The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [113]
Emerson’s handsome face glowed with paternal pride as he listened to his son spouting this accurate but revolting information. I murmured, ‘Oh, good Gad,’ not knowing whether to laugh or give way to emotion of another kind. ‘Ssssh,’ said Kevin, scribbling frantically.
Budge must have known that nothing short of physical violence could silence Ramses, but his fury was so great I half expected he would rush at the absurd pair with fists flailing. It was not his intervention that ended Ramses’ lecture, however. The demonstration was of quite another kind.
Emerson saw the newcomer before I did; he stiffened perceptibly, but before he could move, a piercing shriek from a woman in one of the back rows brought the audience to its feet. The fellow had come in through the main door and was, when I caught sight of him, running down the central aisle towards the stage.
But what was this? He was not in the aisle, he was on the stage . . . No, across the room . . . There were at least six of them, all in white robes and staring masks, all identical. With priests popping up all over the auditorium and running in all directions, the spectators went mad. Screaming and struggling, they fought to escape from the room.
Whatever Emerson had expected, he had not expected this. Lips set, brow furrowed, he swung Ramses off his shoulder and tucked him under one arm.
I had risen with the rest. Parasol poised, I stood firm among the milling journalists, who were trying to go several ways at once. Most of them overtopped me by a head or more; but Emerson’s eyes went straight to me and a thrill ran through every limb as I saw the agony in those keen blue orbs, and beheld the painful struggle of opposing desires that held him motionless.
Kevin’s arms went around my waist and lifted me off my feet. ‘Hang on, Mrs E., I’ll get you out of this,’ he cried.
I lost track of what was happening for a moment as Kevin made his way, not to the nearest exit from the room, which was blocked by fleeing spectators, but to a relatively clear space not far from the stage.
The stage itself was under siege. The masked forms had all converged on the coffin. To my bewildered eyes there seemed to be dozens of them, and the nightmarish effect of those multiplied images can scarcely be imagined. In the thick of the struggle stood Emerson. Only his massive head was visible, for he was entirely surrounded by fluttering, billowing folds of muslin. One grotesque figure reeled back, clutching his midsection, and I caught a glimpse of my heroic spouse striking out with all his might. Without the impediment of Ramses, whom he still held to his side, he might have prevailed. But there were too many for him; he fought alone, the respected guests and Budge having disappeared, I knew not where. He went down under a whirl of draperies and pounding fists. The trestles gave way. The coffin fell with a crash, spilling its grisly contents onto the floor, where it was trampled underfoot.
I pounded on Kevin’s arm. ‘Let me go! Release me at once! I must go to him. Oh, good Gad, I fear the worst –’
Kevin’s cheeks were flushed with excitement and his lips had stretched into a ferocious fighting smile. ‘Begorra!’ he bellowed. ‘That’s the spirit, Mrs E. Let’s get ’em, eh? Up the O’Connells!’
‘And the Peabodys,’ I shrieked, brandishing my parasol.
‘And the Peabodys! Here we go, then!’
Side by side we fought our way to the stage. In fact, it was not such a desperate struggle after all, for by that time cooler heads (of which there were a few) had prevailed and the tumult had quieted, assisted in no small measure by the presence of several sturdy men with the unmistakable stamp of plainclothes detectives. The masqueraders had seen them too. By the time we reached the scene of battle, only one warrior was left – my husband. I do not count Ramses, who, pinned by the prostrate form