The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [82]
In the darkness and the confusion we went unremarked, especially since we were not (though I blush to say it) the only English persons present. After being pushed up the stairs, we were thrust into a waiting vehicle along with a dozen others. There was hardly room to stand, much less sit; after the horses had been whipped up, the wagon rattled violently over the cobblestones and only the press of bodies around us prevented us from being thrown to the floor. My dear Emerson had wrapped his arms around me, holding me close and sparing me the worst of the bumps, but he could do nothing to protect me from the aroma of opium, unwashed bodies, and other elements I hesitate to mention.
Except in its final stages, opium does not dull the senses of the user. The men around us had been shaken from their happy stupors; they were now fully capable of vocalization, and they indulged freely. Emerson kept trying to cover my ears with his hands. What with that handicap, and the general racket – the groans and curses within and the banging of the wagon wheels without – I was unable to make much sense of what was said; but one remark aroused considerable interest.
‘Curse the unbelievers! It is because of them we are here; the police never would bother if they had not . . .’
But at that juncture the wagon came to an abrupt halt, and the speaker (whose adjectives I have edited out) was thrown off-balance and said no more.
Dragged from the vehicle as roughly as we had been thrust into it, we were escorted through a courtyard whose paving stones shone greasily in the light of the lamps flanking the door, and into a large, crowded room. It seemed very bright after the darkness outside; the flaring gas lamps played with merciless accuracy on the sickly faces and tattered rags of the prisoners. They were beating their breasts and wringing their hands and wailing in their high-pitched Egyptian fashion; the officers were cursing and shouting orders. It was a very Bedlam.
Emerson drew me within the protective circle of his arm. ‘Hang on, Peabody,’ he whispered. ‘I will announce my identity and we’ll soon –’
He broke off with a faint cry; and for the first time, I saw the pallor of fear whiten my gallant Emerson’s face. His eyes, fixed and glaring, had focused on the object that had shaken his courageous spirit – a camera.
How the journalists had got wind of the affair I did not know. I thought perhaps the police commissioners, desirous of public acclaim, had notified the press in advance. In any event, they were there in full measure, sharp-eyed as birds of prey.
‘Oh, damnation,’ said Emerson hoarsely. ‘I will not announce my identity, Peabody. Not until I can find some way of doing so in private.’
The police officers were arranging the prisoners in a rough line. Two of them approached us. In that motley and bedraggled throng, Emerson stood out like a lion among jackals, though his beard had come loose and was hanging at an angle. Even the constables recognized his quality. One nudged the other and they came to a stop, staring.
‘Now keep cool and don’t lose your temper, Peabody,’ Emerson muttered. ‘Er – Constable –’
‘Ow, ain’t it pretty,’ said the individual addressed – speaking not to Emerson but to his companion. ‘A touchin’ sight to see this ’ere gent protectin’ of ’is . . .’
He never said the word. Emerson’s fist hit him cleanly on the chin and toppled him over.
‘How dare you speak that way in the presence of a lady,’ Emerson roared. ‘Not only a lady, you villain, but my – my . . . oh, good Gad!’
A burst of illumination and a puff of black smoke prompted this final comment. Emerson’s action had unfortunately captured that very degree of attention he had warned me to avoid.
I stepped forward and addressed the nearest policeman.