The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [131]
Emerson stopped pacing. ‘It is a trap, Amelia.’
‘You can’t be certain of that. But if it is, all the more reason why I should arrive early. The strategic advantage –’
‘Don’t lecture me, damn it!’
‘Emerson, please!’
‘Excuse me, Peabody.’ Emerson rubbed his chin. ‘She’s right, of course,’ he muttered. ‘And there’s no preventing her. Unless . . .’
His eyes moved to my face; the look of calculation in them, and the (I am sure) involuntary flexing of his hands, made me step back a pace.
‘Emerson, if you ever lay a hand on me – in the way of restraint, I mean – you will regret it to the end of your days.’
‘Oh, well, I know that, Peabody,’ Emerson said querulously. ‘There are times when I wonder whether it wouldn’t be worth it; but when I think of the things you could do – or not do . . . Hadn’t we better be going?’
‘In a moment. What does that woman mean to you, Emerson? When did you know her? And –’
‘Which woman?’ Emerson asked, grinning. ‘Now, Peabody, don’t lose your temper, we haven’t time for that – or for explanations. I promise you you will get them, in due course – providing, of course, that we survive this evening’s adventure, which seems at the moment highly problematic. Shall we take Gargery along, or . . . No, I can see by your expression that the idea does not strike you favourably. We two, then – side by side and back to back, as before.’
How could I resist that appeal, or reject the strong brown hand that reached for mine?
Despite Emerson’s promise of half a crown to the driver if he made all possible speed, we were later than I had hoped to be, and we were still arguing when the cab reached the foot of Savoy Street, next to Waterloo Bridge. (For this stratagem enabled me to approach the site of the rendezvous from the direction opposite to the one a watcher would expect.)
‘She said to come alone,’ I repeated for the tenth time. ‘If she sees you are with me, she may not show her face.’
Emerson had to admit the logic of this, but the solutions he proposed were either impractical or preposterous. It would have been impossible for him to pass for me, even in a muffling cloak and old-fashioned bonnet. He finally agreed (profanely) to the only sensible method – namely, that he should follow at a distance and try to find a place of concealment near the Needle.
I had persuaded him to forswear the beard. With his collar turned up and his cap pulled low over his forehead, he might pass as a casual vagabond, if the fog was as thick as I hoped it would be (though I have to admit he would never have deceived me, or any other woman whose keenness of vision was strengthened by affection). Unfortunately the night was clear, except for strands of mist that hung over the water.
We watched the cab turn and clatter off. Emerson took my hand.
‘You have your parasol, Peabody?’
‘As you see,’ I replied, brandishing it.
A quick and bruising embrace was his only answer. Wordlessly he gestured me to proceed.
From the bridge, which was almost overhead, the rumble and rattle of traffic reached my ears, mingled with the shrieks of locomotives approaching Waterloo Station on the other side of the river. Straight ahead of me stretched the Embankment, lit by incandescent gas globes. They were raised on wrought-iron pedestals and were approximately twenty yards apart; from where I stood they formed a shimmering necklace of light, shaped into a double strand by the reflection in the dark water.
I started walking, keeping as far away from the lights as possible. I was not the only person abroad; after one burly and unkempt male individual paused, with the obvious intention of addressing me, I turned my parasol into a walking stick and hobbled painfully along, feigning feeble old age. Above and to my right shone the glow of light from the busy streets; on my left was the rippling river; and straight ahead, dark against the starry sky, loomed the towering shape of that simplest and most impressive of man-made monuments – the obelisk that had once