The Deeds of the Disturber (35 page)

After the slow passage of approximately a century of time (for so it felt), my musing was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" I called.

"It is I, Mama. May I come in?"

I realized I should have gone to say good night to him, and make sure he was where he was supposed to be. "Yes, Ramses, come in." Then I added, "I was about to come to you. There has been no word from your papa as yet, but I am not at all concerned about him."

Ramses closed the door carefully behind him and stood looking gravely at me. He was already in his nightgown and was, for Ramses, comparatively clean. I wondered if he was aware of the softening impression made on his mother by the angelic whiteness of his flowing gown and the touching sight of his little bare feet (he was supposed to be wearing slippers, but never mind that). The suspicion did not linger; surely not even Ramses could be so depraved as to employ appeals to the tenderest of maternal sentiments in order to allay maternal suspicion.

"I came to say good night, Mama, and to ask ..." Ramses began.

"So I supposed. Give me a kiss, then, and go to bed. It is late."

"Yes, Mama." Ramses delivered the kiss, which I returned, but slipped away from the arm I had put around him. "I came to ask—"

"I told you, Ramses, your papa is still out. He will come up to kiss you good night when he returns; he always does."

"Yes, Mama. But that was not what I came to ask. I am only too well aware of Papa's prolonged absence, since I have been listening—"

"You have, have you? What is it, then?"

"I wanted to ask for an advance on my allowance."

The idea of giving Ramses his pocket money on a regular basis had been Emerson's, and I must say it had worked well. The amount was ridiculously high, but, as Emerson pointed out, we were always buying him books and paper and pens and other academic necessities; being obliged to budget his needs would be a useful lesson in management, and would end in costing us no more than we would have given him anyway.

"What, have you spent last week's already? You told Miss Helen you had twelve shillings sixpence, and that was before your papa gave you—"

"I have had unusual expenses," Ramses explained.

"Your mummification experiments, I suppose," I said, grimacing. "Very well; Mama's pocketbook is on the bureau, take what you need."

"Thank you, Mama. And may I say that the confidence you demonstrate in my integrity touches the deepest wells of—"

"Very well, my son, very well." I glanced at my watch. A scant five minutes had passed since I last looked at it. Would the hands never move?

Ramses went straight to the door. "Good night, Mama."

"Good night, my son. Sleep—-"

The door closed before I could finish. It was just as well; in my state of nervous excitability I could hardly bear to be in the same room with another person, much less carry on a conversation.

At last the interminable period of waiting was over and I prepared to leave. I had debated at length about what to wear. I decided to assume one of the costumes I had found so convenient on the dig in Egypt— full tweed trousers to the knee, with stout boots below, a loose shirt, and, under all, the new corset I had had specially made to order. Then I took my belt from the bureau and buckled it on; and the familiar clash and jangle of the useful implements attached to it filled me with a sense of confidence and valor. I much regretted the absence of my revolver. I had left it in the care of Abdullah, on account of Emerson's prejudice against having firearms around the house, and his claim that no such precaution was necessary in civilized England. If he had been there, I would have pointed out the fatuous folly of this assumption.

I was vaguely aware of sounds in the distance, but so loud was the beating of my fevered heart, I paid them little heed until the door of the bedroom burst open. How can I describe the sensations that filled every square inch of my anatomy to overflowing when I beheld . . . Emerson. That one word says it all. I cannot describe those sensations and will not attempt to.

After an interval which I will not attempt to describe either, Emerson held me off at arms' length and looked at me inquiringly. "Not that I don't appreciate your ardor, Peabody," he remarked, "but I am at somewhat of a loss to account for it. Has something happened?"

"Has something . . . has . . . " I put both hands in the middle of his chest and shoved as hard as I could. Emerson fell back against the door; his broad grin infuriated me even more. "How dare you ask me that?" I cried, clenching my fists. "How dare you leave this house without a word of explanation, and stay away for hours, missing your dinner and leaving me prostrate with anxiety—"

"That's more like it," remarked Emerson. Folding his arms, he watched me stride up and down, the jingling of my implements providing a musical accompaniment. After a moment he said, "And where were you off to, Peabody? For I presume you were not planning to retire fully dressed and armed to the teeth?"

I came to a sudden stop. How typical of a man, I thought bitterly, to stay away just long enough to rouse the direst of apprehensions— and then turn up in time to foil my plans. If he had stayed away five minutes longer, I would have been out of the house.

"I was going out to look for you," I murmured.

"Were you, Peabody?" He rushed to my side; he enfolded me in his arms. "My darling Peabody ..."

Life, dear Reader, is sometimes ironic. The very embraces I had encouraged—and which I welcomed, needless to say, for their own sake—proved my undoing. For the cursed paper, which I had placed in my pocket (never mind which one) crackled under the pressure of Emerson's hand. My explanation had pleased and touched him, but it had not wholly allayed his doubts—for Emerson is neither stupid nor gullible. Before I could stop him he had plucked the message from its hiding place and was reading it.

"Whom is this from, Amelia?" he asked quietly.

"Don't you know, Emerson? Cannot you hazard a guess?"

"Not really. None of my acquaintances writes such vile Egyptian." He strove to speak lightly, but the ridges of muscle on his jaws and the quivering of that magnificent indented chin betrayed the struggle he made to keep from bellowing. I turned from him; his steely fingers caught my shoulders and whirled me around to face him.

"You were not going to look for me. How the devil could you? Where, in all this teeming rat cage of a city would you ..."

"Where do you suppose? Where else? I would have begun my inquiries there; fortunately she has saved me the trouble."

"She?" Emerson's grip relaxed. He gave me a look almost of awe. "How could you possibly have known ..."

"I saw you enter her house, Emerson. Not once, but twice. I was in the park, watching, the second time; did you suppose that silly beard and a basket of fish could hide you from my eyes?"

"Fish!" Emerson exclaimed. "Fish? Fish ..." Enlightenment dawned; the bunched muscles of cheek and jaw smoothed out, the lowered brows rose. "Ayesha! It is Ayesha of whom you are speaking. Is this note from her?"

"You mean there is another one?" I cried.

Emerson paid no attention. Now it was he who paced up and down uttering broken ejaculations. "Then she is ready to talk. But why would she . . . Midnight, she said. How very trite and conventional . . . Amelia! You weren't going to respond to this ingenuous invitation, were you? You couldn't be such a bumbling blockhead! Oh, curse it, but of course you could. You would!"

"I could, would, and am about to go," I replied, mastering my confusion and indignation. "And I must go at once."

Emerson stopped pacing. "It is a trap, Amelia."

"You can't be certain of that. But if it is, all the more reason why I should arrive early. The strategic advantage—"

"Don't lecture me, damn it!"

"Emerson, please!"

"Excuse me, Peabody." Emerson rubbed his chin. "She's right, of course," he muttered. "And there's no preventing her. Unless ..."

His eyes moved to my face; the look of calculation in them, and the (I am sure) involuntary flexing of his hands, made me step back a pace.

"Emerson, if you ever lay a hand on me—in the way of restraint, I mean—you will regret it to the end of your days."

"Oh, well, I know that, Peabody," Emerson said querulously. "There are times when I wonder whether it wouldn't be worth it; but when I think of the things you could do—or not do ... Hadn't we better be going?"

"In a moment. What does that woman mean to you, Emerson? When did you know her? And—"

"Which woman?" Emerson asked, grinning. "Now, Peabody, don't lose your temper, we haven't time for that—or for explanations. I promise you you will get them, in due course—providing, of course, that we survive this evening's adventure, which seems at the moment highly problematic. Shall we take Gargery along, or ... No, I can see by your expression that the idea does not strike you favorably. We two, then— side by side and back to back, as before."

How could I resist that appeal, or reject the strong brown hand that reached for mine?

Despite Emerson's promise of half a crown to the driver if he made all possible speed, we were later than I had hoped to be, and we were still arguing when the cab reached the foot of Savoy Street, next to Waterloo Bridge. (For this stratagem enabled me to approach the site of the rendezvous from the direction opposite to the one a watcher would expect.)

"She said to come alone," I repeated for the tenth time. "If she sees you are with me, she may not show her face."

Emerson had to admit the logic of this, but the solutions he proposed were either impractical or preposterous. It would have been impossible for him to pass for me, even in a muffling cloak and old-fashioned bonnet. He finally agreed (profanely) to the only sensible method— namely, that he should follow at a distance and try to find a place of concealment near the Needle.

I had persuaded him to forswear the beard. With his collar turned up and his cap pulled low over his forehead, he might pass as a casual vagabond, if the fog was as thick as I hoped it would be (though I have to admit he would never have deceived me, or any other woman whose keenness of vision was strengthened by affection). Unfortunately the night was clear, except for strands of mist that hung over the water.

We watched the cab turn and clatter off. Emerson took my hand.

"You have your parasol, Peabody?"

"As you see," I replied, brandishing it.

A quick and bruising embrace was his only answer. Wordlessly he gestured me to proceed.

From the bridge, which was almost overhead, the rumble and rattle of traffic reached my ears, mingled with the shrieks of locomotives approaching Waterloo Station on the other side of the river. Straight ahead of me stretched the Embankment, lit by incandescent gas globes. They were raised on wrought-iron pedestals and were approximately twenty yards apart; from where I stood they formed a shimmering necklace of light, shaped into a double strand by the reflection in the dark water.

I started walking, keeping as far away from the lights as possible. I was not the only person abroad; after one burly and unkempt male individual paused, with the obvious intention of addressing me, I turned my parasol into a walking stick and hobbled painfully along, feigning feeble old age. Above and to my right shone the glow of light from the busy streets; on my left was the rippling river; and straight ahead, dark against the starry sky, loomed the towering shape of that simplest and most impressive of man-made monuments—the obelisk that had once graced a temple in sunny Egypt. Now it stood beside an alien river, wreathed in chilly mist; and I thought how strange its ambiance would have seemed, had it been capable of sentient feeling.

But this was not the time for philosophical musing, fond as I am of that activity. I put my back against the fence enclosing the obelisk and stood waiting, every sense alert. The veil of curdled mist over the river
had thickened and sent drifting tendrils ashore. A lamp some twenty yards away shone brightly on the pavement, but only its farthest fringes touched the side of the monument.

It had lacked thirty minutes to the designated hour when I left Emerson. Knowing how distorted one's sense of time can be under such conditions, I had resigned myself to what would seem a long wait; but I had scarcely taken up my position when a soft hiss made me turn my head sharply to my left.

She was muffled in dark garments. Only the pale glimmer of one hand, holding the draperies tight across her face, betrayed her presence.

"Good evening," I began.

Her hand darted out and covered my mouth. "Hush! Don't speak, listen. There is no time. Go quickly, before he comes."

I pulled the clinging feverish fingers from my lips. "You asked me—"

"Fool! He made me write that note. I hoped you would come before the time, so I could warn you, for I have . . . But never mind that, you must get away. I thought he wanted you for the ceremony, tomorrow night, and that would . . . But he has the other now, she will serve his purpose, and yet when I said good, I will not go to meet the Sitt Hakim, he ... He means to kill you, there can be no other reason."

She thrust her face close to mine and hurled the incoherent phrases at me like missiles. Her hands pushed and plucked at me, reinforcing her urgent words. Her veil had fallen, and even in the gloom I could see what he had done to her after she tried to defy him.

"Come with me," I urged, trying to capture one of her frantic hands. "Why do you shield a man who threatens you, beats you? Tell me his name. I promise he will never—"

"You don't know him. You don't know what he can do. He has powers . . . Oh, you are a mad, cold Englishwoman, do you not fear death?"

"Not as you fear it," I said. "And yet you took the risk of warning me. Why?"

The fluttering hands quieted; for a moment they lay still upon my breast. "He loves you," she whispered. "Of all the men I knew, he alone . . . And you spoke to me that day in such words . . . Oh, this is madness! Will you go?"

"Not unless you come with me. I will not leave you to face him."