The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [136]
‘Oh, Mrs Emerson,’ the housekeeper exclaimed. ‘I am sorry – I don’t know what has come over them, they don’t usually behave like this –’
‘It is quite all right, Mrs Watson. I have seen it happen before. It is not your fault.’
‘I beg your pardon, madam,’ Gargery began.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘With all respect, madam, they – and I – would like to inquire about yourself, madam. You sound a little hoarse, madam. Wouldn’t you like me to send for the doctor, madam, to have a look at you?’
It took some time to reassure them, but at last they dispersed, after the cook had informed me she knew a fine remedy for sore throats, consisting in part of honey, horehound, and brandy, which she would concoct immediately. I closed the door and sank into a chair. For once, I felt quite incapable of speech.
It would have been impossible to carry on a conversation while Ramses was present anyway. So I sat quietly and drank tea – it hurt a little to swallow, but the hot liquid revived me wonderfully – and listened to the vigorous sounds of Emerson completing his toilette, assisted by admiring comments, questions, and suggestions from Ramses.
Eventually they emerged, arm in arm. Emerson kindly allowed me to change the bandage – it, and his hair, were both soaking wet. I then retired to tidy myself, while Emerson sat down and took Ramses on his knee, and started to tell him all about it.
My timing was excellent. When I came out of the bathroom, I heard Ramses say, ‘Just who was this unfortunate lady, Papa? And how did it happen that she was fatally injured during the struggle? I understand that you had been rendered unconscious and were as a result unaware of what occurred during the final moments, but from what you have said it is clear that the villain fired first at you and would no doubt have shot Mama next, for if I know Mama, and I am sure I do, she would never run away but would attack your assailant with the utmost energy, and indeed the bruises on her throat make it evident that she closed with him – and he with her – so to speak –’
‘I understand what you mean, Ramses,’ said Emerson. He glanced at me. ‘Er – did you speak, Peabody?’
‘No.’
‘And no wonder,’ Emerson exclaimed, putting Ramses aside and jumping to his feet. ‘My poor dear Peabody, your beautiful swanlike throat resembles a fragment of a Turner painting. It is turning all the colours of the sunset. Where is cook? She spoke of a remedy –’
Ramses trotted towards the bathroom, remarking, ‘Cold water, constantly applied –’
I caught hold of him. ‘No, thank you, Ramses, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need you dripping water all over me and the bathroom. Run along now, I want to get dressed.’
‘Yes, Mama. May I first inquire –’
‘Later, Ramses.’
Emerson offered to help me dress, but before there was time for anything to develop, Mrs Watson appeared, to announce that luncheon was ready. Emerson glanced at his watch. ‘Hmmmmm, yes, time is getting on. Ready, are you, Peabody? Here, take my arm.’
‘There is first a little matter of buttoning me up the back,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps, Mrs Watson, you would oblige?’
Emerson looked hurt. I pretended not to observe it.
Cook had most considerately prepared a cold luncheon, with a variety of aspics, jellies, and other smooth substances that slid down without discomfort. Emerson ate quickly – with any other man, I would say he gobbled his food – and kept sneaking surreptitious glances at his watch. For once his conversation was as bland and correct as any hostess could desire. ‘Lovely spring weather, isn’t it, my dear? I am making excellent progress with my manuscript; did I remember to thank you, my dear Peabody, for your helpful suggestions? Have you heard from Evelyn and Walter lately? How are Raddie and Johnny and Willy and little