The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [55]
‘That’s done it,’ said Emerson, twitching his sleeve from my grasp.
Alas, he was correct. The threat, uttered in tones of eerie portentousness, sent the crowd into a panic. Everyone moved at once, some seeking one exit, some the other, some crying out in alarm, some shrieking with hysterical laughter. One lady collapsed in a faint. The braver souls (and the reporters) tried to fight their way towards the lunatic. The camera swayed and toppled over, crushing a little old lady in a rusty bonnet and a golden-haired child. Emerson, whose inspired expletives rose over the uproar, was prevented from moving by the lady, who had cannily selected his sturdy breast upon which to swoon.
Needless to say, I remained calm. I could not move; indeed, it required all my effort to remain on my feet as I was buffeted from every side by fleeing spectators. The madman darted towards the case containing the coffin – and towards Budge, who stood next to it. Budge tried frantically to turn and flee, but his figure did not lend itself to rapid movement; he slipped on the marble floor and tumbled over, emitting shrill cries of alarm and breathless demands for assistance.
The madman did not touch him. Pausing only long enough to address an unintelligible remark to the sculptured form on the coffin lid, he forced his way towards a curtain at the back of the room and disappeared behind it.
It was my gallant Emerson who prevented what might have been a nasty business. Tucking the swooning female under one arm, he made his way to Budge’s side and stood over him, thereby (I feel certain) saving him from being trampled underfoot. In the voice which has earned him the proud title of Father of Curses, he addressed the frantic throng.
‘Silence!’ he shouted. ‘Stand where you are! He has gone! The danger is past!’ and other remarks of a similarly encouraging nature. The crowd responded, as indeed it must have done to a presence so commanding; and Emerson then dragged the unhappy Keeper to his feet. Budge had lost his spectacles, his cravat was twisted under his left ear, and his face was crimson with fury and embarrassment. Emerson handed him the fainting lady. Budge staggered, but managed to stay on his feet.
‘Take command, you nincompoop,’ Emerson said. ‘You are always bragging about your ability to bully “the natives”; let us see you exercise a little authority here.’
Without waiting for a reply, which Budge was at that time incapable of making, Emerson made his way to me. Even as he had stood at bay like a beleaguered lion, clutching the form of the lady, for to let her fall might have been to expose her to serious injury – even as he had striven to protect the helpless while he watched in stoic calm the ruination of his scheme – even then his eyes had sought me and his lips had shaped a question. Seeing me upright and calm, my parasol at the ready, he had proceeded to do his duty. That duty done, he returned to me with the tender query, ‘All right, Peabody? Good. The fellow is long gone, of course, but we may as well follow his trail.’
The draperies behind which the priest had vanished were of heavy brown velvet, and at first glance they appeared to be all of one piece. After an interval of fumbling and cursing Emerson located the gap through which the lunatic had passed. He pulled the velvet aside. Behind it was a blank marble wall.
Emerson had known (as had I) that there was no way out of the room but for the archways at either end; but, being Emerson, he refused to believe the obvious. Vanishing in his turn, he followed the wall to where the curtain ended. A wild billowing and flapping of velvet marked his progress and raised quite a lot of dust.
Accompanied by a brace of guards, Budge bustled up to me.
‘What the devil is going on here?’ he demanded. ‘Mrs Emerson, I insist –’
Emerson’s head popped into sight from behind the draperies. He was glaring hideously. ‘Watch your language in the presence of my wife, Budge.’
Budge waved a chubby