The Deeds of the Disturber (31 page)

"And I," added Ramses. "Shake hands, Mr. O'Connell, and remember that if I am ever in a position to be of use to you, you may count on me."

Kevin struggled to suppress a smile as he looked down at the small but dignified form of Ramses, and took the hand the latter had extended. I would have warned him not to do so if I had been given a chance, but Kevin didn't seem to mind, though his fingers stuck to those of Ramses and were only detached with some difficulty. (I have no idea what the substance was; Ramses was frequently covered, in part or in whole, with something sticky.)

"You haven't lost by your gallantry," Emerson went on. "I doubt that any of your colleagues succeeded in catching up with the mas-queraders."

"Begorra, but it does smack of black magic," Kevin muttered, wiping his hand on his trousers. "All of them, vanished into thin air?"

"The trick is not so difficult," Emerson replied. "We kept overlooking the fact that the masks are flimsy affairs made of paste and paper. Hardened into a shell, they appear solid enough, but a blow with fist or foot would reduce them to scraps. It would take only a few seconds
to remove the all-concealing robe, crush the mask underfoot, and mingle with the crowd."

"You were closer to them than anyone else," Kevin said. "And you are a keen observer. You saw nothing that would help to identify one of them?"

"I was otherwise occupied at the time," said Emerson caustically. "And it appears I failed to protect the mummy."

Turning, he surveyed the wreckage on the stage.

Madame Tussaud's had no exhibit more grisly. The wood of which the coffin had been constructed was thin, and dried by century upon century of heat. It had not broken, it had shattered—splintered. Fragments were strewn far and wide; one section of the broken face lay not far away, and the painted black eye seemed to stare right at me. But the worst part of the wreckage was that of the mummy itself. The linen bandages and the bones had suffered the same desiccation that had reduced the wood to a fragile shell. There were indescribable bits and pieces scattered far and wide, some still in the wrappings, some bared in all their brown nakedness. The skull had rolled and come to rest against the foot of a chair. It was covered with brown leathery skin, and the hair that clung to the withered scalp was a pale, reddish yellow.

"May the Lord protect us," Kevin muttered, staring. "An Irishman!"

"The color is due to henna," Ramses explained. "The original shade was white or gray."

"So here is your middle-aged woman, Emerson," I said. "Don't be disheartened; they did not succeed in seizing the mummy."

"They didn't want the cursed mummy," Emerson said. "They did succeed, Peabody. This is what they hoped to do."

"To destroy it? But why, Professor?"

Emerson glanced at Kevin's notebook. "Gratitude has its limits, O'Connell. You'll get no more from me tonight."

I congratulated myself on my foresight in bringing the carnage; it was waiting for us, and we did not have to waste time looking for a cab. Henry, the coachman, almost fell off the box when he saw us approaching, and he hastened to climb down and run to lend a strong arm to Emerson. For once Emerson did not disdain assistance. The blow had left him dizzy and unsteady on his feet.

When we reached the house, which we did in record time, thanks to Henry's inspired driving, I handed my wounded spouse over to Gar-gery and then knelt down by Ramses.

"I must go to Papa, Ramses. Tell me first if you are hurt, for if you need attention—"

"Papa is in greater need than I, for he took the brunt of the attack while shielding me from random blows to the best of his ability, which, as you know—"

"Be brief, Ramses, I beg you." I felt of him as I spoke, searching for any sign of broken bones.

"Yes, Mama. The few scrapes and bruises I acquired came when Papa fell on me. They are superficial. I believe I can best serve you by going at once to my room and keeping out of the way, though natural affection insists that I hasten to Papa's side—"

"You were right the first time, Ramses." I rose and took his hand in mine. "I will come to you later, not only to tend your bruises but to reassure you about Papa. I am sure you need not worry; he is weakened by shock and loss of blood, but there appears to be nothing seriously wrong."

I omit Ramses' reply, which contained nothing of importance and continued until we parted at the top of the stairs.

My diagnosis proved to be correct, as it usually did. Natural affection had triumphed over my medical instincts and also over the dark suspicions that had haunted me. To see Emerson weakened and wounded, to smooth the thick dark hair away from the ugly gash in his scalp and wipe the blood from his brown cheek—and feel his lips brush my hand as I worked over him—is it any wonder that for a time I forgot all else except how dear he was to me? And is it any wonder Emerson groaned rather loudly and affected to feel fainter than he really did? We both enjoyed it a great deal, and after I had attended to my other patient and tucked him into his bed, Emerson and I settled down before the fire in a spirit of amity almost as complete as the one that had always united us.

"Now," I said, "explain to me (I can hardly blame you for refusing to do so in front of Kevin, since, as you put it so well, even gratitude has its limits) . . . explain to me, if you please, why the masked men did not want to steal the mummy."

"Gladly, Peabody." Emerson sipped at the brandy which I had strictly forbidden him to take. "I had a number of reasons for wanting to have a look inside that mummy case. I told you some of them; but I also hoped to draw the false priest out of hiding, for I did not suppose he would be able to resist attending the demonstration."

"You certainly succeeded in that," I said with a smile.

"Beyond my wildest dreams! Not one, but six of them! Curse it, Peabody, the fellow has imagination, I must give him that. The coup
was brilliantly conceived and brilliantly executed. I did take the precaution of forcing—er—persuading Budge to change the date of his lecture without advance warning—"

"That was your idea, Emerson?"

"Yes. I am sure you understand my reasoning, Peabody."

"Of course, my dear. You expected the unknown would hear of the change of date, but would be forced to act in haste, without time for elaborate preparation. You knew, then, that he intended to destroy, not steal, the mummy?"

"No," Emerson admitted with unusual candor (loss of blood, and brandy, having presumably lowered his guard). "I felt sure he would do something, and I had a glimmering of an idea—so faint and elusive and mad I couldn't admit it even to myself—that he might want to prevent anyone from opening the coffin."

"And what was your faint, elusive idea?"

"I said I couldn't admit it, Peabody. Even while I was battling those fiends, to keep them from the coffin, I thought they intended to make off with it. But when I saw the fragments . . . You saw them too, Peabody. What is the inevitable conclusion?"

He had been candid with me; I could do no less. "I don't know, Emerson," I murmured. "Tell me."

"Why, obviously, that the mummy had been disturbed and partially unwrapped already. Such a fall would have damaged it extensively; the bones would have been separated, and perhaps broken. But the contents would not have been so widely dispersed and so hideously shattered if the bones had not already been freed from the wrappings."

"Of course," I exclaimed. "Quite right, Emerson. I should have observed it myself, and no doubt I would have, had I not been so concerned about you. Mummies come in various states of disrepair, of course; but I well remember the difficulty you have had in detaching wrappings that were in many cases glued into a solid carapace by the resins applied to the body and the bandages."

"The condition you describe is more common in later mummies," Emerson replied. "But even in other periods, including the one to which this mummy belongs, the extensive amount of linen employed would pad the remains to some extent, so that even if the bones became disarticulated, they would remain within the bandages. There can be no doubt, Peabody; the mummy had been unwrapped. But when? And for what reason?"

It was like old times; sitting side by side before a dying fire, engaged in amiable and fascinating discourse. Musingly I replied, "The mummy
might have been disturbed by tomb robbers in ancient times, and then rewrapped. Such cases are known. But you are inclined to suspect, as am I, that the disturbance was much more recent. Obviously this did not occur after the mummy was presented to the Museum. I will question Lord Liverpool tomorrow—"

"Tomorrow," Emerson repeated. "Have you an appointment, Pea-body, or are you planning another of your little burglaries?"

His voice had the ominous purring undertone that indicated rising temper.

"Oh," I said, laughing lightly. "I forgot to mention it. Lord Liverpool has invited us to luncheon and to view his collection."

"When did he do that?"

I saw no reason to mention that I had made the first overture. "I received the letter this morning," I replied truthfully.

"This morning. Hmmm. Then it cannot be ..." But he did not finish the sentence. Instead, he said in a more amiable voice, "Well done, Peabody. Knowing you, I suspect it was your idea, and not Lord Liverpool's, but it is a good one. I only hope his lordship won't be too put out when he sees I am with you."

I am sure I need not explain to any sensible (that is, female) reader why I woke the following morning absolutely furious with Emerson. Such are the vacillations of the human heart; and I have observed that the farther one goes in one direction, the more violent the swing in the opposite direction will be. In the stress of emotion I had gone quite far the night before.

Emerson, on his part, was preoccupied and distant. At breakfast he hid behind a newspaper, ignoring the eager questions of Percy, who had heard (from Ramses, I assumed) about our most recent adventure. His reiterations of "I say, how exciting!" were a trifle irritating.

"What a handsome pocket knife," I said—for Percy had taken it from his pocket and was fingering it in a manner bound to arouse dire apprehensions in the mother of a male child. "Ramses has one very much like it. His papa gave it to him, on the condition that he must never whittle on the furniture."

"I would never do that, Aunt Amelia," Percy assured me. "My papa gave me this one. Isn't it splendid? See, it has three blades and a fishhook—"

"Very nice, Percy. No, Violet, you have already had two muffins, and that is one too many. Ramses ..."

But for once Ramses was not doing anything he should not have been
doing. His bruises had blossomed into multicolored splendor overnight, and his face was almost as introspective as his father's.

"Yes, Mama?" said Ramses, with a start.

"Nothing. Emerson, is there anything of interest in the newspapers?"

"No facts we do not already know, Peabody. The
Standard
remarks that lawless outrages of that kind could never occur under a Conservative government, and the
Daily News
observes that it must have been a harmless prank committed by a few high-spirited young gentlemen."

"What a pity you weren't able to catch the fellow, Uncle Radcliffe," said Percy. "This is the second time you've let him get away, isn't it?"

His eyes were as wide and innocent as a baby's.

Mauldy Manor, the ancient seat of the Earls of Liverpool, is on the river near Richmond. I was looking forward to seeing it, since, by all accounts, it was a picturesque and venerable pile whose foundations were rumored to have been laid at the same time as the earliest structures of the Tower of London. Besides architectural distinction, it had the usual claims to historic fame; Charles II had lain concealed there for a night before escaping to Holland (hence the prevalence of the distinctive Stuart features in that area); Edward II had been tortured in one of the dungeons before being removed to Berkeley; and practically everyone connected in any way with the Wars of the Roses had laid siege to the place. (The Earls of Liverpool were notable for their facility in changing sides.) No collection of supernatural tales could be complete without references to Mauldy's proud repertoire: the White Lady, the Black Dog, the Headless Elizabethan Courtier, and the Ghostly Carriage, drawn by skeleton horses.

Emerson was resplendent in frock coat, silk hat, and dark trousers. He had assumed this costume without any urging from me, which made me wonder what he was up to. I had had a little difficulty deciding what to wear. The honor of the Emerson-Peabodys demanded my best frock and parasol, but the good sense of the latter suggested that a more practical costume might be advisable, should I find myself compelled to beat a hasty retreat or defend myself against attack. After all, his lordship was one of my suspects. I could not imagine why he should want to kill Oldacre, or do a number of the other things that had been done, but a suspect he was, nevertheless, and to venture into the ivy-encrusted and moldering recesses of his ancestral castle without my trusty belt might be foolish.

Emerson's decision to accompany me relieved me of my concern on that score and I decided on a frock my dressmaker had just finished. (I
have not described my visits to her establishment, since such details are not worthy of inclusion in a journal devoted to scholarly and detectival activities, but the Reader must recall that soon after arriving in London I made arrangements for a new wardrobe.) The ensemble, called a visiting dress, was of shell-pink moire with a black, wide belt of morocco leather, and black braid in military designs on the lapels and sleeves. A high collar framed the face with ruffles, and the matching hat was a mere pouf of satin ribbon, satin roses, and satin leaves. Just to be on the safe side, I carried my black-ruffled parasol instead of the matching pink one, whose frame was not quite so stout.

We kept up a rather faltering conversation during the drive. Emerson brooded. His hand was constantly at his chin, stroking it as was his wont when perplexed or troubled, and even my mention of predynastic pottery failed to inspire more than an abstracted mumble of agreement.