The Deeds of the Disturber (20 page)

"Filling the bath, as she does every evening, Emerson. And mopping up after you. Never mind; what prompted you to call on Mr. Budge?"

"Well, I made him an offer," Emerson said, stretching till his muscles cracked. "To unwrap the mummy.
The
mummy."

"Unwrap . . . What the devil for?"

"Watch your language, Peabody," Emerson said, grinning. "The idea came to me while I was walking through ... er ... the park. Yes, Hyde Park. The incident at the Museum the other afternoon might have been much more serious. Public hysteria has reached such a pitch ... By the way, did you know one of your journalist friends has already printed a story about the reincarnation of the priestly lover of the princess? I was crushed when I read it, for I had hoped to sell the idea for a large sum."

"Don't be facetious, Emerson. You are wandering from the subject."

"So I am," Emerson said agreeably. "Well, then, it seems to me it is high time we put an end to this nonsense, before someone is seriously injured. The Museum must suffer from such incidents; incompetently as it is managed, we don't want it to become an arena for riots or a stage for theatrical performances."

"I quite agree, Emerson. But how does the unwrapping of the mummy come into it?"

"Why, it is the most logical way of ending the absurd speculations. We will see what inscriptions, if any, are on the inside of the coffin;we will expose the unfortunate lady's withered hide and fleshless grin. You know, Peabody, that even a well-preserved mummy is distinctly unsightly. Romantic fantasies about beautiful princesses must shrivel— like the lady's own flesh—under the merciless glare of scientific truth. She may have abscessed teeth, Peabody. She may be ... middle-aged! Could anything be more destructive of sentiment than a middle-aged, gray-haired woman with toothache?"

I put my feet on the fender next to Emerson's and reached for his hand. "Emerson, I have said it before and I will say it again—your academic acumen is exceeded only by your profound understanding of human nature. Brilliant, my dear—brilliant!"

Husbands, I have found, appreciate these little compliments. Emerson beamed from ear to ear and kissed my hand.

What I did not say, because I had better sense, was that I suspected his motives were not entirely altruistic. Emerson is not as passionate about mummies as I am about pyramids, but he does like them, and one of my fondest and earliest memories of him is the relish with which he went about unwrapping a mummy. (It is from Emerson, I hardly need say, that Ramses' fascination with mummies derives—carried, as is often the case with Ramses, to excess.)

"You might also take advantage of the opportunity to lecture on the subject of ancient Egyptian curses," I suggested. "And to point out that there was no such thing."

"Well, but that would not be strictly true, Peabody. You remember the text from the mastaba of Khentika: 'As for all men who shall enter this my tomb being impure, having eaten abominations . . .' How does it go on?"

"I cannot recall the exact words. Something about pouncing on him, as upon a bird, and being judged for it in the tribunal of the Great God. Hardly a death threat, Emerson, since the tribunal referred to was the one faced by all devout Egyptians
after
death. Besides, that text and others like it were directed against neglectful caretakers of the necropolis."

"Then there are the cursing texts written on bowls and scraps of pottery," Emerson mused. " 'As for so-and-so, son of so-and-so, he shall die . . .' A classic example of sympathetic magic; when the bowl was smashed, the individual perished."

"You certainly might mention such cases," I agreed.

"I might," said Emerson gloomily, "if I were going to deliver a lecture and unwrap the mummy."

"Budge disapproved the scheme?"

"Oh, he thought it was an excellent idea."

"Then why—"

"Because, my dear Peabody, the damned—er—confounded bas— er—rascal is going to do it himself!"

"Oh, my dear," I said sympathetically. "After you looked forward so much . . . But how can he? After all, there is no sense in just unwinding yard upon yard of bandages unless one has enough knowledge of anatomy to make an examination of the remains themselves, and determining the sex, the age, and—er—and that sort of thing."

"He will have some flunky from the Royal College of Surgeons standing by," Emerson said, snapping his teeth together. "While he does all the talking and hypnotizes the audience into believing he knows what is going on."

"Perhaps he will change his mind, Emerson."

Emerson's lowering brows lifted and his cheery chuckle filled the room. "I know what you are thinking, Peabody, and I absolutely forbid it. You are not to call on Budge and try to persuade him to change his mind."

"I was only—"

"I know, my darling Peabody. You were thinking of me; and I cannot tell you how much your tender concern moves me. In fact, I believe Budge was having second thoughts. An odd thing occurred just before I left him."

"And what was that?"

Emerson settled himself more comfortably. "It was quite dramatic, my dear. Picture, if you will, Budge behind his desk, spouting smug nonsense as he always does. Your humble servant, walking briskly up and down the room—"

"Spouting criticism," I suggested.

"Carrying on a civil conversation," Emerson corrected. "Enter a servant carrying a packet. Budge reaches for that absurd paper knife of which he is so fond—the one he claims he found in a tomb at Assiut—and slits the wrappings. The color drains from his face—his voice fades into silence—he stares in horror at—at—"

"A severed human ear?" I suggested, entering into the spirit of the thing. "A mummified member?"

"Member?" Emerson repeated in surprise. "What particular organ of the human body did you have—"

"A hand or a foot, what else?"

"Oh. Well, it wasn't anything so grisly. Quite a fine antique, in
fact—an ushebti. It was not the ushebti that frightened Budge, though. It was the accompanying message."

"What did the message say, Emerson?"

"I don't know. Budge refused to show it to me, or let me examine the ushebti. But he was unnerved, Peabody; he was decidedly unnerved. Though I confess he did not exhibit the violent signs of terror I have described."

He chuckled merrily as he spoke; but a spreading sense of chill horror prevented me from joining in his innocent amusement.

"Emerson," I began.

"Yes, Peabody?"

"Emerson ... the packet Gargery brought ..."

"Good Gad!" Emerson bounded to his feet. "Where is it, Peabody? What have you done with it? Curse it, I thought there was a familiar look to the thing!"

"It is there on the table beside you, Emerson."

"Oh." Emerson returned to his chair. Instead of ripping off the wrappings in his usual vigorous manner he sat quite still, turning the object over and over in his hands. "Yes, it looks the same," he remarked after a moment. "Wrapped in brown paper, addressed in block letters and black India ink, with a pen whose nib wants mending. And by a man of some education."

Anxious as I was to behold the dread contents of the deadly packet, I could not help being distracted by this sweeping pronouncement. "Now, Emerson, you are inventing that. Especially the bit about education. How can you possibly tell anything about the sender's education, or even gender?"

"The writing is masculine—bold, sprawling, forceful. As for the other—I have my methods, Peabody, it would take too long to explain them."

"What nonsense," I exclaimed indignantly.

"That appears to be all there is to learn from the external wrappings," Emerson continued. "Nevertheless, we will remove them carefully . . . so ... in order to preserve them for future examination. Inside we find . . . Ha! Just as I suspected."

"What, Emerson, what?"

"A cardboard box."

I sank back into my chair. "Your attempt at humor is singularly misplaced, Emerson. I am in a positive fever of apprehension for you, and you make jokes."

"I beg your pardon, Peabody. Hmmmm. The box has nothing distinctive about it. Except. . ."He raised it to his nose. "A faint, lingering scent of tobacco. And good tobacco, too. From my pipe-smoking days I recall-—"

"Emerson, if you don't open that box, I am going to scream."

"I have been thinking of taking up a pipe again," Emerson mused. "It is conducive to meditation. Peabody, you are exhibiting unbecoming impatience for someone who claims to be an investigator of crime. We must go about this slowly and methodically, overlooking no possible clue."

I snatched the box from his hand and wrenched off the lid.

A thick layer of cotton wool hid the contents, but not for long. Flinging it to the floor, I removed the object inside.

"A shawabty," I cried.

"Don't wave it around in that theatrical fashion," Emerson said coolly. "It is faience, and will break if you drop it."

The shawabty (or ushebti—Walter, among others, favored the latter reading) figures were quaint examples of the Egyptians' fanciful yet practical attitude toward the requirements of life after death. In order to explain their function, I believe I can do no better than to quote the spell inscribed on the little figurines (taken from Chapter VI of the so-called Book of the Dead). "Oh thou shawabty, if the Osiris Senmut [or whatever the name of the owner might be] is called on to do any work that has to be done in the Underworld—to cultivate the fields, to irrigate the desert, to carry sand to the East or the West—'Here am I! I will do it!' thou shalt say."

Shawabtys were made in a variety of materials, from stone and gilded wood to the pastelike faience, but they always imitated the mummified human form. Sometimes a tomb might contain dozens, even hundreds, of the little servant figures. This example was unusual, however, for it was that of a pharaoh wearing the
nemes
headdress and holding the two scepters. A line of hieroglyphs identified the owner, but I paid scant attention to them at the time.

"Was Budge's the same?" I asked.

"It appeared to be identical. But I can't say that it was, since I was given no opportunity to examine it." Emerson had taken the box from me. Now he extracted a scrap of paper covered with close-written signs. "Well, well, what a strange coincidence," he remarked, after a cursory glance. "We were just now speaking of this very thing. Here you are, Peabody, have a look."

A hideous premonition set my hands to trembling so that I could
scarcely hold the paper. In a hollow voice I read the words aloud: " 'As for any man who shall enter into this my tomb, I will pounce on him as on a bird—' "

' 'Pounce' seems a bit playful and frivolous for a document of such portentousness," commented Emerson. "May I suggest 'fall upon' or 'seize—' "

"Oh, do be quiet, Emerson! There is worse to come. 'As for Emerson, Father of Curses—he shall die!' "

The echoes of that dire word had scarcely faded before they were followed by a harsh metallic clang, like that of a great cymbal. I started violently; Emerson began to chuckle; and the housemaid, carrying the empty water can (whose lid, hastily replaced, had produced the clanging sound) sidled crabwise through the room and exited.

"You needn't have shouted, Peabody," Emerson remarked. "You probably frightened the poor girl out of her wits."

"I forgot she was there," I admitted. "One does, doesn't one? A sad commentary on our perverse social system. How can you be so cool, Emerson? This is a direct threat—a threat of death—or worse—"

"There cannot be anything worse, Peabody," Emerson replied, with such sublime indifference to danger that I forbore to mention examples that would have proved him mistaken.

"Excuse me, Mama, excuse me, Papa—"

Ramses could not have appeared at a worse time. Such was the state of my nerves that I rounded on him with a loud cry. "Ramses, what are you doing out of your room? I told you—"

"Technically, I know, I am in violation of orders, Mama; however, I thought I might venture to emerge long enough to greet Papa, since I have not seen him since breakfast; and hearing what sounded very much like a death threat echo along the corridor—"

"You could not have heard it unless you were listening at the door," I snapped.

"Never mind, Peabody. Relax your rules for once." Emerson smiled fondly at his son, who had advanced tentatively into the room. He looked quite deceptively young and innocent in his long white nightgown with his little bare feet peeping out from under the hem and his grave dark eyes fixed on his father's face.

"Well," I said.

That was enough for Ramses, who trotted to Emerson's side and squatted on the floor beside him, in the Egyptian style. I hardly need add, I believe, that he was talking all the while.

"I trust, Mama, that my concern for Papa will excuse this apparent contempt for your commands, which under almost any other circumstances I would of course—"

"It is just nonsense, my boy," Emerson said, patting the tumbled black curls. "Another practical joke."

"If I might be allowed to examine—"

"You may as well show it to him, Emerson," I said resignedly. "He will go on talking until you do."

So Emerson handed over the ushebti and the message, and after giving the former a cursory glance and dismissing it with the comment "A fine example of its type," Ramses wrinkled his juvenile brow over the message. "Ha," he remarked after a brief interval, "the message appears to be a combination of two different texts, the first deriving, if memory serves me, from an Eighteenth Dynasty tomb at Thebes. The second, as I am sure I need not tell you, may be an adaptation of a so-called cursing text, written on pottery bowls or figurines which were then smashed—"

"You need not tell us," said Emerson.

"As for the orthography," Ramses went on, "the writer appears to have followed the rules Mr. Budge has laid down in his popular book on Egyptian grammar. In my opinion the use of the reed-leaf in spelling the proper name 'Emerson'—"

"For someone who is supposed to be filled with anxiety over your papa's safety, you are very cool," I said critically.