The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [99]
We settled ourselves before the fire.
‘Well, Peabody,’ said Emerson. ‘Would you care to begin?’
‘No, thank you, Emerson.’
‘Oh. Well, then . . . hmmm. We have thus far (for who knows what tomorrow will bring?) three different and apparently separate groups of individuals. First, those connected with the Museum – Oldacre and the night watchman, Wilson, Budge, and the scholars who received the ushebtis. Second, the – er – the Egyptian connection, as you termed it.’
He paused, and I waited with beating heart to see whether he would elaborate. Instead he pretended to clear his throat and continued. ‘Third, the dissolute aristocrats. It behooves us, I believe, to discuss whether two of the three, or all of them, are connected in any way.
‘The cursed aristocrats are obviously connected with the Museum, through the gift of the mummy and Lord St John’s professed interest in archaeology. They are also connected with the opium trade and possibly thereby with group two. But there are a good many opium dens in London, the majority being operated by Chinese or Indians. There is nothing to suggest that Lord Liverpool procures his opium from an Egyptian.’
‘Except for the remark we overheard about unbelievers,’ I said coolly.
‘Englishmen patronize these vile dens. We saw several of them last night.’
And that was not all we saw last night, I thought. Would he now . . .
He would not. ‘One cannot call the lunatic priest a fourth group, since there is only one of him. What is his connection with any of the aforementioned – or is he an extraneous factor altogether?’
I rose, with dignity, from the easy chair in which I was sitting. ‘I see no sense in continuing this discussion, Emerson. We have not enough information on which to base an opinion, much less a theory. I must get to work on my paper for the Society for the Preservation of the Monuments of Ancient Egypt.’
‘Oh,’ said Emerson. ‘You – you have nothing to add to what I have said, Peabody?’
‘Nothing. And you have nothing more to con – to say?’
‘Er . . . I think not.’
‘Then I will leave you to your manuscript, Emerson, and begin mine.’
Emerson went meekly to his desk. He glanced at his manuscript. ‘Damnation!’ he shouted.
‘Is anything wrong, my dear?’ I inquired.
‘Wrong! Of all the . . . er, hmmmm.’ His effort to smile distorted his features to an alarming extent. ‘Er, no, my dear. Nothing at all.’
Reader, my heart sickened within me. The old Emerson would have stormed up and down the room, throwing pens at the wall and telling me in no uncertain terms what he thought of my confounded conceit in daring to revise his work. This new Emerson was a man I scarcely recognized – a man I despised. Only guilt, and the fear of being found out, could produce such abhorrent civility.
Emerson returned to his work. Muffled growls and the violent quivering of his broad shoulders continued to convey sentiments he dared not voice aloud. I could not concentrate on my paper, even though the date of my appearance was only a fortnight away. How could I think of the flooded burial chamber of the Black Pyramid without remembering some of the most exquisitely tender moments of my marriage, when Emerson and I vowed to perish in one another’s arms (providing, of course, that we were unable to find a way out of the place where we had been entombed, which I fully expected we would and which indeed proved to be the case).
I believe my lips trembled uncontrollably – but briefly, for I mastered my emotion and vowed again that never would a word of inquiry or reproach sully lips that had never been pressed to those of another than my husband (though I had had one or two narrow escapes). I decided to distract myself