A River in the Sky

Chapter Ten

Regrettably, Emerson’s pronouncement did not have the effect he had anticipated. It was very interesting, to be sure, but to most of us it paled by contrast to the murder, riot, and mystery that surrounded us.

The only one who reacted as Emerson had hoped was Ramses. “Amazing!” he exclaimed, his eyes alight. “The first actual, physical evidence of Egyptian occupation here. What did the hieroglyphs read, Father?”

“As near as I could make out, they were part of the cartouche of one of the Amenhoteps. I left it in situ, since it had not been photographed or plotted.” He let out another groan. “So much for proper methodology. I ought to have known…”

He jumped up and headed for the door. “And where do you think you are going?” I demanded. “Come back here at once, Emerson.”

“There are still several hours of daylight left,” said Emerson. His sapphirine eyes shone with the fearful glow of fanaticism. “And now, at last, I have my entire crew present. Come, all of you. Bring cameras-tripods-torches-sketching pads-measuring sticks-”

He rushed out, followed by Selim and Daoud. Ramses was about to follow when I stopped him. “You are a trifle flushed,” I said. “Are you feeling well?”

“Yes, of course.” He avoided my outstretched hand and ran after his father.

David glanced uncertainly at me. “Keep a close eye on Ramses,” I said. “Emerson is the most devoted of fathers, but when he is in this state of mind he wouldn’t notice a massacre unless it inconvenienced him.”

“You can count on me, Aunt Amelia.”

“I know I can,” I said affectionately. “And-er-by the way, there is no need to mention your sketch of-him-to anyone else. Tell Emerson Nefret will be along directly with the cameras.”

“No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”

Nefret had gone out of the room; I assumed she was looking for the cameras, but when she did not return at once, I went in search of her. I found her in the part of the courtyard we had designated as the kitchen. With her was Ghada, holding a bundle.

“She came for the laundry,” Nefret explained. “And she has brought the baby! Isn’t she sweet?”

The word could have applied to Ghada, whom I saw unveiled for the first time. She had a pretty little face, dominated by those melting brown eyes. I smiled at her; she responded by offering me the bundle. It was meant as a gesture of trust, so I had no choice but to respond. I took the bundle and bounced it experimentally.

There was nothing visible of the baby except a face. A knitted cap covered its head, and layer upon layer of wrappings covered the rest of it. It had its mother’s brown eyes and skin several shades lighter than hers; obviously it had seldom if ever been exposed to direct sunlight. After a suspicious look at me it opened its mouth and let out a howl.

“Here,” I said, handing it over to Nefret. She bounced the baby. The aggravating little creature immediately stopped howling and gave her a dimpled grin.

I knew better than to praise the child. Complimentary remarks would bring down the wrath of innumerable demons. I smiled again, nodded, and went to fetch the washing. I had to order Nefret to hand the baby back to its mother, who inserted it into a sling on her back and went off with the laundry.

“I would like to examine the baby,” Nefret said, watching them go. “It appears to be healthy enough, but its nose was running.”

“Babies’ noses always run,” I said authoritatively (hoping I was right). “You can do that another time. Emerson is waiting for you.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Not just yet. It is time I made one of my little lists.”

I RULED THE PAPER according to my usual scheme, with columns headed: “Questions” and “What to do about them.” For reasons which will be apparent as my narrative proceeds, I did not keep a copy of the list. As I recall, the questions went something like this:

Who is Plato Panagopolous?

Who killed him?

Where is the man Mansur and what is his mission?

What has become of Mme von Eine and what is her aim?

Why did Major Morley increase the speed of his work?

I had taken the first step to identifying Panagolopous. He had avoided having a photograph taken, and he had avoided meeting certain individuals. I would show David’s sketch, after it had been modified by me, to those individuals. Once I discovered his real identity, I might have the answer to the second question.

I couldn’t think what to do about Mansur, or even decide whether I needed to do anything. The answer to the second part of the question might be connected with the fifth question. Perhaps some sort of deadline for the completion of that mission was approaching, and perhaps Morley’s assistance was necessary. However, that was as yet only surmise, and interrogating Morley would almost certainly be a waste of time.

Which left me with question number four.

Vanity, alas, affects even the best of us. I took a little time to smooth my hair and change my shirt for a clean one before I selected a rather becoming broad-brimmed hat, with crimson ribbons that tied under my chin. After slipping my little pistol into one of my pockets and a few other useful items into another, I took my heaviest parasol and went forth.

Clouds hid the sun and a brisk breeze tugged at my hat brim. It would have taken more than inclement weather to stop me. The autumn rainy season, with its heavy downpours-the inundation of the river in the sky-was still a month away. If a shower were to occur, it would be brief, and I had my useful parasol.

I had hoped to find Ali Bey on duty at the barricade, but he was nowhere to be seen. I asked the fellow on duty where he had gone and got only a stare and a shrug; but the invocation of that mighty name got me past the ropes. I made my way to Morley’s tent, observing with some surprise that the toiling workmen were not at their task. The windlass hung empty from its support. Was that an indication that Morley had found what he sought, or that he sought it elsewhere?

It is not possible to knock at the flap of a tent. I called out. At first there was no response except for sounds of movement within. Someone was there, then, probably Morley himself. He could-and would-tell me where the lady was staying. I called again, announcing myself by name.

The flap was drawn aside, just far enough to show Mme von Eine herself. She was dressed with her usual elegance, not a hair on her fair head ruffled. “Mrs. Emerson! What a surprise. If you are looking for Major Morley, he is not here.”

“I am looking for you,” I said, clutching my hat. “I was not expecting to see you, but I hoped to get your address from the major.”

“I see.” It was clear she wanted me to go away. Naturally, that made me all the more determined to stay.

In retrospect, that might not have been one of my wisest decisions.

After several long seconds she said, “Come in, then.”

She drew the flap farther aside. Not until I was inside the tent did I see the man sitting at a table to the right of the entrance. I had never beheld him before, but I knew at once who he must be, for his appearance matched Ramses’s description. The first part of my third question had received an answer.

Discretion, perhaps, would have dictated a speedy withdrawal. With the speed of light, alternatives raced through my mind. The lady stood between me and the exit, and Mansur had risen to his feet. They could easily prevent my departure. The only hope, it seemed to me, was to feign ignorance of Mansur’s identity and pretend that my motive for seeking Mme von Eine was purely social.

“I apologize for intruding,” I said. “I did not know you were entertaining a friend. I will come another time.”

“I cannot possibly let you go,” Madame said. “Without offering you a cup of tea. May I present Mr. Abdul Mohammed.”

“How do you do?” I produced my best social smile and inclined my head, without taking my eyes off his face. It was worthy of attention, with the combined delicacy and strength of a master carving. Only the shape of his mouth spoiled the nobility of his countenance. It had curved into a thin-lipped smile. He wore a robe of creamy-white wool, embroidered at the neck and around the sleeves, and when he acknowledged my greeting by raising his hands in salute, I noticed he moved one arm stiffly.

Mme von Eine seated herself behind the tea service and waved me to a chair. “Do you take milk? Sugar?”

“Neither, thank you.”

The tea was tepid. I sipped it while I examined my surroundings. The tent was fitted out with all the luxuries money can buy, including several crates labeled “Fortnum and Mason” and another that bore the mark of a famous winery. Nothing I saw inspired an idea, or the means, of a daring escape. The silence of my companions, and Mansur’s fixed smile, persuaded me that there was little chance of their letting me go. I would have to make a dash for it.

Under cover of the table I slipped my hand into my pocket. When I jumped up I was holding my little pistol.

“I must make my excuses,” I said, pointing the gun at them. “Don’t move, either of you.”

I began backing toward the exit. The wind had risen; the tent shook and creaked and a blast of air tugged at my hat.

“Why, Mrs. Emerson,” said the lady, opening her eyes wide. “What has come over you?”

Mansur only smiled more broadly. He lifted his left hand and brought it down in a chopping motion. Pain blossomed through my head, and my eyes went blind.

WHEN I CAME TO my senses I was lying on one of the beautiful oriental rugs, with my hands and feet tied. Bending over me was Mme von Eine, her face set in a look of hypocritical concern.

“Gott sei Dank,” she exclaimed. “You are not seriously injured.”

“There was a guard,” I muttered. “He was not on duty when I came in…”

Mansur looked up from the paper he was reading. I recognized it as my list; I must have put it in my pocket without realizing it. “Most illuminating,” Mansur said with a tight smile. His voice was as deep and his English as excellent as Ramses had described. “If I had entertained any doubts as to your involvement, this would remove them. As for the guard, the fellow must have gone off on a-er-private errand, but he has redeemed himself by returning in time to obey my orders.”

“You forced us to act,” Madame said. “Your behavior was most extraordinary.”

“The conventional excuse of the villain-‘You made me do it,’” I said. “What am I going to make you do next?”

“Why, nothing, except to keep you comfortable and safe until we are certain you have recovered from your fit of hysteria. Mansur will watch over you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Emerson.”

Only pride prevented me from begging she would remain. She would never commit an act of violence with her own hands, or even watch its being done. She would only authorize such an act, explicitly or by her silence. All down the centuries evil men-and a few women, I admit-had maintained their innocence of murder and torture by remaining aloof from the actuality. I doubted that Mansur would be deterred by those hypocritical excuses.

However, if I could keep him talking, something might yet turn up!

“What precisely is it you hope to accomplish here?” I asked.

He looked up from his examination of my pistol and an expression of genuine amusement transformed his face.

“You live up to your reputation for forthrightness, Mrs. Emerson. Do you really expect me to answer that question?”

“It never hurts to try,” I said, squirming about in an effort to find a more comfortable position. The ropes were not tight, but my surreptitious efforts to loosen them had had no effect. “If you are planning to dispose of me, there can be no harm in satisfying my curiosity before you do so.”

“Believe me,” he said earnestly, “I don’t want to kill you.”

“It is against your principles as a civilized man?”

“You heard that from your son, didn’t you? What else did he tell you?”

“Quite a lot. The other members of my family know everything he knows.”

Mansur shook his head. “They know it secondhand, as do you. The only person who threatens my cause is your son. If he is willing to exchange himself for you, you will be released unharmed.”

“No,” I exclaimed. “Impossible. I won’t permit it.”

“You cannot prevent it. Nor can the other members of your group. We have our methods, Mrs. Emerson. The message has already been sent. It will be delivered to him in private, and if he is as wily as I know him to be, he will respond to it without letting anyone else know.”

“O God,” I whispered. It was a prayer, not an expletive. Having made that appeal, knowing it would be understood, I said, “But how can you reach him without…Ah. The Sons of Abraham? You have been expelled from that group, you have no more power over its members.”

“The word of that event has not yet spread to all the persons involved.” He smiled. “You amaze me, Mrs. Emerson. Your powers of concentration function under the most adverse situations. I do hope my little scheme succeeds, for it would distress me, personally as well as philosophically, to be forced to harm you.”

“There it is again,” I said scornfully. “The specious reasoning of the villain. No one is forcing you to do anything. You are the master of your destiny and you bear the responsibility for your acts.”

His face darkened, and he turned away without replying.

I had struck a nerve of some kind, but I did not pursue the conversation. Continuing to tug at my bonds, I strained my ears for the sound of someone approaching. How long had I been unconscious? How long would it take the message to reach Ramses? That he would respond instantly I did not doubt. If I could shout loudly enough, call out a warning…

Time seemed to stretch out forever. Mansur sat brooding over his cold tea. The wind had subsided somewhat. I thought I heard movement outside and drew a deep breath, but hesitated. It might have been the guard I heard. If I cried out, Mansur might decide to gag me.

There was no further sound, no warning. The tent flap lifted and Ramses entered. His eyes found me where I lay, my lips parted but incapable of speech. He held a knife. The blade was darkly stained.

“All right, are you, Mother?” he inquired. “I came as soon as I could.”

Mansur got slowly to his feet. “You killed the guards. Very civilized. The poor devils were only doing their duty.”

“Obeying orders,” Ramses corrected, with a curl of the lip. “It went against my instincts, of course, but-”

“You had to do it,” said Mansur, curling his lip. He didn’t do it as well as Ramses.

“No. I didn’t have to. I had a choice and I made it. You see, Mansur, I can’t trust you to keep your word. Now it’s between you and me. Free her and I’ll stay here.”

Mansur took a step toward me. Ramses was quicker. With two deft slashes he cut the ropes that held me. I felt the warm stickiness of blood against my wrists. I knew it was not my blood.

“A bit stiff, are you?” he asked, extending a hand to help me rise. “Go now, Mother. With celerity, as you might say.”

He smiled at me. I felt an odd pang in that region of the anatomy that is often mistaken for the heart. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed. Haste or excitement might be responsible, but I doubted it. I spun round, not toward the exit but toward the table where my little pistol…

Had lain. It was now in Mansur’s hand, and it was pointed at me.

“I’m afraid I cannot allow that,” he said, attempting to emulate Ramses’s coolness. “I will keep my word, but she must stay here until morning.”

“So it’s for tonight, is it?” Ramses inquired, trying to get in front of me.

“What?” I asked, avoiding the attempt.

“I’m beginning to get a vague idea,” Ramses said. He glanced at an object I had not noticed before-a prettily carved box that stood on a nearby table. “I see she left the job to you, Mansur. I wouldn’t recommend it. You could just as easily-”

Suddenly he flung himself at me. We both fell to the floor, with Ramses on top, and the gun went off, two, three times. I felt Ramses flinch and tried to free myself from his weight. Desperation lent strength to my limbs; I pushed him off me and sat up. His eyes were open and his lips were moving. I assumed he was swearing until he found his voice and gasped, “Run, Mother. Now!”

I snatched up the knife that had fallen from his hand and turned on Mansur. His lips were moving too, and I felt fairly certain he was swearing.

“There were only three bullets left in the gun,” I said. “I neglected to refill it after I used it last time. Now put your hands behind you and turn round.”

Mansur’s face was distorted with rage. Having come so close to accomplishing his desire, he was maddened by failure. Spinning round, he dropped the gun, snatched up the carved box, and ran, not toward the entrance to the tent, but toward the back, where one of the pegs had been pulled out, leaving a space below.

“Stop me if you can!” he shouted, and ducked under the loosened section of canvas.

Ramses staggered to his feet and took the knife from me. I read his intent in his grim face and tried to catch hold of him.

“Let him go!” I shrieked. “He wants you to follow him! It is an ambush!”

“I have to finish this,” Ramses gasped. “He won’t leave us alone, it’s a matter of personal revenge now…Mother, stay here. Just for once, will you please do as I ask?”

He pulled away from me and ducked under the canvas.

Naturally I followed at once. The pistol was useless to me now, but the Reader may well believe I did not forget my parasol.

The wind had died; the stillness had an ominous quality, like some mighty force holding its breath. The sky was black except for a few streaks of violent crimson on the western horizon, but I was able to make out a column of white, in rapid movement, which could only be Mansur’s snowy robe. Ramses, in drab work shirt and trousers, was virtually invisible.

I was running as fast as I dared, over uneven and unfamiliar ground, trying to keep the moving whiteness in sight, when suddenly it disappeared. I ran faster, brandishing my parasol and shouting. Almost at once I tripped and fell.

“Haste makes waste,” said a familiar voice. I could see Ramses now, bending over me. “Are you hurt?”

“Only bruised knees,” I replied, accepting the hand he offered.

“Damn,” said Ramses, so softly I could barely hear him. I knew what he was thinking, and moved back a little in case he decided to take steps to prevent me from going on. I doubted, however, that he would have the temerity to imitate his father, who had once struck me unconscious in the hope of removing me from the scene of the action. (It had not succeeded.)

I recognized my surroundings now. The object that had tripped me up was one of Morley’s rope barricades. Beyond, lingering light reflected off a gently moving surface. It was water. We had reached the Pool of Siloam.

“Where did he go?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer, though, and my heart beat faster with excitement.

“Back that way,” Ramses said, pointing.

“No, I would have seen him. He has gone into the tunnel! Hezekiah’s tunnel!”

We had a little discussion. Ramses was twitching with impatience to get on lest his quarry elude him, and I refused to yield, so in the end he was forced to give in.

“Stay behind me,” he said sternly. “Perhaps you are safer here with me than you would be stumbling into open pits. But please-please!-if I tell you to go back, assume that I have good reason to say so.”

The pool was low, since this was the end of summer, and owing to the lateness of the hour, water carriers and pilgrims had gone. There were only a few inches of water in the tunnel itself. It was very narrow; my outstretched hands measured barely two feet from side to side.

“Would you like a candle?” I inquired. I certainly wanted one, since I couldn’t see a cursed thing.

“I might have known you’d have one. Thank you.”

He held it while I lit it with one of the matches from my waterproof box. The wavering light gave his face an eerie look, with deep shadows framing his tight mouth and turning his eye sockets into holes of darkness.

“The roof is quite high,” I said encouragingly. “We needn’t fear bumping our heads.”

“It is lower farther on. What other useful items do you have with you?”

“In addition to my parasol, only a roll of bandages and a little bottle of brandy.”

“Is that all? Let’s hope we don’t need either.”

He sounded quite calm, but I was close enough to him to realize he was shivering. The water was icy cold and the tunnel itself dank and chilly.

“Perhaps the candle was not a good idea,” I said uneasily. “He will be waiting for you, won’t he?”

“So I assume.”

“Here.” I offered him my parasol. “If you hold this upright it will warn you when the roof begins to lower. I will extinguish the candle.”

Ramses, who had eyed the parasol askance, let out a sputter of laughter. The sound echoed uncannily and I put my finger to my lips.

“He knows we’re here,” Ramses said, taking the parasol. “If he’s standing still he will hear our movements through the water. There’s nothing we can do about it, so let us go on.”

He paid me the compliment of not bothering to advise me to keep one hand on the wall to one side. The sides were of solid rock, rough hewn and winding. I rested my other hand lightly on his back so that I would not run into him if he halted.

Had it not been for the absence of light and the fact that there was an assassin lying (or standing) in wait, I would have considered this one of the most thrilling moments of my life. I had given up hope of Emerson allowing me to explore the tunnel, and now Fate had presented me the opportunity.

Our progress was slow, for obvious reasons. Every now and then Ramses stopped, presumably to listen for sounds of movement ahead. I, too, strained my ears in vain. The water was a little deeper here, but not deep enough to produce splashing noises unless the person was running fast. Keeping track of elapsed time was impossible. I did count my steps, which gave a rough indication of the distance we had traveled. As I recalled, the tunnel was approximately 1,750 feet long. There was quite a distance yet to go.

A low-voiced warning from Ramses informed me that the roof had lowered. It was still high enough not to incommode my five feet and a bit, but had it not been for the parasol, Ramses might have been in danger of hitting his head. On, and yet farther on; I too had begun to shiver in the dank air and my feet were icy, even through my boots. I began to hope that I had been mistaken about Mansur’s motives, that he meant to escape through the exit when a light suddenly flared just ahead. It was bright enough to blind me after that intense darkness. I flung up my hand to shield my eyes and saw that Ramses had done the same.

Standing squarely in the center of the tunnel was Mansur. One arm was folded across the breast of his robe. His hand held a torch. In the other hand was a knife. The backlight from his torch displayed a countenance fixed in a stare of disbelief. Then he let out a high-pitched cackle of laughter.

“Is that your weapon?” he asked. “A lady’s parasol?”

Ramses straightened slowly. The tunnel was only six feet high here. The top of his unkempt black head brushed the roof. “Give it up,” he said.

Mansur mistook his meaning. His arm tightened protectively over the object in the breast of his robe. When he spoke again I knew from his voice and his wild-eyed look that he had crossed the border between mania and sanity.

“Turn now, Sitt Hakim,” he crooned. “Go back. I will not follow. I am a man of honor. This is not the place I would have chosen, but I will fight fairly, man to man.”

He made a sudden rush at Ramses, who lowered the parasol and thrust, at the full length of his arm. The result proved what I have always maintained, that as a defensive weapon a parasol cannot be too highly commended. The point struck Mansur full in the stomach while his knife hand was a foot or more from Ramses’s body. Mansur doubled over and staggered back.

I heard it before I saw it-a sound that can be described only in metaphor. A waterfall, a great wave crashing down on the shore, a flood, a torrent! I had only a glimpse of a wall of water filling the tunnel from side to side and floor to ceiling before it enveloped us all. The spring of Gihon had overflowed. The winter rains had come a month early.

I DO NOT DISLIKE adventure, but that was an experience I would not care to repeat. The first rush swept me off my feet. I was aware of moving rapidly back down the tunnel in the direction from which we had come and of wondering how much longer I could hold my breath. I do not think I prayed, but like an answer to prayer, my head suddenly rose above the water and I was jerked to a stop by an arm round my waist. Impenetrable darkness surrounded me, but I realized we had reached the part of the tunnel that was at its highest and that Ramses had kept hold of me the whole time, towing me along with the current. The current was still extremely swift, but the water was only up to my chest.

“Hold on to me,” he called. “We are almost out.”

When we emerged from the tunnel it was into a downpour so heavy one could scarcely distinguish the air from the pool itself. We got to the side and Ramses hauled me out. For a little time we stood without speaking, holding each other tightly, choking and gasping, and, of course, soaked to the skin.

The darkness was almost as intense as it had been inside the tunnel. It would be futile to try to light a candle. We had to get to shelter, as quickly as possible. I squinted, trying to make out a landmark-when what should I see but a light, like that of a torch-what should I hear but a voice whose sheer volume rose over even the thunder of the rain.

“Peabody! Peeeeabody! Curse it, where are you?”

THE BODY WAS FOUND next morning, floating in the Pool of Siloam. The news reached us via the usual channels (gossip and the village grapevine) at about eight. We were breakfasting late, an indulgence to which at least some of us were entitled. Safika, the maidservant, delivered the news along with the eggs and toast.

“Wait,” I said as Ramses put down his fork and rose. “There is no need for you to go there. You don’t look well, and furthermore-”

“The police will want an identification,” Ramses said. “I am one of the few who can provide it. Excuse me, Mother.”

The argument was logical, but I knew he had another reason. He wanted to be sure his nemesis was dead.

In point of fact, he had a third reason, which I did not learn until he returned an hour later. He found the rest of us still at table waiting. It was impossible to go on with our daily tasks until doubt had been removed.

“Well?” I said anxiously.

“It was he. The police have removed him.” Ramses put an object down on the table. “This was still inside his robe.”

At first I did not recognize the carved box, it was so warped and battered. Cracks ran the length of the sides and base, but the ornate brass clasp had held.

“What is it?” Nefret asked.

“The motive behind Mansur’s actions,” Ramses said. He wrenched the lid open. We crowded round, heads together, inspecting the contents. For those of us who still had hopes of a jeweled reliquary or golden ornaments, the result was, to say the least, disappointing. The entire box was filled with a layer of mud or clay less than two inches deep.

“A box filled with mud?” Nefret said.

“Clay,” Ramses corrected. “Until a thorough soaking dissolved it, this was a clay tablet like the ones found at Amarna and in the Hittite archives. It bore a long inscription in cuneiform. I found a broken-off corner at Frau von Eine’s campsite at Sebaste, with a few signs intact.”

Emerson’s expressive countenance displayed a degree of distress it had not shown at the news of Mansur’s death. “It was a valuable artifact, now lost forever.”

“No,” Ramses said. “It was a forgery. My discovery of that scrap, which Mansur found on my person, made it necessary-at least in his opinion-for him to silence me.”

“Do you mean that all this,” Nefret said incredulously, “your kidnapping, his remorseless pursuit, his attempt to kill you-all because of a miserable scrap of clay tablet?”

“Not initially. Initially they reeled me in because I had learned a little too much from Macomber. Mansur was quite candid about that. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough to make a solid case against them, but it might have interfered temporarily with their plans. Once they had accomplished their aim I could pass on the information without damaging them. But that aim had everything to do with the clay tablet. We assumed they wanted to find some talisman or icon under the temple. What they wanted to do was plant an artifact there-a written record dating from the period of Abraham. It might even have contained a prophecy, mentioning a kindly emperor from across the sea who would eventually free the land from its oppressors. Morley would find it, the location verified not only by Madame but by Morley’s workmen.”

“That is absurd,” I exclaimed. “No one would have believed such a preposterous claim, and any reputable scholar would have recognized the tablet as a forgery.”

Emerson had resorted to his pipe for comfort. “Reputable scholars might have denied its authenticity, but there are always other scholars who disagree-and people believe what they want to believe, never mind the evidence. If there is anything life has taught me, it is that there is no idea so absurd that someone will not accept it as truth, and no action so bizarre that it will not be justified in the eyes of a true believer.”

“And it would have been an excellent fake,” Ramses added. “She knew her cuneiform and her history. I don’t doubt she went to Boghazkoy on this expedition to collect enough of the right sort of clay, so even the material would be authentic. She was working on the tablet while she was at Samaria and a corner got broken off. That wouldn’t have destroyed the value of the tablet itself, but my testimony, that I had found the broken bit miles from Jerusalem and weeks before Morley was due to discover the tablet, would have been a devastating blow.”

“What about the box?” David asked, staring at the dismal object. “It’s obviously modern-or at least, recently made.”

“By a skilled craftsman in Sebaste,” said Ramses. “They’d have had an answer to that, though; the original container would have to be replaced not once but many times over the centuries.”

“It’s one of the wildest plots we’ve ever encountered,” David remarked.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Emerson grunted. “Several of Sethos’s little schemes were almost as bizarre. That is one thing we have to be thankful for, at any rate. No Sethos.”

The rain had begun to fall more heavily, so when Emerson dropped hints about his excavation I firmly forbade his leaving the house. “And Ramses,” I said, “must rest. No, Ramses, don’t argue. If you will not allow me to take your temperature, I must assume it is above normal. Nefret, is there any of the herb left?”

“Not much.” Nefret made a sudden lunge at Ramses and pressed her hand to his brow. “Yes, he is running a slight fever. I will prepare another dose. We may need more, though.”

Ramses had tried several times to get a word in. Realizing the impossibility of overriding both Nefret and me, he confined his response to a scowl worthy of his father’s best.

“I’ll ride to the castle,” David offered. “The medicine came from one of the villages nearby. I’m sure I can track down the man who guided us or one of the other villagers who assisted him.”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” I said.

“But, Aunt Amelia-”

“There may be an easier way. I have invited a number of people to tea this afternoon. I want you all to be present. It is time we settled the questions that yet remain.”

I kept myself busy all day, instructing the cook how to prepare cucumber sandwiches and brew a proper pot of tea, and getting my notes in order. Emerson had gone to his study, from which Panagopolous’s body had been removed by the police.

He emerged from it later that afternoon demanding to know where our visitors were. I deduced he had been working on a report of some sort, probably making notes about his excavation, since he was rumpled and ink-stained.

“The first should be arriving at any moment,” I replied, inspecting the table to make sure everything was in order. “Go and wake Ramses and bring him here.”

Shaking his head, Emerson went off. When he returned he was accompanied not only by Ramses but by David and Nefret.

“Ramses should be in bed,” said the latter, inspecting him.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you, my boy,” I said. He was heavy-eyed and flushed. “But I will need you. Ah, I believe the first visitor is here. Come in, Rabbi. I regret having brought you out on such a day. Ramses, will you translate for us?”

Rabbi Ben Ezra was as shabby as ever, but I thought there was a new look about him. Ramses repeated what I had said in Hebrew.

I gestured to the rabbi to take a chair and some refreshment, and the others settled down round the table.

The rabbi eyed the cucumber sandwiches doubtfully but accepted a cup of tea. Then he removed a small packet from a pocket. “I understand you are in need of this.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “We are grateful for your kindness in this as in so many other ways. I have only one more favor to ask.”

Nefret examined the packet, which of course contained a quantity of the medicinal herb. “How…” she burst out.

“I sent word to the rabbi through a member of his organization,” I replied impatiently. “Never mind that now, Nefret. We must not keep Rabbi Ben Ezra. He seems impatient to be gone.”

Ramses translated the last two sentences, and the rabbi nodded. He had finished his tea and was shifting uneasily in his chair. “What else do you want of me, Mrs. Emerson? I will do it if I can. You have rendered us a service and we always pay our debts.”

“We pay our debts, too, and in this case the debt is still on our side. How can we assist the aims of your group? For if I understand them correctly, they are noble ideals with which we are in sympathy.”

The rabbi inclined his head and rose to his feet. “Only continue as you have begun. Foil the plots of the predators who would use us for their own selfish ends. Leave us alone. We will work out our own destiny. Good day to you all.”

The finality in his voice precluded further questioning. Ramses said quietly, “And peace to you. Give my thanks to Ismail.”

Ben Ezra stopped on his way to the door. “I will do that. But he is no longer the leader. His term has finished.”

“Who is the leader, then?” I asked.

The rabbi shook his head. He smiled sweetly at me and trotted out. I thought I had received my answer, though, in his smile and his new air of confidence.

“Well!” said Emerson, drawing a long breath. “We will respect his request, of course, but I wish we could learn more about the Sons of Abraham. They are an amazingly diverse bunch of people, aren’t they? A rabbi, a rapscallion Egyptian ex-smuggler, some simple villagers-”

“And the madam of a house of prostitution,” Ramses finished. “They do not discriminate on the basis of gender or religion. We can only wish them well and hope they succeed.”

“Amen,” said Emerson.

“Why, Emerson!” I exclaimed.

“It slipped out,” Emerson said quickly. “Your influence, Peabody. Hmph. Where are the rest of our mysterious visitors?”

They were soon at the door, demanding admittance, and in a surly mood. Handing his wet coat to Safika, Mr. Glazebrook said, “I am always happy to accept your invitations, Mrs. Emerson, but on this occasion I admit I would have preferred to stay home. What is this important matter that needs my attention?”

“All in due time, Mr. Glazebrook, all in due time. Have a cucumber sandwich. You too, Mr. Page.”

As I had expected, this culinary reminder of home put both visitors in a happier mood. The head of the BSEP (British Society for the Exploration of Palestine, in case the Reader has forgotten) wiped his glasses on his handkerchief. Sipping his tea, Mr. Page said, “Well, this is pleasant. Have you anything to report, Professor?”

I had not expected him to come to the point quite so suddenly. The point being, in this case, the iniquities of Major Morley, which, I was somewhat embarrassed to recall, we had promised to end. I was trying to think of a way to get round the embarrassing fact that so far we had been unable to do so, when Emerson said, “If you are referring to Major Morley, the problem is in hand and will soon be resolved to our mutual satisfaction. Ours, not his.”

“How soon?” Mr. Page demanded.

“Within forty-eight hours.”

“That would certainly be a relief,” said Glazebrook. “If I may say so, Page and his associates have been driving me-er, that is to say…”

“My husband’s word is his bond,” I said, wondering what the devil Emerson was up to. His ordinary way of dealing with difficulties like Morley was to threaten, harass, and, if necessary, physically remove them. So far as I knew he hadn’t been anywhere near Morley in recent days.

“That is not why I asked you gentlemen here,” I said. “David, did you bring your sketching pad and pencils?”

“As you asked, Aunt Amelia.”

David opened his sketch pad to a page that bore an excellent likeness of Plato Panagopolous, as he had appeared in death.

“Very good,” I said. “Now, David, take your pencils, remove his beard and give him a full head of fair hair.”

“Good Gad,” said Emerson. “He looks entirely different. I had no idea a thick head of hair could alter a person’s appearance so drastically.” He ran his hand complacently over his own black locks.

“He shaved his cranium,” I said. “I noticed the stubble when I examined him after he was attacked on the street, and then I remembered he was careful to wear a hat whenever he could. It was a clear indication that he needed to disguise himself from someone here in Jerusalem who might recognize him in his earlier incarnation. He was conspicuously absent when we visited you, Mr. Page. Do you recognize him?”

“I cannot say that I do,” Mr. Page admitted.

“Then he had another reason for being elsewhere that day. Mr. Glazebrook?”

Glazebrook’s eyes had opened wide. “Good heavens, yes! Though I might not have known him as Papapa-er-”

“Panagopolous,” I said.

“Herbert Jenkins,” the consul exclaimed. “That was the name under which I knew him two years ago, when I had the pleasure of expelling him from Palestine. He had been the subject of innumerable complaints from tourists he had swindled by selling them faked antiquities, but it was not until he seduced a young native girl that I found sufficient grounds for diplomatic action. He went willingly, in fact, since the girl’s family was after his blood and his only hope was to leave the country.”

“I doubt we will be able to trace his subsequent movements,” I said. “Since he was in the habit of changing his appearance as well as his name. We must assume, however, that he ended up in Greece, where he encountered the original Plato Panagopolous and realized that that unfortunate man’s wild theories could provide him with the means for a new swindle, one that suited his knowledge of and interest in antiquities.”

“Are you saying he murdered the poor fellow?” Emerson demanded.

“We may never know. In a way, Jenkins is a tragic figure; had he but turned his talents to honest labor he might have been an authority in the field of biblical history. His memory was phenomenal, his ingenuity superb. The inscription he produced when you challenged him to reproduce part of his scroll was a copy of the inscription found in the Siloam tunnel. It is now in Constantinople and has been reproduced in various books.”

“How do you know that?” Emerson demanded skeptically.

“I showed it to Ramses.”

“Oh,” said Emerson.

“At any rate, Jenkins has received his just deserts. I do not doubt that the girl he seduced was not the first or the last. A man of base appetites and no morals, he may have pursued other victims during the hours he was not in our company. Finally he became careless. The vengeance of an outraged parent or betrothed caught up with him. Let us hope it occurred before this poor girl was ruined, like Ghada.”

“Like who?” Emerson said in bewilderment.

He can never remember the servants’ names, but in this case I couldn’t blame him. She had not been often in his presence. Nefret remembered, though.

“Ghada? Do you mean that Plato”-she choked on the name-“was her seducer?”

“Herbert Jenkins,” I corrected. “I rather think so. The baby is fair-skinned, and you recall Plato’s behavior when he saw her. He fled precipitately and never came here with us again. He knew he could not count on his disguise rendering him unrecognizable, for the eyes of love-or hate-are not easily deceived.”

“Hate, surely,” Nefret muttered. “He took me in completely, Aunt Amelia. We must do something for Ghada.”

“We will discuss it later, Nefret.”

Which we did, as soon as the gentlemen had left. I had, of course, considered the problem of Ghada and arrived at a solution, which I proposed at once.

“A sizable dowry would probably be sufficient inducement for a young man to overlook her-er-other deficiency. You might consult Kamir. He seems to have a soft spot for her, otherwise he would not have sent her to us. He can suggest some suitable candidates, and make sure the chosen suitor treats her well.”

Nefret’s jaw was set at an angle I was more accustomed to see from Emerson. “Are you actually suggesting I purchase a husband for her? I cannot believe you mean it.”

“It is the only thing you can do for her,” I said sadly but firmly, “and probably the thing she would choose for herself. Don’t let your kind heart and romantic notions overcome your common sense. You cannot snatch her away from her home and her people and try to turn her into someone other than who she is. In time, let us hope, her daughter or granddaughter or great-granddaughter will have other choices.”

“Let us hope.” Nefret turned her head away for a moment. “It is such a sweet baby.”

“A very sweet baby.”

“I will interview the candidates personally.”

“You might give Ghada a voice in the decision too,” I suggested.

Nefret gave me a watery smile and a hearty hug. “You are always right, Aunt Amelia.”

I DID NOT NEED to make a new list of “Things to Be Done.” All the pressing issues on the original list had been dealt with, except for two. I decided to confront the least difficult first.

I had determined that Frau von Eine was staying at the Grand Hotel, the best in Jerusalem. The effrontery of the woman was amazing! Her plot had been thwarted, her influence ended. It must be pure arrogance that kept her here. In fact, we would have had a difficult time proving she was guilty of a crime. The Turkish authorities would never have arrested a prominent citizen of a nation whose influence with the Sublime Porte was so high.

I sent up my card and received an immediate response. A veiled servant opened the door and was dismissed with a wave of Frau von Eine’s hand.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Emerson. I will order tea.”

“No, thank you, I prefer to stand. I will not keep you long.”

“Have you come to revel in your triumph?”

In fact, I had, but it was an unworthy motive, one I preferred not to admit. “Only to settle a few details,” I said.

“It is only a temporary triumph, you know. This particular strategy failed, but I have laid the groundwork for a movement that will win in the end.” Her chin lifted proudly and her pale eyes glittered. “I work for my country, Mrs. Emerson, as you do for yours. The Ottoman Empire will crumble, it is rotten to the core. And when it does it will be replaced by a firm yet benevolent government that will give these poor people the security they deserve.”

“They don’t want it, not from another occupying power,” I said in some exasperation. “They want independence and the right to make their own mistakes instead of suffering from the mistakes of others. Good Gad, you are as bad as the British imperialists like Mr. Hogarth.”

“We will never agree on that, Mrs. Emerson.”

“No. I did not expect my reasonable arguments to prevail, but I felt obliged to make them. Good day, Frau von Eine.”

“Give my regards to your son. Making his acquaintance has been an interesting experience.”

I did not linger. As I made my way to the lift I pondered her last speech and the faint enigmatic smile that had accompanied it. Was it possible that Ramses…No, I told myself. I decided, however, that I would not pass on her regards.

EMERSON AND I WERE first at the breakfast table next morning. In fact, Emerson had been first, which was unusual enough to get me out of bed and dressed when I discovered he was absent. He greeted me with a nod and then retired behind a book. I was accustomed to that version of rudeness; taking a few papers from my coat pocket, I spread them out on the table.

Emerson’s eyes appeared over the top of the book. “One of your little lists, Peabody?”

I did not like the look of those blue eyes. They had a sparkle that seldom appeared at that hour of the morning.

“Yes,” I said.

“Surely,” said Emerson, still behind the book except for his eyes, “you have by now ticked off all the items on that particular list. You have been even more efficient than usual, my dear.”

I had already begun to suspect he was up to something. His present behavior confirmed the suspicion. “As you know perfectly well, Emerson, there is one major item that has not been dealt with: the reason we came to Palestine in the first place. Major Morley is still working.”

Emerson chuckled. “Very good, my dear. Major item indeed.”

Now I knew he was up to something. “We must make one more attempt to confront him, Emerson.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Emerson, continuing to chuckle in a particularly annoying manner. “Major Morley has been dealt with.”

I snatched the book from his hands. His smug smile showed almost all his teeth.

“By you,” I said.

“By me.” Emerson reached for the coffee jug and poured into both our cups. “Now don’t be a dog in the manger, Peabody. You have taken care of everything and everybody else. Allow me one small triumph.”

“Well…” He was quite right, and I did not even blame him for teasing me a little. “Tell me about it, Emerson.”

“It was rather clever, if I do say it as shouldn’t. More along your line than mine, Peabody. It occurred to me, you see, that Morley must be getting rather frantic. His pits and tunnels have been flooded, he hasn’t found a cursed thing. He would, I reasoned, be susceptible to any idea, no matter how chancy or illegal, if it gave him one final chance of success. So Ali Bey and I put our heads together. To make a long story short, Ali Bey got word to Morley that with the proper bribe he could gain admittance to the Noble Sanctuary itself and excavate under the floor.”

“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “That is outrageous, Emerson.”

“That’s where every archaeologist who comes here wants to dig, Peabody. The majority, I daresay, would have better sense or better principles than to respond to such a proposition, but not Morley. He was getting desperate and he believes money will buy anything.”

Emerson paused and took out his pipe.

“Go on,” I urged. “You have me on pins and needles.”

“Really?” Emerson beamed. “Well, up to the Mount he went last night, after midnight, with one companion. The custodian was not there. Believing that the fellow had been bribed to stay away, Morley began work. Before he had struck more than a single blow, a horrible cry burst out, and there was the custodian, wringing his hands and screaming. He picked up a mattock Morley had brought, and went after Morley, leaving the latter in no doubt that his plan had misfired. He fled, leaving his tools-all the evidence any court would need as to his intentions. By the time he reached the foot of the Mount, a small mob was on his heels. It soon became a huge mob. Ali Bey, who had been watching the entire performance from hiding, distracted the infuriated worshippers long enough for Morley to get away. He didn’t want a mob tearing a foreigner to bits, whatever the offense. A splendid fellow, Ali Bey.”

“Yes, indeed. Where is Morley now?”

Emerson gestured. “In hiding, in Kamir’s donkey shed. I met him, as planned, and took him there. Kamir has agreed to smuggle him out of Jerusalem and set him on his way to Jaffa in exchange for most of Morley’s remaining funds. He will reach England impoverished-and, as soon as word of this affair reaches the English press, disgraced.”

“Emerson,” I said sincerely, “I did not think it possible, but you have excelled yourself. How did you persuade Kamir to overcome his religious scruples to assist a heretic?”

Emerson snorted. “Kamir has no scruples, religious or otherwise. How is Ramses this morning?”

“Sleeping soundly. He seems fully recovered. However-”

“I know, I know.” The incessant drumbeat of rain on the roof never stopped. Emerson sighed. “You are going to tell me he should not be working in this weather.”

“No one can work under these conditions, Emerson. Everyone shuts down his excavation during the rainy season. I know what a blow it is to you, my dear, to admit defeat, but it is already too late to salvage anything. What the rain has not swept away the local thieves have found. Let us go home.”

“Back to England?” His heavy black brows drew together. “Now?”

“No, my dear. Home. To Egypt.”