The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [32]
One could hardly blame the woman for taking advantage of this latest outbreak of public ignorance to advance or restore her career; but I wished she were more inventive. The performance was the typical tedious exchange of question and answer between the voices of the medium and her ‘control’ or ‘spirit guide.’ Madame Blatantowski’s guide had the fascinating (and linguistically impossible) nomen of Fetet-ra, and his baritone voice bore a striking resemblance to her own hoarse tones. He seemed to be urging that all those who wished to see the ‘princess’ restored to her tomb should send contributions to Madame.
The audience listened with respectful solemnity or with broad sceptical grins, depending on their degree of gullibility. Seeing a particularly broad and sceptical grin on a face nearby, I approached it.
‘I thought you were not interested in this sort of sensationalism,’ I remarked.
‘Walter made me come,’ said Emerson. ‘Hallo, Ramses, my boy; pay close attention, you will seldom see such a striking example of human folly.’
Walter greeted me with a nod and a smile, but Mr Wilson, who was with him, did not share his amusement.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he bleated, like the sheep he rather resembled. ‘What will Mr Budge say? He ordered me to discourage this sort of thing . . .’
Walter patted him on the back. ‘Cheer up, Wilson. This does bring visitors to the museum; some may linger and improve their minds.’
Wilson wrung his thin hands. ‘You are kind to say so, Mr Emerson, sir, and I will certainly put that argument to Mr Budge; but he does not . . . He has ordered me . . .’
‘For once I agree with Budge,’ Emerson announced. ‘This is a waste of time. The wretched female has no notion how to interest an audience.’
‘Your exorcisms are much more effective,’ I agreed. ‘But, Emerson, few people possess your dramatic talents.’
‘True,’ Emerson said. ‘I suppose she deserves a little something for her effort.’ And before I could stop him, he pulled some coins from his pocket. With a skilful toss he pitched them over the heads of the spectators, so that they fell, ringing musically on the marble, at the feet of Madame.
That put an end to the performance. Some of the watchers burst out laughing and threw more pennies. Others dived to pick them up. Emerson watched with a benevolent smile.
‘How very rude, Emerson,’ I scolded.
‘My tolerance for fools is limited,’ said Emerson. ‘If she . . . Ha! Look there, Peabody. The prologue is over and the play is about to commence.’
The ‘priest’ had timed his entrance well. All eyes had been focused on the medium; no one – certainly not I – had seen him approach. It was as if he had emerged from one of the anthropoid coffins ranged along the wall. He stood as still, arms folded on his breast. The painted faces of the coffins were no more immobile than his own.
Which was not surprising, since he was wearing a mask – not the modern sort that covers only the face, but a skilful replica of the papier-mâché constructions that were sometimes placed over the heads of mummies. The moulded ringlets of the hair accurately reproduced the elaborate wigs of the late Empire period. The features were carefully modelled, the lips tinted, the brows outlined in black paint. The eyes were empty holes.
The leopard skin was genuine. I can’t say why that detail should have struck me; perhaps it was the fierceness of its snarl and the contrast of the soft, dangling paws.