The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [84]
‘I heard very little,’ I admitted. ‘But the reference to the cursed heretics whose activities had stirred up the police and aroused the latter’s unwelcome interest in their community, should be suggestive.’
‘Suggestive, indeed,’ said the Inspector politely. ‘No, ma’am, you needn’t explain, I quite grasp all the implications. Have you anything to add, Professor?’
Emerson shook his head. He was not looking at the Inspector, but at me, and by comparison Medusa was a mere apprentice in the art of stony stares.
It was obvious to me that Emerson was concealing something. To my astonishment the Inspector, who ought to have developed equally keen instincts, failed to observe this, nor did he pursue the matter. ‘Most interesting, Professor and Mrs Emerson. Rest assured your theory will be investigated to the best of my ability. And now, it is late, and you must be tired. I will have one of the constables fetch a hansom cab.’
‘I am not at all tired, Inspector. I want to discuss with you your reasons for placing Ahmet under arrest. It might be advisable for you to bring him here so that I can question him –’
‘Good Gad, Peabody,’ Emerson began. But he could say no more; indignation choked him.
‘You wouldn’t want to wake the poor chap at this hour, would you, ma’am?’ Inspector Cuff said. ‘I will be happy to make arrangements for you to interview the prisoner later – tomorrow, if you like.’
And there I was forced to leave the matter. It is no wonder the world is in such wretched shape, with men running its affairs.
The Inspector considerately led us to a back exit, for, as he remarked, a number of journalists were still hanging around in the hope of interviewing us. Here we found a cab waiting, and after thanking the Inspector and assuring him I would call on him the following day, I allowed Emerson to help me into the cab. Once inside, he immediately rested his head against the wall and began to snore. Taking this as an indication that he was not inclined towards conversation, I did not disturb him.
On recalling the events of that interesting evening I confess to a certain sense of chagrin. Unbelievable as it may seem, I was guilty of one or two minor errors in judgment. One of them was my display of excessive interest in the woman in the opium den. Jealousy is an emotion I abhor. It is an emotion I could never harbour in my breast, for my confidence in my husband is as boundless as my being. I was not jealous. Nevertheless, some people might have interpreted my questioning of Emerson in that light, and I was sorry to have given that impression. Besides, it is a capital error to attempt to browbeat a husband – especially a husband like Emerson – into a confession of guilt. I had, needless to say, every intention of discovering who the woman was and what her relationship to my husband had been; but there were other methods that would, I did not doubt, prove more effective.
The second error of that evening did not occur until we reached Chalfont House. I regret it even more bitterly, but I must say in my defence that it was one anyone might have made.
Emerson bundled me out of the cab and tossed the driver a coin. Fog shrouded the dripping trees and made the iron railings gleam as if freshly painted. Dawn was not far away, though it was to be seen more as a diminution of darkness than an increase of light. Nevertheless, neither darkness nor Emerson’s attempt to hurry me could prevent me from observing the figure huddled by the gates.
‘Oh, good Gad,’ I exclaimed. ‘Of all the . . . I cannot believe . . .’
Catching hold of a limp, dank fold of cloth, I pulled the crouching figure to its feet and propelled it through the gate, which Emerson had opened.
‘Hurry and close the gate, Emerson,’ I exclaimed. ‘This is the last straw! Just wait till I get you inside, young man!’
‘But, Peabody,’ Emerson began.
‘You cannot excuse this, Emerson. I gave strict orders.