The Deeds of the Disturber (30 page)

If I had not known better, I would have supposed Henry had driven me to the wrong address—Covent Garden on opening night, or a dinner party at a great mansion. Carriage after carriage drew up and discharged its occupants—men in evening dress, women resplendent in silks and jewels. Apparently Budge had invited every titled and prominent person in London to attend his performance. By doing so (vain creature that he was), he had of course negated his original purpose; but I suppose he did not suspect, as I did, that the false priest was quite possibly one of those very aristocrats whose favor he courted.

I made my way through the crowd. I never have any difficulty making my way through a crowd. Much of the credit must go to my ever-useful
parasols, of which I possess a good number, in different styles and colors. The one I carried that evening was a formal parasol in rich black taffeta, which matched my evening dress and cloak. It (the parasol) had a silver handle and ruffles trimmed with lace. I particularly liked the ruffles. They gave the implement a giddy, frivolous appearance that masked its true function; for the shaft was of tempered steel and the point was rather sharp.

I had been amused by Emerson's solemn warning that I would not be able to get in without an invitation, for I did not suppose I would have any trouble. In fact, a functionary at the door tried to prevent me from entering, but he yielded to my imperious announcement of my identity, and to my parasol.

Whether Budge had been silly enough to invite the press I did not know, but it would not have mattered; they were certain to find out. Almost the first person I saw was Kevin O'Connell, who stood outside the door of the lecture hall busily scribbling in his pocketbook.

When he recognized me he made an abrupt movement, as if to retreat, but the ruffles reassured him. Remembering he had (or thought he had) some cause for offense, he drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at me.

"Good evening, Mrs. Emerson," he said distantly.

I gave him a friendly poke with the parasol. "Now, Kevin, don't sulk. The score is still not even; you have played more tricks on me than I have played on you, and you know perfectly well you would have done the same if you had been in our shoes."

"Hmph," said Kevin.

"You are looking very handsome this evening," I went on. "Evening clothes become you, especially with your Titian hair. Did you hire the suit?"

He tried to maintain his air of offended dignity, but it was not in his nature to hold a grudge. His eyes began to twinkle and his mouth to curve up. "And when were you last in Ireland, Mrs. E.? For it's clear that you have kissed the Blarney stone yourself. No, I did not hire the suit."

"I thought not. It fits you too well."

"Where is the professor? I trust he is not ill."

"No, you don't; you would love to see him prostrate and writhing with pain." Kevin grinned, and I went on, "I was detained. He should have come before me. You haven't seen him?"

"No. But I haven't laid eyes on Mr. Budge, either, and he must be here. I suppose he came in by a private entrance, as the professor may
have done. I," said Kevin, with an air of profound disgust, "am taking note of the distinguished guests. This is degenerating into a blooming social event, Mrs. E.; they should have sent Lady Whatworth, who writes the court circular for
The Queen.
Tis sorry I am I ever got involved in it, at all, at all."

"Perhaps you miss your rival," I said slyly.

"She added a certain zest," Kevin acknowledged. "But I never expected she would stick; she's given it up, and run home to Granny. They are about to close the doors, Mrs. E. We had better go in."

"I will sit with you, if I may."

Kevin shot me a suspicious look. "What are you up to, Mrs. Emerson? Why aren't you with the professor?"

"Hurry, Kevin, or we won't find a seat."

The hall was filled to capacity. There was an aisle on either side and another running down the center, dividing the rows of chairs. Flaring gas jets illumined the raised stage, on which were several chairs, a long table, a lectern, and a pair of trestles. The press occupied a reserved section in the front left, the choice seats in the center being occupied by the most distinguished of the guests. Kevin's colleagues gallantly made room for me, and we had scarcely seated ourselves when two men carried the coffin onto the stage and placed it carefully on the trestles.

Budge was the next to appear. Taking one of the chairs on the stage, he crossed his legs in an affected manner and pretended to study the papers he had brought with him.

He was followed by several other gentlemen—Sir William Appleby, one of the trustees of the Museum, Mr. Alan Smythe-Jones, a member of the Royal Society, and a stout bald-headed man in evening clothes who I assumed must be the surgeon. There were no Egyptologists present, and Emerson did not appear.

After waiting for anticipation to rise to fever pitch, Budge rose and went to the podium. "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen," he began— and then launched into the same interminable lecture he had given before.

His listeners endured very little of this before showing signs of impatience. They had come to see a mummy being unwrapped; they were not interested in Herodotus or the Book of the Dead. Evidently a few lower-class persons had got past the custodians, for the first voice to be heard over the growing murmur of boredom was unmistakably cockney. " 'Ere, chum, let's get the ol' girl's clothes off, eh?"

He was suppressed by his neighbors, but the next interruption was not so easily dealt with. Budge had just mentioned the "bath of liquid
natron in which the body of the deceased was submerged for the regulation ninety days," when a voice shouted, "Arrant nonsense, Budge! Why don't you give over the podium to someone who knows what he is talking about?"

My heart, which had slowly been subsiding into my slippers (black patent leather, beaded with gold, steel, and gray and white pearl beads), gave a sudden bound. There was no mistaking that voice! He was present; he had not gone . . . elsewhere. My worst fears were, if not allayed, at least delayed.

A loud murmur of approval from the bored audience forced Budge to stop droning on. Adjusting his spectacles, he peered into the room. He knew who had spoken as well as I did, but he pretended not to.

"If I may continue," he began.

"No, you dunderhead, you may not," the same voice thundered; and Kevin, who had turned to stare, gave a chortle of delight. "It's the professor! Hurrah! This evening may not turn out to be a deadly bore after all."

From the opposite side of the room, about halfway back, a form arose. It was not the stalwart form of my errant but adored husband. It was that of a black-haired child, dressed, I was pained to observe, in an extremely dusty Eton jacket and crumpled collar. With a weird air of levitation this apparition rose briskly into the air. I observed he was perched on his father's shoulders.

Ramses—for indeed, as the reader must have surmised, it was he— called out, "With all due respect, Mr. Budge, you are mistaken. My own experiments have proved what I suspected from the first—"

Budge recovered himself. "Of all the . . . this is the most ... Sit down, Professor! Be silent, young man! How dare you allow—"

"Let the nipper talk," cried a voice from the back of the room. A burst of approving laughter seconded the speaker, and Emerson made his way to the front of the room. Ramses, as I hardly need mention, was still talking. I could see his lips moving, but his words, and the frantic expostulations of Mr. Budge, were drowned by the laughter from the auditorium. Beside me, Kevin gurgled with amusement as he made rapid notes.

Facing the audience, Emerson held up an admonishing hand. The noise subsided, and the voice of Ramses became audible. ". . . strong smell of putrefaction, the body tissues discolored and distended and of a pulpy or jellylike consistency. On the other hand, natron in its solid form, with high proportions of sodium carbonate and sodium bicarbonate, produced ..."

Emerson's handsome face glowed with paternal pride as he listened to his son spouting this accurate but revolting information. I murmured, "Oh, good Gad," not knowing whether to laugh or give way to emotion of another kind. "Ssssh," said Kevin, scribbling frantically.

Budge must have known that nothing short of physical violence could silence Ramses, but his fury was so great I half expected he would rush at the absurd pair with fists flailing. It was not his intervention that ended Ramses' lecture, however. The demonstration was of quite another kind.

Emerson saw the newcomer before I did; he stiffened perceptibly, but before he could move, a piercing shriek from a woman in one of the back rows brought the audience to its feet. The fellow had come in through the main door and was, when I caught sight of him, running down the central aisle toward the stage.

But what was this? He was not in the aisle, he was on the stage . . . No, across the room . . . There were at least six of them, all in white robes and staring masks, all identical. With priests popping up all over the auditorium and running in all directions, the spectators went mad. Screaming and struggling, they fought to escape from the room.

Whatever Emerson had expected, he had not expected this. Lips set, brow furrowed, he swung Ramses off his shoulder and tucked him under one arm.

I had risen with the rest. Parasol poised, I stood firm among the milling journalists, who were trying to go several ways at once. Most of them overtopped me by a head or more; but Emerson's eyes went straight to me and a thrill ran through every limb as I saw the agony in those keen blue orbs, and beheld the painful struggle of opposing desires that held him motionless.

Kevin's arms went around my waist and lifted me off my feet. "Hang on, Mrs. E., I'll get you out of this," he cried.

I lost track of what was happening for a moment as Kevin made his way, not to the nearest exit from the room, which was blocked by fleeing spectators, but to a relatively clear space not far from the stage.

The stage itself was under siege. The masked forms had all converged on the coffin. To my bewildered eyes there seemed to be dozens of them, and the nightmarish effect of those multiplied images can scarcely be imagined. In the thick of the struggle stood Emerson. Only his massive head was visible, for he was entirely surrounded by fluttering, billowing folds of muslin. One grotesque figure reeled back, clutching his midsection, and I caught a glimpse of my heroic spouse striking out with all his might. Without the impediment of Ramses, whom
he still held to his side, he might have prevailed. But there were too many for him; he fought alone, the respected guests and Budge having disappeared, I knew not where. He went down under a whirl of draperies and pounding fists. The trestles gave way. The coffin fell with a crash, spilling its grisly contents onto the floor, where it was trampled underfoot.

I pounded on Kevin's arm. "Let me go! Release me at once! I must go to him. Oh, good Gad, I fear the worst—"

Kevin's cheeks were flushed with excitement and his lips had stretched into a ferocious fighting smile. "Begorra!" he bellowed. "That's the spirit, Mrs. E. Let's get 'em, eh? Up the O'Connells!"

"And the Peabodys," I shrieked, brandishing my parasol.

"And the Peabodys! Here we go, then!"

Side by side we fought our way to the stage. In fact, it was not such a desperate struggle after all, for by that time cooler heads (of which there were a few) had prevailed and the tumult had quieted, assisted in no small measure by the presence of several sturdy men with the unmistakable stamp of Plainclothes detectives. The masqueraders had seen them too. By the time we reached the scene of battle, only one warrior was left—my husband. I do not count Ramses, who, pinned by the prostrate form of his mighty sire, was kicking frantically and rending the air with agitated inquiries.

Faced with a journalist's greatest dilemma—several things happening at once—Kevin was at first uncertain whether to go in pursuit of the masqueraders, as most of his colleagues had done, or to interview Emerson. I would like to think that kindness as well as journalistic instinct guided his decision. He assisted Emerson to sit up, despite my protests; for my medical training warned against such a precipitate move.

"You have a head injury, Emerson," I exclaimed, pushing against his chest. "Remain prostrate until I can ascertain—"

Emerson's vigorous response reassured me. "Hands off, Peabody! Simply because a lot of poor ignorant Egyptians, who have no other medical assistance available, allow you to experiment on them—Oh, curse it! Ramses! Where is Ramses?"

"Here, Papa." Ramses was understandably short of breath, but otherwise unharmed save for a few scrapes and bruises. He crawled to Emerson's side. "I am unable to express in mere words my overpowering sensation of relief at hearing you—"

"Thank you, my son." Emerson pushed away the dainty handkerchief with which I was endeavoring to stanch the stream of blood that en-crimsoned his broad brow. "Peabody, if you don't stop that—"

"Here, Professor." Kevin proffered a huge white kerchief. Emerson bound it around his brow and rose to his feet.

One of the detectives approached him. "Excuse me, Professor—"

Emerson fixed him with a furious glare. "Confound it, Orlick, how could you allow this to happen? I don't suppose you laid hands on him—them—any one of them?"

The big man shuffled his feet and looked sheepish. "No, sir. Sorry, sir. But you told us to look out for one man. There was only three of us, and the odds was two to one, sir, and then such a hullaballoo broke out ..."

"Well, at least keep the cursed reporters away from me," Emerson exclaimed, swatting wildly at an undersized man in a brown wide-awake who was plucking at his elbow and bleating, "Professor, what were your sensations when you beheld ..."

"Yes, sir." The officer removed the reporter. Emerson turned his fiery gaze upon Kevin O'Connell.

"I'll just be taking myself off, then," said the latter quickly. "No need to call the police—"

"You mistake me," Emerson said. "I was about to thank you. By Gad, young man, I do thank you! You sacrificed your chance of a story in order to protect Mrs. Emerson. I won't forget it, Mr. O'Connell. I am in your debt."