The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [30]
After littering the salon with the shreds of the newspaper and jumping up and down on them, Emerson felt more himself. We then turned to discussing our arrangements for the summer months. Walter and Evelyn repeated their kindly offer of Chalfont House, and I accepted with the proper expressions of appreciation. Emerson’s face fell. I aimed an admonitory kick at his shin, which he avoided, having become only too accustomed to little reminders of that nature; but fortunately the reminder was not required. Emerson’s own good heart, a quality for which he receives far less credit than he deserves, conquered his bile; and he expressed himself with befitting gratitude.
In truth, Chalfont House is not the most comfortable residence for simple people like ourselves who scorn ostentation for its own sake and prefer domestic comfort to show. ‘The cursed catacomb’ (Emerson’s amusing appellation) resembles a museum rather than a residence; it contains upwards of fifty rooms and not nearly enough windows. It is one of the oldest houses on the square, having been built at the beginning of the eighteenth century; but it was extensively remodelled in the early 1860’s by Evelyn’s grandfather, in a (vain) effort to keep up with the Rothschilds. The grand staircase had been inspired by one in the Palazzo Braschi in Rome, the ballroom owed its design to the Palace of Versailles; the billiard room had a vaulted ceiling and walls draped with Chinese silk. In one respect at least later residents could be grateful to the old gentleman and to Mr Rothschild. Each bedroom possessed an adjoining bath.
It was Walter who suggested we all spend the afternoon at the British Museum. If the idea had originated with me, Emerson would have objected to it; coming from Walter, it occasioned only a good-natured grumble.
‘I trust you are not planning to treat us to a visit with the notorious mummy, Walter. You know we abhor that sort of sensationalism.’
Walter glanced at his wife, who was smiling to herself over some tender private thought. ‘My dear Radcliffe, nothing could be farther from my mind. Though I confess I am rather curious. I don’t have your cool scientific detachment.’
‘Bah,’ said Emerson.
‘There is a papyrus I want to examine,’ Walter continued. ‘You know I have been working on my translation of the Leyden Magical Text. A few constructions perplex me; I hope to find parallels in B.M. 29465.’
‘Oh, if that is the case, I will gladly accompany you,’ Emerson replied. ‘I may as well announce my arrival and make sure that idiot Budge hasn’t given my study to someone else. If you can call a cubicle without windows containing only a desk and a few bookcases a study. I don’t suppose you will want to go with us, Peabody.’
‘You suppose nothing of the kind, Emerson. I am anxious to see how Mr Budge has displayed the pottery we gave the museum last year.’
‘If I know Budge, our contributions are still in the packing cases,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘The man’s insane jealousy of other scholars – I name no names, Peabody – passes all bounds.’
Evelyn declined the invitation, at my suggestion. I told her to take a nice little rest, at which she nodded meekly enough; but knowing her propensity to waste time with children, I agreed to Emerson’s suggestion that we take Ramses along. With Ramses out of the way, the chances of Evelyn’s resting were greatly increased.
Ramses was delighted to be asked. I deduced this, not from his expression, which was as blandly uninformative as usual, but from the long elaborate speech he made expressing his feelings on the subject.
Budge was not in his office. Drawn by the racket Emerson made