The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [142]
Gargery went away.
Of course I did not break into hysterics or tears. That is not my habit. I was not even angry with Emerson. He was always complaining about his inability to prevent me from rushing headlong into danger, but that was only his little joke; never before had he made any real effort to stop me. He must be desperate to resort to a trick like this, which he knew would bring down vehement reproaches on his head . . . Oh, my dear Emerson, I thought – my shell of calm breaking for an instant – only return, safe and sound, and I will never speak a word.
I forced myself to sit down and use my head instead of my heart. Naturally I had no intention of sitting idly by, waiting for Emerson to come back. I had no idea where he might have gone. However, from his guarded remarks earlier I knew he and I were on the same track, insofar as the solution of the murder case was concerned. Obviously he knew more than I – or thought he did. Surely, if I applied my intelligence to the matter, I ought to be able to arrive at the same conclusion he had reached – and, in due course of time, at the same place to which those conclusions had led him.
Something was nagging at my mind. I knew the sensation well, for it had happened to me before – a sense of something seen or heard to which I had not paid proper attention at the time. Something overlooked or misunderstood . . . something of consummate importance. I sat down and pressed my hands over my eyes – not because they were damp with incipient tears, but in order to blot out external distractions. What could it have been? For long, agonized seconds I had dangled helplessly from the throttling hands of the killer, my face only inches from his. I had been somewhat distracted at the time, but might there not have been a clue – a scent or a sound or a sensation – to that villain’s identity?
I felt I was on the right track, but before I could pursue my recollection, the prattle of childish voices without reminded me of another duty. If I did not get downstairs at once, Violet would eat all the biscuits.
She had consumed several before I arrived on the scene, so I put an end to that, and ordered them all to their places. ‘And what have you been doing today?’ I asked pleasantly.
‘We went to the park,’ said Percy. ‘I took my hoop and my butterfly net.’
‘There was a muffin man,’ murmured Violet. ‘A nice, nice muffin man.’
‘And did you catch any butterflies, Percy?’ I inquired. I did not bother to ask whether Violet had caught any muffins; I felt sure she had. The child was swelling up like a toad.
‘Yes, Aunt Amelia. Only a few Monarchs, but it was good exercise, you know, running after them.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied encouragingly. ‘And you, Ramses – did you help Percy catch butterflies?’
‘I wonder that you can ask, Mama, since you know my views on the needless murder of living creatures,’ Ramses replied in his stateliest manner. ‘If you will excuse my changing the subject – which is boring in the extreme – I would like to ask whether Papa has gone out? In his present weakened condition –’
‘He has gone out,’ I replied somewhat sharply. ‘And no – I do not know where he has gone or when he will return. He is not accountable to you, Ramses – or to me – for his actions.’
‘Not in the legal sense,’ Ramses replied. ‘But the gentle urging of domestic affection implies a moral obligation, and I am surprised to find that Papa, who is as a rule most considerate of our concern –’
‘Please, Ramses.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
A brief silence followed. I moved the plate of biscuits out of Violet’s reach and tried to think of something to say. I was not really in a fit state for idle conversation.
After a moment Percy coughed. ‘May I ask you some-thing, Aunt Amelia?’
‘Certainly, Percy. What is it?’
‘Well, you see, I have been wondering . . . The matter has been on my mind for some time.’
‘If it is your mama you are worrying about,’ I began.
‘No, it isn’t that, Aunt. In fact, it isn’t about any person, any person I know.