The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [19]
This last remark was more convincing than his claim of concern for my reputation; adding to it his terror of Emerson (a terror which, in this case, was well founded), I thought I could count on his silence. ‘Very well,’ I said, finishing my whiskey and looking about, in vain, for anything resembling a serviette. ‘I cannot dally, Mr O’Connell. It is quite dark and Emerson will be looking for me. I leave you to pay the tab, since it was your invitation.’
He insisted on walking me back to the house, and although I felt no trepidation – after some of the areas through which I have walked after dark, London held no fears for me – I acceded to his request. As we approached the door the young woman sidled up to me and offered me my scarf. I rearranged it around her neck, tucking the ends in securely, and told her to keep it, as I had others.
I was glad of Kevin’s company, if only because my hold of his arm kept me from slipping. The mixture of mud, water, and various slimy substances underfoot made walking treacherous. The fog had closed in, dimming the gaslights to ghostly globes of sickly yellow-grey and distorting monstrously the forms of passersby. Yet there was a certain grisly charm in the scene, and I was moved to remark that dear old London need not yield even to the slums of Cairo in sinister and malodorous fascination. Kevin’s only response was to tighten his grip and hurry me forward.
At the spot where York Street debouched into the square, he stopped and announced his intention of leaving me. ‘You will be all right now, Mrs E.’
‘I have never been anything other than all right, Mr O. Thank you for entertaining me at the public house; it was a most interesting experience. But don’t forget what I told you.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘You will not use my name again.’
‘Certainly not, Mrs E. Unless,’ Kevin added, ‘some incident of unusual interest occurs, and the other newspapers learn of it, and report it. You surely would not expect me to be the only journalist in London who refrained from printing the story, would you?’
‘Good Gad, O’Connell, you sound just like Ramses,’ I said in exasperation. ‘No such incident will occur. I have no intention of becoming involved with the nonsensical doings at the British Museum.’
‘Oh, indeed?’ His rather wide mouth opened, not in a smile but in a snarl of rage. ‘Sure an’ begorra, but I might have known . . . The spalpeen! The treacherous little serpent –’
‘Who? Where?’
‘There.’ Kevin pointed. ‘D’ye see that big yellow umbrella?’
‘The weather being inclement, a number of parasols are to be seen,’ I replied. ‘But in this dreadful fog it is impossible to make out colours with any degree of –’
‘There, just there – in front of Chalfont House.’ Kevin growled deep in his throat. ‘Lying in wait, lurking like a ghoul . . . Och, the shame of the creature then!’
The umbrella he had mentioned was not difficult to distinguish after all, for unlike the others on the pavements it remained stationary, just outside the high iron fence enclosing the grounds of Chalfont House. Though there was a lamppost not far away, I could see very little more than the umbrella itself. It was a very large umbrella.
‘Who is it?’ I asked, squinting in an effort to see better.
‘Who else but that creeping snake Minton? You had better go round to the back, Mrs E.’
‘Nonsense. I will not skulk into a house as if I had no right to be there. Run along, Mr O’Connell (and make sure you change your boots and your socks as soon as you get home). A confrontation between you and Minton could only lead to acrimony and to delay.’
‘But, Mrs E. –’
‘I am quite capable of dealing with impertinent journalists. As you ought to know.’
‘But –’
The heavy doors of Chalfont House burst open. Light spilled out onto the steps; from the form silhouetted against it came a voice weirdly distorted by the damp and the fog. ‘Peabody! Where are yooooooou, Peabody? Curse