The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [51]
Emerson would have said it served me right for being so smug. Yet who could have suspected that her pretty smiling face was capable of concealing such dark duplicity?
Certainly not an individual as forthright and honest as I.
VI
HERETOFORE all my criminal investigations had occurred in the Middle East, so I had never had occasion to visit New Scotland Yard. I had, of course, observed the building with professional interest whenever I happened to pass by, and I did not agree with the aesthetes who sneered at its architecture. Red brick banded with white Portland stone gave it a picturesque charm, and the rounded turrets at each corner suggested a baronial castle. Its appearance may have been at variance with its grim function, but I see no reason why prisons, fortresses, factories, and other places of confinement should not look attractive.
Being accustomed to the vagaries of Egyptian police officials and the rudeness of their English superiors, I was pleasantly surprised by the efficiency and affability with which I was received. Having asked for the person in charge of the murder of Mr Oldacre, I was shown at once to a (rather dreary) office with windows overlooking the Embankment. It contained two desks, three chairs, several cabinets, and two men, one a uniformed constable, the other a lean, grizzled man as emaciated as any mummy, which he rather resembled, for the skin of his face was set in a thousand wrinkles. When my name was announced, he hastened to greet me, his thin lips straining as if trying to smile.
‘Mrs Emerson! I need not ask if you are the Mrs Emerson; I am familiar with your appearance, from portraits that have appeared from time to time in the newspapers. Do sit down. Will you have a cup of tea?’
I accepted, partly out of politeness and partly because I was curious to see what sort of beverage they brewed in the precincts of Scotland Yard. After dusting off the chair he offered, I sat down, and the constable hastened out to do his chief’s bidding.
‘I am Inspector Cuff,’ said the grizzled gentleman, seating himself behind his desk. ‘I was expecting you, Mrs Emerson. Indeed I expected you would do me the honour of calling on me before this.’
His lips had abandoned the struggle to shape a smile, but there was a friendly, not to say admiring, twinkle in his keen grey eyes. I was gratified and said so, adding, ‘I apologize for not coming before this, Inspector. Family and professional duties, you know.’
‘I quite understand, ma’am. But you also owe a duty to the citizens of England, and to the hard-working Metropolitan Police, to assist us with your famous talents in the area of crime detection.’
I lowered my eyes modestly. ‘Oh, as to that, Inspector, I can hardly claim . . .’
‘You needn’t be reticent with me, Mrs Emerson. I know all about you. We have a mutual acquaintance, who is also an admirer of yours. Mr Blakeney Jones, who formerly advised the Cairo Police.’
‘Mr Jones – of course! I remember him well. He took my statement on one occasion, when I was able to deliver to him a pair of hardened criminals who had been annoying me. Is he back in London, then?’
‘Yes, and has been for over a year. He will be sorry to have missed you; he is on holiday at the moment.’
‘Please give him my regards when next you see him.’ I stripped off my gloves, folded my hands, and regarded Cuff earnestly. ‘But enough compliments, Inspector. Let us get down to business.’
‘Certainly, ma’am.’ The twinkle was very much in evidence. ‘How may I assist you? Or have you come to assist me?’
‘I hope I may be able to be of use, Inspector. But at the moment I am in quest of information. Tell me all about the murder.’
Mr Cuff burst into a fit of coughing. The constable returning at that moment with two heavy white mugs containing a murky brew, I pressed one upon the Inspector.
‘Thank you, ma’am. It is the confounded – excuse me – London fog. You may go, Jenkins, I won’t