The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [39]
‘Let him go, Amelia,’ Helen ordered. I complied, all the more readily since the colour of Ramses’ face had visibly darkened; I had not intended to be quite so rough. Helen stooped to touch the boy’s lacerated cheek.
‘I am not angry with you, Ramses, but I confess I am disappointed. Not about the cycle; you didn’t intend to damage it. Do you know why I am disappointed in you?’
Ramses had always been fond of Helen, in his peculiar fashion, but if he had looked at me as he was looking at her, I would have sent for a constable. Then his abused countenance took on its habitual expression of phlegmatic unconcern. ‘You feel I am not behaving like a little gentleman?’ he suggested.
‘Quite right. A gentleman does not take the property of others without permission; he does not seek to excuse his behaviour by referring to others; he does not use bad language; and he never, never kicks another person.’
‘Hmmm.’ Ramses thought it over. ‘In justice to my Mama and Papa, let me say that they have endeavoured to impress such standards upon me, without, however, presenting them in such a pontifical manner, but until the present time I have never fully considered the difficulties of –’
‘Go to your room, Ramses,’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes, Mama. But I would like to say –’
‘To your room!’
Ramses left. I observed he limped.
I ordered the carriage for Helen, commended Percy on his good intentions and manly behaviour, spoke to Violet – who had stopped wailing as soon as she realized no one was paying any attention to her – and went wearily into the house.
I had a long, serious talk with Ramses. He condescended to let me examine his leg and apply cold compresses to the purpling bruise thereon, but to judge by his sole comment, my kindly lecture had little effect. ‘Being a little gentleman,’ he remarked, more to himself than to me, ‘seems hardly worth the trouble.’
After the incident of the bicycle, conflict between the children lessened – perhaps because I had confined Ramses to his room for three days. I was thus able to finish my household chores and make plans to leave for London. Emerson had been locked up in the library, emerging only to take his meals and grumble at the rest of us. At first I used to hear angry cries, resulting from his discovery of another of Ramses’ revisions of the manuscript; but these lessened as time went on, and at length he informed me that he had reached a point where consultation of reference materials at the British Museum was necessary. I informed him, in turn, that I was ready whenever he was.
Wishing to avoid any possible source of controversy between us, I had made no reference to the strange case of the malignant mummy; but rest assured, dear Reader, I eagerly consulted the newspapers each day to see what, if anything, had happened. The results were disappointing in the extreme. Mr O’Connell and his rival did their best, but the only one who provided them with copy was the accommodating lunatic in the priestly vestments, who made regular calls on the mummy case. No visitor or official of the museum suffered so much as a paper cut.
I had virtually forgotten the matter when one morning – I believe it was on the Tuesday – Wilkins came to announce that I had a visitor. The young lady was unknown to him, nor had she consented to give a name; ‘but I believe, madam, you will wish to receive her,’ said Wilkins, with a most peculiar look.
‘Indeed, Wilkins? And why do you believe that?’
Wilkins coughed deprecatingly. ‘The young lady was most insistent, madam.’
His repetition of the word ‘lady’ was emphatic and meaningful; Wilkins, snob that he is, is careful to make such distinctions.
‘Show her in, then,’ I said, putting down my pen. ‘Or, no – better that I should go to her, I can excuse myself more easily. Where have you put her, Wilkins?’
He had put her in the drawing room – another indication