The Deeds of the Disturber Read Online Free PDF Page A

wish to deny the authenticity of Scripture; we read in Exodus how the priests turned their rods into serpents ..."
    "Idiot," I said aloud. The elderly gentleman in the deck chair next to mine gave me a startled look.
    Through haste or (more likely) a deliberate attempt at deception, Emerson had omitted one interesting aspect of the night watchman's death. Like many of the people who hold such posts, Albert Gore had been elderly, uneducated, and given to the excessive consumption of spirituous liquors. None of these failings detracted from his ability to carry out his tasks, or so it was supposed; he was only required to makethe rounds of certain sections of the museum several times during the night and doze in his cubicle near the door the rest of the time. It was most unlikely that a thief would have the temerity to enter the museum; apart from other difficulties, such as the impossibility of selling the unique objects on the open market, the building was always locked up tightly and the surrounding streets were constantly patrolled by constables.
    It was probable, then, that poor Albert Gore had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage while patrolling the Egyptian Galleries, for overindulgence in food and drink not uncommonly leads to such a result. I discounted Kevin's reference to "the look of frozen horror imprinted on the dead features" as a typical journalistic excess.
    But there was one odd thing. Clustering around and under the body, and more widely dispersed through the room, were a number of unusual objects—broken bits of glass, scraps of paper and cloth, dried splashes of some dark liquid substance and—most peculiar of all—a few crushed, withered flowers.
    After I had finished reading, I followed Emerson's example and tossed the clippings overboard. He had been quite right; the whole affair was humbug, unworthy of the attention of a sensible person. We had not seen the end of it, though. Our names had been mentioned, our authority appealed to; we owed it to ourselves and our scholarly reputations to deny the allegations as vigorously as possible.
    Humbug it was, unquestionably. And yet there were those withered flowers . . .
     
       TWO
    M ORE RECENTLY than in Spenser's day the "sweete Themmes" ran "softly," through green banks whereon "the Violet pallid grew; The little Dazie that at evening closes, The virgin Lillie and the Primrose trew." I have spoken with Londoners who could still remember summer trips to the pastoral beauties of Greenwich as delights of their childhood. But long before the time of which I write the trees on the Isle of Dogs had given way to ugly factories belching black smoke into the filthy cloud that hung over London like a funeral pall. The river, lined with mean houses and coaling docks and warehouses, flowed sullen and slow, befouled by unspeakable and unthinkable refuse. Standing on the deck as our steamer headed for the Royal Albert Dock, I observed it was raining. It always seemed to rain the day we returned to England.
    Yet though I thought with fond nostalgia of the hot blue skies of Egypt, I could not help but be stimulated by my proximity to the greatest of cities—center of Empire, home of intellectual and artistic prowess, land of the free, and home of true British grit.
    I remarked as much to Emerson. "My dear Emerson, there is something stimulating about returning to the center of Empire, the home of intellectual and artistic—"
    "Don't talk such blood—er—blooming nonsense, Amelia," Emerson growled, applying his handkerchief to my cheek and displaying a grimy smudge. "The very air is black."
    Ramses stood between us—I held him by one arm, Emerson by the other—and of course he had to add his opinion. "Anatomical studies on the cadavers of Londoners prove that prolonged breathing of thisatmosphere turns the lungs quite black. However, I believe Mama was not referring to the physical environment, but to the intellectual—"
    "Be still, Ramses," I said automatically.
    "I