The Deeds of the Disturber (2 page)

The afternoon of our arrival in the city found me splashing merrily in my tub, enjoying a rare moment of freedom from care. Ramses had gone off with Abdullah, our excellent reis, on some expedition or other. The cat Bastet, who rarely left the boy's side, had refused to accompany
him, which confirmed my suspicion that the trip, concerning which both Abdullah and Ramses had been vague, involved something of which I would not approve. No matter; Ramses was as safe in the company of Abdullah as he was in that of any man or woman. (That is to say, relatively safe.) He would return in due time, reeking and filthy and gorged with food that would have rendered any other child desperately ill, but that would not affect the cast-iron internal organs of my son. I would deal with Ramses in due time. In the interval, his absence could only add to my pleasure.

The cat Bastet sat perched on the rim of the tub, watching me through slitted golden eyes. She was fascinated by baths. I suppose total immersion in water must have seemed to her a peculiar method of cleansing oneself.

Though Dahshoor is not far from Cairo, we had not visited the city in the past few weeks. A sizable pile of letters and periodicals awaited us; at my request, Emerson left the door to the bathroom ajar and read the mail to me. There were several letters from Emerson's brother Walter and his wife, my dear friend Evelyn. They congratulated us on our imminent return, and gave us news of our nieces and nephews.

The remainder of the mail was inconsequential. Emerson laid it aside and turned to the newspapers, of which there were several weeks' accumulation. I listened with lazy amusement to the snippets he chose to read aloud, for his notion of what I might find interesting was rather curious. The progress of our forces in the Sudan—yes, I did take an interest in that, since it was so close to home (our home of the spirit, Egypt). But advertisements for Daimler Wagonettes (a novel vehicle propelled by an internal combustion engine of two cylinders) and the Lambeth Patent Pedestal Combination Water Closet failed to inspire me. I did not protest; Emerson's deep baritone fell pleasantly on my ears and his pungent comments on "modern inconveniences" added spice to the news itself. Dreamily contemplating my toes, as they floated on the surface of the scented water, I fell into a kind of waking doze, from which I was rudely awakened by Emerson's scream of rage.

"Of all the infernal nonsense!" he cried.

I deduced that Emerson had turned from
The Times
to another periodical—most probably the
Daily Yell,
whose columns often provoked such a reaction.

"What is infernal nonsense, my dear?" I inquired.

A great rattling of pages followed. Then Emerson exclaimed, "Just as I suspected. I might have known. Your dear friend O'Connell is the author of this rubbish!"

I was about to reply that Mr. Kevin O'Connell was no particular friend of mine; but that would not have been strictly true. I had not seen a great deal of him in recent years, but during our investigation of the bizarre murder of Lord Baskerville I had become quite fond of the young journalist. Brash and impertinent in the pursuit of his profession he may have been; but he had proved a staunch ally in the time of our desperate need, and he had been quite good-natured about Emerson's having kicked him down the main staircase at Shepheard's.

"What has Mr. O'Connell done now?" I asked.

The newspaper rattled noisily. "He is up to his old tricks, Peabody. More cursed mummies, more cursed—er—confounded curses."

"Really?" I sat up, splashing water on the paws of Bastet, who grumbled low in her throat and fixed a golden glare upon me. "I beg your pardon," I said.

"What for?" Emerson shouted.

"I was speaking to the cat Bastet. Pray go on, Emerson. Read me what he writes."

"I think not," Emerson said.

"I beg your pardon, Emerson?"

"I beg yours, Amelia," my husband replied, in tones of freezing dignity. "I will not read you this article. In fact, I intend to destroy the newspaper and all others that contain the slightest reference to a subject that has, for reasons I cannot explain, the most extraordinary effect on your ordinarily competent brain."

"Competent, Emerson? Competent, did you say?"

Emerson's reply, if any, was drowned by the sound of paper being ripped, crumpled, torn and trampled upon. I waited until the tornado had subsided before calling out, "Really, Emerson! You cannot destroy every copy of that newspaper in Cairo, and your actions must inevitably intensify my curiosity."

Emerson began mumbling to himself. He does that at times. I caught a few words—"forlorn hope . . . damnable persistence . . . ought to know better . . . after all these years . . ." I proceeded to soap my foot without further comment; marriage had taught me the useful fact that silence is sometimes more effective than prolonged discussion. Finally—tacitly acknowledging the force of my argument—he began to read. His voice was so distorted by sarcasm as to be positively falsetto.

"Latest example of the curse. The royal mummy strikes again. Where will it end? On Tuesday last, at three in the afternoon, a distinguished lady visitor sprained her ankle after slipping upon an apple core ..."

I laughed aloud. "Very good, Emerson. Very humorous, upon my word. Now read me the story."

"I
am
reading it," Emerson replied. "It is impossible, Amelia, for me to satirize the literary style of your friend O'Connell. Those are his exact words."

His voice had dropped in pitch, but I knew, from his use of my first name, that he was still annoyed with me. Since the halcyon days of our courtship, in an abandoned tomb in Middle Egypt, Emerson has referred to me by my maiden name of Peabody when feeling affectionate. For my part, I never succumb to the childish trick of employing his given name of Radcliffe, which he detests. Emerson he was to me then, and Emerson he will always be—the name hallowed by memories as tender as they are thrilling.

However, he was eventually persuaded to relate to me what he had read of the case. The malignant mummy did not reside in Egypt, as I had supposed, but in the dusty halls of that venerable institution, the British Museum. The sprained ankle was a rather labored device of Mr. O'Connell's, but the initiating incident had been a good deal more serious-—fatal, in fact.

Going to his post in the Egyptian Room one morning, a guard had discovered the body of one Albert Gore, a night watchman, sprawled on the floor in front of one of the exhibits. The poor fellow had apparently suffered a stroke or heart attack, and if he had collapsed by a black-figured vase or a medieval manuscript, his passing would have attracted no interest—except, one presumes, to his friends and family. However, the exhibit happened to be a mummy case, complete with mummy, and that had aroused O'Connell's journalistic instincts. He could be regarded, I suppose, as something of an authority on ancient Egyptian curses.

"Brain seizure—but why?" was his first headline. Emerson's reply. "Curse it, the chap was sixty-four years of age!"

"What caused the look of frozen horror on the dead man's face?" O'Connell demanded. Emerson: "The lunatic imagination of Mr. Kevin O'Connell."

"Can fear kill?" Kevin inquired, and Emerson replied, to me: "Balderdash!"

The mummy had been presented to the museum the preceding year, by an anonymous donor. Kevin had displayed the enterprise I would have expected of him in tracking down the name of this individual, and his discovery only served to intensify interest in what was otherwise
a fragile tissue of imaginative fiction. Nothing fascinates the British public so much as royalty, and a hint of royal scandal is even better.

I deem it advisable to conceal the true names and titles of the individuals concerned, even in the pages of this private journal, for if at some future time the archaeological notes contained herein should be deemed worthy of publication (which they unquestionably will), I would be the last one to wish to recall a long-forgotten stain upon the Monarchy which, despite its failings, must command the loyalty of any true Englishwoman. Suffice it to say that the donor—whom I shall henceforth designate as the Earl of Liverpool—was related by blood to a most distinguished Lady. As Emerson would say—and in fact did say fairly often—she had altogether too many descendants, direct and collateral, bumbling around the world and getting into trouble.

If the Earl hoped to save himself from the malignant influence of his Egyptian souvenir, he delayed too long. Shortly after giving it up, he met with a fatal hunting accident.

"Served the villain right," commented Emerson, who shared my aversion to blood sports. "Sensible mummy; intelligent cadaver. His son did not get off scot-free either. He seems to be a thoroughly disgusting young reprobate, who suffers from a thoroughly disgusting degenerative disease. Perfect case of poetic justice. Excellent mummy!"

"What disease is that, Emerson?"

Emerson had turned to another issue of the newspaper. He rattled it loudly. "A modest woman would not ask such a question, Peabody."

"Oh," I said.
"That
thoroughly disgusting disease. But surely even a newspaper like the
Yell
would not name it."

"There are euphemisms, Peabody, there are euphemisms," Emerson replied austerely. "And anyone who knows the young man and his set could conjecture correctly."

"So that is the extent of the mummy's baneful influence? A hunting accident, a case of—er—disease, and a natural death from heart failure?"

"The usual number of weak-minded ladies have felt faint in its presence," Emerson replied caustically. "And the usual psychic investigators have received messages from the Beyond. Humph. I suppose one can hardly blame the gullible public, when our distinguished Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities feeds their folly."

"Wallis Budge? Oh, come, Emerson, not even Budge would—"

"He would. He has. That fellow will stop at nothing to get his name in print. How such a ranting imbecile could attain that position . . . DAMNATION!"

No device of the printer's art, not even capital letters, can indicate the intensity of that shriek of rage. Emerson is known to his Egyptian workers by the admiring soubriquet of Father of Curses. The volume as well as the content of his remarks earned him the title; but this shout was extraordinary even by Emerson's standards, so much so that the cat Bastet, who had become more or less accustomed to him, started violently, and fell with a splash into the bathtub.

The scene that followed is best not described in detail. My efforts to rescue the thrashing feline were met with hysterical resistance; water surged over the edge of the tub and onto the floor; Emerson rushed to the rescue; Bastet emerged in one mighty leap, like a whale broaching, and fled—cursing, spitting, and streaming water. She and Emerson met in the doorway of the bathroom.

The ensuing silence was broken by the quavering voice of the safragi, the servant on duty outside our room, inquiring if we required his assistance. Emerson, seated on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, took a long breath. Two of the buttons popped off his shirt and splashed into the water. In a voice of exquisite calm he reassured the servant, and then transferred his bulging stare to me.

"I trust you are not injured, Peabody. Those scratches ..."

"The bleeding has almost stopped, Emerson. It was not Bastet's fault."

"It was mine, I suppose," Emerson said mildly.

"Now, my dear, I did not say that. Are you going to get up from the floor?"

"No," said Emerson.

He was still holding the newspaper. Slowly and deliberately he separated the soggy pages, searching for the item that had occasioned his outburst. In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.)

Studying my husband as he sat on the bathroom floor in a puddle of water, carefully separating the soaking pages of the newspaper, I was overcome by renewed admiration and affection. How cruelly was that man maligned by those who did not share the intimacy of his acquaintance! His explosions of temper were as brief as they were noisy; afterward he immediately reverted to his customary affability, and I believe few men could appear so cool and dignified in such a position. Bastet's considerable bulk had struck him full in the chest. His wet shirt molded the splendid musculature of that area of his body; and though the water in which he sat was slowly darkening the fabric of his trousers, producing a considerable degree of discomfort, he remained unperturbed.

At last he cleared his throat. "Here it is. I beg, Amelia, that you will refrain from commenting until I have finished reading.

"Hem. 'Stop press. Startling new developments in British Museum mystery. Your correspondent has learned that within a few weeks a team of expert investigators will attempt to solve the case of the malignant mummy. Professor Radcliffe Emerson and his spouse, Amelia Peabody Emerson, whose daring exploits are well known to readers of the
Daily
Yell— "

It was impossible for flesh and blood to remain unmoved. Rising impetuously to my feet, I cried, "Good Gad!"

Emerson peered at me over the sagging rim of the soggy wad of newspaper. His eyes blazed a brilliant blue—a sign of ire with which I was well acquainted. Waving my loofah to emphasize my words, I went on, "Surely, Emerson, you do not suppose I am responsible for initiating that preposterous story? Even if I cared to investigate the case—and I agree with you that it is stuff and nonsense—there would not have been time enough for me to communicate with Mr. O'Con-nell. The paper you are holding must be several weeks old—"

"Fifteen days, to be precise," said Emerson.

He tossed the newspaper aside and rose to his feet. His gaze remained fixed on me, and the brilliance of his eyes had, if anything, intensified.

"Don't you believe me, Emerson?"

"Certainly, Peabody. Certainly." Having unfastened his wet trousers, he stepped out of them and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.