The Deeds of the Disturber (14 page)

With Ramses sunk in brooding silence and Emerson fidgeting and Percy spouting questions like a repeater rifle, and Violet becoming
increasingly sticky from the sweets she sucked (a supply of these being the only method of keeping her from whining), I cannot say I enjoyed the journey. However, all anguish must end at last; green fields gave way to suburban villas and then to the wilderness of brick and mortar that is the city. After crossing the bridge under which the gray water flowed with sluggish flood, and enduring the chaos of traffic that filled the Strand, we arrived at the relative peace of St. James's Square.

Luncheon was waiting for us, but Emerson announced he would not partake of it.

"You are going out?" I inquired. My tone was calm and pleasant as I hope it always is, but Emerson reads the innermost secrets of my heart. Twisting his hat in his hands and trying to avoid my intent look, he said, "Well, but Peabody, there is nothing I can do here. If I could assist you—"

"Oh, I have nothing to do either, Emerson. Only settling the children, and unpacking, and speaking to cook about dinner and explaining to the housemaids that on no account must they touch any of Ramses' experiments, and replying to a dozen letters and notes—"

"What letters and notes?" Emerson demanded. "Curse it, Amelia, I will not be distracted by social obligations. How did the writers of these notes and letters learn we were to be in London?"

"The news is generally known, I suppose," I replied. "Evelyn informed the staff here of the expected time of our arrival, and you know servants will gossip about the doings of persons like ourselves."

"And you wrote to everyone you know, inviting them to call on us," Emerson grumbled.

"Only those professional friends whom I knew you would want to see, Emerson. Howard Carter and Mr. Quibell, Frank Griffith, who is at University College—"

"Then read your cursed notes and letters and reply to them. Only don't expect me to be present at luncheon, tea, and what-not when you entertain. I have work to do, Peabody!"

Slapping his hat on his head, he charged out the door.

In fact, my dear Evelyn had done everything possible to make our temporary residence in London as free of care as it could be. There was always a skeleton staff at Chalfont House, on board wages when the family was not in residence. The staff was actually much larger than was required, for Evelyn, who has the kindest heart in the world, was always taking in bedraggled young girls and offering them refuge. The housekeeper, though not at all bedraggled and certainly not young, was also an object of her charity; a distant relation of Evelyn's mother, now
long deceased, she had been the wife of a village clergyman and had been left destitute and without occupation upon the death of her husband. Being keenly aware of the tribulations of this class of women— gentlewomen without education, training, or resources—Evelyn had provided her not only with a refuge, but a purpose and an occupation. Mrs. Watson had responded with a grateful determination to be of use to her kind employer. The young girls she trained, some of them rescued from situations so horrible I would fear to tax the reader's sympathy by relating them, looked on her as a mother, and most of them went on to excellent situations or to marriage.

Knowing that this good lady would have matters well in hand, I had been guilty of a slight exaggeration when I complained to Emerson; even so, there were a number of things to be discussed before a smooth routine could be established, and I settled down with Mrs. Watson to discuss them.

We had not brought any of our servants with us. Rose was my second-in-command; Amarna House could not get on without her. Wilkins was—to be quite honest—more trouble than he was worth. I had considered bringing John, since he was accustomed to our ways (even Ramses' mummies) but it would have been unkind to ask John to leave his little family.

Mrs. Watson assured me there would be no difficulty. "Three of our girls have just left us, but there are plenty more where they came from."

"Unfortunately," I said, sighing.

"Yes." The housekeeper shook her head. She continued to favor the formal dress of her youth, and was never to be seen without a cap on her handsome white head. These caps betrayed an unexpected touch of frivolity, each being more extravagant than the last in the way of ribbons, lace, and bows. That day she looked as if an entire group of large lavender butterflies had settled on her head.

"I will put an advertisement in the
Post,"
I said. "We want someone to watch over the children. A nurserymaid for little Violet; for the boys, someone—er—sturdier."

"A tutor?"

"A guard," I replied. "Do you think one of the footmen—"

"They are good lads," the housekeeper replied doubtfully. "But none are well educated, and their habits are not precisely what you would want your son to acquire."

"I am not so much concerned with educating Ramses as with preventing him from killing himself—or his cousin," I said. "They don't get on, Mrs. Watson. They are constantly at one another's throats."

"Boys will be boys," said Mrs. Watson with a tolerant smile.

"Humph," I said.

"One of the housemaids—Kitty or Jane—might do well enough in the nursery for the time being," Mrs. Watson mused. "And Bob is a husky young fellow—"

"I will leave it to you, Mrs. Watson. I have every confidence in your judgment." Having concluded these arrangements, I took my hat and my parasol, and left the house.

It was a fine spring day. A stiff northwest breeze had cleared away some of the smoke and an occasional glimpse of blue sky was to be seen. I set out at a brisk stride, looking with contempt and pity at the other ladies I saw; laced into tight stays and teetering on high-heeled shoes, they were almost incapable of motion, much less a good healthy walk. Poor foolish victims of society's dictates—but (I reminded myself) willing victims, like the misguided females of India who fought to fling themselves into the funeral pyres of their bigamous husbands. Enlightened British laws had put an official end to that ghastly custom; what a pity British opinion was so unenlightened with regard to the oppression of English women.

Musing thus, I was unaware of the footsteps that kept pace with my own until a breathless voice behind me remarked, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Emerson."

Without moderating my pace, I replied, "Good afternoon, Miss Min-ton, and good-bye. There is no sense in your following me, since I am not going to do anything that will interest your readers."

"Please, won't you stop for a moment? You walk so rapidly I can't keep up and talk at the same time. I want to apologize."

I was forced to stop, since Regent Street, which I proposed to cross, was filled from curb to curb with moving vehicles. Miss Minton said, "I behaved very badly. I am heartily ashamed of myself. Only ... it was all his fault, Mrs. Emerson. He does irritate me so—and then I act without thinking of the consequences."

Taking advantage of a break in the traffic, I proceeded to cross the street. Miss Minton was on my heels, though an omnibus narrowly missed knocking her down.

"You refer, I presume, to Mr. O'Connell," I said.

"Well—yes. Though he is no worse than the others. It is a man's world, Mrs. Emerson, and if a woman is to make her way, she must be as rude and aggressive as they are."

"Not at the risk of losing her femininity, Miss Minton. One may succeed in any profession and still remain a lady."

"That is certainly true of you," Miss Minton said earnestly. "But you are a unique person, Mrs. Emerson. Dare I confess something to you? Ever since I first read of your adventures in Egypt, I have looked up to you. One of the reasons I have pursued this story so indefatigably is that I hoped it would give me the opportunity to meet you—my idol, my ideal."

"Hmmm. Well, Miss Minton, I certainly sympathize with your aspirations and I quite understand that the profession you have chosen makes difficult demands on a woman."

"Then you forgive me?" the young lady asked, clasping her hands.

"Forgiveness is required of Christians and I hope I always perform my Christian duty. I hold no grudge, but that doesn't mean I have any intention of cooperating with you in your quest for a sensation."

"Of course not. Er—you aren't by chance going to Scotland Yard, are you?"

I looked sharply at her and saw that her lips had curved in a smile. "Ah," I said. "You are having a little joke at my expense. Very amusing, upon my word. In fact, I am going to insert an advertisement in the Post. Not one of your mysterious notices in the agony columns, but a simple request for a servant. After that I am going to meet my husband at the British Museum, where he is working—not on the mysterious mummy problem, but on his history of ancient Egypt. All very harmless and innocent, you see; you are at liberty to follow me if you like, since I can't very well prevent you, but it will be a waste of your time as well as a long, tiring walk."

Miss Minton's eyes widened. "You are going to walk to Fleet Street and then to Bloomsbury?"

"Certainly.
Mens sana in corpore sano,
Miss Minton; a
mens sana
is dependent, in my opinion, upon a
corpore sano,
and regular exercise—"

"Oh, I quite agree," Miss Minton exclaimed. "And now I understand your youthful appearance and fit, handsome figure. I hope you don't mind my saying that."

I shook my head, smiling; for really, the girl had very pretty, charming manners when she chose to display them. "And your costume," she went on, "how practical and yet how becoming. In the best of taste and yet comfortable."

"I wish I could say the same of you," I replied good-naturedly. "Not that your dress isn't very pretty. Sleeves have become even larger, I observe (though I would not have supposed it to be possible), and the width of your skirt allows you to walk freely without swaddling your
limbs in excessive fabric. The color—what do they call it this year— saffron, mustard, goldenrod?—it becomes your complexion. And those scrolls of braid on the wrists and lapels . . . You had better button the coat, Miss Minton, the wind is a touch cool. Here, allow me. Yes, it is as I suspected; your stays are too tight. It is a wonder you can catch your breath." I proceeded to give her a little lecture on the iniquitous effect of tight corseting upon the internal organs, to which she listened without attempting to conceal her interest. All at once she said impulsively, "How interesting all this is. Mrs. Emerson, would you—could you—is it possible that you would consent to stop and have a cup of tea with me while we continue this discussion?"

I hesitated; for indeed I was reluctant to give up the hope of converting yet another young woman to the advantages of rational dress and perhaps saving her health, or even her life. She went on persuasively, "You won't lose any time, I promise; for if you will permit me the very great pleasure of doing a small service for you, as apology and thanks, I will be happy to insert your advertisement in the
Post.
I am going to Fleet Street in any case. That will save you a good many steps, since you can go directly to the Museum."

Waving her umbrella, she indicated a nearby shop. I recognized the name; it was one of a line of teashops which catered, I had been told, to respectable ladies of the professional class, of which there were a growing number. (Though not so many as there ought to have been.)

We had a nice little talk. The conversation ranged widely, from fashions to the rights of women, from marriage (to which institution I have certain serious objections, though personally my experience has been almost entirely positive) to the profession of journalism. However, I confess (since the reader has probably suspected it already) that my chief interest was in subtly extracting from Miss Minton all she knew about the case of the malignant mummy.

Miss Minton agreed with me that the identity of the lunatic in the priestly garb was of primary importance. His elusiveness thus far verged on the supernatural; to say, as the more sensational accounts did, that he had a habit of vanishing into thin air was unquestionably an exaggeration, but metaphorically it was a reasonable description. However, Miss Minton insisted that he had thus far eluded pursuit primarily because no one had been particularly interested in following him.

"He was only one lunatic among many," she said, smiling cynically. "Now, however ..."

"I thought the police didn't believe the witness who claimed to have seen him near the scene of the murder."

"So they say. But that may be only a device on the part of Scotland Yard, to lull him into a sense of false security. In any case, he is an object of considerable interest to the press. How I would love to be the one to apprehend and unmask him! What a journalistic coup!" Her eyes flashed.

"You have a scheme in mind," I said shrewdly. "Does it by chance involve your young friend at the Museum?"

"Eustace?" The girl gave a peal of merry laughter. "Dear me, no. Eustace would like nothing better than to see me give up the case, and the profession of journalism."

"But you don't scruple to make use of him," I said. "Shame, Miss Minton. To take advantage of a young man's affectionate feelings in order to extract information is really ... I presume he was acquainted with the murdered man?"

"Yes." She hesitated for a moment; but my encouraging smile and expectant air were too much for her to resist. "I should not say it, but from what I have heard, Mr. Oldacre was no great loss."

"Strange. Emerson said much the same."

"I had occasion to meet him while I was pursuing my initial investigation," the girl continued. Her soft mouth hardened in distaste. "A sleek, smooth-talking rascal with wet hands—you know what I mean, Mrs. Emerson—and eyes that seemed to look through one's clothing. He was overly familiar with equals and fawning to superiors; always trying to imitate a way of life he could neither afford nor appreciate—"

"Ah," I said keenly. "Was he in debt, then?"

"Constantly."

"Then perhaps it was a moneylender who killed him."

"Moneylenders don't kill the goose that lays the golden eggs," Miss Minton said. "Nor do they continue to lend money without security. Oldacre was not independently wealthy, and his salary from the Museum was not enough to support him in the style he desired. You see what I am getting at, don't you, Mrs. Emerson?"

"Blackmail."

"Quite right. And the victims of blackmailers do sometimes turn on their tormentors."

"But that theory raises more questions than it answers," I said. "Whom was he blackmailing, and for what reason? And what does the lunatic priest have to do with the affair? You reason ingeniously, Miss Minton, but you lack my experience in these matters, and I must tell you ..."

Which I did, at some length, concluding, "Well, my dear, I wish
you luck. It would be a pleasure to see a woman succeed where arrogant males fail."

Her eyes gleamed. "If you feel that way—" she began.

"You must not count on my assistance, Miss Minton. I take no interest in the case. I have not the time to pursue it. I will be very busy this summer. Assisting the professor with his book on the history of ancient Egypt, preparing our excavation report for publication, attending the annual meeting of the Society for the Preservation of the Monuments of Ancient Egypt (where I have promised to read a paper on the flooding of the burial chamber of the Black Pyramid) . . . oh, any number of things. So I had better be on my way."

We parted with assurance of mutual regard, and I thanked her again for undertaking my errand.

I waited until her slim, trim figure was out of sight before I started walking. It would never have done for her to see the direction I took —not toward Piccadilly and Shaftesbury Avenue, the most direct route to Russell Square, but following her, to the Strand and the Embankment. I walked jauntily, swinging my parasol, for I was feeling quite pleased with myself. I had not told a single falsehood (a habit I deplore), yet I had managed to get her off the track.

Emerson would have said it served me right for being so smug. Yet who could have suspected that her pretty smiling face was capable of concealing such dark duplicity?

Certainly not an individual as forthright and honest as I.

Six

H
ERETOFORE all my criminal investigations had occurred in the Middle East, so I had never had occasion to visit New Scotland Yard. I had, of course, observed the building with professional interest whenever I happened to pass by, and I did not agree with the aesthetes who sneered at its architecture. Red brick banded with white Portland stone gave it a picturesque charm, and the rounded turrets at each corner suggested a baronial castle. Its appearance may have been at variance with its grim function, but I see no reason why prisons, fortresses, factories, and other places of confinement should not look attractive.

Being accustomed to the vagaries of Egyptian police officials and the rudeness of their English superiors, I was pleasantly surprised by the efficiency and affability with which I was received. Having asked for the person in charge of the murder of Mr. Oldacre, I was shown at once to a (rather dreary) office with windows overlooking the Embankment. It contained two desks, three chairs, several cabinets, and two men, one a uniformed constable, the other a lean, grizzled man as emaciated as any mummy, which he rather resembled, for the skin of his face was set in a thousand wrinkles. When my name was announced, he hastened to greet me, his thin lips straining as if trying to smile.

"Mrs. Emerson! I need not ask if you are
the
Mrs. Emerson; I am familiar with your appearance, from portraits that have appeared from time to time in the newspapers. Do sit down. Will you have a cup of tea?"

I accepted, partly out of politeness and partly because I was curious to see what sort of beverage they brewed in the precincts of Scotland
Yard. After dusting off the chair he offered, I sat down, and the constable hastened out to do his chief's bidding.

"I am Inspector Cuff," said the grizzled gentleman, seating himself behind his desk. "I was expecting you, Mrs. Emerson. Indeed I expected you would do me the honor of calling on me before this."

His lips had abandoned the struggle to shape a smile, but there was a friendly, not to say admiring, twinkle in his keen gray eyes. I was gratified and said so, adding, "I apologize for not coming before this, Inspector. Family and professional duties, you know."

"I quite understand, ma'am. But you also owe a duty to the citizens of England, and to the hard-working Metropolitan Police, to assist us with your famous talents in the area of crime detection."

I lowered my eyes modestly. "Oh, as to that, Inspector, I can hardly claim ..."

"You needn't be reticent with me, Mrs. Emerson. I know all about you. We have a mutual acquaintance, who is also an admirer of yours. Mr. Blakeney Jones, who formerly advised the Cairo Police."

"Mr. Jones—of course! I remember him well. He took my statement on one occasion, when I was able to deliver to him a pair of hardened criminals who had been annoying me. Is he back in London, then?"

"Yes, and has been for over a year. He will be sorry to have missed you; he is on holiday at the moment."

"Please give him my regards when next you see him." I stripped off my gloves, folded my hands, and regarded Cuff earnestly. "But enough compliments, Inspector. Let us get down to business."