The Deeds of the Disturber (37 page)

It took some time to reassure them, but at last they dispersed, after the cook had informed me she knew a fine remedy for sore throats, consisting in part of honey, horehound, and brandy, which she would concoct immediately. I closed the door and sank into a chair. For once, I felt quite incapable of speech.

It would have been impossible to carry on a conversation while Ramses was present anyway. So I sat quietly and drank tea—it hurt a little to swallow, but the hot liquid revived me wonderfully—and listened to the vigorous sounds of Emerson completing his toilette, assisted by admiring comments, questions, and suggestions from Ramses.

Eventually they emerged, arm in arm. Emerson kindly allowed me to change the bandage—it, and his hair, were both soaking wet. I then retired to tidy myself, while Emerson sat down and took Ramses on his knee, and started to tell him all about it.

My timing was excellent. When I came out of the bathroom, I heard Ramses say, "Just who was this unfortunate lady, Papa? And how did it happen that she was fatally injured during the struggle? I understand that you had been rendered unconscious and were as a result unaware of what occurred during the final moments, but from what you have said it is clear that the villain fired first at you and would no doubt have shot Mama next, for if I know Mama, and I am sure I do, she would never run away but would attack your assailant with the utmost energy, and indeed the bruises on her throat make it evident that she closed with him—and he with her—so to speak—"

"I understand what you mean, Ramses," said Emerson. He glanced at me. "Er—did you speak, Peabody?"

"No."

"And no wonder," Emerson exclaimed, putting Ramses aside and
jumping to his feet. "My poor dear Peabody, your beautiful swanlike throat resembles a fragment of a Turner painting. It is turning all the colors of the sunset. Where is cook? She spoke of a remedy—"

Ramses trotted toward the bathroom, remarking, "Cold water, constantly applied—"

I caught hold of him. "No, thank you, Ramses, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need you dripping water all over me and the bathroom. Run along now, I want to get dressed."

"Yes, Mama. May I first inquire—"

"Later, Ramses."

Emerson offered to help me dress, but before there was time for anything to develop, Mrs. Watson appeared, to announce that luncheon was ready. Emerson glanced at his watch. "Hmmmmm, yes, time is getting on. Ready, are you, Peabody? Here, take my arm."

"There is first a little matter of buttoning me up the back," I replied. "Perhaps, Mrs. Watson, you would oblige?"

Emerson looked hurt. I pretended not to observe it.

Cook had most considerately prepared a cold luncheon, with a variety of aspics, jellies, and other smooth substances that slid down without discomfort. Emerson ate quickly—with any other man, I would say he gobbled his food—and kept sneaking surreptitious glances at his watch. For once his conversation was as bland and correct as any hostess could desire. "Lovely spring weather, isn't it, my dear? I am making excellent progress with my manuscript; did I remember to thank you, my dear Peabody, for your helpful suggestions? Have you heard from Evelyn and Walter lately? How are Raddie and Johnny and Willy and little Amelia?"

I replied in monosyllables; I was afraid to leave my mouth open too long for fear of what might come out of it. A rational person might suppose my anger and jealousy had been dispelled by the sad death of that unhappy woman who had loved "not wisely but too well"; but oh, Reader, jealousy is not rational. She had died to save him. The gun had been pointing at Emerson, not at her, when she seized the assassin's arm and clung, with the fierce strength of passion, to prevent him from administering the
coup de grace.
She had not struggled to escape, but only to turn the weapon away from the man she adored. Dead and martyred, she was a greater rival than she had been living.

A strangled sound escaped my lips. It might have been a sob; but I rather think it was a smothered cry of fury. Emerson looked anxiously at me. "You had better spend the rest of the day in bed, my dear. Have a nice rest—"

I crumpled my napkin and threw it on the floor. "So you can creep out of the house unbeknownst to me? Where are you going, Emerson? To make arrangements for a fitting funeral and a marble monument? To have the coffin opened, that you may kiss her lips for the last time? Who was that woman, Emerson? What did she mean to you?"

Emerson sat gripping the arms of his chair, eyes bulging and mouth ajar. Gargery's reaction was more explosive; he dropped the platter he was holding, and the cook's beautiful three-layer jelly collapsed into a rainbow puddle.

"Oh, madam," he gasped.

"Wait a minute," Emerson said. "Peabody, you take my breath away! You think I ... You think she . . . Was that why you . . . Upon my word, Peabody, I assumed you were joking."

"Joking! About a subject so serious as fidelity, lifelong devotion, trust—"

"Now, just a bloody minute, Peabody," Emerson exclaimed.

"Oh, madam!" Gargery advanced toward me, his feet squelching in the ruins of the jelly. "Madam, the professor would never—he could not—he is utterly devoted, body and soul—"

I took a deep breath. "Emerson," I said, quite calmly, "I really do not think I can control myself much longer. I am very fond of Gargery here, and I appreciate his friendly interest in us, but—"

"Oh, quite, Peabody," said Emerson. "Pas
devant les domestiques,
eh? At least not this time. Excuse us, Gargery, there's a good chap. Don't worry, everything is quite all right."

He offered me his arm. I took it. We proceeded, with measured pace and in perfect dignity, to the drawing room.

The moment the door closed, Emerson picked me up in his arms and carried me to the sofa.

"My darling Peabody—" he began.

"Caresses will not avail you in the present instance," I cried, struggling to free myself.

"Oh, no? Peabody, were you really jealous? Were you? How good of you, my darling. I cannot remember when I have felt so highly complimented."

"Emerson, you are really . . . Emerson, don't do that. I cannot think clearly when you ..."

Emerson stopped what he was doing, and assisted me to sit up. When I sat on his knee, my eyes were on a level with his. Holding me by the shoulders, he looked gravely at me. "Have you forgotten, Peabody, what happened last winter in Cairo?"

My eyes fell before his. "No, Emerson. I have not forgotten."

"I will not insist I had greater cause than you to feel the pangs of jealousy," Emerson continued seriously. "For that might start one of those amiable little arguments of ours, which tend to go on and on without ever arriving at a conclusion. I will only repeat the words you said to me shortly afterward. 'If the years we have spent together,' you said, 'and the intensity of my devotion, have not convinced you that I never have, never will, and never could love another, no words of mine can change your opinion.' I beg to remind you, Peabody, of that eloquent speech."

I hid my crimson face and trembling lips against his breast and placed my arms around his neck.

A short time later, when we were sitting side by side in mutual accord, I remarked, "All the same, Emerson—and I hope you will take the question in the spirit in which it is meant, as a simple request for information—"

Emerson's arm tightened around my shoulders. "You are incorrigible, Peabody! Not only am I willing to answer the question you are about to ask, I insist on doing so.

"I don't know what Ayesha told you. She said you had been to visit her, and gave me her version of your conversation; but I place no more credence in that than you ought to place on the accuracy of what she said to you. What I am about to tell you is the simple truth—no more, no less.

"I knew her—yes, my dear Peabody, I admit it—I knew her in every sense of the word. It happened during my first visit to Egypt, not as an archaeologist but as a beardless boy just down from Oxford, and as naive about the world as poor little Ramses. I do myself the credit, however, of claiming that I soon learned to loathe the way of life to which I was introduced by so-called friends. The degradation of those poor women horrified me. It made me think less of myself and of the men who had condemned them to a life of fawning slavery.

"It was Ayesha who really opened my eyes. She was not like the others. To see a woman like her—intelligent, beautiful, as capable as any man—reduced to such an existence only because she
was
a woman, beautiful, intelligent and capable ... I believe I offered to take her away from it all, as the saying goes. She laughed at me. It was already too late for her.

"As in your case, my dear Peabody, that first trip to Egypt convinced me I had found my life's work and I threw myself into it with what you are pleased to call my enthusiastic exuberance. From time to time I
encountered Ayesha, who was by then one of the most famous (and expensive) practitioners of her profession. A few years later she left Egypt. I heard from mutual acquaintances that she had gone to Paris with a wealthy admirer, who gave her her own establishment. Her history thereafter was a sad one. Her protector was a man of violent temper. Whether she betrayed him or not I do not know; he claimed she had, and he cast her off, after giving her a beating that scarred her for life. She had saved her money, however, and later I heard that she had moved to London and set herself up in business. But—and this I swear by everything I hold dear, Peabody—I had not set eyes on her for years. I almost dropped in my tracks the other night when I recognized her."

"That is what she told me," I said softly. "Poor thing. Poor, poor woman."

"Peabody." Emerson took me by the chin and looked intently into my eyes. "Did you really offer to help her move to the country and find solace in the beauties of nature?"

"Why, yes. Even then I recognized her quality—Emerson, don't squeeze me so hard. I can't breathe."

"Peabody, Peabody! You are the thirteenth wonder of the world. Was there ever anyone like you?"

"We are all unique in the eyes of Heaven, Emerson," I replied, smoothing my tumbled hair. "But, Emerson—"

"Now what, Peabody?"

"I am thinking of what I said a little while ago—and a cruel, unkind statement it was—about a proper burial and a monument. It is the least we can do, Emerson, don't you agree? She did give her life for yours. Not that I am at all jealous now, and I don't blame you, because you cannot help it if women—"

"Wait a moment, Peabody. I am in full agreement with your suggestion, and I will see to it at once. But giving her life for mine? What nonsense is that?"

I felt he ought to know all that had transpired, so I told him what Ayesha had said, about being forced to lure me into a trap, and what I had said, trying to persuade her to accept our protection.

"I didn't overhear the conversation," he said soberly. "I was too far away, and concerned, besides, with keeping watch. I saw him coming, Peabody, but before I could move, she ran straight into his arms. And after that—"

"He shot you and you fell. Oh, Emerson, I will never forget that moment!"

It was some time before I could continue. Emerson listened without
comment while I described what had happened. Then he said thoughtfully, "It will be a very handsome monument, Peabody. And before the stonemason starts work, I will see to it that her killer gets his just deserts. Confound it, Peabody, don't you see? It was not I she fought to save. It was you."

"My dear," I began.

"You are not what I would call a humble woman, Peabody, but you are singularly obtuse about some things. Think it through. I was already down—dead, for all she knew. Upon whom would that murderous weapon have turned next, Peabody? He came there to kill you, and she knew it. She took the risk of warning you, and at the end she fought to the death, not to save me, but to save you. You were the first woman in years—perhaps the first in all her life—to speak to her like an equal and to express concern for her well-being. Nothing in her life became her like the leaving of it."

He pressed me close to him and I felt his breast heave with a long sigh.

It was a touching moment, and I respected his sentiments, so I did not point out the flaws in his logic. If he chose to believe the poor soul had given her life for
mine,
let him enjoy the illusion; I knew better and would always cherish the memory of Ayesha because she had given her life for
his.

After a moment of respectful silence I remarked, "Emerson, I have only one more question."

"That," said Emerson, "I find hard to believe. Well, my dear?"

"You say you never thought I could be jealous."

"Quite right, Peabody."

"Then why have you been acting so confoundedly peculiar?" I demanded. "If I ever saw guilt writ large upon a human countenance, it was writ upon yours. You have been painfully polite, disgustingly considerate—you never complained when I corrected your manuscript—"

Emerson gave me a hearty hug. "I said you were obtuse, Peabody. Don't you know what was worrying me? Have you not read the inscription on the ushebti?"

"Men-maat-Re Sethos . . . Emerson! Oh, Emerson, you were jealous too!"

"Madly, furiously, desperately," Emerson declared, squeezing me till my ribs creaked. "Well, curse it, Peabody, it is an odd coincidence, to find that abominable name cropping up again, in a criminal case . . . It is only a coincidence—isn't it?"

"Yes, Emerson, it must be. Shall I swear to you, as you were good enough to swear to me, that never—"

"No, Peabody. It is not necessary. I will never doubt you again."

"Oh, my dear Emerson!"

"My darling Peabody!"

After a considerable period of time had passed, I got off his knee and straightened my dress. "You are closer to the bellpull than I am, Emerson. Will you ring for Gargery? It is rather early, but I think we might have a little whiskey and soda, to calm our nerves."

"Splendid idea, Peabody," Emerson declared. "And then what do you say to another of our little competitions in crime? We have enough information now, I believe, to construct a theory or two. I've seen you do it with much less, my dear."