The Deeds of the Disturber (15 page)

"Certainly, ma'am." The twinkle was very much in evidence. "How may I assist you? Or have you come to assist me?"

"I hope I may be able to be of use, Inspector. But at the moment I am in quest of information. Tell me all about the murder."

Mr. Cuff burst into a fit of coughing. The constable returning at that moment with two heavy white mugs containing a murky brew, I pressed one upon the Inspector.

"Thank you, ma'am. It is the confounded—excuse me—London fog. You may go, Jenkins, I won't be needing you."

After the constable had left, Cuff leaned back in his chair. "As to the murder, I fear we know little more than is known to the public. The severity of the injury and the fact that no weapon was found eliminate the possibility of suicide. The dead man's watch, purse, and other valuables were missing—"

"But surely robbery was not the motive for the killing," I interrupted.

"That is correct, Mrs. Emerson. A wandering vagabond, of the sort that prowls our streets by night, came upon the body and stripped it of the said valuables. We have the fellow in custody, in fact; he is well known to us, but we don't believe he killed Mr. Oldacre."

"So far you have told me nothing but what is public knowledge," I said. "And not even all of that. What of the strange message clutched in the stiffened fingers of the corpse?"

"How well you put it," said Inspector Cuff admiringly. "Yes, the message. I have a copy of it here."

His desk was exceeded in messiness only by that of my estimable husband; and, like Emerson, Cuff was able to put his hand instantly on the paper he wanted. Drawing it from under a heap of other such documents, he handed it to me.

"They are genuine hieroglyphs," I said. "But there is no such text in Egyptian literature. The message appears to read, 'Death shall come on swift wings to him who invades my tomb.'

"So I have been told by other authorities, ma'am."

"Then why ask me?" I demanded, tossing the paper onto the desk.

"I thought you asked to see it," Cuff said meekly. "Besides, it never hurts to ask another expert—especially one as gifted as yourself. Perhaps you would like to take this copy and show it to the professor."

"Thank you, I believe I will. Though I must warn you, Inspector, that if I can persuade Emerson to assist you, you will have to deal tactfully with him. He has these little prejudices against my assisting the police."

"So I have been informed," said Inspector Cuff.

I persisted in my questions, but was forced to believe that the police were—as usual—baffled. The story of the priest having been seen near the body was dismissed by the Inspector with his peculiar version of a smile. "The witness was intoxicated, Mrs. Emerson. He has a habit of seeing visions—snakes, dragons, and—er—scantily clad females."

"I see. Inspector, has it occurred to you that we may have another Jack the Ripper on our hands?"

"No," said the Inspector slowly. "No, Mrs. Emerson, I can't say that it has."

He was clearly impressed by my theory and promised he would re-examine the evidence in the light of that suggestion. "However," he added, "unless—which God forbid—there should be another killing, I don't believe we can insist on that theory . . . just yet. Wait and see, Mrs. Emerson; that will be our motto, eh? Wait and see."

Laying his finger aside of his nose like Saint Nicholas—whom he did not in any other way resemble—he winked at me.

We parted on the most agreeable terms. I could not help liking the man, he expressed himself so pleasantly; but as I left the building I permitted myself a small ironic smile. If Inspector Cuff thought he had deceived me with his compliments and his vile cup of tea, he was sadly mistaken. He knew more than he had told me. He was just like all the other aggravating policemen I had met, unwilling to admit that a woman could equal (modesty prevents me from saying "surpass") his skill in detection. Well, as the Inspector had said—we would see!

Since time was getting short—not because I was tired, for I was not—I hailed a cab and was borne, with the swiftness for which these vehicles are justly famous, to Great Russell Street. I wish I could say that the sight of the Museum filled my breast with respectful admiration for this center of learning and archaeological treasure, but in fact I cannot. The original design, imitating that of a Greek temple, was handsome enough; but in the thirty-odd years since it was completed, the filthy air of London had turned it a deep, depressing grayish-black. As for the condition of the exhibits . . . Well, to be sure, the place is overcrowded and always has been, despite the constant addition of new wings and galleries; but there is no excuse for the inaccurate labels on the exhibits and the ignorance of the so-called "guides" who repeat these inaccuracies to uninformed but honest visitors. What they need in the British Museum, as I have always said, is a female Director.

Emerson was not in the Reading Room or in his "study." I had not expected he would be, so I proceeded at once to the Egyptian Galleries on the upper floor.

The Second Egyptian Gallery was even more crowded than it had been the first time I visited it. The gathering was cosmopolitan (and even polyglot, for there were one or two turbaned Hindoos present, and the dialects of Yorkshire, Scotland, and other remote districts can hardly be considered identical with English). Fashionable ladies, gossiping and tittering behind gloved hands, rubbed elbows with stolid tradesmen and clerks nattily attired in checked unmentionables. There were a number of children, as well as a few individuals bearing the unmistakable stamp of journalists; and even a photographer, with only his legs visible under the black hood of the camera. It required very little intelligence to deduce that some special event was about to take place.

It was impossible to see, much less approach, the celebrated mummy case. I made my way through the throng until I had reached a dark-complexioned gentleman sporting a purple turban and an enormous black beard.

"Hallo, Peabody," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same, Emerson."

"Why, I saw the notice in the newspaper, as I assume you did. Mr. Budge is to give a talk. How could I resist the opportunity to improve my understanding of Egyptology?"

The awful sarcasm of his voice is not to be described.

I replied, "Leaving that aside, Emerson, I might rather ask what you are doing here in that unusual costume. The beard is somewhat excessive, don't you think?"

Emerson stroked the appendage in question lovingly. He had had a beard when I first met him; he had shaved it off at my request, but I had always wondered if he missed it.

"It is a splendid beard, Peabody. I will brook no criticism of it."

"You don't want Mr. Budge to recognize you, is that it?"

"Oh, come, Peabody, let us not fence," Emerson growled. "I am here for the same reason you are. The lunatic is bound to show up; he must read the newspapers, and he won't be able to resist a confrontation like this. I intend to catch the rascal and put an end to this nonsense."

"The beard should be a great help, Emerson."

Emerson was prevented from replying by a bustle at the far end of the gallery, heralding the arrival of Mr. Budge. He was surrounded by guards, who, in a somewhat brusque manner, cleared a space between the exhibit case and the camera. Mr. Budge struck a pose; a flash and puff of smoke betokened the taking of a picture.

One could only hope it would flatter him. He was at that time in his late thirties, but he looked older. To quote an American colleague of ours (Mr. Breasted from Chicago, whom Emerson considered one of the most promising of the younger generation of Egyptologists), Budge was "pudgy, logy, and soggy-faced," and his handshake "had all the friendly warmth of a fish's tail." Narrowed, cold eyes squinted suspiciously at the world from behind his thick spectacles. His superiors at the Museum regarded him with a mixture of approval and distaste; approval because he filled the Museum halls with choice objects, distaste because his methods of acquiring them brought him into disrepute with every respectable member of the archaeological community. He had written authoritatively and inaccurately on practically every scholarly subject, in Assyriology as well as Egyptology. Tales of his dubious practices, which ranged from bribery and customs fraud to
downright theft, provided tea-table gossip for the entire world of Oriental scholarship.

This, then, was the man who confronted his audience and prepared to lecture on mummification in ancient Egypt.

The lecture was Budge's usual blend of borrowed erudition and braggadocio. He kept bringing in references to the Papyrus of Ani, one of the Museum's prizes which had been acquired by Budge himself under circumstances that could only be described as questionable in the extreme. Since it is a funerary papyrus, I suppose there was some excuse for his using it to illustrate mortuary ceremonial; but the audience, who had come there to hear about princesses, curses, and the magic lore of ancient Egypt, began to grow restive. The ladies resumed their whispering and giggling and some of the listeners drifted away.

Budge droned on. "The heart of the deceased was weighed against the feather, emblematic of Right and Truth or Law. This ceremony was performed ..."

For once Emerson did not enliven the lecture with sarcastic commentary. He kept clawing at his beard (I suppose the adhesive itched) and scanning the room. Since I had not his advantage of height I could see very little, but I recognized Kevin O'Connell despite the fact that his cap was pulled low over his brow, concealing his hair. Not far from him was a familiar saffron (or goldenrod) ensemble, and I silently commended Miss Minton for her assiduous pursuit of her profession. She had not seen fit to mention her intention of attending the lecture, but then I had not seen fit to mention my intention to her either.

A few more people left and others entered. There was no one to prevent them, though the room was becoming uncomfortably close and crowded. The guards had fallen into that state of perpendicular repose so characteristic of the breed, and in this case one could hardly blame them.

Having laboriously worked his way through the spiritual aspects of Egyptian funerary ritual, Budge launched into a discussion of embalming methods, and the audience perked up. The standard quotations from Herodotus were received with appropriate shudders and murmurs of horror. "In the first and most expensive method, the brain was extracted through the nose by means of an iron probe, and the intestines were removed entirely from the body through an incision made in the side. The intestines were cleaned and washed in palm wine ..."

But we were not to discover on that occasion what was done with those unsavory organs thereafter. Most of the audience was intent on
the lecturer, or else semicomatose; Budge was smirking at the camera. To most of those present, the form must have appeared with a suddenness that verged on the supernatural—a form swathed from throat to feet in flowing white robes and a leopard-skin cloak.

My fingers closed tightly over Emerson's arm. His muscles tensed, rigid as granite, but he did not move. I knew what was in his mind; better to wait until the lunatic was well inside the room, with several dozen bodies between him and any possible exit. There were only two, one at either end of the room.

Budge was almost the last to catch sight of the newcomer. He broke off with a high-pitched squeak of surprise, and as the stately figure advanced slowly toward him, along an aisle hastily cleared by the onlookers, he shrank back.

"Seize him!" he cried. "What are you standing there for? Don't let him come nearer!"

These words were presumably addressed to the guards, most of whom had been caught off-balance by the appearance of the apparition. Finally one of them, a little bolder and less drowsy than the rest, started toward the "priest."

"Wait!" The voice echoed in hollow resonance within the mask. Ramses would have claimed the fellow had been practicing his role; his tones were deeper and more confident than before, and he raised one hand in a solemn gesture whose dignity the great Sir Henry Irving might have envied.

"Touch me at your peril!" the deep voice droned. "He who lays impious hands on the anointed of the gods will surely die."

A breathless, motionless hush fell, broken only by the agitated attempts of the photographer to insert a new negative. Slowly and yet more solemnly, the "priest" intoned, "I come to protect, not to cause harm. I will pray for mercy and forgiveness. Without my intercession, the curse of Ancient Egypt will fall on all—ALL!—who are within this room!"

"That's done it," said Emerson, twitching his sleeve from my grasp.

Alas, he was correct. The threat, uttered in tones of eerie portentousness, sent the crowd into a panic. Everyone moved at once, some seeking one exit, some the other, some crying out in alarm, some shrieking with hysterical laughter. One lady collapsed in a faint. The braver souls (and the reporters) tried to fight their way toward the lunatic. The camera swayed and toppled over, crushing a little old lady in a rusty bonnet and a golden-haired child. Emerson, whose inspired expletives rose over the uproar, was prevented from moving by the lady, who had cannily selected his sturdy breast upon which to swoon.

Needless to say, I remained calm. I could not move; indeed, it required all my effort to remain on my feet as I was buffeted from every side by fleeing spectators. The madman darted toward the case containing the coffin—and toward Budge, who stood next to it. Budge tried frantically to turn and flee, but his figure did not lend itself to rapid movement; he slipped on the marble floor and tumbled over, emitting shrill cries of alarm and breathless demands for assistance.

The madman did not touch him. Pausing only long enough to address an unintelligible remark to the sculptured form on the coffin lid, he forced his way toward a curtain at the back of the room and disappeared behind it.

It was my gallant Emerson who prevented what might have been a nasty business. Tucking the swooning female under one arm, he made his way to Budge's side and stood over him, thereby (I feel certain) saving him from being trampled underfoot. In the voice which has earned him the proud title of Father of Curses, he addressed the frantic throng.