

"Your pipe is already lighted," I pointed out.
"When
did you know her, Emerson? And
how well?"

The door opened. Emerson leaped to his feet and greeted the newcomer like a long-lost friend.

"Inspector Cuff, I presume? Sorry we had to knock you up. Greatly appreciate your coming at this hour."

"Control your enthusiasm, Emerson," I said coolly. "After all, we are here at this hour of the night, are we not? Inspector Cuff is only doing his duty."

"Quite right, ma'am." Cuff freed his hand from Emerson's grasp and blew on his reddened fingers. "I have long looked forward to meeting you, Professor. But I had hardly anticipated it would be under such— er—unusual circumstances."

"Humph," said Emerson. "I would be gratified to improve our acquaintance, Inspector, but not, as you say, under these circumstances. If you will be so good as to confirm our identities, I will just take Mrs. Emerson home to—that is, home."

"Why, Emerson," I exclaimed. "I am surprised, after all the lectures you have given me, to see you concealing information from the official police. The object of our expedition this evening, Inspector, as you may have surmised, was to obtain evidence that the unfortunate Egyptian you arrested is innocent of the crime. At least, that is to
say, of the crime of murder; for I don't doubt that he is as unsavory a character as—"

"He is that, ma'am," the Inspector agreed, so affably that I could not resent his interrupting me. "But what makes you suppose he is innocent of the murder?"

"I don't suppose, I know. Tell him, Emerson."

"Tell him what, Peabody?" Emerson clawed at his chin. The beard came off in his hand; he scowled at it and thrust it into his pocket.

"What we overheard in the—I believe 'paddy wagon' is the cant term."

"Ah. With your permission, ma'am . . . ?" The Inspector pulled up a chair and sat down. He indicated another to my husband, but Emerson folded his arms, and stood mute. "Of course, you understand their language. Well, ma'am?"

"I heard very little," I admitted. "But the reference to the cursed heretics whose activities had stirred up the police and aroused the latter's unwelcome interest in their community, should be suggestive."

"Suggestive, indeed," said the Inspector politely. "No, ma'am, you needn't explain, I quite grasp all the implications. Have you anything to add, Professor?"

Emerson shook his head. He was not looking at the Inspector, but at me, and by comparison Medusa was a mere apprentice in the art of stony stares.

It was obvious to me that Emerson was concealing something. To my astonishment the Inspector, who ought to have developed equally keen instincts, failed to observe this, nor did he pursue the matter. "Most interesting, Professor and Mrs. Emerson. Rest assured your theory will be investigated to the best of my ability. And now, it is late, and you must be tired. I will have one of the constables fetch a hansom cab."

"I am not at all tired, Inspector. I want to discuss with you your reasons for placing Ahmet under arrest. It might be advisable for you to bring him here so that I can question him—"

"Good Gad, Peabody," Emerson began. But he could say no more; indignation choked him.

"You wouldn't want to wake the poor chap at this hour, would you, ma'am?" Inspector Cuff said. "I will be happy to make arrangements for you to interview the prisoner later—tomorrow, if you like."

And there I was forced to leave the matter. It is no wonder the world is in such wretched shape, with men running its affairs.

The Inspector considerately led us to a back exit, for, as he remarked, a number of journalists were still hanging around in the hope of interviewing us. Here we found a cab waiting, and after thanking the Inspector and assuring him I would call on him the following day, I allowed Emerson to help me into the cab. Once inside, he immediately rested his head against the wall and began to snore. Taking this as an indication that he was not inclined toward conversation, I did not disturb him.

On recalling the events of that interesting evening I confess to a certain sense of chagrin. Unbelievable as it may seem, I was guilty of one or two minor errors in judgment. One of them was my display of excessive interest in the woman in the opium den. Jealousy is an emotion I abhor. It is an emotion I could never harbor in my breast, for my confidence in my husband is as boundless as my being. I was not jealous. Nevertheless, some people might have interpreted my questioning of Emerson in that light, and I was sorry to have given that impression. Besides, it is a capital error to attempt to browbeat a husband—especially a husband like Emerson—into a confession of guilt. I had, needless to say, every intention of discovering who the woman was and what her relationship to my husband had been; but there were other methods that would, I did not doubt, prove more effective.

The second error of that evening did not occur until we reached Chalfont House. I regret it even more bitterly, but I must say in my defense that it was one anyone might have made.

Emerson bundled me out of the cab and tossed the driver a coin. Fog shrouded the dripping trees and made the iron railings gleam as if freshly painted. Dawn was not far away, though it was to be seen more as a diminution of darkness than an increase of light. Nevertheless, neither darkness nor Emerson's attempt to hurry me could prevent me from observing the figure huddled by the gates.

"Oh, good Gad," I exclaimed. "Of all the ... I cannot believe ..."

Catching hold of a limp, dank fold of cloth, I pulled the crouching figure to its feet and propelled it through the gate, which Emerson had opened.

"Hurry and close the gate, Emerson," I exclaimed. "This is the last straw! Just wait till I get you inside, young man!"

"But, Peabody," Emerson began.

"You cannot excuse this, Emerson. I gave strict orders."

Gargery had been watching for us. He opened the door before I could knock, and fell back, eyes wide with consternation, as I pulled the dripping, squirming, filthy child into the hall.

He was not Ramses.

Even the muck that smeared his face could not blur features so distinct from those of my son. This child's nose was a mere button; the eyes that gleamed ferretlike between squinting lids were a pale, washed-out blue.

"Emerson," I said. "You will wake the whole house laughing so loudly. I see nothing amusing in the situation."

I started up the stairs. Emerson stayed behind in the hall; I heard the chink of coins—his inevitable panacea for social distress—and a muttered colloquy with Gargery, broken by infuriating gurgles of laughter. He soon caught me up, however, and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Off to bed, are you, Peabody? Good, good. You must be very tired. I believe I will just—"

"If you are going to look in on Ramses, I will accompany you. I will not believe that child is where he is supposed to be until I see it with my own eyes."

Ramses was where he was supposed to be, in the strict legal sense of the phrase, though he was not in his bed. His door was open and he stood on the threshold, his small bare toes just touching the sill. "Good evening, Mama, good evening, Papa," he began. "Hearing Papa's voice downstairs, I ventured to—"

"Go to bed, Ramses," I said.

"Yes, Mama. May I venture to ask—"

"No, you may not."

"Knowing of your destination," said Ramses, trying another tack,
"I
was in some concern for your safety. I trust you have taken no—"

"Oh, good Gad," I cried. "Does nothing escape your insatiable curiosity, Ramses?"

"Ssssh," said Emerson, putting his finger to his lips. "You will wake the children, Amelia. I don't doubt that every servant in the house has been gossiping about our expedition; didn't you observe Gargery lurking at the library door while we were talking with O'Connell? Since you are awake, Ramses, and understandably concerned, come downstairs and Papa will tell you all about it. I promised Gargery—"

"Ramses is confined to his room," I reminded Emerson. My voice was, as I hope it always is, quite calm.

"Ah, yes," said Emerson. "I had forgotten. In that case, I will ask Gargery to come up here. I promised him ..."

I am the most tolerant of women, but to join my husband, my son,
and my butler in a discussion of our evening in an opium den and at Bow Street was really a bit too much. I went to bed, knowing full well that one of Emerson's reason for such uncouth conviviality was to avoid the questions he expected on a certain subject I had vowed not to mention again.

Nine

H
ow LONG the discussion continued I cannot say; but I know that the housemaids complained next day of the strong smell of pipe smoke and beer in Ramses' room, and I was obliged, in all fairness, to clear him of the imputed accusation. When I awoke, Emerson was at my side, sleeping as sweetly as if he had nothing whatever on his conscience, and smiling in a way that roused the direst suspicions. He had taken care not to disturb me when he came to bed.

Though I had slept only a few hours, I felt quite fresh and full of ambition. Righteous indignation has that effect on my character.

As I sat at breakfast looking through the morning post I was pleased to find letters from Evelyn and from Rose. The latter elaborated on the recovery of Bastet in terms that made plain the writer's affection for that estimable animal, and reassured me as to its health. Rose's conjectures concerning the reasons for the cat's absence and subsequent return need not be repeated here, for I have already touched upon them; and succeeding events were to prove her—and me—quite correct. (Though no one has ever explained, to my satisfaction, why a feline of such outstanding intelligence should have been so retarded in this particularly interesting area.)

Evelyn's letter contained the usual amiable domestic news, but unfortunately she had seen the reports of the riot at the Museum, and her alarm and distress filled several pages of notepaper. She urged me to leave London at once; "for," as she wrote, "one cannot be sure what will happen when persons of unsound mind are involved, and you, my dearest Amelia, have an extraordinary propensity for attracting such persons."

I promised myself I must write her immediately to reassure her—not only about what she had read in the newspapers, but what she was about to read. I could only hope she and Walter did not take the
Morning Mirror.
Not that the unkempt individual in the photograph bore the slightest resemblance to my handsome husband. His ruffianly costume, his ferocious snarl, and the loosened false beard (whose position gave the impression that a small furry animal had seized him by the throat) would have rendered him unrecognizable, were it not for the fact that the caption underneath the photograph removed any possible misapprehensions on the part of the reader. ("Professor Radcliffe Emerson, the well-known Egyptologist, knocking down a constable at the Bow Street police station.") The accompanying text made a number of li-belous allegations and did not fail to mention the establishment in which we had been found. (I could almost hear my dear Evelyn's cry of horror: "An opium den! Walter, what will they do next?")