The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [50]
Miss Minton agreed with me that the identity of the lunatic in the priestly garb was of primary importance. His elusiveness thus far verged on the supernatural; to say, as the more sensational accounts did, that he had a habit of vanishing into thin air was unquestionably an exaggeration, but metaphorically it was a reasonable description. However, Miss Minton insisted that he had thus far eluded pursuit primarily because no one had been particularly interested in following him.
‘He was only one lunatic among many,’ she said, smiling cynically. ‘Now, however . . .’
‘I thought the police didn’t believe the witness who claimed to have seen him near the scene of the murder.’
‘So they say. But that may be only a device on the part of Scotland Yard, to lull him into a sense of false security. In any case, he is an object of considerable interest to the press. How I would love to be the one to apprehend and unmask him! What a journalistic coup!’ Her eyes flashed.
‘You have a scheme in mind,’ I said shrewdly. ‘Does it by chance involve your young friend at the Museum?’
‘Eustace?’ The girl gave a peal of merry laughter. ‘Dear me, no. Eustace would like nothing better than to see me give up the case, and the profession of journalism.’
‘But you don’t scruple to make use of him,’ I said. ‘Shame, Miss Minton. To take advantage of a young man’s affectionate feelings in order to extract information is really . . . I presume he was acquainted with the murdered man?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated for a moment; but my encouraging smile and expectant air were too much for her to resist. ‘I should not say it, but from what I have heard, Mr Oldacre was no great loss.’
‘Strange. Emerson said much the same.’
‘I had occasion to meet him while I was pursuing my initial investigation,’ the girl continued. Her soft mouth hardened in distaste. ‘A sleek, smooth-talking rascal with wet hands – you know what I mean, Mrs Emerson – and eyes that seemed to look through one’s clothing. He was overly familiar with equals and fawning to superiors; always trying to imitate a way of life he could neither afford nor appreciate –’
‘Ah,’ I said keenly. ‘Was he in debt, then?’
‘Constantly.’
‘Then perhaps it was a moneylender who killed him.’
‘Moneylenders don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs,’ Miss Minton said. ‘Nor do they continue to lend money without security. Oldacre was not independently wealthy, and his salary from the Museum was not enough to support him in the style he desired. You see what I am getting at, don’t you, Mrs Emerson?’
‘Blackmail.’
‘Quite right. And the victims of blackmailers do sometimes turn on their tormentors.’
‘But that theory raises more questions than it answers,’ I said. ‘Whom was he blackmailing, and for what reason? And what does the lunatic priest have to do with the affair? You reason ingeniously, Miss Minton, but you lack my experience in these matters, and I must tell you . . .’
Which I did, at some length, concluding, ‘Well, my dear, I wish you luck. It would be a pleasure to see a woman succeed where arrogant males fail.’
Her eyes gleamed. ‘If you feel that way–’ she began.
‘You must not count on my assistance, Miss Minton. I take no interest in the case. I have not the time to pursue it. I will be very busy this summer. Assisting the professor with his book on the history of ancient Egypt, preparing our excavation report for publication, attending the annual meeting of the Society for the Preservation of the Monuments of Ancient Egypt (where I have promised to read a paper on the flooding of the burial chamber of the Black Pyramid) . . . oh, any number of things. So I had better be on my way.’
We parted with assurance of mutual regard, and I thanked her again for undertaking my errand.
I waited until her slim, trim figure was out of sight before I started walking. It would never have done for her to see the direction I took – not towards Piccadilly and Shaftesbury Avenue, the most direct route to Russell Square, but following her, to the Strand and the Embankment. I walked jauntily, swinging my parasol,