The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [86]
I promised myself I must write her immediately to reassure her – not only about what she had read in the newspapers, but what she was about to read. I could only hope she and Walter did not take the Morning Mirror. Not that the unkempt individual in the photograph bore the slightest resemblance to my handsome husband. His ruffianly costume, his ferocious snarl, and the loosened false beard (whose position gave the impression that a small furry animal had seized him by the throat) would have rendered him unrecognizable, were it not for the fact that the caption underneath the photograph removed any possible misapprehensions on the part of the reader. (‘Professor Radcliffe Emerson, the well-known Egyptologist, knocking down a constable at the Bow Street police station.’) The accompanying text made a number of libellous allegations and did not fail to mention the establishment in which we had been found. (I could almost hear my dear Evelyn’s cry of horror: ‘An opium den! Walter, what will they do next?’)
Kevin’s story in the Daily Yell made no reference to the Bow Street affair (for reasons which should be evident); but he made a nice, lurid yarn out of the Affair of the Sinister Statues, as he termed it. The shawabtys had been received by several other scholars, but, as might have been expected, Emerson was again the featured player.
Poor Evelyn. However, one would suppose that by now she ought to be getting used to it.
I directed the maid to take away the newspapers, for although I knew I could not prevent Emerson from seeing them, I hoped to postpone the painful moment until after he had enjoyed a quiet breakfast. I was barely in time; Mary Ann was leaving the room when Emerson entered, and greeted her with his customary affability. ‘Hallo, there, Susan. (He has great difficulty in remembering the names of the servants.) Are those by chance . . . Well, never mind, I haven’t time to read them, I am in a great hurry this morning.’
His greeting to me was equally cheerful – but he was careful to avoid meeting my eyes. ‘Good morning, good morning, my dear Peabody. What a splendid morning. (The fog was so thick one could not see as far as the park railings.) Good morning – er – Frank. (The footman’s name was Henry.) What have we this morning? Kippers – no, I thank you, I loathe the creatures, they are all bones and pickle. Eggs and bacon, if you please, John. (The footman’s name had not changed, it was still Henry.) I am in a great hurry this morning.’
As he spoke he looked through his letters, ripping them apart and giving them a cursory glance before tossing them over his shoulder.
‘Where are you off to in such a hurry, Emerson?’ I inquired. ‘John – er – Henry – bring fresh toast. This is quite leathery.’
‘Why, to the Museum, of course,’ Emerson replied. ‘I must finish that manuscript, Peabody; here is another impertinent inquiry from the Press, wanting to know when they may expect to receive it. Curse their impudence!’ And the communication from Oxford University Press followed the other letters to the floor.
It was as well I had determined to maintain dignified silence on all issues, for Emerson never gave me a chance to speak. ‘And how are the dear children this morning? You have visited them, I know; your maternal devotion is so – er – so . . . Don’t you agree, Mrs Waters?’
The housekeeper, who was waiting to discuss the day’s domestic arrangements, nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, sir. The children are well, sir. Except that Master Ramses is still asleep; and although I am sorry to mention it, there is a peculiar smell of –’
‘Er, hem, yes,’ said Emerson. ‘I know about that, Mrs Watkins. It is quite all right.’
‘That reminds me,’ I said, addressing my remark to the housekeeper, ‘Miss Violet seems to me to have gained weight at an astonishing rate the past week. What has she