The Deeds of the Disturber (28 page)

"Hire a tutor," Emerson grunted.

"That is a subject I mean to raise with you, and one that requires much more consideration than a single careless suggestion. Your presence, Emerson, would make the adventure much easier, and more pleasurable, for all of us."

"Oh," said Emerson. "Well, in that case, Peabody . . . Where do they want to go?"

"To the British Museum," said Ramses promptly.

Watching Percy's expressive face, I said, "That might amuse you, Ramses, and I am sure it would please your papa, but Percy must choose, since it is his birthday. What have you decided, Percy?"

"I will go anywhere you think best, of course, Aunt Amelia. But if you don't mind . . . Papa took us to Madame Tussaud's last year, when we were in London, and oh, it was jolly! I do think Ramses would like it too if he has never been."

Emerson stared at his nephew. Then his face cleared and he chuckled. "He might at that. But what about your sister, my boy? Some of the exhibits—"

"We will avoid the Chamber of Horrors, naturally," I said. "The historical exhibitions are quite educational. Ramses spends far too much time brooding over his morbid hobbies; it will do him good to learn something of modern history."

"Something modern and cheerful, like the French Revolution," Emerson said. "Was not Madame forced by the revolutionary government to model the heads brought to her from the guillotine?"

"Yes, sir, even the head of the poor queen," said Percy eagerly. "Whom Madame had known well. Only fancy, sir, how horrid!"

"Dead," murmured Violet.

Despite the mournful thoughts that darkened my spirit I felt a stir of pride when I beheld our (temporarily enlarged) family assembled for its outing. Emerson had consented to wear a frock coat and a stiff collar, though he complained that the latter chafed his jaw. No persuasion of mine could convince him to complete the elegance of the ensemble
with a top hat; and I must confess that the pipe looked a trifle odd jutting out from between his strong white teeth. However, Emerson looks magnificent at any time and in any costume.

The boys were dressed alike, in sailor suits and caps. The contrast between them had never been more striking: Percy's fresh English complexion and smooth brown locks next to the unmanageable mop of ebony curls and tanned cheeks of Ramses. I am bound to admit the costume did not suit my son any more than it would have suited Emerson. He looked like a grave, miniature adult dressed in children's clothes. The sailor suit had, however, the advantage of being washable. That advantage, with Ramses, was considerable.

Violet was so swathed in ruffles it was difficult to be certain a child was inside them. The frills on her little bonnet had not been properly starched; they hung down and hid most of her face. Instead of a doll she was carrying a stuffed lamb, which I recognized as one which had been given to Ramses when he was three. It was in pristine condition, since he had never played with it. (I will never forget the expression on his face when, after contemplating it in silence for several minutes, he placed it neatly on the shelf and returned to his study of hieroglyphs.)

As we drove, I pointed out monuments of historic interest, and I was pleased to see that Ramses stared as eagerly as any other small boy. As we proceeded along Baker Street, toward the Portman Rooms where Madame's display was housed, he kept leaning out of the carriage as if looking for something, but when I asked what it was he only shook his head.

I confess I have never been able to understand the attraction of waxworks, however accurately they may preserve the features and forms of individuals. It is animation that gives interest to a countenance— the shifting eyes that betray guilt, the quivering lips of an accused suspect.

The historical tableaux were of interest, however, and I gave a little lecture on each of them. Particularly affecting was one that showed Her Majesty as a young girl of seventeen, her hair down upon the shoulders of her modest white nightgown, as the grave, bearded dignitaries knelt to kiss her little hand and hail her as Queen. (For she had, as the Reader may or may not know, been aroused from innocent sleep.) And what tender memories were evoked by the tableau depicting the massacre of the gallant Gordon! I had been in Egypt that year—my first visit to the land of my destiny, my first meeting with my destined spouse. I glanced at Emerson.

"What memories this tableau evokes, Emerson."

"Mmmph," said Emerson, chewing on the stem of his pipe.

The cream of the collection is unquestionably the series of French Revolutionary tableaux, and the severed heads modeled by Madame herself under the grisly conditions Percy had described. One can only imagine the horror with which the unhappy artist must have contemplated the pallid features of the King and Queen who had treated her so graciously. Yet history had avenged Marie Antoinette; next to hers, in a ghastly row, were the heads of her murderers: Fouquier-Tinville, Hebert, and Robespierre himself, carried in their turn to the prison atelier of Madame Tussaud. A particularly gruesome tableau, also modeled from life, showed the murdered Marat lying in his bath, with the hilt of the knife protruding from his side. (I am sure I need not remind the reader that the courageous assassin was a woman.)

The reader may well ask, however, why I consented to allow the children to view these dreadful scenes. The answer is simple: I did not. The viewing rooms were crowded, not only with people but with their voluminous garments, and a small child could easily conceal himself among the sweeping skirts and heavy coats. Ramses was the first to steal away. When his absence was noted, Percy was quick to suggest an explanation.

"I expect he has gone to see the Chamber of Horrors, Aunt Amelia. I will find him, shall I?"

Without waiting for an answer, he slid away.

"I will go after them, Emerson," I said. "Do you stay here with Violet—and show her the tableau of Her Gracious Majesty, Prince Albert, and their lovely children."

But Violet tugged at her uncle's hand. "I want to see the dead people, Uncle Radcliffe."

"Violet, my dear," I began.

"She has seen them before, Amelia," Emerson said, letting the little tyrant draw him away. "The bloodthirstiness of innocent children is a perfectly natural thing, you know; I have often observed it, and cannot understand why so-called modern authorities refuse to admit it."

I knew why Emerson was so agreeable. Like myself, he had often wondered whether his son's interest in mummies and ancient bones was a sign of some deep, dangerous mental disturbance. Finding the same quality in supposedly normal children like Percy and Violet reassured him.

"Well, I do not approve, Emerson, but if you insist, I must of course submit."

"Bah," said Emerson. "You want to see the Chamber of Horrors too."

The boys had immediately discovered the most gruesome of all the exhibits; their mutual antipathy for once in abeyance, they stood side by side contemplating the "Celebrated Murderers."

A recently added figure was that of Neill Cream, who had been hanged for administering strychnine, rightfully called the most agonizing of poisons, to a series of unfortunate fallen women. His crossed eyes and large ginger mustache, his bald head and sinister leer composed a countenance so hideous one wondered why any woman, fallen or upright, would accept any substance whatever from his hand.

"Come away from that, Ramses," I exclaimed.

Holding Violet by the hand, Emerson joined Percy before the effigy of Dr. Pritchard. This reprobate had betrayed not only his physician's calling but his marital commitments by subjecting his wife to the slow torture of poisoning with tartar emetic. (He had also polished off his mother-in-law, presumably because she had become suspicious of her daughter's unusual symptoms.) We must all agree that there is something extraordinarily vile about the crime of uxoricide; and Pritchard was surely one of the most cold-blooded hypocrites in the annals of crime, for he had not only shared his wife's bed throughout her illness, and held her in his arms as she perished, but he had also insisted that her coffin be opened so that he might embrace her for the last time.

"Surely," I remarked to Emerson, "there is no more infamous example of a Judas kiss than when that villain, his face wet with crocodile tears, pressed his lips to the cold lips of the woman he had foully slain, betraying the tenderest of all human ties."

It would have been difficult to disagree with this statement; but Emerson was in a perverse mood that day. "Pritchard had his points," he remarked. "I find it difficult to wholly despise a man who could make the remarkable claim that he had 'plucked the eaglets from their eyries in the deserts of Arabia, and hunted the Nubian lion in the prairies of North America.' '

"Emerson," I exclaimed. "I must protest your frivolous attitude. The children, Emerson—remember the children."

None of them was paying the least attention, in fact. Ramses had managed to wriggle away from me again, and was lost somewhere in the crowd. Percy had gone to gape at Charles Peace, and Violet sucked on the ear of the lamb and stared, with eyes as round as saucers, at the hypocritical smile on the face of the doctor.

Conceding the wisdom of my observation, Emerson collared Percy and took him and Violet to look at Marat in his bath while I went after
Ramses. I was a trifle distracted at first, for Emerson's observations on Dr. Pritchard had taken me by surprise. Here was a man who professed the greatest indifference to crime, and the highest contempt for those who were intrigued by it, and who could yet quote an obscure reference (for I had not known it) by a well-known poisoner. Emerson must have studied the case; with how many others, I wondered, was he equally familiar? The hypocrisy of his attitude appalled me, and cast serious doubts on his veracity in other areas.

Finally I saw Ramses moving toward the exit. Next to the door, and partially blocking it, was an effigy I had not noticed before. It was that of a gentleman in formal morning attire; not one of Madame's more skillful creations, for the face was particularly stiff and masklike. Yet it was realistic enough to deceive at a casual glance, and I supposed it was meant as a joke, like the uniformed "guard" in one of the upper rooms who was often addressed by visitors in search of information before they realized they were inquiring of a wax figure.

Ramses spoke to the image, asking (I presumed) its pardon for passing in front of it. He may not have been surprised, but I certainly was, when the effigy suddenly seized him in its arms and carried him rapidly out of the room.

So astonishing was the metamorphosis that I was rooted to the spot. But only for a moment; careless of the cries of pain and protest from people I inadvertently jostled, I went in pursuit. I knew I dared not delay, not even to summon Emerson to my assistance. The masked miscreant was dressed like a gentleman, which would make observers hesitate to detain him (such is the snobbery of our society), and unless I moved even faster than he, he and his prey would be gone before I could catch him up.

His path was easy to follow, for it was marked by indignant conversation and a few fallen bodies. With equal disregard for courtesy I pushed my way to the exit. Quick as I had been, I had been too slow. When I emerged onto the pavement he was nowhere in sight.

I seized the arm of a passing ostler. "A gentleman carrying a little boy in his arms and running, or walking quickly. Which way did he go?"

The man only stared at me, but his companion, a female dressed in tawdry lace and dirty satin, replied, "That way, ma'am, toward the Gaiety Bar."

I was unfamiliar with the establishment she mentioned, but her pointing hand indicated the direction; with a nod of thanks I ran on. Scarcely
had I turned the corner, however, when I beheld Ramses walking toward me. His cap was gone, he was smeared with dirt, and he was rubbing his tousled head.

I seized him. "Ramses! Thank heaven! Are you unharmed? How did you escape?"

"I did not escape," Ramses replied, his chagrin evident. "I was let go. He dropped me—on my head, to be precise—in an alley not far away from here. I pray, Mama, that this was not a diversion, to separate our group and wreak greater harm on another member of it; for it seems evident—"

It seemed evident that Ramses was not hurt, so I told him to be quiet, and led him as quickly as I could toward Baker Street. Already I could hear the penetrating voice of Emerson calling my name and that of Ramses in poignant alternation.

Even in his agitation he had not neglected his duty; he held Violet in one hand and Percy in the other. I hastened to his side. Then and only then did he loose his hold on his charges, and—neglectful even of his kidnapped heir—flung his strong arms around me.

"Peabody, I wish to the devil you wouldn't go off like that," he mumbled into my ear.

I realized he was unaware of the dire necessity that had prompted my disappearance. My hasty explanation caused the color to fade from his face and evoked several incoherent and profane exclamations. Not until after we had climbed into the carriage and were on the homeward path did he simmer down enough to make sense.

"Let us give thanks that nothing serious transpired," I said. "Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity, or a peculiar joke."

Not that I believed either theory, but I preferred not to discuss the darker implications of the event until Emerson and I were alone. I might have known Ramses was not to be fobbed off with such an inane suggestion.

"It was not a case of mistaken identity," said Ramses. "The man knew who I was. And if it was meant as a joke, the individual's sense of humor is warped. Just before he pitched me away, he said, 'My regards to your papa, young Master Emerson. Tell him that next time I come calling, it will be on him.' '

"Oh, sir," exclaimed Percy. "I say, how exciting!"

Whereupon Ramses turned and punched Percy in the stomach. To be strictly accurate, it was not in the stomach. Percy fell off the seat and doubled up with a shriek of anguish. Emerson seized his son by the collar. "Ramses! Where did you learn—"

"From you, Papa," Ramses gasped. "Last winter, when we were searching for Mama, who had been abducted by ... It was when we broke into the house behind the khan, and the man with the large knife came at you, and you—"