The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [42]
I had hoped to get them out of the house without a further scene, but alas, it was not to be. Once again the abused door of my drawing room was flung open, this time by a brawnier arm than that of Kevin O’Connell.
Emerson believes that physical comfort is essential to intellectual labours (an opinion in which I heartily concur), so he was in his shirt sleeves, without cravat or vest. His hair was tousled and his face was liberally besprinkled with ink spots, unmistakable signs of a desperate (though victorious) struggle with his recalcitrant prose. His blue eyes sparkled, his brows were lowered, a flush of choler added a becoming pink to his lean brown cheeks.
‘Ah,’ he said mildly. ‘I thought I recognized your voice, Mr O’Connell.’
Kevin retreated behind the sofa, a massive structure of carved rosewood and crimson plush. Nodding politely to Miss Minton, Emerson addressed me. ‘Amelia, why is Wilkins sitting on the floor of the hall?’
‘I have no idea, Emerson. Why don’t you ask Wilkins?’
‘He appears incapable of speech,’ Emerson replied.
‘I never laid a hand on him,’ Kevin exclaimed. ‘Sure an’ begorra, I wouldn’t touch an old soul like that –’
‘You never laid a hand on him,’ Emerson repeated. He began to roll up his shirt sleeves.
‘No, Emerson, no,’ I cried, attaching myself to him as he moved towards the cowering journalist. ‘You will only provide Mr O’Connell with the copy he ardently desires if you descend to blows.’
This argument had more effect on Emerson than my attempt at physical restraint. ‘You are in the right, as always, Peabody,’ he said. ‘But I beg you will get the fellow out of my house at once. I am the most reasonable of men, but even a temper as equable as mine must crack under such provocation. The effrontery of invading a man’s own house to interrogate that man’s wife –’
‘It is not what you suppose, Emerson,’ I explained. ‘There has been another murder!’
‘Another murder, Peabody?’
‘Well – a murder. Mr Oldacre, the assistant keeper of Oriental Antiquities.’
‘Oldacre? I knew him. A pompous idiot, as you would expect any protégé of Budge’s to be . . . What happened to him?’
I explained. Emerson listened politely. ‘A sad tragedy. But it has nothing to do with us. Let us bid these young people good-bye and return to our work.’
Moving on tiptoe and using the furniture as cover, Kevin had edged his way to the door. He knew Emerson only too well and was not at all reassured by the deceptive mildness of my impulsive husband’s demeanour. Emerson watched him out of the corner of his eye; though his face remained preternaturally grave, a tiny twitch at the extremities of his well-shaped lips gave evidence of inner amusement. Having reached the doorway, Kevin stopped.
‘Yes, Mr O’Connell?’ Emerson inquired.
‘I – er – I was waiting to escort Miss Minton . . . that is, I had hoped she might give me a lift to the railway station.’
‘Ah, yes. Miss Minton.’ Emerson’s eyes turned to the young lady. She raised a nervous hand to her hat. ‘I understand how Mr O’Connell managed to invade my house,’ Emerson went on. ‘Sheer brute force, perpetrated against a man old enough to be his grandfather. Splendid example of Hibernian manners, eh, Peabody? But you, Miss Minton; how did you persuade Wilkins to admit you? For I am certain that had he presented your card to Mrs Emerson, she would not have consented to receive you.’
‘You are quite in the right, Emerson,’ I assured him. ‘Miss Minton refused to give her name. In some manner, I cannot imagine what, she convinced Wilkins that her errand was urgent.’
‘You cannot imagine,’ Emerson said musingly. ‘But I believe I might hazard a guess. That oh-so useful resemblance . . . What did you tell Wilkins, Miss Minton? That you were Mrs Emerson’s long-lost sister or the abandoned memento of a youthful indiscretion –’
Miss Minton’s indignant rebuttal was scarcely louder than mine. ‘Emerson, how dare you!’
‘Very youthful indiscretion,’ Emerson amended. ‘Well, Miss Minton?’
‘I said nothing of