The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [17]
‘But I said only the most complimentary things about you and Mr Emerson,’ O’Connell protested.
‘You implied I was an unfit mother.’
‘’Twas no such thing! My exact words were, “She is the most affectionate of parents –”’
‘“Which makes her inability to prevent the lad from engaging in hair-raising adventures all the more astonishing.”’ O’Connell met my stern gaze with eyes as blue, as limpid, and as serene as the lakes of Eire. ‘Well,’ I said after a moment, ‘perhaps, after all, the statement is not entirely inaccurate. But what on earth was in your reputed brain, Kevin, to say Professor Emerson and I had consented to solve the mystery of the malignant mummy? That is a flat-out fabrication.’
‘I said no such thing. I said –’
‘I have not the time to exchange quibbles with you,’ I said sternly. ‘I slipped out of the house without Emerson’s knowledge; if he misses me he will raise a hullaballoo.’
A shudder ran through Kevin’s wiry frame. ‘A very descriptive word, Mrs E.’
The young person shuffled up, carrying a tray and a damp cloth. The cloth was not very clean, but the energy with which she swabbed the table indicated a willingness to please, and so I forbore to comment, only pointing out a few spots she had missed. Kevin had already seized his glass and consumed a considerable amount of the contents. He ordered another of the same, and I remarked in the kindliest possible fashion, ‘Young woman, that is a very nice frock, but with so much of your chest exposed, you run the risk of catching a severe cold. Have you no scarf or shawl?’
The girl shook her head dumbly. ‘Take mine, then,’ I said, removing it from about my neck. It was a nice, thick wool plaid. ‘There. No, wrap it closely – so – that is much better. Now run along and get this gentleman his – what was it, Mr O’Connell? Stout? A curious name for a beverage.’
But O’Connell’s arms were on the table and his head rested on his arms, and his shoulders were shaking. In response to my inquiries he assured me he was quite all right, though his face was almost as red as his hair and his lips were quivering.
‘Now,’ I said, sipping my whiskey, ‘what were we talking about?’
O’Connell shook his head. ‘I have not the slightest idea. Conversation with you has a strange effect on my brain, Mrs Emerson.’
‘Many people find it difficult to follow my mental processes,’ I admitted. ‘But really, Kevin, your profession demands quick thinking, flexibility, concentration. Especially the latter. You must learn to concentrate.
‘We were discussing your statement that Professor Emerson and I had consented to investigate the case of the curse.’
‘I did not say you had consented. I said you would be consulted.’
‘By whom? The Daily Yell?’
‘Would that ’twere true,’ Kevin exclaimed, pressing his hand to his heart in an outrageous parody of rapture. ‘My editors would pay any sum – any reasonable sum, that is – to retain you and the professor as consultants. Dare I hope –’
‘No, you may not. Not only would it be beneath our dignity to have our names associated in a professional capacity with a newspaper – especially a disgusting example of libellous trash like the Daily Yell – but there is absolutely nothing to consult about. We are not detectives, Mr O’Connell. We are scholars!’
‘But you solved the Baskerville murder –’
‘That was another matter altogether. We were called into that case as Egyptologists, to carry on the work begun by Lord Baskerville, whose mysterious death was followed by other incidents of a desperate and dangerous and distracting character. This case is quite different. It is a wisp, a fiction, concocted by Mr Kevin O’Connell.’
‘Now, indeed, ma’am, you wrong me. I am not the guilty party. Will you condescend to let me explain?’
‘I have been waiting for you to do so.’
Kevin tugged at his fiery locks. ‘It was not I who broke