The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [64]
‘How well you express yourself, Emerson.’ I took his hand and turned it so that I could read the hieroglyphs again. ‘It is quite acceptable Egyptian.’
‘A memorized formula, Peabody. “A thousand loaves of bread and a thousand jars of beer for the spirit of the Lady Henutmehit.” The standard mortuary offering formula.’
His fingers twined around mine, holding them fast. This tender gesture – and his interest in a subject he had formerly sworn never to speak of again – persuaded me to share something with him.
‘That is a standard formula perhaps; but this is not.’ I reached into my pocket and drew out the copy of the message that had been found in Oldacre’s dead hand.
Emerson’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Where did you get this, Peabody? One of your cursed newspaper friends, I suppose; curse it, Peabody, I told you . . . Hmmmm. What a bizarre hodgepodge this is, to be sure. It certainly is not a standard formula; I have never seen such an inscription.’
‘Nor I, Emerson. Could it possibly have been taken from the inscriptions on the coffin in question? There is no such thing on the outside, but perhaps the interior surfaces . . .’
‘Now you are beginning to sound like a cursed journalist, Amelia. To the best of my knowledge, the coffin has never been opened. Are you suggesting the lunatic has second sight – or, no, here’s a better plot: he is the reincarnation of the scribe who originally decorated the coffin for his beloved. Ha, ha! I wonder your intimate friend O’Connell hasn’t thought of that one.’
His eyes shone with amusement and his expressive lips curved in a smile to which I could not fail to respond. ‘Very good, Emerson. I am glad to see you in such high spirits, my dear.’
‘Mmmmm,’ said Emerson, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing each finger in turn. ‘I hope to be in even better spirits shortly, Peabody. Shall we . . .’
So we did. Yet to me, Emerson’s attentions that evening had an even greater poignancy, for they reminded me of what I stood to lose if Ramses’ – and my – theory proved to be correct. This thought led, I believe, to a response even more wholehearted than was normally the case, and Emerson expressed his approval in no uncertain terms. However, his last remark was a sleepy chuckle and a murmured ‘I say, Peabody, will you ever forget how idiotic Budge looked, lying on his back kicking like a dung beetle and bleating like a goat?’
VII
EMERSON left the house immediately after breakfast, remarking that he meant to get through a great deal of work that day and would not be home for luncheon. He was in an excellent mood (for reasons on which I need not elaborate), and I was careful not to spoil it by allowing him to see the morning newspaper. It contained a spirited account of the riot in the Mummy Room, and a picture of Emerson clutching the fainting lady that made him look like Jack the Ripper contemplating his next victim.
I was having a second cup of tea when Mary Ann came in with a telegram. It was from Rose, announcing Bastet’s return and adding, ‘Tell Master Ramses. All well and happy. Wish you were here.’
I did not begrudge her the slight extravagance in verbiage (and expense), for the news was indeed better than I had dared hope. I went upstairs at once to carry out Rose’s instructions. Ramses’ door was locked and I had to identify myself before he would consent to open it.
‘I don’t like this business of locking doors, Ramses,’ I told him. ‘What if you were to become ill?’
‘That is certainly one argument against it,’ said Ramses, stroking his chin in unconscious imitation of his father. ‘But it is unlikely, Mama, that I would be so suddenly and violently stricken that I would be unable to call for assistance; and when balanced against opposing arguments, such as my need for privacy, which you have always been good enough to recognize, and the possibility of someone disturbing my specimens –’
‘Very well, Ramses. Although,’ I added, with a disgusted