The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [58]
‘It’s your own fault, Ned, for being so lazy,’ his lordship replied. ‘You missed the excitement.’
‘I did?’ The young man raised his cane to his mouth like an infant sucking a teething ring and peered sleepily at us.
I had immediately deduced that the effeminate young man must be the Earl of Liverpool, and so it proved. His lordship performed the introductions with easy grace, adding, ‘Professor and Mrs Emerson are the famous archaeological detectives I told you about, Ned. I have just had a most interesting time watching them detect.’
Emerson glowered at this remark, which certainly did seem to contain a hint of sarcasm. The Earl gave a high-pitched giggle. ‘’Pon my word, is that so?’
Though he was dressed with a foppish elegance even greater than that of his friend, with great diamonds blazing from his cravat and his fingers, he had not the older man’s presence, being painfully thin and hollow-chested. His face was a pasty yellow, and when he laughed his parted lips displayed teeth as brown and rotten as an old man’s.
‘We are not detectives, Lord Liverpool, but archaeologists,’ I corrected. ‘We have been inspecting the coffin your late father gave the Museum. It was a generous gesture, though I must say the effects have been unfortunate.’
‘Is that so? Er – yes, I suppose they have. Pity. The poor old governor would be – er – mighty surprised . . .’
‘And distressed,’ said Lord St John smoothly.
‘Er – yes. To be sure.’ The Earl sucked his cane and stared. ‘Mrs Emerson . . . you’re the lady who digs these – er – these mummies up, ain’t you? Seems – er – an odd idea, eh?’
‘What a tease you are, Ned.’ His lordship took his friend by the arm. ‘Mrs Emerson is a very distinguished scholar. Perhaps you might like to invite her to visit Mauldy Manor and see your father’s collection.’
‘Er – what? Ah, yes.’ The Earl smiled sleepily. ‘Lots more of them – mummies and – well, no, not mummies, that was the governor’s only one – little bottles and statues and such things. Very welcome, I’m sure. Anytime.’
‘No time,’ Emerson barked, before I could express my thanks for the invitation – such as it was. ‘We have no time for such things. Kind of you, I suppose, but we have better things to do.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you and Mrs Emerson would find objects of interest at Mauldy Manor,’ said his lordship.
‘Quite, quite,’ the Earl agreed, with another feeble sputter of amusement.
But Emerson’s patience had given out. With the briefest of farewells he drew me away.
A heavy bank of dark cloud had moved in over the city. Through a rent in that sombre curtain a flash of crimson marked the path of the declining sun; and as we watched the two men walk westward, the slighter of them leaning on the arm of his friend, they appeared to be heading for the fiery perdition that surely awaited at least one of them.
‘He is an opium eater, Emerson,’ I murmured. ‘Poor fellow; the drug has affected his brain, he scarcely makes sense.’
‘It is not opium but his disease that is rotting his brain, Peabody. It is almost enough to make one believe in a God of Wrath and Vengeance. Whatever the boy’s sins – and they are infinite – they don’t deserve a death like the one he faces.’ Then my dear Emerson’s natural optimism triumphed; giving himself a little shake, he remarked, ‘Ah, well, better men and women than that pathetic sprig of the nobility meet worse fates daily. I need my tea, Peabody. Or something stronger, perhaps.’
Since the hour was late, I agreed to Emerson’s suggestion that we take a cab. These vehicles, with their musty smell and cracking leather seats, have an odd effect on my spouse; perhaps it is the soft music of the horse’s trotting hooves, or the sense of being cosily shut up in a shadowy, private place. However that may be, we were scarcely inside when he began to make demonstrations of a distracting nature and I had some difficulty in persuading him to postpone them long enough for him to remove his beard, which was even more bristly and uncomfortable to the touch than a natural