The Deeds of the Disturber (9 page)

I had completed most of the arrangements for a departure the following day by the time Emerson made his appearance. He was accompanied by Ramses; from the smiles that wreathed both faces, even the saturnine countenance of my son, it was obvious they had made it up.

But it was not from his father that Ramses learned of the imminent arrival of his cousins. No; he got that information, and a painful pinch on his thin cheek, from James. "Won't that be fine, young fellow?" he wheezed. "High time you had some kiddies your own age to play with. My boy Percy is a fine little chap; he'll help put some roses in those pale cheeks, toughen up those muscles of yours ..."

Ramses endured the squeezing and prodding of his upper arm with more equanimity than I would have expected. "How old are my cousins, Uncle James, and what is their number? I am forced to confess that I have scarcely been moved by the thought of them, and am uninformed—"

"Be still, Ramses," I said. "How can your uncle answer your question if you go on talking?"

"Er—hmph," said James. "Let me see. There are two of them— Percy and little Violet. I call her 'little' Violet because she is her daddy's precious girl. Their ages? Let me see ... Percy is nine years of age, I believe. Or perhaps ten. Yes. And dear little Violet is—er—"

Emerson's curling lip betrayed his opinion of a man who could not remember the age of his precious girl, or his heir, but he said nothing; he never addressed James directly the entire time.

Ramses rose from his chair. "I beg you will excuse me. I have finished breakfast and I must take something to Bastet. She is behaving rather oddly this morning; perhaps, Mama, you would have a look at her, for I would not want—"

"I will come in a little while, Ramses."

After he had gone James shook his head. "Never heard a child talk like that in my life. But my Percy will soon whip the little chap into shape. He's a regular boy, is my Percy. Healthy outdoor exercise, that's the ticket; soon get your boy back to health. Counter that unfortunate family tendency toward consumption, eh, Amelia?"

He returned to his gobbling of breakfast and I regarded him with silent contempt. There has never been any tendency toward consumption in my family. James had only mentioned it to imply he was doing us a favor, instead of the reverse.

After he had eaten everything on the table, James took his departure,
which was a relief to all concerned. He had informed me he would bring the children to us by the end of the week. As he climbed into the cab that was to take him to the railroad station, he was smirking in a way that raised serious doubts in my mind as to the wisdom of my decision. However, the die was cast; and Amelia Peabody Emerson is not the woman to turn her shoulder from the wheel or abandon a task when it is once begun.

James being gone, Emerson's humor improved, but unfortunately it was adversely affected by the morning paper, which contained a story by Miss Minton about her encounter with us the night before. The young lady had a very brisk, entertaining style of writing, but the accuracy of her reporting left a good deal to be desired. The apparition had not gibbered and capered and made obscene threatening gestures; Emerson had not rolled up his sleeves and challenged it to an exchange of blows
;
and I
had certainly not swooned with terror as he drew me toward the house. (My movements may have been a trifle jerky, but only because Emerson was pulling me along.)

After littering the salon with the shreds of the newspaper and jumping up and down on them, Emerson felt more himself. We then turned to discussing our arrangements for the summer months. Walter and Evelyn repeated their kindly offer of Chalfont House, and I accepted with the proper expressions of appreciation. Emerson's face fell. I aimed an admonitory kick at his shin, which he avoided, having become only too accustomed to little reminders of that nature; but fortunately the reminder was not required. Emerson's own good heart, a quality for which he receives far less credit than he deserves, conquered his bile; and he expressed himself with befitting gratitude.

In truth, Chalfont House is not the most comfortable residence for simple people like ourselves who scorn ostentation for its own sake and prefer domestic comfort to show. "The cursed catacomb" (Emerson's amusing appellation) resembles a museum rather than a residence; it contains upward of fifty rooms and not nearly enough windows. It is one of the oldest houses on the square, having been built at the beginning of the eighteenth century; but it was extensively remodeled in the early 1860's by Evelyn's grandfather, in a (vain) effort to keep up with the Rothschilds. The grand staircase had been inspired by one in the Palazzo Braschi in Rome, the ballroom owed its design to the Palace of Versailles; the billiard room had a vaulted ceiling and walls draped with Chinese silk. In one respect at least later residents could be grateful to the old gentleman and to Mr. Rothschild. Each bedroom possessed an adjoining bath.

It was Walter who suggested we all spend the afternoon at the British Museum. If the idea had originated with me, Emerson would have objected to it; coming from Walter, it occasioned only a good-natured grumble.

"I trust you are not planning to treat us to a visit with the notorious mummy, Walter. You know we abhor that sort of sensationalism."

Walter glanced at his wife, who was smiling to herself over some tender private thought. "My dear Radcliffe, nothing could be farther from my mind. Though I confess I am rather curious. I don't have your cool scientific detachment."

"Bah," said Emerson.

"There is a papyrus I want to examine," Walter continued. "You know I have been working on my translation of the Leyden Magical Text. A few constructions perplex me; I hope to find parallels in B.M. 29465."

"Oh, if that is the case, I will gladly accompany you," Emerson replied. "I may as well announce my arrival and make sure that idiot Budge hasn't given my study to someone else. If you can call a cubicle without windows containing only a desk and a few bookcases a study. I don't suppose you will want to go with us, Peabody."

"You suppose nothing of the kind, Emerson. I am anxious to see how Mr. Budge has displayed the pottery we gave the museum last year."

"If I know Budge, our contributions are still in the packing cases," Emerson grumbled. "The man's insane jealousy of other scholars—I name no names, Peabody—passes all bounds."

Evelyn declined the invitation, at my suggestion. I told her to take a nice little rest, at which she nodded meekly enough; but knowing her propensity to waste time with children, I agreed to Emerson's suggestion that we take Ramses along. With Ramses out of the way, the chances of Evelyn's resting were greatly increased.

Ramses was delighted to be asked. I deduced this, not from his expression, which was as blandly uninformative as usual, but from the long elaborate speech he made expressing his feelings on the subject.

Budge was not in his office. Drawn by the racket Emerson made— "Hi, there, Budge, where the devil are you?" and other expressions of similar nature—a young man emerged from a nearby doorway. It was Miss Minton's less-than-enthusiastic escort of the night before; I recognized him by his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and his air of timid indecision, for fog, darkness, and his voluminous outer garments had prevented me from seeing much more than that. In daylight, he proved to be a
slender young fellow of medium height with a long, narrow face and mild dark eyes.

He greeted us with an air of reserve which I attributed to youthful modesty; but Emerson soon put him at his ease, wringing his hand and making a little pleasantry about our last meeting. The young man blushed becomingly.

"I apologize again, Professor. It was a most unfortunate—"

"Why should you apologize? You are not responsible for Miss Minton's actions. But perhaps you would like to be, eh? A handsome young lady, and very—er—high-spirited."

The blush spread from Wilson's cheeks up to his hairline and down to his chin. He adjusted his eyeglasses. "You misunderstand, Professor. I admire, I respect . . . But I would never presume ..."

"Well, well," said Emerson, becoming bored with the subject. "So Budge is playing truant, eh? Good. I won't have to waste time with him. I will be returning to London in a week's time, Wilbur—oh yes, Wilson. Make certain my study is ready for me, will you? It is the one on the north side, at the far end."

"But that room has been assigned to . . ." The young man swallowed convulsively. "Yes, Professor. Certainly. I will attend to it."

Emerson and Walter went off to examine the papyrus, and I took Ramses—over his vehement protests—to visit the book and manuscript collection. "I know you are only interested in Egyptian antiquities," I told him. "But your general education has been sadly neglected. It is time you improved your understanding of literature and history."

Ramses, who was small for his age, could hardly get his nose (or, more pertinently, his eyes) above the top of the cases. After we had inspected the Shakespeare folio and the Gutenberg Bible, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the autographs of the kings and queens of England, and I had lectured briefly on them, we examined the logbook of H.M.S.
Victory,
the flagship of the gallant Nelson. I was distressed, though not surprised, to find that Ramses had never heard of the gallant Nelson. He complained he had a crick in his neck; so, after describing the battle of Trafalgar, I conceded he had probably absorbed enough for one day and graciously permitted him to lead me to the Egyptian Galleries.

How Ramses had learned about the malevolent mummy I do not know. I had certainly taken care not to mention the subject in his hearing. However, his means of acquiring information, particularly on matters that were none of his concern, verged on the uncanny. His hearing and eyesight were preternaturally acute, and although he had reluctantly agreed to abandon the practice of eavesdropping ("except,
Mama, in cases when other, stronger moral considerations prevail"), Emerson was not always careful about watching his tongue.

At any rate, he had heard of the matter and frankly admitted as much when I asked him why he passed by other exhibits that would ordinarily have been of interest to him and headed straight for the room where the mummies were displayed. I must give him credit in this case for candor; instead of pretending, as he might reasonably have done, that he was anxious to see the mummies because he was presently investigating that aspect of Egyptology, he replied, "According to the newspapers, it is at this time of day that the individual disguised as a
sem
priest often appears."

"I cannot imagine why you are interested in the aberrations of some poor lunatic, Ramses."

"If he is a lunatic," Ramses said portentously.

The same doubt had occurred to me, so I could not reproach him for suggesting it. However, I did not feel like discussing it—at least not with Ramses—so I remained silent.

The so-called Mummy Room was always popular with visitors of morbid or vulgar tastes. Today the spectators had clustered around a particular case, and it was immediately apparent that a theatrical performance of some kind was in progress. As I approached, I saw that the focus of attention was not the priest, but a woman swathed in flowing and flimsy draperies of a pre-Raphaelite character. I recognized her as a spiritualist medium whose seances had been all the rage a few years earlier, until a representative of the Society for Psychical Research published a blistering article on her methods—which were, according to him, even clumsier than those of the ordinary stage magician.

One could hardly blame the woman for taking advantage of this latest outbreak of public ignorance to advance or restore her career; but I wished she were more inventive. The performance was the typical tedious exchange of question and answer between the voices of the medium and her "control" or "spirit guide." Madame Blatantowski's guide had the fascinating (and linguistically impossible) nomen of Fetet-ra, and his baritone voice bore a striking resemblance to her own hoarse tones. He seemed to be urging that all those who wished to see the "princess" restored to her tomb should send contributions to Madame.

The audience listened with respectful solemnity or with broad skeptical grins, depending on their degree of gullibility. Seeing a particularly broad and skeptical grin on a face nearby, I approached it.

"I thought you were not interested in this sort of sensationalism," I remarked.

"Walter made me come," said Emerson. "Hallo, Ramses, my boy; pay close attention, you will seldom see such a striking example of human folly."

Walter greeted me with a nod and a smile, but Mr. Wilson, who was with him, did not share his amusement.

"Oh dear, oh dear," he bleated, like the sheep he rather resembled. "What will Mr. Budge say? He ordered me to discourage this sort of thing ..."

Walter patted him on the back. "Cheer up, Wilson. This does bring visitors to the museum; some may linger and improve their minds."

Wilson wrung his thin hands. "You are kind to say so, Mr. Emerson, sir, and I will certainly put that argument to Mr. Budge; but he does not ... He has ordered me ..."

"For once I agree with Budge," Emerson announced. "This is a waste of time. The wretched female has no notion how to interest an audience."

"Your exorcisms are much more effective," I agreed. "But, Emerson, few people possess your dramatic talents."

"True," Emerson said. "I suppose she deserves a little something for her effort." And before I could stop him, he pulled some coins from his pocket. With a skillful toss he pitched them over the heads of the spectators, so that they fell, ringing musically on the marble, at the feet of Madame.

That put an end to the performance. Some of the watchers burst out laughing and threw more pennies. Others dived to pick them up. Emerson watched with a benevolent smile.

"How very rude, Emerson," I scolded.

"My tolerance for fools is limited," said Emerson. "If she . . . Ha! Look there, Peabody. The prologue is over and the play is about to commence."

The "priest" had timed his entrance well. All eyes had been focused on the medium; no one—certainly not I—had seen him approach. It was as if he had emerged from one of the anthropoid coffins ranged along the wall. He stood as still, arms folded on his breast. The painted faces of the coffins were no more immobile than his own.