The Deeds of the Disturber by Elizabeth Peters Page A

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