The Deeds of the Disturber (13 page)

"I suppose you will claim this is only an odd coincidence and has nothing to do with the death of the night watchman," I began.

"There you go jumping to conclusions again, Peabody," Emerson said mildly. "At least let me study the facts—pardon me, the newspaper story, which is not the same thing—before I make up my mind. Hmmm,
hmmm. Yes. Blood-drenched corpse found at the foot of the obelisk . . . scrap of paper with a message calling down the curse of the gods on those who profaned the tomb . . . mysterious figure clad in white robes skulking along the Embankment in the curdling fog . . . Miss Minton writes with zest, does she not? Another bond between you."

"Your harmless lunatic is not so harmless, it appears," I remarked, ignoring the last comment.

"The police are as skeptical of the priest's presence as I would be, my dear. It seems the witness is not noted for his adherence to the principles of temperance. I would not be at all surprised to learn that Mr. O'Connell committed the crime himself. These journalists will stop at nothing to achieve—"

"Ridiculous, Emerson."

"Why? Oldacre was small loss to the world. An effete snob, always toadying to titles; a gambler, a lecher, an habitue of vile dens—"

"Dens of iniquity, Emerson?"

"I was thinking of opium dens and low grog shops and—er—well, yes, one might call them dens of iniquity." Emerson tossed the newspaper aside. Frowning, he fingered the dent in his chin as is his habit when deep in thought.

I considered this a hopeful sign. "Then you think the matter deserves to be investigated, Emerson?"

"It certainly requires to be investigated, and I feel certain the police are doing so."

"Oh, Emerson, you know what I mean!"

"Yes, Peabody, I know what you mean." Emerson continued to stroke his chin. "There is one aspect of this case that tempts me," he said seriously.

"The archaeological aspect," I cried. "I knew, Emerson, that you would—"

"No, Peabody. The fact that this case has not the slightest aroma of aristocracy about it. Not a lord or lady, not a sir, not even an honorable! Only a lowly night watchman, and then an assistant keeper. Almost, Peabody, I am moved to interfere."

"Emerson, there are times when your sense of humor . . ."I caught my breath. "Emerson! Do you realize what you have said? A night watchman and
then
an assistant. . . The lunatic is moving up the social ladder. Where will he strike next?"

Emerson's dour face brightened. "Budge!" he cried. "What a delightful thought, Peabody!"

"My dear Emerson, such inappropriate expressions of levity would be sadly misinterpreted if they were overheard. I know you better; you would not really like to see Mr. Budge foully murdered—"

"No," Emerson admitted. "I would prefer to see him alive and suffering."

"But what if Mr. Budge is not the next victim? There are a number of Oriental scholars in London, Emerson. Soon there will be another —the greatest, the most distinguished of them all."

Emerson, who—to judge by his smile—had been pleasurably pondering the sufferings of Mr. Budge, looked up. My suggestion seemed to strike him all of a heap. His thick dark eyebrows swooped up and down, his lips moved, as if seeking the precise, the exact word. Finally he found it.

"Lunatic," he shouted. "Of all the lunatic theories you have ever concocted—and my dear Peabody, there have been a number of them—this is the most . . . the wildest . . . the . . . But—but I must compose myself. I must exercise that stern control refined by years of bitter experience."

"You really must," I agreed. "Your face is absolutely engorged, Emerson. Either control your emotion or express it—rid yourself of it. Tear up the newspaper, Emerson. Break something. I have always disliked that vase—"

Emerson leaped from his chair. He reached for the vase, but thought better of it. He stood rigid, fists clenched, murmuring brokenly to himself; and slowly the fiery flood of ichor that had tinted his cheeks subsided. He emitted a weak laugh. "You had me for a moment, Peabody. What a joker you are. You don't believe it either. You were only teasing me."

I said nothing. The truth could not be expressed, for fear of arousing another storm of wrath; a lie was impossible to one of my open and candid personality.

"It was an excuse," Emerson mused. "Not a very good one, either, if I may say so; usually you can come up with more sensible rationalizations for meddling in murders. You are going to meddle, aren't you, Peabody?"

"Why no, Emerson. I never meddle."

Reader, I spoke the truth. I never have and never will meddle in other people's affairs. It is a word I abhor. There are times when a gentle hint or a helpful suggestion may save unnecessary suffering, and this I would not scruple to employ. But meddle—never.

My dear Emerson was himself again. A healthy flush warmed his
brown cheeks; his irresistible chuckle bubbled up in his throat and issued from lips that had parted to display strong white teeth. He threw his arms around me.

"What a cool liar you are, Peabody. You can hardly wait to begin. We won't have been in London a day before you will call on Scotland Yard, on Budge, on the mummy—"

"Emerson, I must protest the unjust, not to say frivolous—" But I was unable to continue reasoned discussion, since Emerson's actions had—as they not infrequently do—a peculiar effect on my ability to concentrate. I essayed one last protest: "Emerson. Your hands are covered with ink from the newspaper; I am sure you are leaving prints all over my blouse, and what Wilkins will think when he sees . . . Oh, my dear Emerson!"

"Who cares what Wilkins thinks?" Emerson muttered. And I was forced to confess that he had, with his customary acumen, struck straight to the heart of the matter.

"Superstitious" is not a word, I believe, that anyone would dare apply to ME. Amelia Peabody Emerson prey to degrading and irrational beliefs? A short, sharp bark of laughter is the only possible response to such an idea.

And yet, dear Reader, and yet... At one time in my life I had been forced to believe in the premonitory nature of dreams, when one such vision was later fulfilled to the last lurid detail. I do not insist that such is always the case. It may well be, as some authorities now claim (at the time I pen these words) that dreams reflect other, even more repugnant, elements—low, disgusting racial memories, repressed unnatural desires, and the like. I am never dogmatic; my mind is always receptive to new ideas, unlikely and unpalatable though they may be.

But enough of philosophical musings. Suffice it to say I dreamed that night: a vision of such horror that for many years thereafter the mere thought of it set me to shuddering uncontrollably.

I huddled in musty darkness, fearing I knew not what. A cold stone wall was at my back, cold stone pressed the soles of my bare feet. At first there was utter silence. Then, so dim with distance that it might have been no more than the murmur of my own pulsating blood, came a sound. Gradually it strengthened. It became a deep and solemn chanting. And then—then the aforementioned blood turned to ice in my veins, for I knew that evil music.

Light accompanied the chanting and grew with it. The lights came from torches, visible at first only as distant specks of flame moving in
slow procession. They came nearer; the darkness yielded to their ghastly illumination.

I stood, or crouched, on a ledge high above a vast chamber carved from the living rock. The polished walls, smooth as satin, reflected and multiplied the lights of the torches. They were carried by figures robed in white and crowned by monstrous masks-—crocodile and hawk, lion and ibis, carved with the appearance of life. The chamber brightened as the torchbearers moved to their positions, surrounding a low altar presided over by a monumental statue. It was Osiris, ruler of the dead, divine judge; his body tightly swathed in mummy wrappings, his arms crossed over his breast, his hands holding the twin scepters. His tall white crown and snowy alabaster shoulders shone pale in contrast to the flat black of face and hands (for so the pagan Egyptians depicted their divinities—an interesting and as yet unexplained phenomenon).

Pacing slowly behind the light-bearers came the high priest. Unlike his shaven-headed subordinates he wore a great curled wig, with row upon row of ringlets. The mask that concealed his face had human features, rigid as the face of death. Beyond a gasp of horrified recognition I paid this apparition little heed; for behind him, borne aloft on a litter carried by naked slaves, was a form I knew.

They had loaded him with chains, against which his mighty sinews strove in vain. His bare arms and breast gleamed like polished bronze from the oil of anointing and the perspiration of struggle; his teeth were bared and his eyes blazed. But even courage such as his could not avail; as the deep voices rose and fell in hideous invocation, rough hands dragged him from the litter and flung him upon the altar. The high priest advanced, the sacrificial knife in his hand. And then—oh, then—my heart fails me even now when I remember—the doomed man's sapphirine eyes turned to where I stood frozen, finding me even in the darkness; and his lips shaped a word . . .

"Peabody! Peeeeea-body ..."

"Emerson!" I shrieked.

"What the devil is the matter with you?" Emerson demanded. "You were grunting and squirming like a hungry piglet."

The soft light of a spring sunrise illumined his beloved, unshaven face and tumbled hair, his sleep-heavy eyes and familiar scowl.

"Oh, Emerson . . ."I flung my arms around him.

"Hmmmm," said Emerson in a pleased voice. "Not that I object to a warm, soft, squirming little ..." But the remainder of the conversation has no bearing on the present narrative, and indeed I fear that I have already said too much.

I did not think it wise to describe my dream to Emerson. For one thing, it would have reminded him of that other vision whose ghastly fulfillment he had beheld with his own eyes,* and the recollection of which still had a deleterious effect on his blood pressure. For another thing, it would have provoked rude jeers and remarks about meddling. Emerson never ordered me to do, or refrain from doing, anything; he knew the futility of
that.
But he had pleaded with me to avoid involvement in yet another criminal case. He had a great deal of work to do that summer, he remarked pathetically; and he absolutely refused to be distracted again.

Of course it would end as it always did, with the two of us hand in hand, equal partners in detection as in archaeology, nose down on the trail of another vicious villain. Emerson would thus have the satisfaction of doing what he secretly yearned to do, and the even greater satisfaction of blaming it all on ME. This is a favorite trick of husbands, I have observed, and although Emerson is vastly superior to the majority of the species, he is not entirely free of masculine weaknesses.

As for me, my decision had been made. The hideous dream could not be a literal portent of things to come. Though my trained scholar's brain had functioned even in sleep, sketching a reasonable rendering of priestly costume and carved god, there had been a number of inaccuracies in the scenario. For one thing, human sacrifice was not practiced by the Egyptians—at least, not at the period represented. At least . . .

I promised myself I would investigate that question at a later time. At the present time, I could think only of Emerson. The dream had been a warning. Not that Emerson stood in any danger of being sacrificed on a no longer extant altar of a god whose last worshiper died several millennia ago; that was only the symbol my dreaming mind had chosen to warn me that peril of some sort threatened my beloved husband. Superstitious? No, not I! But I would be the first to acknowledge—nay, to insist—that such profound affection as binds my dear Emerson to me with hoops of steel (to quote the Bard) constitutes a profoundly mystical union; and that under those circumstances anything is possible. I had as yet no real proof that my theory was correct. But if it were— oh, dear Reader, if it were ... If some new homicidal killer stalked the fog-ridden streets of London by night, seeking not unfortunate abandoned women but Egyptologists . . .

To ignore that possibility would have been to fail in my obligations as a wife and risk the destruction of all I held dear (except, of course, for Ramses). I therefore completed my remaining tasks in short order; and on the following morning we left for London.

The first part of the drive was pleasant, through sunken country lanes where the blossoms of wild blackberry twined among the thorny hedgerows, and along fields fresh with the green of new crops. However, the carriage was somewhat cramped for five of us, especially when three of the five were children. Ten minutes after we drove through the gates of Amarna House they began asking when we would be there. Emerson, who chafes at inactivity, was almost as bad. He had actually proposed taking the train up to London, leaving me to bring the children and the luggage. Needless to say, I promptly quashed this idea. Violet, Percy, and I occupied one seat, with Ramses and Emerson opposite. In this way I hoped to prevent the sort of rude scuffling between the boys that often occurred when they were in close proximity.

Ramses was in a glum mood, however, for he was without his constant companion. The cat Bastet had disappeared.

The cause of her strange behavior became clear after we got home. The congregating of what appeared to be every male feline within a ten-mile radius left no doubt, in my mind at least, of what was afoot; and although I am sympathetic to the expression of amatory excitability in man or beast, I must say that the advent of Bastet's admirers added considerably to my difficulties. Their passionate singing filled the night and made sleep impossible; they fought, among themselves and with the dogs. It was something of a relief when she finally chose one suitor from among the rest and eloped with him. But she had not returned by the time we left and I was forced to reject Ramses' plea that we wait for her return. I would never have been cruel enough to tell him what I feared—that this event might be indefinitely delayed. I had no fear of her survival. She was larger and stronger than most domestic cats and had grown to maturity in the inhospitable Egyptian desert. From the wild she had come, graciously consenting to share our lives for a time; and to the wild she might well return. This possibility never occurred to Ramses; he assumed the cat's devotion to him was as profound as was his to her. A touching, childish notion . . . And since it was one of the few childish notions ever expressed by Ramses, I chose not to disabuse him of it.