The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [80]
Scarcely pausing, Emerson swept me into his arms, ruffles and all, and ran up the stairs. Upon reaching our room, he set me on my feet with a thump. ‘Peabody,’ he said, holding me by the shoulders, ‘I am acceding to your absurd expectation only because the alternative is worse – to have you follow me in some ludicrous disguise. Which you would do, wouldn’t you?’
‘Certainly.’ I placed my arms around his neck. ‘And you wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘Quite right, my darling Peabody. Why do you suppose I love you so much?’
‘Well,’ I said, lowering my eyelids, ‘I had thought perhaps –’
‘Right again, Peabody.’ Emerson gave me a hearty smack on the lips and then released me and began tearing off his coat. ‘Make haste, Peabody, or I’ll leave you behind.’
The ghostly gaslights glowed amid the fog as hand-in-hand we hastened through the darkness. Never, I venture to say, has there been a more suitable ambiance for eerie adventure than the reeking, murky, muddy streets of dear old London. I had trod the vile alleyways of Old Cairo after dark, and pursued a faceless shadow across desert wastes lit only by the distant stars; all experiences I would not have missed for the world, and this was another such. In addition to being extremely picturesque, fog has many advantages for those who wish to pass unseen. We had not gone a hundred feet from the house before we were invisible to anyone who might be watching the establishment.
Nevertheless, Emerson set a rapid pace until we reached the Strand, where we took a hansom cab. The streets near St James’s Square had been almost deserted, but as we proceeded eastward, a strange new world became apparent to my interested gaze.
Wharves line the north side of the Thames east of London Bridge. It was here that the cab stopped, and Emerson helped me out. I had noticed the strange look the cab driver gave Emerson, when the latter mentioned our destination; I understood it better now. Even at that hour and on that holy day, the wretched inhabitants of the East End were out in search of pleasure and forgetfulness, crawling rodentlike to the gin mills (and worse) in the vile alleyways. Into such a narrow passage Emerson led me. I was reminded of another such night in quite a different clime; the night we had wandered the alleys of the Khan el Khaleel, and found the body of the antiquities dealer hung like a sack of potatoes from the ceiling beam of his own shop.4 The same foul stench and impenetrable darkness, the same unnameable liquids squelching underfoot . . . If anything, the smells of London were richer and more spontaneous. I was filled with a flood of affectionate appreciation so abundant it would not be denied expression.
‘Emerson,’ I whispered, ‘this may not be the most appropriate moment for such a statement, but I must tell you, my dear, that I am well aware that few men would demonstrate such confidence and respect for a wife as you are presently demonstrating in allowing me to share –’
Emerson squeezed my hand. ‘Do keep quiet, Peabody. Remember what I told you.’
The warning had not been necessary, but it had been valid. My voice was low for a woman’s, but it would never pass for that of a man; I had therefore agreed to let Emerson do whatever talking was necessary, and to refrain from comment.
A flight of stairs led down to a pitch-black entrance. After fumbling for a moment, Emerson found the latch, and the door swung open.
A single lamp near the door barely penetrated the gloom within. The room was narrow; how long it was I could not tell, for the far end was lost in murky darkness. Wooden bunks lined both walls. The occupants were visible only as fragments of bodies – a pallid, upturned face here, a limp dangling arm there. Like the eyes of crouching beasts the small red circles of burning opium in the bowls of the metal pipes brightened and dimmed, as the smokers inhaled the poison. There was a low murmur of sound – not