The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [121]
His lordship was more entertained than offended by Emerson’s criticism. ‘Yes, the old boy was a robber, all right. But see here, Professor, everybody did it.’
Seeing that Emerson was about to make an angry remark, I intervened, for it was not in our best interests to annoy the young man. ‘It is certainly not Lord Liverpool’s fault, Emerson. What a lovely piece! We brought a cat back with us from Egypt one year, your lordship; this is the very image of Bastet.’
‘Is that so, ma’am?’
‘Ned,’ said Lord St John in a flat expressionless voice, ‘is very fond of cats.’
‘Oh yes, yes. Love the little creatures. Stables are full of ’em,’ Lord Liverpool added somewhat vaguely.
There was nothing else in the collection to rival the limestone relief, though of course Emerson fussed and fumed over every scarab. The Earl then indicated a door at the far end of the room.
‘The poor old mummy’s next-to-the-last resting place,’ he said with a grin. ‘Not much left there now she’s gone; I mean to turn the room into a sitting room one day – after I marry.’
I opened the door and looked in. ‘Ah, most interesting. It was from this chamber that cries and groans were heard on the night of the full moon, and bric-a-brac broke of its own accord.’
Lord Liverpool laughed, throwing his head back. The tendons in his thin neck stood out like strings. ‘A fetching tale, wasn’t it? The girl was let go – not by me, I don’t deal with such things – by the housekeeper – said she was lazy. Can’t blame the little baggage for making a few shillings off us.’
I marked the unevenness of his speech, and the fading of the colour in his face, and glanced at Emerson. He nodded slightly. After making a cursory tour of the room which, as his lordship had said, contained nothing of interest except a fine set of canopic jars, with the lids carved like the heads of the mortuary deities, we thanked him and took our leave.
An involuntary sigh escaped my lips as the carriage rolled smoothly down the gravelled drive. ‘Tired, Peabody?’ Emerson asked, tossing his hat onto the seat and loosening his cravat.
‘Not so much physically tired as inexpressibly sad, Emerson. How oppressive is the atmosphere of that house!’
‘Don’t spout Gothic nonsense,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘The inhabited part of the house is bright, modern, well-kept . . . Peabody, I told you not to touch any of the furniture in the Elizabethan room; you have got soot or grease on your hands.’
‘It is oil, I believe,’ I remarked, wiping my fingers on my handkerchief. ‘But I was not speaking of the house, Emerson; I was referring to its owner. Whatever his failings, it is tragic to see a young man facing inevitable, imminent death.’
‘The disease has already attacked his brain,’ Emerson muttered. ‘You observed the characteristic excitability. He could have homicidal fits, Peabody.’
‘I did not get that impression, Emerson.’
‘Impressions don’t count for a jot. You are softening towards the young rascal because he is ill, and because he says he likes cats.’
‘It is an engaging quality, Emerson.’
‘That depends,’ said Emerson darkly, ‘on how he likes them.’
XII
HENRY stopped the carriage in front of the house to let us out before going on around to the mews. As we descended, Emerson turned and shook his fist. ‘Hi, there, you little rascal! Don’t try that again; you’ll break a leg.’
‘I trust you were not speaking to me,’ I remarked playfully.
Emerson gestured at a ragged urchin who was retreating at full speed. ‘Another of those street arabs. They will hang on to the backs of carriages and cabs; it’s a dangerous trick.’
The wretched child – who had now disappeared from sight – aroused uncomfortable memories.