The Deeds of the Disturber (10 page)

Which was not surprising, since he was wearing a mask—not the modern sort that covers only the face, but a skillful replica of the papier-mache constructions that were sometimes placed over the heads of mummies. The molded ringlets of the hair accurately reproduced the
elaborate wigs of the late Empire period. The features were carefully modeled, the lips tinted, the brows outlined in black paint. The eyes were empty holes.

The leopard skin was genuine. I can't say why that detail should have struck me; perhaps it was the fierceness of its snarl and the contrast of the soft, dangling paws. It had been thrown over one shoulder and fastened so that the head lay on the wearer's breast. Under it he wore a long white robe.

It would have been an understatement to say that the bizarre figure was impressive. The watchers were struck dumb with awe. When the man moved, they fell back before him as worshipers of olden times would have given way to a priest or a king. Looking neither to right nor to left, he advanced till he stood before the mummy case.

The Lady Henutmehit had a pretty taste in coffins. Instead of being covered by bright, ofttimes garish, scenes of gods and demons, hers had been painted a soft gold—leading one to speculate whether the coffins of more distinguished individuals might not have been made of the precious metal itself. (A speculation unhappily not susceptible to verification, since no royal coffins have been found, or are likely to be, the skill of ancient tomb robbers being what it was.)

More relevant, perhaps, was the obvious fact that the coffin had belonged to a person of modest means and social position. She wore no crown or uraeus or other insignia of royalty. The chaplet encircling her black hair was adorned with a simple lotus flower.

After bowing deeply, the priest stood motionless, gazing steadily into the serene face of Henutmehit. The tableau had a certain effectiveness, but Emerson, who is not easily affected, soon became bored. Turning to young Wilson, he said loudly, "This performance is even more tedious than the last. Why don't you carry out your orders, Wilbur? Apprehend the lunatic, remove his mask, ascertain his identity, and hand him over to the keepers of the asylum from which he has escaped."

But Wilson could only wring his hands and murmur distressfully. One of the guards edged up to Emerson. "The pore chap ain't doin' nothing to make a disturbance, Professor, 'e's just standin' there, you see. Course, if you should ask me to clear the room—"

"No need to put yourself out, Smith," Emerson replied. "If I want a room cleared, I will clear it myself."

The masked figure turned and pointed. The movement was so startling, after his prolonged immobility, that those nearest him gasped and started back. A low husky voice murmured,

"His sister was his protector, She who drives off the foe. Who foils the deeds of the disturber By the power of her utterance."

"What the devil," muttered Emerson. "Peabody, is that—"

But the performer had not finished. His voice gained strength. "The clever-tongued, whose speech fails not. Admirable . . . admirable in . . ."

The voice faded, with an odd suggestion of indecision. I held my breath. What deep and solemn warning would break the silence?

The voice that broke the silence was not deep and solemn, it was small and high-pitched. "Admirable in the words of command," squeaked Ramses. "Mighty Isis, who protected—"

Emerson burst into a shout of laughter. "Mighty Isis? No, by heaven—it is you he means, Peabody! The clever-tongued . . . ha, ha, ha! Whose speech . . . fails not ..." Mirth overcame him, and he doubled up, clutching his stomach.

I caught at Ramses. "Where are you going? Stay with Mama."

"But he is getting away," cried Ramses.

He was. Moving with astonishing speed, his sandals slapping on the stone floor, the "priest" reached the doorway and disappeared.

"Never mind," I said. "What possessed you to prompt the fellow, like a stage director with a forgetful actor?"

"It appeared to me he might have forgot his lines," Ramses explained. "He was reciting the 'Hymn to Osiris,' and he-—"

"Never mind, I said. Emerson, you are making a spectacle of yourself. The lunatic has escaped—"

"Let him," Emerson gasped. "I feel a great sympathy for the fellow. He is obviously a person of wit and refinement. Oh, good Gad! 'Whose speech fails not . .

"A very pretty compliment," said Walter, whose lips were twitching in sympathy. (Emerson's laughter, however inappropriate, has so cheery a ring to it that it is very contagious.) " 'She who drives off the foe and foils the deeds of the disturber.' No truer word was ever said, dear Amelia."

"Hmm," I said. "Walter, I believe you are right. Emerson, pray control yourself. It is time we went home."

The remainder of the day passed in soothing domestic intercourse with those who were dearest to us, and I was able to reassure Ramses as to the health of the cat Bastet. She appeared to be in an odd state of excitability, but her appetite and temperature were normal, and I concluded she was a trifle disturbed by the long journey and the frustration of being kept indoors—for of course we did not let her out in London. After a refreshing night's sleep, we took our leave of one another, amid assurances of soon meeting again; the younger Emersons departed for Yorkshire and we for Kent, little dreaming how short an interlude of pastoral peace some of us were to enjoy before a horror as great as any we had ever known came upon us.

I often wondered how old our butler Wilkins really is, but I have never had the impertinence to ask outright. When he has been asked to do something of which he disapproves (a frequent occurrence in our household), he totters and mumbles like an aged man on the verge of collapse. Yet his appearance has not changed in ten years, and on several occasions—most of them occasioned by Ramses—I have seen him move with a celerity that would do credit to a man of twenty-five. I suspect he dyes his hair to look older.

He was so glad to see us, he actually ran down the stairs and returned Emerson's hearty handclasp before he remembered that the master is not supposed to shake hands with his butler. John was the next to greet us, beaming from ear to ear and proudly reporting the successful delivery of our baggage. Maids, footmen, and gardeners followed in their turn; John's wife carried her new baby, and we had to admire him and say how much he resembled his father (though in point of fact there was little to be seen of him except plump pink cheeks and an assortment of shapeless features).

Ramses rushed off to his room to unpack his trunks. Checking on him later, I found the place in the state of chaos I had expected, and Ramses absorbed in contemplation of a small chest or coffer filled with what appeared to be sand. "You carried that back from Egypt?" I exclaimed. "There is all the dirt you may need here, Ramses; and when I think of the expense—"

"This is not dirt, nor ordinary sand, Mama," Ramses replied. "It is natron. You recall, Papa gave me permission to carry out certain experiments on mummification—"

"Well, don't spill it all over the house," I said in disgust. "Really, Ramses, there are times when I wonder ..."

"It may seem morbid, Mama, but I assure you I suffer from no such tendencies. I am convinced Mr. Budge and the earlier authorities—I am thinking primarily of Mr. Pettigrew—are in error when they describe a bath of liquid natron as the essential agent. A mistranslation of the original Greek—"

"Mistranslations are Budge's specialty," said Emerson, who had followed me into the room. "He never had an original idea in his life; he simply repeated Pettigrew's error without ever bothering to investigate on his own—"

I left them to it. Having encountered a good number of mummies in the course of my daily life, I have developed a professional indifference to them, even though some are extremely nasty. However, I do not believe it is necessary to dwell on such matters.

Somewhat to my surprise, Ramses appeared more pleased than otherwise at the prospect of having his cousins visit—particularly Violet. The gleam in his black eyes when he mentioned her made me a trifle uneasy. His questions, the previous winter, regarding the relationships between the sexes, had left his father in a state of shock from which he had not yet fully recovered, and disconcerted his mother not a little; but upon reflection I realized that such precocity was not as surprising as it seemed; Ramses had spent most of his life in the company of Egyptians, who mature at a much earlier age than Europeans, and who are often married before they reach their teens. Stern lectures had (I hoped) impressed on Ramses the advisability of repressing his curiosity in public. But I was not counting on it.

James wasted no time. We were still unpacking when he arrived with his children, and an uncharitable person might have suspected he was anxious to be rid of them, such was the haste with which he took his leave, refusing even to stay for dinner. (In fact, no one invited him to stay.) The children dutifully waved "bye-bye to Papa," as I requested, but there was a singular absence of emotion on either young face as the carriage rolled off down the drive.

They were nice-looking children—much nicer-looking than I would have expected, knowing their parents. Percy had brown hair, and I fancied I saw a certain resemblance to myself. His sister was fair, and looked more like her mother's side of the family, with plump cheeks, a pursed little mouth, and very big, very vacant blue eyes. These attributes are not particularly endearing in an adult woman, but they suit a child well enough. Certainly Ramses found her fascinating. He stood staring in that cool unblinking way of his until she began to giggle, and hid behind her brother.

Except for the giggling—which I suspected would soon get on my nerves—I had no fault to find with their manners. Percy addressed Emerson as "sir" (sometimes to excess, adding the word to every sentence), and me as "dear Aunt Amelia." Violet spoke very little, which was a pleasant change from what I was used to.

In short, the initial impression was favorable, and I was pleased to learn, when Emerson and I discussed the matter at dinner that evening, that he agreed. "For a boy with the misfortune to be named Percival Peabody, he could be worse," was his assessment of Percy, and "a pretty little wax doll," of Violet. "She seems a bit silly," he added amiably. "But that appears to be the modern fashion in little girls. You'll soon knock that out of her, Peabody."

In the days following our return I congratulated myself on having had the foresight to provide Ramses with companionship, for the constant interruptions and escapades that had heretofore marked his behavior would have driven me wild. Emerson had locked himself in the library with dire threats of unnameable punishment to be inflicted on any person who dared disturb him, and I was bustling about from morning till night dealing with the endless details that follow a long absence and the anticipation of another. The weather was fine, so that the children could be out of doors most of the time.

Of course there were a few mishaps, as one must expect when children are enjoying jolly times together—particularly when one of the children is Ramses. He acquired a prominent purple lump on his brow, from falling down the stairs, and himself admitted he had been so absorbed in staring at little Violet, who was with him at the time, that he had not watched his footing. One incident was a little more serious, and (I may confess in the private pages of this journal) gave me quite a turn.

The sounds of cries and shouts approaching the front door of the house brought me out of my chair, where I was going over the household accounts for the past winter. I went flying into the hall in the hopes of quelling the uproar before it disturbed Emerson; but I forgot lesser concerns when I beheld the limp form of my son carried in the arms of John. Only the whites of his eyes showed, and his breath came in harsh, whooping gasps.

Violet was in scarcely better case. The volume of her shrieks was absolutely astonishing. For the first time I saw a resemblance to her father, for her red, swollen face was shiny with tears that streamed down her cheeks and soaked her frills. "Dead, dead," she kept screaming. "Oh, oh, dead, oh, dead, dead ..." Rose came running down the stairs, cap ribbons fluttering, and I directed her to look after Violet, who had flung herself on the floor, writhing and sobbing.

Percy was the only one of the group who remained sensible, and it was from him that I demanded an explanation; for although hand, heart, and brain itched to assist my child, I could not apply remedies until I had ascertained the cause of his condition. Percy's distress was manfully
controlled; he stood with shoulders straight and hands clenched, his eyes never leaving my face. "It was my fault, Aunt Amelia. I cannot tell a lie. Beat me, strap me, flog me—or perhaps Uncle Radcliffe should do it, he is stronger. I deserve to be punished. I am at fault, I ought to have known better ..."

I seized him and shook him. "What did you do?"

"The cricket ball struck him square in the stomach, Aunt Amelia. I was trying to show Ramses how to bat, and—"

I turned back to Ramses. To my relief I saw his eyes had rolled back into place, though they were not yet well focused, and his breathing was less difficult. A hard blow in the solar plexus can be painful and terrifying, but it is seldom fatal, at least in the young; I well remembered having suffered such an injury in childhood, after James had hit me with a rock of considerable size. (He told Papa I had tripped and fallen.)

"He'll be all right," I said, with a long breath of relief. "Take him upstairs to bed, John. Percy, how could you be so careless?"

Percy's lips quivered, but he answered in a low, steady voice. "I take full responsibility, Aunt Amelia. My hands slipped . . . but that is no excuse."

From behind me came a weird, wheezing murmur. "The ability . . . to direct the path ... of a projectile hurled ... or struck with a bat ... is not always within the powers ..."

"Quite right, Ramses," I said, brushing the hair from my son's perspiring brow. "It was an accident, and I was unjust to Percy. But why the devil couldn't you say so, instead of beginning a long, tedious peroration? Considering that you are still short of breath—"