The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [67]
He was deep in thought, frowning over a paper he held in his hand, and did not see me until we were almost face to face. ‘Oh,’ he exclaimed, removing his hat. ‘Is it you, Mrs Emerson? I did not expect . . .’
‘I came to call on Miss Minton.’
‘As did I. We were to have luncheon together. But she is not here.’
‘She broke an engagement with you?’
The young man’s lips relaxed into a shy, rather engaging smile. ‘That would be nothing new, Mrs Emerson. She . . . But you know how young ladies are. She was kind enough to leave a note for me, saying she was suddenly called away from London for an indeterminate time.’
‘Ah, well, in that case there is some excuse for her rudeness. Perhaps her grandmama has been taken ill.’
O’Connell had remained at a distance until he heard that Miss Minton was not there. Now he joined us, hands in his pockets, cap pulled low, slouching in a manner that suggested he was trying to look as different as possible from the dapper young Wilson.
‘No doubt she’s run away to hide her shame,’ he said with a sneer. ‘After having the secret of her birth exposed –’
‘She has nothing to be ashamed of, Mr O’Connell,’ I said severely. ‘High rank involves no blame; she has an equal claim with those of humble name to be respected.’
‘Very well said, Mrs Emerson,’ said Mr Wilson, with an indignant glance at O’Connell. ‘Miss Minton deserves credit for refusing to use her position to derive special favours. Though I, for one, hate to see her in such a disgusting, degrading profession –’
‘Degrading, is it?’ O’Connell doubled his fists. ‘Use that word again, me fine young cockerel, and I’ll be pushing it back down your scrawny throat!’
‘Well, really,’ exclaimed Mr Wilson, adjusting his glasses.
‘Now, boys, don’t fight,’ I said. ‘At least not on the public street.’
‘I apologize, ma’am,’ said Mr Wilson politely. ‘May I say I am glad you took no injury yesterday. Your husband was quite the hero of the affair, I understand.’
‘Mr Budge certainly was not,’ I replied.
Wilson smiled. ‘He was in a vile temper this morning. I was glad to claim my half day and escape.’
‘I expect his nerves are a bit on edge,’ I said. ‘And so should yours be, Mr Wilson. The maniac appears to hold a grudge against the British Museum and its employees.’
Wilson’s smile faded. ‘What on earth do you mean, Mrs Emerson? The fellow is harmless enough.’
‘Don’t be too sure, Mr Wilson. There have been two deaths already – and both of them connected, not just with the Museum, but with the Oriental Department! The priest may be harmless, or he may not; he may or may not be the killer; but it seems more than likely that the killer is a man who feels some grievance against Orientalists. A disaffected scholar, whose theories have been contemptuously dismissed, perhaps, or a student who has been passed over for promotion or recognition, or . . . But there, I am talking too freely. These are only unproved theories as yet, Mr Wilson. I may be altogether mistaken.’
‘Oh dear,’ gasped Mr Wilson.
‘Excuse me, Mrs E.’ O’Connell edged closer. ‘Are you saying . . . Did I hear you use the words “homicidal maniac”?’
‘No, you did not, and if you quote me to that effect . . .’ I raised my parasol in a playful manner. O’Connell did not even blink. Journalistic fervour had overcome his fear of my opinion and my parasol. Mr Wilson was fingering his eyeglasses and muttering, ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ like the White Rabbit in Alice.
‘What an idea,’ O’Connell exclaimed. ‘I wonder I didn’t think of it myself! In fact . . . begorra, I did think of it myself! It’s not quoting yourself I’ll be, Mrs E., me dear; I thank you for recalling my theory to my mind. Aha! Wait till the Honourable Miss Minton reads tomorrow’s Daily Yell!’
Chortling fiendishly,