The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [7]
The scene that followed is best not described in detail. My efforts to rescue the thrashing feline were met with hysterical resistance; water surged over the edge of the tub and onto the floor; Emerson rushed to the rescue; Bastet emerged in one mighty leap, like a whale broaching, and fled – cursing, spitting, and streaming water. She and Emerson met in the doorway of the bathroom.
The ensuing silence was broken by the quavering voice of the safragi, the servant on duty outside our room, inquiring if we required his assistance. Emerson, seated on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, took a long breath. Two of the buttons popped off his shirt and splashed into the water. In a voice of exquisite calm he reassured the servant, and then transferred his bulging stare to me.
‘I trust you are not injured, Peabody. Those scratches . . .’
‘The bleeding has almost stopped, Emerson. It was not Bastet’s fault.’
‘It was mine, I suppose,’ Emerson said mildly.
‘Now, my dear, I did not say that. Are you going to get up from the floor?’
‘No,’ said Emerson.
He was still holding the newspaper. Slowly and deliberately he separated the soggy pages, searching for the item that had occasioned his outburst. In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.)
Studying my husband as he sat on the bathroom floor in a puddle of water, carefully separating the soaking pages of the newspaper, I was overcome by renewed admiration and affection. How cruelly was that man maligned by those who did not share the intimacy of his acquaintance! His explosions of temper were as brief as they were noisy; afterwards he immediately reverted to his customary affability, and I believe few men could appear so cool and dignified in such a position. Bastet’s considerable bulk had struck him full in the chest. His wet shirt moulded the splendid musculature of that area of his body; and though the water in which he sat was slowly darkening the fabric of his trousers, producing a considerable degree of discomfort, he remained unperturbed.
At last he cleared his throat. ‘Here it is. I beg, Amelia, that you will refrain from commenting until I have finished reading.
‘Hem. “Stop press. Startling new developments in British Museum mystery. Your correspondent has learned that within a few weeks a team of expert investigators will attempt to solve the case of the malignant mummy. Professor Radcliffe Emerson and his spouse, Amelia Peabody Emerson, whose daring exploits are well known to readers of the Daily Yell –”’
It was impossible for flesh and blood to remain unmoved. Rising impetuously to my feet, I cried, ‘Good Gad!’
Emerson peered at me over the sagging rim of the soggy wad of newspaper. His eyes blazed a brilliant blue – a sign of ire with which I was well acquainted. Waving my loofah to emphasize my words, I went on, ‘Surely, Emerson, you do not suppose I am responsible for initiating that preposterous story? Even if I cared to investigate the case – and I agree with you that it is stuff and nonsense – there would not have been time enough for me to communicate with Mr O’Connell. The paper you are holding must be several weeks old –’
‘Fifteen days, to be precise,’ said Emerson.
He tossed the newspaper aside and rose to his feet. His gaze remained fixed on me, and the brilliance of his eyes had, if anything, intensified.
‘Don’t you believe me, Emerson?’
‘Certainly, Peabody. Certainly.’ Having unfastened his wet trousers, he stepped out of them and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.
‘Do please hang your trousers over the chair,’ I exclaimed. ‘I sent most of your clothing out to be laundered and I don’t know when . . . Emerson! What are you doing?’
The dampened fabric resisted his effort to free the buttons from the buttonholes. Biceps bulging, Emerson ripped it apart,