The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [5]
‘Of all the infernal nonsense!’ he cried.
I deduced that Emerson had turned from The Times to another periodical – most probably the Daily Yell, whose columns often provoked such a reaction.
‘What is infernal nonsense, my dear?’ I inquired.
A great rattling of pages followed. Then Emerson exclaimed, ‘Just as I suspected. I might have known. Your dear friend O’Connell is the author of this rubbish!’
I was about to reply that Mr Kevin O’Connell was no particular friend of mine; but that would not have been strictly true. I had not seen a great deal of him in recent years, but during our investigation of the bizarre murder of Lord Baskerville I had become quite fond of the young journalist. Brash and impertinent in the pursuit of his profession he may have been; but he had proved a staunch ally in the time of our desperate need, and he had been quite good-natured about Emerson’s having kicked him down the main staircase at Shepheard’s.
‘What has Mr O’Connell done now?’ I asked.
The newspaper rattled noisily. ‘He is up to his old tricks, Peabody. More cursed mummies, more cursed – er – confounded curses.’
‘Really?’ I sat up, splashing water on the paws of Bastet, who grumbled low in her throat and fixed a golden glare upon me. ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said.
‘What for?’ Emerson shouted.
‘I was speaking to the cat Bastet. Pray go on, Emerson. Read me what he writes.’
‘I think not,’ Emerson said.
‘I beg your pardon, Emerson?’
‘I beg yours, Amelia,’ my husband replied, in tones of freezing dignity. ‘I will not read you this article. In fact, I intend to destroy the newspaper and all others that contain the slightest reference to a subject that has, for reasons I cannot explain, the most extraordinary effect on your ordinarily competent brain.’
‘Competent, Emerson? Competent, did you say?’
Emerson’s reply, if any, was drowned by the sound of paper being ripped, crumpled, torn and trampled upon. I waited until the tornado had subsided before calling out, ‘Really, Emerson! You cannot destroy every copy of that newspaper in Cairo, and your actions must inevitably intensify my curiosity.’
Emerson began mumbling to himself. He does that at times. I caught a few words – ‘forlorn hope . . . damnable persistence . . . ought to know better . . . after all these years . . .’ I proceeded to soap my foot without further comment; marriage had taught me the useful fact that silence is sometimes more effective than prolonged discussion. Finally – tacitly acknowledging the force of my argument – he began to read. His voice was so distorted by sarcasm as to be positively falsetto.
‘Latest example of the curse. The royal mummy strikes again. Where will it end? On Tuesday last, at three in the afternoon, a distinguished lady visitor sprained her ankle after slipping upon an apple core . . .’
I laughed aloud. ‘Very good, Emerson. Very humorous, upon my word. Now read me the story.’
‘I am reading it,’ Emerson replied. ‘It is impossible, Amelia, for me to satirize the literary style of your friend O’Connell. Those are his exact words.’
His voice had dropped in pitch, but I knew, from his use of my first name, that he was still annoyed with me. Since the halcyon days of our courtship, in an abandoned tomb in Middle Egypt, Emerson has referred to me by my maiden name of Peabody when feeling affectionate. For my part, I never succumb to the childish trick of employing his given name of Radcliffe, which he detests. Emerson he was to me then, and Emerson he will always be – the name hallowed by memories as tender as they are thrilling.
However, he was eventually persuaded to relate to me what he had read of the case. The malignant mummy did not reside in Egypt, as I had supposed, but in the dusty halls of that venerable institution, the British Museum. The sprained ankle was a rather laboured device of Mr O’Connell’s, but the initiating incident had been a good deal more serious – fatal, in fact.