The Deeds of the Disturber (8 page)

In justice to myself I feel I must explain to the reader why I did not respond with the unhesitating warmth the bonds of blood and familial affection might seem to demand. Blood is one thing; affection is quite another. The first has no claim on me. I have never believed that the accident of birth incurs any obligation on the parties concerned, not even between parent and child once the period of dependency has passed and the adult offspring, having been given every advantage of health and education, is capable of standing on his or her own two feet. Affection, in contrast to blood, must be earned. For those who have my affection I would give my life, my sacred honor, and all my worldly goods—and I take it for granted they would do the same for me.

There had never been any affection between my brothers and myself. They were all older than I, James, the eldest of them, being seven years my senior. The others ignored me altogether, but James was throughout my childhood not my defender and guardian, as sentimental tales suggest, but my tormentor and bete noire. He kidnapped my dolls and held them for ransom, the ransom consisting of the few shillings I collected from relatives on the occasions of birthdays and Christmas. When my pecuniary resources failed, he dismembered and disfigured the hostages. He was always pinching and prodding me in public places; when I protested, I was blamed for creating a disturbance. The happiest day of my youth was the day James was sent away to school.

In due time my brothers went off to pursue careers and found families, leaving me to care for Papa. Between his vagueness and my brothers' cruelty and indifference, I had learned to have no good opinion of men, so I was deemed a soured spinster, with little hope of an advantageous marriage.

Revenge is sweet, says an old adage. Revenge is unworthy of a Christian woman, say the Scriptures. In this case the Scriptures err. How I reveled in my dear brothers' fury when it was discovered that Papa had left his entire large fortune to me! James had actually attempted to take
the case to law, claiming I had exercised undue influence on a helpless, aged parent. Thanks to Mr. Fletcher, Papa's excellent man of business—and to my own excellent character—this attempt went for naught, but it can hardly be supposed that it endeared my brother to me. A kind of awkward rapprochement had been patched up; James had attended my nuptials, though his expression, as he beheld the final hope of one day inheriting my money go up in the flames of marital affection, was more suitable for a funeral than a wedding. We had met only once since—at a funeral, appropriately enough—that of my brother Henry, who had succumbed to a digestive disorder. (The rumor whispered about by her loving sisters-in-law that he had been poisoned by his long-suffering wife was probably false, though I would certainly not have blamed her if she had done it.)

These poignant memories flashed through my mind in far less time than it takes to write them out, but when I came back to myself I realized that conversation had ceased and that all eyes were upon me, including those of my dear Emerson. Undoubtedly he had heard James's request, but instead of the forceful comment I had expected he remained silent, his expression unusually enigmatic; it gave me no clue as to his feelings.

James had clasped his fat fingers around the stem of his glass and was leaning forward, elbow planted crudely upon the table. Perspiration streaked his encrimsoned cheeks; his thick lips sagged, conveying not so much the appeal he intended as habitual ill humor. "My dearest, kindest sister," he began.

I turned from him to Emerson. What a difference—what a heavenly contrast! The firm, well-modeled lips, the lean brown cheeks and piercing blue eyes, the wavy black locks that crowned his head, the jutting chin with its pronounced dimple (or cleft, as Emerson prefers to call it when he refers to it at all, which is not often). A soft yet electrical warmth penetrated my limbs. I repressed it—for the time being.

"I must consult my husband," I said. "No such decision can be made without his advice and concurrence."

Emerson's eyes widened, then narrowed with poorly suppressed amusement. "Just what I expected you would say, Peabody. We never act on important matters without consultation—do we?"

"Certainly not, Emerson. We will let you know our decision after we have discussed the situation, James."

But James, being a man, had not the sense to leave well enough alone. Lurching sideways in his chair, he spread his hands in appeal— dropping his glass in the process—and addressed Emerson. "Radcliffe —dear brother—glad to see, master in his own house. Fine woman,
my sister—bossy, though. You tell her, eh? Tell her . . . woman's duty . . . mother . . . gadding about the world . . . poor children ..."

"Good Gad," said Emerson. "I really think we must oblige, Peabody, if only for the sake of the unfortunate offspring of this disgusting object. How did you ever come to have such a relative?"

With the help of two of the stronger footmen, James was persuaded to retire to his bed, all the more readily since he sensed, even in his inebriated condition, that he had won his case. Emerson's argument had a strong effect on me, and Evelyn's pleas could not leave me unmoved, particularly since I feared she might be foolish enough to offer to take the children herself. Walter was the only one who voiced an objection. In his mild, soft voice, he remarked, "Ramses ought to be considered, don't you think? He is not exactly . . . His habits are ... He may not ..."

"Speak up, Walter, and don't stutter," Emerson replied, frowning. "If you are implying that Ramses is not the most suitable companion for well-behaved children, you have a point. If you are suggesting we invite Ramses' opinion, I beg to inform you that you are out of place. He has been wretchedly indulged."

With a smile and a shrug, Walter abandoned the argument; but later, when we had retired to our room, I raised it again. "Emerson, I feel I must ask you this. I am willing to take the children, but I cannot understand your willingness to accommodate James. Are you sure you aren't doing this to pay Ramses back for rewriting your book?"

"I have never heard such an outrageous accusation in my life," Emerson exclaimed. "Pay Ramses back? Can you suppose I would stoop to revenge myself on a little child? My own little child? My sole heir, the prop of my old age, the—"

"I thought so," I said. "Shall we go and say good night to the boy?"

"He'll be asleep," Emerson said.

"No, he won't."

And of course he was not. The room was dark except for a softly glowing lamp; tender mother that she was, Evelyn believed in night lights for small children, lest they learn to fear the dark. Ramses was not afraid of the dark, or anything else that I had been able to discover, but he took advantage of the light in order to read in bed. As soon as we entered he dropped the heavy tome he had been perusing and sat up.

"Good evening, Mama, good evening, Papa. I had feared Papa's well-justified resentment might prevent you from coming to say good night;
I am happy to learn I was mistaken. Though I was attempting to distract myself with this latest volume from the hand of Mr. Wallis Budge, even his absurd statements concerning the process of mummification could not wholly soothe my—"

"You should not be reading in this poor light, Ramses." I sat down on the side of his bed and took the book from him. "You should be asleep, or searching your conscience. Papa's resentment was well founded. You owe him an apology."

"I have already apologized," Ramses replied. "Several times. But, Mama—"

"No buts, Ramses."

"I thought I was helping Papa. Knowing how busy he is, and that the Oxford University Press has several times demanded the manuscript, and hearing your frequent remarks to Papa on the subject of completing the book—"

"Good Gad!" I jumped to my feet. I had been feeling sorry for Ramses; in the soft light he looked almost like an ordinary child, his small face sober and his black curls tumbling over his infantile brow. How like the little wretch it was, to blame
me
for his action! "You will do better to admit your fault and promise never to do it again," I said severely. "You are never to touch a manuscript of your father's again, Ramses. Do you understand?"

"Not even to rescue it in the eventuality of a fire, or one of the dogs happening to get hold of it, or—"

I stamped my foot. I am sorry to say that Ramses often drove me to this childish extremity. "Enough, Ramses. You know what I mean. You are not to write on your father's manuscript, amend it, correct it, or change it in any way."

"Ah," said Ramses thoughtfully. "Now that you have made your meaning clear, Mama, I will certainly obey your command."

"Good." I turned to go. A small voice behind me said, "Will you not kiss me good night, Mama?"

The rigid form of Emerson, arms folded, brow thunderous, sagged visibly. "Don't you want Papa to kiss you, my boy?"

"That would please me more than I can say, Papa. I had not ventured to ask because I believed your anger—your well-merited anger—might inspire a refusal which would have wounded me to the quick. I might have expected you would demonstrate the quality of forgiveness which marks a noble character and is, according to the Koran—"

At this point I fell upon Ramses and gave him the kiss he had requested, though I am bound to confess I was moved as much by the
desire to stop his talking as by affection. Emerson succeeded me; his embrace was as fond as any parent could provide, and after we had hastily left the room—to prevent Ramses from starting another monologue—I said, "You did not tell Ramses about the children."

"Time enough for that tomorrow," Emerson grunted, opening the door of our room and stepping back to let me precede him. He looked rather sheepish. I had expected he would; Emerson is devoted to Ramses and he usually repents harsh words as soon as they have been uttered.

"Perhaps we ought not take them, Emerson."

"I have not changed my mind, Peabody. Ramses is a good little chap—in his way—I am sure he really was trying to be helpful, and perhaps I was a trifle harsh. But he is ... He sometimes ... He really is a trifle
odd,
Peabody, don't you think? He has been too much in the company of adults. It will do him good to join in the innocent games of ordinary youngsters. Cricket and—er—that sort of thing."

"Did you ever play cricket, Emerson?"

"I? Good Gad, no! Can you picture ME wasting my time with what is probably the most infernally illogical and pointless activity ever conceived by the human brain?"

And when he put it in that light, I had to confess that I could not.

Four

D
O NOT SUPPOSE, dear Reader, that I had forgotten or dismissed the interesting occurrences of the early evening, particularly the appearance of the eerie apparition. It was not until the morning after these events, however, that I was able to turn my attention to a consideration of their meaning.

I usually wake before Emerson does. Sometimes I take advantage of the interlude to write letters and compose articles for archaeological journals; more often I lie quietly in bed, planning my activities for the day. I daresay my mental processes are assisted by Emerson's presence at my side; the vigorous sounds of his breathing, the solidity and warmth of his person remind me that in many respects I am among the most fortunate of women.

If memory serves me correctly (which it seldom fails to do), my thoughts that morning ran along the following lines.

Imitation is not unknown in the annals of crime. Indeed, an intelligent criminal might well take advantage of a series of murders or robberies by inserting (so to speak) a single effort of his own, similar in method and appearance, thereby disguising his true motive. It was possible that a second lunatic, too limited in imagination to invent his own eccentricity, had imitated the original
sem
priest. However, that did not seem likely. I had no doubt the apparition I had seen was the same one who haunted the halls of the British Museum. He might be mad, but he was not without intelligence. In common with most of the other inhabitants of London, he could easily have ascertained where we were staying and when we would be likely to arrive there. That he should be curious about us was not surprising; the newspapers had
intimated we were about to be consulted by the Museum. But, much as I would like to have hoped that I had become an object of interest to a homicidal maniac, that premise did not stand up, for the simple reason that no homicide had been committed. Emerson had been right all along, and I ... I too had been correct, since I had never believed the malignant mummy was anything more than a journalistic faradiddle. The lunatic had no murderous designs upon us; he had not even fired a revolver in our direction.

I had reached this stage in my meditations and was struggling to control the disappointment and chagrin my conclusions provoked, when the door opened and Rose poked her head in.

"Hush," I hissed. "The professor is still asleep."

"Indeed, madam?" Her voice was not hushed; indeed, it was a trifle loud. "I came to ask whether Master Ramses may leave his room."

"I cannot say, Rose. The professor confined him to his room, it is the professor's decision as to whether he may leave it."

"Yes, madam." Rose's voice rose to a well-bred shriek. "May I inquire—"

"No, you may not. I don't want you to wake the professor."

"Of course, madam. Thank you, madam." She slammed the door. Emerson stirred irritably. "She always takes Ramses' part," he muttered, and pulled the sheet over his head.

He was obviously awake, and obviously out of temper. There was no use remaining, since he would not be in a proper frame of mind to pursue the course of action that often recommended itself to him on occasions when conditions were propitious. I therefore arose, dressed —not thinking it wise to request Rose's assistance—and went downstairs.

I wanted to get Emerson out of London as quickly as possible—in order that I might get him back to London even more quickly. Though Egypt is my spiritual home, and a nice tidy tomb is my favorite habitation, I am very fond of our house in Kent. It is a modest manor house (eight principal bedrooms, four major reception rooms, and the usual offices) built of mellow red brick and dating from the time of Queen Anne. The surrounding park and farmland comprise two hundred forty seven and one-third acres. We had purchased the estate after the birth of Ramses, and renamed it Amarna Manor in sentimental memory of the scene of our courtship; and we had lived there year-round while Emerson held his appointment at University College. It was always a pleasure to return to it, but I did not expect we would spend much time there this summer. No; foggy, dreary, dirty London would hold us— at least until Emerson finished his book. The sooner he got at it (as I
had frequently remarked), the sooner we could return to the soft green fields and drowsy peace of our (English) home.