The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [44]
Emerson’s dour face brightened. ‘Budge!’ he cried. ‘What a delightful thought, Peabody!’
‘My dear Emerson, such inappropriate expressions of levity would be sadly misinterpreted if they were overheard. I know you better; you would not really like to see Mr Budge foully murdered –’
‘No,’ Emerson admitted. ‘I would prefer to see him alive and suffering.’
‘But what if Mr Budge is not the next victim? There are a number of Oriental scholars in London, Emerson. Soon there will be another – the greatest, the most distinguished of them all.’
Emerson, who – to judge by his smile – had been pleasurably pondering the sufferings of Mr Budge, looked up. My suggestion seemed to strike him all of a heap. His thick dark eyebrows swooped up and down, his lips moved, as if seeking the precise, the exact word. Finally he found it.
‘Lunatic,’ he shouted. ‘Of all the lunatic theories you have ever concocted – and my dear Peabody, there have been a number of them – this is the most . . . the wildest . . . the . . . But – but I must compose myself. I must exercise that stern control refined by years of bitter experience.’
‘You really must,’ I agreed. ‘Your face is absolutely engorged, Emerson. Either control your emotion or express it – rid yourself of it. Tear up the newspaper, Emerson. Break something. I have always disliked that vase –’
Emerson leaped from his chair. He reached for the vase, but thought better of it. He stood rigid, fists clenched, murmuring brokenly to himself; and slowly the fiery flood of ichor that had tinted his cheeks subsided. He emitted a weak laugh. ‘You had me for a moment, Peabody. What a joker you are. You don’t believe it either. You were only teasing me.’
I said nothing. The truth could not be expressed, for fear of arousing another storm of wrath; a lie was impossible to one of my open and candid personality.
‘It was an excuse,’ Emerson mused. ‘Not a very good one, either, if I may say so; usually you can come up with more sensible rationalizations for meddling in murders. You are going to meddle, aren’t you, Peabody?’
‘Why no, Emerson. I never meddle.’
Reader, I spoke the truth. I never have and never will meddle in other people’s affairs. It is a word I abhor. There are times when a gentle hint or a helpful suggestion may save unnecessary suffering, and this I would not scruple to employ. But meddle – never.
My dear Emerson was himself again. A healthy flush warmed his brown cheeks; his irresistible chuckle bubbled up in his throat and issued from lips that had parted to display strong white teeth. He threw his arms around me.
‘What a cool liar you are, Peabody. You can hardly wait to begin. We won’t have been in London a day before you will call on Scotland Yard, on Budge, on the mummy –’
‘Emerson, I must protest the unjust, not to say frivolous –’ But I was unable to continue reasoned discussion, since Emerson’s actions had – as they not infrequently do – a peculiar effect on my ability to concentrate. I essayed one last protest: ‘Emerson. Your hands are covered with ink from the newspaper; I am sure you are leaving prints all over my blouse, and what Wilkins will think when he sees . . . Oh, my dear Emerson!’
‘Who cares what Wilkins thinks?’ Emerson muttered. And I was forced to confess that he had, with his customary acumen, struck straight to the heart of the matter.
‘Superstitious’ is not a word, I believe, that anyone would dare apply to ME. Amelia Peabody Emerson prey to degrading and irrational beliefs? A short, sharp bark of laughter is the only possible response to such an idea.
And yet, dear Reader, and yet . . . At one time in my life I had been forced to believe in the premonitory nature of dreams, when one such vision was later fulfilled to the last lurid detail. I do not insist that such is always the case. It may well be, as some authorities now claim (at the time I pen these words) that dreams reflect other, even more repugnant, elements – low, disgusting racial memories, repressed unnatural desires, and the like. I am never dogmatic; my mind is always receptive to new