The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [65]
‘From Ben, the gardener’s boy. The setting of traps, particularly in the stables, where such creatures abound, is one of his duties. Greatly as I abhor the use of traps, or the unnecessary murder of any animal, I must bow to necessity in this case, since rats eat grain and also carry fleas, which some authorities believe –’
‘Enough, Ramses.’
‘Yes, Mama. Would you care to inspect a few of the specimens? The process of desiccation is already well advanced in several of the smaller varieties, confirming my belief that solid rather than liquid natron –’
‘No, thank you.’ I glanced at the table near the window, where Ramses’ specimens were laid out, each in its own little container. There were other things on the table, which I chose not to examine either, for knowing Ramses’ thoroughly logical approach to Egyptological matters, I felt sure he had not overlooked any possible method of preparing a body for the final step in the process of mummification.
I hastened to tell Ramses the good news, adding that I would have done so at once if he had not distracted me by his lecture on mummification. He responded with one of his rare smiles. ‘Not that I seriously doubted she would return if she were able,’ he remarked. ‘But life, as the Koran puts it –’
‘Don’t tell me how the Koran puts it, Ramses. I must go now; I have a great deal to do. I only stopped for a moment to tell you about Bastet.’
‘I am deeply grateful, Mama. May I ask whether there have been any new developments in what one might call the British Museum mystery?’
‘I believe not, Ramses.’
‘The theory I proposed yesterday evening was somewhat exiguous,’ Ramses said thoughtfully. ‘All the same, Mama, I would be relieved to learn that in your opinion there is not the slightest possibility of Papa being in any danger from this peculiar individual.’
His voice was as cool as ever, his countenance unmoved. Patting his rumpled curls, I said reassuringly, ‘I am sure Papa is in no danger, Ramses. And even if he were – which, as I say, I consider unlikely – he is capable of defending himself with the utmost skill and energy. Just concentrate on your nice mummies and don’t worry about your Papa.’
It had rained during the night, but when I left the house the sun was trying to break through London’s perpetual blanket of smoke. I was thankful for my stout boots as I splashed through puddles and darted across the muddy streets. As I proceeded eastward along the Strand, the traffic thickened and the noise rose to deafening proportions. Wagons and omnibuses rumbled, horses’ hooves clattered, street vendors cried their wares. Yet the scene had a certain lively charm, and straight ahead, like a celestial commentary on the vanity of human bustle, the great dome of St Paul’s lifted against the sky, its swelling curves chastely veiled in wisps of cloud.
The offices of the Daily Yell were on Fleet Street. I had never had occasion to visit them, and I was not certain of the hours when Mr O’Connell might be found there, but I thought I might as well make the attempt. His employers would certainly have his home address.
According to the clerk on duty inside the main door of the building, Mr O’Connell was indeed within. The clerk directed me up the stairs to a large, crowded, and extremely dirty room filled with desks, most of which were occupied. The air was thick with cigar and cigarette smoke and (if I may be permitted a rude metaphor) blue with profanity, remarks of that nature being made at the top of the speaker’s lungs and with no apparent malice. A great deal of the invective was aimed at the young boys who darted from desk to desk, delivering and picking up papers of one sort or another.
Most of the ‘gentlemen’ of the fourth estate were in their shirt sleeves and several had hats perched on their heads. My arrival did not go entirely unnoticed, but no one removed a hat or assumed a coat or rose from his