The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [116]
‘You certainly succeeded in that,’ I said with a smile.
‘Beyond my wildest dreams! Not one, but six of them! Curse it, Peabody, the fellow has imagination, I must give him that. The coup was brilliantly conceived and brilliantly executed. I did take the precaution of forcing – er – persuading Budge to change the date of his lecture without advance warning –’
‘That was your idea, Emerson?’
‘Yes. I am sure you understand my reasoning, Peabody.’
‘Of course, my dear. You expected the unknown would hear of the change of date, but would be forced to act in haste, without time for elaborate preparation. You knew, then, that he intended to destroy, not steal, the mummy?’
‘No,’ Emerson admitted with unusual candour (loss of blood, and brandy, having presumably lowered his guard). ‘I felt sure he would do something, and I had a glimmering of an idea – so faint and elusive and mad I couldn’t admit it even to myself – that he might want to prevent anyone from opening the coffin.’
‘And what was your faint, elusive idea?’
‘I said I couldn’t admit it, Peabody. Even while I was battling those fiends, to keep them from the coffin, I thought they intended to make off with it. But when I saw the fragments . . . You saw them too, Peabody. What is the inevitable conclusion?’
He had been candid with me; I could do no less. ‘I don’t know, Emerson,’ I murmured. ‘Tell me.’
‘Why, obviously, that the mummy had been disturbed and partially unwrapped already. Such a fall would have damaged it extensively; the bones would have been separated, and perhaps broken. But the contents would not have been so widely dispersed and so hideously shattered if the bones had not already been freed from the wrappings.’
‘Of course,’ I exclaimed. ‘Quite right, Emerson. I should have observed it myself, and no doubt I would have, had I not been so concerned about you. Mummies come in various states of disrepair, of course; but I well remember the difficulty you have had in detaching wrappings that were in many cases glued into a solid carapace by the resins applied to the body and the bandages.’
‘The condition you describe is more common in later mummies,’ Emerson replied. ‘But even in other periods, including the one to which this mummy belongs, the extensive amount of linen employed would pad the remains to some extent, so that even if the bones became disarticulated, they would remain within the bandages. There can be no doubt, Peabody; the mummy had been unwrapped. But when? And for what reason?’
It was like old times; sitting side by side before a dying fire, engaged in amiable and fascinating discourse. Musingly I replied, ‘The mummy might have been disturbed by tomb robbers in ancient times, and then rewrapped. Such cases are known. But you are inclined to suspect, as am I, that the disturbance was much more recent. Obviously this did not occur after the mummy was presented to the Museum. I will question Lord Liverpool tomorrow –’
‘Tomorrow,’ Emerson repeated. ‘Have you an appointment, Peabody, or are you planning another of your little burglaries?’
His voice had the ominous purring undertone that indicated rising temper.
‘Oh,’ I said, laughing lightly. ‘I forgot to mention it. Lord Liverpool has invited us to luncheon and to view his collection.’
‘When did he do that?’
I saw no reason to mention that I had made the first overture. ‘I received the letter this morning,’ I replied truthfully.
‘This morning. Hmmm. Then it cannot be . . .’ But he did not finish the sentence. Instead, he said in a more amiable voice, ‘Well done, Peabody. Knowing you, I suspect it was your idea, and not Lord Liverpool’s, but it is a good one. I only hope his lordship won’t be too put out when he sees I am with you.’
I am sure I need not explain to any sensible (that is, female) reader why I woke the following morning absolutely furious with Emerson. Such are the vacillations of the human heart; and I have observed that