The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [164]
I was in the library, scribbling busily away at my paper on the Black Pyramid, and meditating (for when the subject is one with which I am thoroughly at home I can easily think of two or more things at once) on the tranquillity of family life. One never truly appreciates one’s happiness until after one has lost it and then seen it restored; I had never fully appreciated Ramses until I met Percy. The house was blissfully quiet. Emerson was at the Museum; Ramses was in his room, mummifying a rat or manufacturing dynamite, or doing something of the sort. How peaceful it all was, and how devoutly I thanked Heaven for my manifold blessings!
There was only one little thing. I did not mention it to Heaven, since I fully expected I would be able to deal with it unaided, but at the moment I was not quite certain how to proceed. I had told Emerson I would never do anything to make him break a solemn promise – nor would I. But there had to be some other way of ascertaining the identity of that mysterious man in the turban . . . He must be an Egyptian. An ally, or enemy, or business rival, or lover, of poor Ayesha’s? Ahmet the Louse had been restored to his friends and his relations, but I knew how to reach him; he or some other of the opium addicts who had been poor unfortunate Ayesha’s clients must know . . .
The library door burst open with the impetuosity that marks my beloved spouse. I greeted him with a smile; he greeted me with a fervent embrace. ‘Hallo, Peabody. How is the paper coming along?’
‘Very well, my dear.’
‘Good. Then you can take a few minutes’ respite from your labours.’
‘Certainly, my dear Emerson.’
He threw himself down on the sofa and indicated the seat next to him. I took it, and studied him with considerable curiosity. He seemed in excessively high spirits; his whole body was bubbling with laughter that now and again escaped his smiling lips in a cheery chuckle. His eyes sparkled and his cheeks were handsomely flushed.
‘What do you say to a whiskey and soda, Peabody?’
‘My dear, not at this hour. It is too early.’
‘Well, I must do something to celebrate.’ He pursed his lips and blew out his breath in a long whistle. ‘What a narrow escape! I really feared for a time . . .’
‘What is it, Emerson? Have you finished your manuscript?’
‘Oh, that. Something much more important, Peabody. I tell you, I have narrowly escaped a horrible fate. Aren’t you going to ask me what it was?’
An inkling of the truth had begun to dawn. I smiled demurely. ‘Why, no, Emerson, not if it is something you have sworn never to tell. “Eternal silence” was, I believe –’
‘Peabody, you can sometimes be very annoying. You are supposed to nag and scold and bully me into speaking.’
‘Consider it done, Emerson.’
Emerson burst out laughing. ‘Thank you. Let me see, how can I put this . . . Peabody, would you like to be the wife of Sir Radcliffe Emerson, Knight?’
‘Why, no, Emerson, that would not suit me at all,’ I replied calmly. ‘To be addressed as Lady Emerson –’
Emerson interrupted me with a hearty kiss. ‘I thought you would feel that way. So I declined. I was forced, however, to accept a small token of esteem.’
He handed me a little velvet box. Inside was an emerald of astonishing size and clarity, set in a ring and encircled with small diamonds.
‘My dear, how vulgar,’ I said, examining it. ‘How could she possibly suppose you would wear such a thing? She is a rather common little woman, I know, but –’
‘Curse you, Peabody,’ Emerson shouted. ‘You knew all along, didn’t you? That night, when I came back from Windsor,