She fixed trusting brown eyes upon me. Mrs. Finney is shaped like a cottage loaf, very tight around the middle and very full above and below. I patted her shoulder.
“Leave it to me, Mrs. Finney.”
“She will, she will,” muttered Emerson. “Curse it.”
“Tell me—did not the gentleman sign the register last night?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Emerson, ma’am. I will show you.”
The signature was a scrawl, totally unreadable except for an initial letter that might have been a B. Or a P.
“So much for that means of identification,” I said, returning the register. “Very well, let us go upstairs.”
The unknown had a small chamber at the back, on the second floor, where the ceiling slanted down at a steep angle. The furnishings were simple but adequate: a blue-and-white-braided rug, a wardrobe, a narrow brass bed, and a set of the usual china necessities, painted with bright red roses. Some of the paint had chipped off.
Emerson came to a halt in the center of the room, the only place where he could stand without hitting his head on a beam, folded his arms, and stared fixedly at the individual lying on the bed.
Someone, presumably the doctor, had loosened his cravat and opened his shirt. The rise and fall of his breast was so slight as to be almost imperceptible. His countenance was pale, but not deathly white, and his lips were curved in a faint enigmatic smile. Beard and hair framed his face like a fallen halo.
“Damnation,” said Emerson.
I had, of course, anticipated that it would be he.
THE REVEREND’S HEARTBEAT WAS faint but steady, his respiration slow but regular. His temperature was normal. There were no needle marks on his arms. When I delicately raised one eyelid, I found myself staring into a placid blue orb, the pupil neither dilated nor shrunken. He lay limp and acquiescent as a stuffed doll as I moved him about.
Mrs. Finney watched the proceedings in pleasurable horror. No doubt she hoped for a convulsion or a death rattle. Two of the maids peeked in through the door, which I had left ajar.
“No smell of prussic acid?” inquired Emerson. “No gaping wounds? Broken bones? Pools of blood?”
I had proceeded to the next stage of the examination. “Not a pool,” I said, withdrawing the hand I had inserted between the pillow and the back of the reverend’s skull. “I doubt there was much blood to begin with, and it will have dried by now. Emerson, stop swearing—there are ladies present—and help me turn his head. Carefully, if you please.”
The injury was on the side of the head, above and behind the right ear. Mrs. Finney clapped her hands to her mouth when she saw the small stain on the pillow. “Cold water and lemon juice,” I said over my shoulder and then addressed Emerson. “There appears to be no damage to the skull and only a small abrasion. The blow was hard enough to have resulted in a concussion, but the symptoms are not—”
“He may have fallen,” said Emerson desperately. “Hit his head and—”
“Hit it on what, while he was doing what? Banging his head against the mantel, which is of wood? Washing his hands in a china basin which is at waist height? There is nothing in the room hard enough or blunt enough to have caused such trauma.”
“Curse it,” said Emerson.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” lamented Mrs. Finney.
IN MY OPINION WE had no choice but to remove Papagopolous to Amarna House. Emerson did not share in this opinion but gave in, simmering silently, when I pointed out that we could not leave him on Mrs. Finney’s hands, and that the nearest hospital was a good twenty miles distant. I also wanted Nefret’s opinion, for though my experience is extensive, her training was more up-to-date. While we awaited the arrival of the makeshift ambulance, I questioned the good landlady and made a thorough search of the room, announcing my deductions aloud and countering Emerson’s objections as he made them. (I have found this saves time in the long run.)
According to Mrs. Finney, the gentleman had arrived at six the previous night. He had refused her offer of refreshment and asked not to be disturbed until morning. Therefore the assailant had not waited for darkness, which was not complete until approximately ten o’clock, before entering the room…
(Emerson: “Jumping to conclusions again, Peabody.” Myself: “He had not unpacked nor prepared to retire. What was he doing for three or four hours?” Emerson: “Taking a nap, praying, scratching his…” Myself: “Never mind, Emerson.”)
The attacker must have entered through the door, since the room was on the second floor and the window was inaccessible from below.
(Emerson: “Ladder.” Myself: “How would he know where to find one? How could he ascend without being observed, or climb in through a window without arousing the suspicions of his victim?” Emerson: “Hmph.”)
It would not have been difficult for the assassin to gain entry to the room. He had only to wait until Mrs. Finney left the desk to attend to her other duties, inspect the register to determine Papagopolous’s room number, and knock at the appropriate door. Papagopolous would probably have assumed it was the maid. Turning to flee when he recognized his enemy, he had been struck down by a blunt instrument.
(Emerson: “What blunt instrument?” Myself: “For pity’s sake, Emerson, will you stop making irrelevant objections? A pistol butt, a rock, a stocking filled with sand.”)
“Damnation,” said Emerson morosely. “Very well, Peabody, let us not drag this discussion out. I have not the slightest hope of winning it anyhow. Your hypothetical assailant then removed all means of identification, overlooking only the scrap of paper naming me, and put the body onto the bed in the hope that a cursory examination would conclude Panalopagus—Panepororous—curse it, I cannot be expected to remember such a ridiculous name—that he had suffered a stroke or heart attack?”
“Well done, Emerson.”
“It is good of you to say so. Have you concluded your investigations?”
“Almost.” I had searched the reverend’s small valise, which contained only toilet articles, a change of clothing, nightclothes, and a well-thumbed Bible. Turning back to the bed in order to make another examination, I was surprised—and, of course, relieved—to find that my patient’s breathing had strengthened and that some color had returned to his face.
“He appears to be regaining consciousness,” I exclaimed, and removed the bottle of sal volatile from my medical bag. Waving it under his nose, I was rewarded by a sneeze so violent that Panagopolous’s lower limbs jerked up and his head jerked forward. His eyes opened.
“Excellent,” I exclaimed. “How do you feel?”
“Feel,” the reverend repeated dreamily. “I feel, therefore I am. But who, kind lady, am I? Who are you? And who is this Panagopolous to whom you refer?”
“Hell and damnation!” cried Emerson. Hands clapped to her ears, Mrs. Finney fled.
THE REVEREND’S PHYSICAL CONDITION being sufficiently improved, we called for our own carriage and dismissed the ambulance (a nice hay wagon belonging to Mrs. Finney’s cousin). He came with us willingly, having concluded—as he informed us—that I must be a dear acquaintance from one of his former lives. Emerson’s attempts to correct this misapprehension were met with a shake of the head and an amiable smile. “Perhaps it was in Athens, when I was preaching to the heathen,” he mused. “‘Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you…’ They mocked me, but some believed…Were you by chance the woman Damaris?”
“I doubt that very much,” I said gently but firmly. To Emerson I remarked, “Apparently in that life he was the apostle Paul. Do not argue with him, Emerson, I feel sure his amnesia is temporary and that he will come out of it in due time and with the proper treatment.”
“One of the kindly women in Bordeaux who sewed the crosses on our surplices when I proclaimed the great crusade?”
“Peter the Hermit?” asked Emerson, increasingly intrigued. “He doesn’t suffer from excessive humility, does he?”
Panagopolous ignored this as he had ignored our
other comments, and I said, “People who believe they have lived past lives were seldom anonymous commoners in those lives. Napoleon is a favorite, I believe, and so is Ramses the Second.”
“I must admit,” said Emerson, over the mumbling of Panagopolous, “that the fellow is rather entertaining. I give you three days, Peabody. If you haven’t got him back to 1910 by then, I will inform Captain Morley and request he remove his demented friend from our premises.”
Nefret had returned from her ride during our absence and, having been informed of our mission by Gargery, was waiting impatiently to hear what had ensued. She agreed with me that the reverend should rest, so we handed him over to John, our large and dependable footman, who helped him to his room and into bed. I told Rose to ask Cook to make chicken soup. Panagopolous submitted to Nefret’s examination without protest; indeed he seemed quite pleased to be with us, though he was still trying to decide who we were. When he saw Horus, who had pushed his way into the room in pursuit of Nefret, his face flushed with pleasure. “One of the sacred cats of Bastet,” he exclaimed. “Her worship was proscribed after I brought Pharaoh Akhenaton to the knowledge of the One God, but do you know, I missed having the cats about.”
After he had eaten a hot bowl of chicken soup, Panagopolous declared he would sleep awhile. Once outside the room, I asked Nefret for her diagnosis. It agreed, of course, with mine. Temporary loss of memory is not uncommon following such a blow on the head. It is usually only a matter of time. Panagopolous’s belief in reincarnation probably would not pass off, but I doubted there was anything I could do about it.
Emerson was mightily entertained by the reverend’s comments about the so-called heretic pharaoh. “So he was Moses, was he? Who will be next? I wonder. Abraham? Pope Leo?”
“He knows his history, at any rate,” I replied thoughtfully. “Few people are familiar with the short-lived religious revolution of Akhenaton, or the theory that he learned of the sole god from Hebrews dwelling in Egypt.”
“Far-fetched theory, you mean,” said Emerson.
Panagopolous’s recovery was slow but sure. On the following day he remembered my name, and the day after, his own—his present name, that is to say. His vital signs were normal and his appetite was excellent. On the third day I deemed him well enough to join us for tea, and the plate of chocolate-iced biscuits proved, as I had hoped, the catalyst.
“I have been here before,” he exclaimed (taking a biscuit). “Or have I been here all along? What has happened?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” I replied. I proceeded to recount the circumstances that had led to his present whereabouts. “Do you remember arriving at the inn?”
Stimulated by my questions (and the consumption of a number of biscuits) Panagopolous was able to recall his arrival, and being shown to a room. He was engaged in prayer (Emerson smirked at me) when a knock at the door interrupted him. Here he paused, his brow furrowed.
“Who was it at the door?” I asked.
Panagopolous shook his head. “I remember nothing more.”
“Don’t distress yourself,” Nefret said, patting his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
“The devil it doesn’t,” said Emerson. “Well, well. Of equal importance, sir, is the question of what you were doing at the inn. Were you coming to see us? And if so, for what reason?”
“You,” Panagopolous repeated. The lines across his brow were perfectly parallel, like those of a musical staff. In mounting excitement he went on, “For what reason? Why, to show you the scroll. To give it into your keeping. Is it safe? Is it secret? You must not let him have it!”
The news that no scroll had been found—blurted out by Emerson before I could stop him—brought the reverend to his feet in a fit of incoherent agitation. We put him back to bed and after Nefret had administered a sedative we returned to the parlor for a council of war.
“All is now made clear,” I said. “Someone was after the famous scroll, the manuscript that describes the location of the treasure. And he found it.”
“Clear as a foggy day,” said Emerson. “We have no proof that any such scroll exists. This may be a plot designed to convince us that Morley’s project is worth supporting.”
“Forgive me, sir, but that is rather far-fetched,” Nefret exclaimed. “His injury was genuine. Would he go to such an extreme to persuade you?”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, rubbing his chin.
“Neither have we proof that such a manuscript did not exist,” I said. “When the reverend is coherent again, we can ask him whether he has reason to suspect that any particular individuals wished to gain possession of the scroll.”
“It all depends on his word,” Emerson protested. “The word of a man who is not in full possession of his senses.”
“Not entirely,” I said. “Emerson, did you ever bother to look at that brochure Major Morley brought with him?”
“Why should I have done so? It was pure fiction.”
“What did you do with it?”
After excavating in the pile of papers on his desk, Emerson located the pamphlet. We perused it together. A good deal of it did sound like pure fiction—for instance, Morley’s grandiose claim that he knew the precise location, within ten feet, of the temple treasure.
“Why ten feet, I wonder?” I said.
“It is a good round random number,” said Emerson, with a curl of his lip. “He does not supply precise information.”
“One could hardly expect him to disclose the location,” I said fairly.
“You are leaning over backward to be reasonable, Peabody. Look at this photograph, which purports to be that of the notorious scroll. It looks to me like a large knockwurst which has been chewed by mice.”
“The photograph is somewhat unfocused,” I admitted.
“And here,” said Emerson, reading on, “are the comments of the so-called experts Morley mentioned. Do you recognize any of the names or organizations?”
“They all appear to be foreign. ‘Le Société Biblique, Marseilles…’”
“He made them up,” said Emerson. “They might impress possible donors who are unfamiliar with the field and who wouldn’t bother investigating them. Good Gad, the gullibility of the human race never ceases to astound me. Look at some of the names on this list of contributors. Hardheaded businessmen, some of them, who ought to know better.”
“When emotion supersedes reason, my dear, gullibility must follow. The subject is dear to the hearts of many true believers.”
“Bah,” said Emerson, dismissing the subject. “What are we going to do about Papapagopolous?”
“Our obvious course is to communicate with Major Morley. In my opinion we ought to have done so before this.”
At my suggestion we dispatched telegrams both to his flat in Mayfair and his club. Not until the next day did we receive a reply from the latter source. “Major Morley sailed on Tuesday last. Forwarding address, the Augusta Victoria Hospice, Jerusalem.”
Chapter Three
Pacing up and down the drawing room, waving the telegram, Emerson ranted and cursed until I interrupted his tirade with a timely reminder.
“Why should the War Office inform you of Morley’s departure? They would have no excuse for detaining him, and you had already informed them that he was not a German agent.”
“I had also informed them that I was prepared to follow the bastard to Palestine, sacrificing my own plans—”
“What plans? You didn’t have any.”
Emerson’s response was to snatch up his coat and dash out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Seconds later I heard the front door slam.
I knew where he was going—straight up to London by the first train—and why he had departed so precipitately—in order to prevent me from accompanying him. I could only hope that by the time he arrived he would have calmed down enough to be sensible.
I would not have wished to go in any case. Shouting at General Spencer would be a waste of time and breath, and I had too many other
things to think about.
We hadn’t heard a word from Ramses, though I had sent a series of letters to him and Reisner, each more emphatic than the last. I tried to tell myself that my son’s dilatory habits and the uncertain state of postal delivery in the region were probably responsible for his silence, but in my heart of hearts, doubt lingered. I knew my son only too well.
The reverend was an additional source of concern. What were we to do with him? He appeared to be quite happy to remain with us; when I asked, in my tactful fashion, if his family and friends might not be worrying about him, he had replied he had no family, few friends, and no plans whatsoever. I felt about him as I might feel about a friendly, dimwitted stray dog that had decided to move in with us. He could not be cast out onto the street, but he was shedding all over the furniture. (I speak metaphorically.) I found an ally in Nefret, who had taken him under her wing, as she might have done with any other stray.
We had been unable to settle on final plans for our forthcoming expedition (forthcoming, that is, unless Emerson infuriated the War Office into canceling its support altogether). I wanted to arrange for our men to meet us in Jaffa instead of “stopping off in Egypt to pick them up,” as Emerson had nonchalantly suggested. I had managed to persuade him that going out of our way to remove Ramses in person from the dig at Samaria would be an additional waste of time. He too could meet us in Jaffa. Emerson put up a stiff fight about that, since he had been looking forward to inspecting Reisner’s excavations and telling him what he had done wrong, but eventually I prevailed—as I generally do. I had taken the precaution of writing to Reisner myself, putting the matter as a request instead of an order, as Emerson would have done. I felt sure Reisner would oblige me, especially since the alternative would have been to have Emerson descend upon him.
Another little matter Emerson had blandly refused to discuss was the question of additional staff. What we lacked, in my opinion, was an individual acquainted with pottery. To an untrained eye there is nothing more boring than undecorated, broken pieces of pottery. I am inclined to share this view, since I have seen too many of the cursed things. Unlike most of his predecessors, who were primarily interested in impressive architectural features and attractive grave goods, Emerson considered that every scrap of material from a site had potential value and must be noted and preserved. When inscriptional material was lacking, the comparative development of pottery types was sometimes the only way a tomb or occupation level could be dated. I could not argue with this principle, but since I was generally the one in charge of sifting the debris and finding such fragments, my feelings about them were less than enthusiastic. I did not look forward to continuing that labor in an area where the pottery was likely to be even less interesting than in Egypt. However, my inquiries (made without Emerson’s knowledge) failed to locate a suitable person. Our staff, therefore, consisted of Nefret, David, and Ramses in addition to our two selves.
A River in the Sky Page 6
