The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [107]
‘Whom did you mention it to, Emerson?’
Emerson frowned at the newspaper. ‘Budge and Petrie and Griffith and . . . not Pritchett, he was not at home. They claimed – as you have surely read – that nothing untoward occurred to them.’
‘Which would suggest that the unknown has decided to concentrate on you, Emerson.’
‘Not necessarily. Except for Budge, who would court publicity at his mother’s funeral, the others might not want to mention anything so out-of-the-way. Especially Petrie – you know what a dull stick he is –’
‘So you learned nothing from any of them?’ We had not talked the night before; it was very late when Emerson came to bed, reeking of tobacco. I pretended to be asleep.
‘Griffith let me have a look at his ushebti. It was the image of the one I received, Peabody. Someone, somewhere, is missing a rare and valuable set of antiquities. If they could be traced . . .’
‘That would certainly be a useful clue,’ I agreed politely, remembering my little list (which was locked in a drawer of my desk for safety’s sake). ‘No one knew of any such objects, I assume?’
‘No. Which strongly suggests that they came from a private collection. Even Budge would notice their disappearance from the Museum.’
‘What about University College, Manchester, Birmingham –’
‘I could certainly inquire.’
‘There is something else you might do,’ I said, taking the morning post from Mary Ann, who had just brought it in.
‘And what is that, Peabody?’
‘Most citizens would report to the police an attack such as was made on our son.’
Emerson looked startled and stroked his chin. ‘I suppose they might. I wonder, Peabody, if we are becoming too accustomed to going it alone.’
‘Oh, no, Emerson; considering who we are and what we are, we are behaving quite logically. Here are your letters.’
‘Thank you.’ Emerson ripped through them in his usual vigorous style, remarking only, ‘Confounded Oxford Press,’ as he flung the communication away. ‘Perhaps I might drop by the Yard later,’ he said casually.
‘What a good idea, Emerson.’
‘Would you care to go along?’
‘I see no reason why both of us should go, Emerson.’
‘I would – I would enjoy your company, Peabody.’
‘Thank you, Emerson, that is very kind of you. However, I have other things to do.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’
‘How are you getting on with your paper?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
Emerson threw his napkin and his remaining letters onto the floor and jumped to his feet. His chair fell over with a crash. ‘Damnation,’ he shouted, and rushed out of the room.
‘Try to be home for tea, Emerson,’ I called after him. ‘I expect a guest.’
Emerson’s footsteps stopped. He returned to the door and looked in. ‘Who?’ he asked apprehensively.
‘Mr Wilson. He has been kind enough to accept my invitation.’
‘Oh,’ said Emerson. ‘Oh, I see. I will be here, Peabody.’
He had been relieved at my answer, I had no doubt of it. What name, I wondered, had he expected – and dreaded? That of Ayesha?
Having received no answer to the note I had sent Miss Minton, I decided to call on her personally. The article in the Morning Mirror made me suspect she was still away, for it did not carry her name; but I went anyway, since I wanted exercise. As I had hoped, brisk walking calmed me, but the visit was in vain; the landlady said she had not seen or heard from her tenant and had no idea when she would return.
I consulted my list. Miss Minton would have to wait. Mr Wilson was arranged for. A (flatteringly) prompt reply to my letter to Lord Liverpool invited me to have luncheon with him next day, and view his collection. Under the heading WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT there remained three names: Budge (on his housekeeping methods), Inspector Cuff (on a variety of questions he would probably not answer), and one other.
I spent the next few hours sitting in Hyde Park opposite Number 4, Park Lane. I will never forget those hours, and I venture to believe that they were unique in my experience; for I, Amelia P. Emerson, continued for that long period in a state of indecision and vacillation!