The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [23]
‘It is the custom. Never mind, my dear, we will soon be home and then you can be as uncouth as you like.’
‘It can’t be too soon for me,’ Emerson assured me. ‘We haven’t been in town a day and already you are being followed by lunatics dressed up in their nightshirts. How the devil did he find us? Did you send him a telegram?’
‘I presume you are joking, Emerson. The newspapers have reported our activities in considerable detail. Besides, our names were on the passenger list; anyone who wanted to know the time of our arrival could have found out at the offices of the steamship company.’
‘That would explain the young lady,’ Emerson admitted. ‘What an extraordinary thing, Peabody.’
‘That a woman should be a journalist? Unusual, certainly; commendable, undoubtedly. Much as I dislike the profession, it warms my heart to see my sisters venture –’
‘You don’t take my meaning. What was so extraordinary was the resemblance.’
‘To whom, Emerson?’
‘To you, Peabody. Didn’t you observe it?’
‘Nonsense,’ I replied, taking the pins from my hair. ‘There was not the slightest resemblance.’
‘Are you sure you haven’t a sister?’
‘Quite sure. Don’t be absurd, Emerson.’
Rose’s reappearance ended the discussion. Emerson once again retreated to his dressing room while Rose buttoned me into my frock and tried to do something with my untidy hair. Emerson had not closed the door and I could hear him mumbling to himself. When he came out he was fully dressed except for his studs and links, which he can never locate. Still muttering under his breath, he began tumbling my toilet articles about in his search for the missing articles.
Rose found them in the top drawer of the bureau, where they belonged, and advanced on Emerson. ‘If I may, sir –’
‘Oh. Thank you, Rose. Did you happen to notice the young lady who was at the gate earlier?’
‘No, sir. I don’t waste time looking out the windows when I have me duties to perform.’
‘Amazing resemblance to Mrs Emerson,’ said my husband, lifting his chin in response to a rather sharp poke from Rose.
‘Indeed, sir?’
Her brief, cool answers were out of character, for Rose was normally on the best of terms with both of us and often condescended to exchange a bit of local gossip or a friendly jest while helping me dress. Turning to look at her, I observed that she was subjecting Emerson to a kind of small torture, prodding and jabbing at him as she inserted the studs.
‘Where is Ramses?’ I inquired. ‘He wasn’t in the hall and he is usually the first one on the scene when something is going on.’
A loud, rather damp sniff from Rose was the only answer I got from that quarter. Emerson scowled. ‘Ramses is in disgrace. He is to stay in his room until I give him leave to come out. You had better get back to him, Rose; I don’t trust him to . . . Ow!’
The exclamation was prompted by Rose’s giving his wrist a shrewd twist as she inserted the link. ‘Yes, sir,’ she snapped. Wheeling, like a military person on parade, she marched out of the room.
‘You have offended Rose,’ I said.
‘She always takes his part,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘Did you see what she did, Peabody? She dug her nails into my hand –’
‘I assure you it was an accident, Emerson. Rose would not be so childish. Why is Ramses in disgrace?’
‘Look there,’ Emerson said, indicating the heap of papers on the table.
It was the manuscript of The History of Ancient Egypt; I had observed it earlier and had been pleased to see evidence of industry, but succeeding events had distracted me and prevented me from looking closely. Now I advanced to the desk and took up the top page. It was covered with closely written emendations, corrections, and revisions; I was about to congratulate Emerson on his industry when I realized the handwriting was not his. I knew whose handwriting it was.
‘Oh no,’ I murmured. ‘Surely he would not . . . Well, on this point at least he is correct; the date of the beginning of the Fourth Dynasty –’
Emerson clapped his hand to his brow. ‘Et tu, Peabody? Bad enough that I have nourished a viper in my house, but another in my very bosom . .