The Ape Who Guards the Balance (5 page)

I was in receipt of a courteous note from Mrs. Pankhurst wishing me bon voyage and hoping she would have the pleasure of seeing me again
after I had returned from Egypt in the spring
. Apparently she blamed me for the unpleasant publicity. A most unreasonable attitude, since it was not I who had been taken in by Mrs. Markham and her “brother,” but of course it would have been beneath my dignity to point this out. I forgave Mrs. Pankhurst, as was my Christian duty, and did not respond to her message.

The press surrounded the house, demanding interviews. I was determined to have a little chat with Kevin O’Connell, but it would have been impossible to admit him without arousing the competitive spirit of his fellow villains, so Ramses and Emerson smuggled him into the house after dark, through the coalhole. He was still rather smudgy when Emerson brought him to the library and offered him a whiskey and soda.

I was at a loss to understand Emerson’s remarkable forbearance with regard to Kevin, whom he had always regarded as an infernal nuisance, but I had come round to his point of view; if Kevin had withheld the letter, Sethos would have sent copies to other newspapers. I therefore accepted Kevin’s effusive apologies with only a touch of hauteur.

“Indeed, Mrs. Emerson, me dear, I’d never have allowed the letter to be published if I had known you would take it badly,” he protested. “It seemed to me a gentlemanly and graceful—”

“Oh, bah,” I exclaimed. “Never mind the excuses, Kevin, I admit that you had little choice in the matter. However, the least you can do to make amends is to tell us everything you know about that impertinent missive.”

“I can do better than that.” Kevin took an envelope from his breast pocket. “I brought the original.”

“How did you manage to get it back from Scotland Yard?” I asked.

“By bribery and corruption,” said Kevin with a cheeky grin. “It is only on loan, Mrs. E., so make the most of your time. I assured my—er—friend that I would return it to him before morning.”

After perusing the letter I passed it on to Emerson. “We might have known Sethos would leave no useful clue,” I said in disgust. “The paper is of the sort that can be purchased at any stationer’s. The message is not even written by hand, but on a typewriting machine.”

“A Royal,” said Ramses, looking over his father’s shoulder. “It is one of the latest models, with a ball-bearing one-track rail—”

“That is a safe pronouncement, since none of us can prove you wrong,” I remarked with a certain degree of sarcasm.

“I believe I am not wrong, though,” said my son calmly. “I have made a study of typewriting machines, since they are already in common use and will eventually, I daresay, entirely replace—”

“The signature is handwritten,” David said, in an attempt, no doubt, to change the subject. Ramses does have a habit of running on and on.

“In hieroglyphs,” Emerson growled. “What an incredible ego the man has! He has even enclosed his name in a cartouche, a privilege reserved for royalty.”

Kevin was beginning to show signs of impatience. “Forgive me, Mrs. E., but I promised my confederate I would get this back to him by midnight tonight. He would be the first to be suspected if it were missing and then I might lose a valuable source of information.”

There were still a few confounded reporters hanging about the following day, when we expected Evelyn and Walter. Having dispatched the carriage to the railroad station in order to meet the train, we waited for an appropriate interval; Emerson then emerged, picked up a reporter at random, carried him across the street into the park, and threw him into the pond. This served to distract the rest of the wretches, so that Evelyn, Walter, and Lia, as I must call her, were able to enter the house unassaulted.

Walter declined tea in favor of whiskey and soda, but his reaction to the affair was less outraged than I had feared it would be. As he remarked to his wife, “We ought to be accustomed to it, Evelyn; our dear Amelia makes a habit of such things.”

“You cannot blame this on Amelia,” Evelyn said firmly.

“I can,” said Emerson, brushing at the muddy splashes on his boots and trousers. “If she had not taken it into her head to participate in that demonstration—”

“I would have joined her had I been in London,” said Evelyn. “Come now, Emerson, she could not possibly have anticipated that that—person—would be involved.”

“We must give her that,” Walter agreed, with an affectionate smile at me.

“It must have been frightfully exciting,” said little Amelia (whom I must remember to call Lia).

She was so like her mother! Her smooth skin and soft blue eyes and fair hair recalled happy memories of the young girl I had found fainting in the Forum that day in Rome so long ago. But this young face, thank Heaven, was blooming with health, and the graceful little form was sturdy and straight.

Nefret gave her a warning look. “Don’t get your hopes up, dear. Sethos made it clear that the encounter was accidental and that he would have avoided it had he been able. It will be a dull season, I assure you, with no exciting adventures.”

“Quite right,” said David.

“Absolutely,” said Ramses.

“A very dull season,” I agreed. “If Emerson means to go on with his boring work in the Valley. I wonder that you have put up with it so long, Emerson. It is insulting to us—us, the finest excavators in the profession—allowed only to clear tombs other archaeologists have abandoned as unworthy of interest. We might as well be housemaids, cleaning up after our betters.”

Emerson interrupted me with a vehement remark, and Walter, always the peacemaker, interrupted Emerson, asking him how much longer it would be before we departed. I leaned back in my chair and listened with a satisfied smile. I had turned the conversation away from the dangerous subject. Evelyn and Walter would never allow their beloved child to accompany us if they believed there was danger ahead. Nor, of course, would I.

It was on the following morning that I received another communication from Mrs. Pankhurst, inviting me to an emergency meeting of the committee that afternoon.

Nefret had taken Lia to the hospital with her, and the boys had gone to the British Museum with Walter. Emerson had announced at breakfast that he meant to work on his book and must not be interrupted. I had looked forward to a long quiet day with Evelyn, who is my dearest friend as well as my sister-in-law, but after brief consideration I decided I must attend the meeting. Although Mrs. Pankhurst made no reference to her earlier note, I took the present invitation to be in the nature of an olive branch. It was quite a businesslike epistle, brief and to the point.

Evelyn, as ardent a suffragist as I, agreed I ought to turn the other cheek for the good of the cause, but I felt I must decline her suggestion that she accompany me.

“This is a business meeting, you see, and it would not be proper to bring a stranger, especially in view of the fact that I am not a member of the committee. Perhaps they mean to propose me this afternoon. Yes, that seems quite likely.”

Evelyn nodded agreement. “Will you tell Emerson of your plans, or shall I, when he emerges from his lair?”

“He is rather like a bear when he is disturbed,” I agreed with a laugh. “But I suppose I had better do so. He doesn’t like me to go off without informing him.”

Emerson bent over his desk, attacking the page with vehement strokes of his pen. I cleared my throat. He started, dropped the pen, swore, and stared at me.

“What do you want?”

“I am going out for a while, Emerson. I felt obliged to mention it to you.”

“Oh,” said Emerson. He flexed his cramped hands. “Where are you going?”

I explained. Emerson’s eyes brightened.

“I will drive you in the motorcar.”

“No, you will not!”

“But, Peabody—”

“You have work to do, my dear. Besides, you were not invited. This is a business meeting. I must do a few errands first, and you know how you hate going to the shops with me.”

“One excuse is sufficient,” said Emerson mildly. He leaned back in his chair and studied me. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Peabody?”

“I will show you the letter from Mrs. Pankhurst if you don’t believe me.”

Emerson held out his hand.

“Really, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “I am deeply hurt and offended that you should doubt my word. The letter is on the desk in my sitting room, but if you want to see it you can just fetch it yourself.”

“You are taking the carriage, then?”

“Yes. Bob will drive me. Why the interrogation, Emerson? Are you having premonitions?”

“I never have premonitions,” Emerson growled. “All right, Peabody. Behave yourself and try not to get in trouble.”

Having mentioned errands, I felt I must perform a few, since I never lie to Emerson unless it is absolutely necessary. They took some little time, and the early dusk was falling when I directed Bob to take me to Clement’s Inn, where the Pankhursts had taken lodgings.

Fleet Street was filled with omnibuses, carriages, vans and cycles, each vehicle looking for a break in the traffic. Motorcars darted ahead of all rivals whenever opportunity served, the roaring of their engines adding to the din. Our progress was slow. When one particular delay prolonged itself, I looked out of the window and saw a positive tangle of vehicles ahead. The core of the obstruction appeared to be a coster’s barrow and a hansom cab, whose wheels had become entangled. The owners of both were screaming insults at one another, other drivers added their comments, and from somewhere behind us the impatient operator of a motorcar sounded a series of frantic blasts on his horn.

I called to Bob. “I will walk from here. It is only a few hundred yards.”

Opening the door—with some difficulty, since a railway delivery van had pulled up close on that side—I started to get out.

My foot never touched the pavement. I had only a flashing glimpse of a hard, unshaven face close to mine before I was passed like an unwieldy parcel from the grasp of the first man into the even more painful grip of a second individual. Initially I was too astonished to defend myself effectively. Then I saw, behind the second man, something that informed me there was no time to lose. The back doors of the van were open, and it was that dark orifice toward which I was being carried.

The situation did not look promising. I had dropped my parasol, and my cries were drowned by the incessant hooting of the motorcar. As the fellow attempted to thrust me into the interior of the van, I managed to catch hold of the door with one hand. A hard blow on my forearm loosened my grip and wrung a cry of pain from my lips. With a violent oath the villain gave me a shove and I fell, striking the back of my head rather heavily. Half in and half out of the van, giddy and breathless, blinded by the hat that had been tipped over my eyes, I gathered my strength for what I knew must be my final act of resistance. When hands seized my shoulders I kicked out as hard as I could.

“Damnation!” said a familiar voice.

I sat up and pushed the hat away from my eyes. The darkness was almost complete, but the streetlights had come on, and the powerful lamps of a motorcar silhouetted a form I knew as well as I had known that beloved voice.

“Oh, Emerson, is it you? Did I injure you?”

“Disaster was avoided by a matter of inches,” said my husband gravely.

He pulled me out of the van and crushed me painfully to him, completing the destruction of my second-best hat.

“Is she all right?” The agitated voice was that of David, perched atop a cart that had drawn up behind us. Ignoring the curses of the driver he jumped down, accompanied by a rain of cabbages, and hastened to Emerson’s side. “Professor, hadn’t we better get her away at once? There may be more of them.”

“No such luck,” Emerson grunted. Scooping me up into his arms he bent over and peered under the van. “They’ve got clean away, curse them. I should have hit that bastard harder. It is your fault, Peabody; if you had not winded me with that kick in the—”

“Radcliffe!” Though the voice was distorted by emotion and want of breath, I knew the speaker had to be Walter; no one else employs Emerson’s detested first name.

“Yes, yes.” Tightening his grasp, as if he feared I would slip away from him, Emerson carried me toward the motorcar. It was our motorcar. Behind the wheel, watching with mild interest, was my son, Ramses.

“Premonition be damned,” said Emerson. “It was cold hard reason that informed me you had been guilty of a serious error in judgment.”

“In fact,” said Evelyn, “it was I who convinced you, was it not?”

At one time she would not have ventured to contradict him, but (with my encouragement) she had learned to stand up for herself—not only with Emerson but with her husband, who had been rather inclined to patronize her. Emerson quite enjoyed her independent manner. His scowling face relaxed into a smile.

“Let us say, my dear Evelyn, that your doubts confirmed my own. After dismissing Peabody so cavalierly, Mrs. Pankhurst was not likely to—”

“Oh, curse it,” I exclaimed. “You had no such suspicions or you would have attempted to prevent me from going.”

Emerson said, “Have another whiskey and soda, Peabody.”

He had bundled me into the motorcar, leaving Bob to extricate the carriage—not so difficult after all, since the entwined vehicles had untangled themselves with a quickness that might have struck some as hightly suspicious. The railway van formed a new obstruction, however. Its driver had disappeared, and so had the individual Emerson had struck senseless. This annoyed him a great deal, for, as he remarked, when he knocked people down he expected them to stay down.

When we stopped in front of Chalfont House we were set upon by our agitated friends, including Nefret and Lia, who had returned from the hospital too late to join the rescue expedition. They pulled me out of the vehicle and passed me from one pair of loving arms to the next—including those of Gargery, who was inclined to forget his station when overcome by emotion. The other servants contented themselves with shouting “Hurrah!” and embracing one another. We then retired in triumph to the library.