The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [104]
‘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 towards 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 skilful 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, towards 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 towards 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 towards 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