The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [72]
‘Thank you, Gargery,’ I said, taking the object that reposed genteelly on the silver salver. It was not a letter, as I had supposed, but a small parcel, wrapped, tied, and sealed.
Emerson threw himself into a chair next to mine and put his feet on the fender.
‘Ah,’ he said, with a long sigh. ‘It is good to be home, Peabody. Especially without . . . that is to say, where are the children?’
I explained. Regrettably, Emerson was more amused than shocked at his son’s most recent addition to his vocabulary. ‘Coprolite! Upon my word, Peabody, it could be worse. Other than that, my dear, did you have a pleasant day?’
‘Part of it was pleasant,’ I replied. ‘And you, my dear Emerson? Where have you been so long?’
‘I went for a long walk. Then I paid a call on Budge.’
‘Mr Budge? Good heavens, Emerson, why? I can’t remember your ever paying a social call on Budge?’
‘He seemed surprised too,’ said Emerson, with an evil smile. ‘Only imagine, Peabody, that bloody idiot –’
‘Please, Emerson, watch your language.’ I indicated the door of the bathroom.
‘Why the devil should I? Oh. Is that girl still there? What the . . . what is she doing?’
‘Filling the bath, as she does every evening, Emerson. And mopping up after you. Never mind; what prompted you to call on Mr Budge?’
‘Well, I made him an offer,’ Emerson said, stretching till his muscles cracked. ‘To unwrap the mummy. The mummy.’
‘Unwrap . . . What the devil for?’
‘Watch your language, Peabody,’ Emerson said, grinning. ‘The idea came to me while I was walking through . . . er . . . the park. Yes, Hyde Park. The incident at the Museum the other afternoon might have been much more serious. Public hysteria has reached such a pitch . . . By the way, did you know one of your journalist friends has already printed a story about the reincarnation of the priestly lover of the princess? I was crushed when I read it, for I had hoped to sell the idea for a large sum.’
‘Don’t be facetious, Emerson. You are wandering from the subject.’
‘So I am,’ Emerson said agreeably. ‘Well, then, it seems to me it is high time we put an end to this nonsense, before someone is seriously injured. The Museum must suffer from such incidents; incompetently as it is managed, we don’t want it to become an arena for riots or a stage for theatrical performances.’
‘I quite agree, Emerson. But how does the unwrapping of the mummy come into it?’
‘Why, it is the most logical way of ending the absurd speculations. We will see what inscriptions, if any, are on the inside of the coffin; we will expose the unfortunate lady’s withered hide and fleshless grin. You know, Peabody, that even a well-preserved mummy is distinctly unsightly. Romantic fantasies about beautiful princesses must shrivel – like the lady’s own flesh – under the merciless glare of scientific truth. She may have abscessed teeth, Peabody. She may be . . . middle-aged! Could anything be more destructive of sentiment than a middle-aged, grey-haired woman with toothache?’
I put my feet on the fender next to Emerson’s and reached for his hand. ‘Emerson, I have said it before and I will say it again – your academic acumen is exceeded only by your profound understanding of human nature. Brilliant, my dear – brilliant!’
Husbands, I have found, appreciate these little compliments. Emerson beamed from ear to ear and kissed my hand.
What I did not say, because I had better sense, was that I suspected his motives were not entirely altruistic. Emerson is not as passionate about mummies as I am about pyramids, but he does like them, and one of my fondest and earliest memories of him is the relish with which he went about unwrapping a mummy. (It is from Emerson, I hardly need say, that Ramses