Emerson wrinkled his nose. “Carbolic,” he said resignedly. “Well, well, I ought to have expected it. Isn’t it teatime?”
“I have not had time to instruct our new cook on the proper procedure,” I said gently. “You must expect a few minor inconveniences at first.”
“Perhaps a drop of whiskey instead?” Ramses suggested. He started to rise. Emerson pressed him back into his chair.
“No, no, my boy, you must rest. How do you feel?”
“Much better, sir, thank you.”
“That mysterious herb is amazingly effective,” Nefret said. Perched on a low stool, clasped hands round her bent knees, she looked very pretty, despite—or perhaps because of—the smudges that marked her nose and chin and the loosened locks of hair curling over her brow. “I must find out what it is.”
Following my directions, Emerson had finally located the whiskey and glasses, which were standing in plain sight on the table under the window. “Your best chance of doing so,” he said, handing me a glass, “would seem to lie with the Sons of Abraham.”
“I would like to know a great deal more about that organization,” I said. “They came to Ramses and David’s aid on several occasions, and yet their leader went off leaving Mansur alive and capable of doing both of you an injury.”
“They expected you would kill him,” Selim suggested, in a tone that indicated he would have expected the same thing.
Ramses shook his head. “I don’t think so. I had delivered a rather pompous speech about murdering an unarmed prisoner, and Ismail knew I meant it.”
“Well, we know the identity of one of the group,” I said. “Rabbi Ben Ezra.”
Emerson turned. “We know two. Our landlord. Has he been round today, Peabody? No? Nor did he turn up at the site of my excavation. Odd, isn’t it, considering how ubiquitous he was at first.”
The other servant came in and began to lay the table, as I had taught her. She did quite well, except for mixing up the forks and spoons and forgetting the napkins. I corrected her in a kindly manner and she scuttled out.
“We will pursue that inquiry tomorrow,” I said, suppressing a yawn. “I believe dinner is almost ready. While we eat, you can tell us what you discovered today, Emerson.”
“I believe we are on the track of something interesting,” said Emerson, as the servant returned with baskets of bread and a steaming pot. “Ah—that smells good.” He nodded amiably at the woman, who drew her veil tightly across her face and backed out.
“As I was saying,” Emerson went on, “we managed to get a grid laid out—”
“I am very happy for you,” I said, ladling out the stew. “But when I mentioned a discovery, I was referring to our primary reason for being here. What is Major Morley doing? Was Frau von Eine with him? Did you see anything of Mr. Plato? You had better let the food cool a bit, Emerson, you will burn your tongue.”
He had already done so. “Try a sip of water,” I said, over his mumbled swearwords. “Nefret made sure it was boiled. Now, you were about to tell us about Major Morley.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well, in a nutshell, Morley never appeared. He’s there, the guards admitted as much, but insisted he was deep down in his damned tunnel and couldn’t be disturbed.”
“How do you know he never appeared if you spent most of the day at your dig?” I inquired.
Emerson took a cautious bite and chewed. He looked at me, at Nefret, at Ramses, and at Mr. Camden, who looked off into space.
“You sent him to watch Morley,” I said. “Well, that makes sense. We have had enough nonsensical secrecy, Emerson. If the rest of you do not know Mr. Camden is really Mr. Tushingham and a British agent, it is high time you did.”
“Who?” said Emerson.
“Speaking of secrecy,” Ramses said, fixing me with a hard stare, “you told me this morning that Macomber’s death had been reported, but refused to say how. Am I to assume that Camden here was the means?”
“I had not yet determined that it was necessary for you to know that,” I explained.
“And now you have? May I ask why?”
His tone was decidedly critical. Since I could not explain what had prompted my change of mind—it had to do with my infallible instincts—I ignored the questions.
“The Sons of Abraham will have to wait,” I said. “Mr. Tushingham, please make your report.”
“Who?” said Emerson, looking round.
“Camden,” I said with a sigh. “Emerson, please pay attention.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Camden, as I must continue to call him. “Well, after the Professor left me I hung about for several hours, mingling with the pilgrims and the water carriers. Once I tried to pass the guards, claiming I was a friend of Morley’s, but I was summarily dismissed. So I retreated into a clump of cacti and squatted there with my binoculars fixed on the entrance to the excavation. At around noontime Morley appeared, covered with dust and looking, I thought, disgruntled. A few minutes later Frau von Eine showed up, on horseback, and joined him for luncheon. I would have given a great deal to have heard what they were saying, but there was no way I could get closer without being discovered. She did most of the talking. After luncheon she remounted and rode off, and Morley went back into the shaft.”
“So much for her supervision,” Emerson exclaimed. “It was a token gesture, to keep me away.”
“Never mind that now, Emerson,” I said. “You saw no sign of Mansur?”
“Not unless he was one of the workmen. They were indistinguishable, all half naked and smeared with dirt. I never set eyes on the fellow, you know.”
“What about Mr. Plato? You are familiar with his appearance, and I cannot imagine he would consent to hard manual labor.”
“He’d have been first at the luncheon table,” Emerson agreed.
“Well, he wasn’t. He can’t have been at the site or I would have spotted him sooner or later.”
“I wonder what has become of him,” I mused. “Mr. Fazah told me he left the hotel yesterday morning, with his luggage.”
“Which we supplied,” Emerson growled. “I doubt we’ve seen the last of him. Mark my words, he’ll turn up before long.”
He did turn up. But not in the way any of us expected.
“THE SERVANTS SEEM TO BE working out well,” I said at breakfast. “How is your coffee, Emerson?”
“Not bad,” grunted Emerson, who was still on his first cup.
“Quite good,” said Nefret, with an encouraging smile at the house maid. “Tell the cook, Safika.”
Both female servants were in mortal terror of Emerson, whose reputation had preceded him (via Kamir) and whose gestures of friendliness only alarmed them. But they had fallen in love with Nefret, who had taken the trouble to learn their names and compliment them on every achievement. Safika’s eyes narrowed in a smile. The eyes were all we could see of her face, for of course she remained veiled when the men were present. She murmured something to Nefret, who rose at once.
“Ghada is here with our washing, Aunt Amelia. She wants us to inspect it to be sure it is satisfactory.”
Rising in my turn, I said approvingly, “She certainly is prompt. I gave her quite a large load only yesterday.”
The girl was waiting for us in Nefret’s bedchamber. She had spread the laundry out across the bed—shirts, undergarments, nightgowns, and so on.
“Where is your little girl?” Nefret asked in Arabic.
“I did not know…” The big brown eyes were worried.
“That I meant what I said? I did. Bring her next time. Now you must get back quickly. Wait a moment, I will get your money.”
She ran back into the sitting room. The girl said anxiously, “Is it right, Sitt Hakim?”
The garments had been scrubbed until they were in danger of fraying, and everything had been ironed, including Emerson’s stockings. “Very good,” I said. “Very, very good.”
Nefret popped in and began counting out coins into the girl’s outstretched hand
. They were of different sizes and values, for as I believe I have said, the currency in the Ottoman territories was not standardized; from Ghada’s reaction it was clear that Nefret hadn’t bothered to add them up.
“You give me too much,” she protested.
That was a complaint one seldom heard in this part of the world. I shook my head and Nefret said, “No. You must have worked very hard. Now go back to your baby.”
“Come tomorrow,” I added. “I will have more washing.”
“And bring the baby,” said Nefret.
Emerson was on his feet and fidgeting when we returned to the breakfast table. “Time we were off,” he announced.
Mr. Camden immediately leaped up, leaving his plate half full. I gestured to him to resume his seat, and informed Emerson that most of us had not finished eating.
“Where are we going?” Ramses asked.
“To my excavation, of course,” his father replied. “I want you to—”
“You are not going anywhere until you have eaten every scrap of your breakfast,” I said to Ramses.
“The fever is gone,” Ramses protested. “I want to see what Father—”
“You are as thin as a rail. I must fatten you up before Fatima sets eyes on you. You know how she is.”
“I am never fat enough for Fatima,” said Ramses resignedly. But he shoveled the rest of his eggs into his mouth and bit into a piece of bread.
I had a little discussion with Emerson before we left the house. He was determined to show off his cursed excavation and I was determined to continue my investigation of Major Morley. In the end I graciously agreed to a compromise. As Emerson pointed out, we stood a better chance of catching Morley when he sat down to his luncheon. There would be time for a quick visit to the excavation first.
We proceeded on our way. Emerson forged ahead, holding Ramses by the arm and talking animatedly. Mr. Camden walked with me.
“Your husband does not appear too concerned about his son,” said Mr. Camden. “I mean no disrespect,” he added quickly.
“Oh, that is just Emerson’s way. He hasn’t the slightest doubt that he can protect Ramses from any possible threat. Which reminds me that I meant to ask whether you agree with me that that threat may be exaggerated. Surely now that Ramses has reported Macomber’s murder, Mansur no longer has any reason to silence him.”
“I would not venture an opinion, Mrs. Emerson.” He looked so grave, I continued to press him.
“But you don’t agree with me?”
He hesitated for a moment and then said, “There was a reference, if you recall, to a mission that had to be completed before Mansur and von Eine left Palestine. She is still here. What conclusions may we draw from that?”
At the bottom of the hill Emerson led the way through patches of prickly pears and a few sickly-looking olive trees, till we saw the roped-off enclosure where he had been digging. Cords had been stretched across an area approximately twenty feet square—the grid he had laid out the day before. In one of the squares thus formed, several planks covered a space some ten feet by five.
“What is that?” I inquired of Emerson.
He turned a beaming face toward me. “The interesting discovery I mentioned. Just wait till you see, Peabody! I covered it as a precaution against…Hell and damnation!”
I clapped my hands to my ears. “Good heavens, Emerson, what is the matter?”
“Someone has been here. See, one of the ropes has been retied so hastily that the knot is loose.” He turned like a tiger on the inevitable assemblage of onlookers. “Which of you dared brave the curse I laid on this place?”
Before the echoes of his voice died the audience had fled. Shouting anathemas, Emerson ducked under the enclosing rope and ran to the boarded-over square. Removing the planks, he looked down. I alone of the watchers beheld the stiffening of his powerful frame.
“Stay back,” he said very quietly. “All of you.”
Assuming that this order did not apply to me, I went to his side.
The space below was only a few feet deep, its sides meticulously straight. It was just the right shape for the purpose to which someone had put it.
I am hardened to death in many forms. I had seen worse. He lay on his back, his hands folded and his eyes closed. He might have been sleeping had it not been for the stain, now dark and hardened, that had dyed his white beard a rusty brown.
Emerson put his arm round my waist. “I told you to stay back.”
“I am hardened to death, Emerson. I have seen worse. We must determine how he died.”
“I believe it is safe to say it was not a heart attack,” said Emerson, tightening his grip. “You aren’t going to determine anything, Peabody. Nor you,” he added, as Nefret came to his side.
“Not here, at any rate,” Nefret said quietly. “Who could have done this? He was so harmless. I rather liked him.”
“I didn’t,” said Emerson. “And at this moment we cannot be at all certain he was incapable of doing harm. However, I object to murder on principle. Camden, go and notify the authorities. He held British papers, so the consul should be told of this.”
Mr. Camden ran off and Emerson replaced the planks over the hole. “Selim, stay here and keep everyone away. The rest of you, come with me.”
“And what are you going to do?” I inquired.
“Interrogate the principal suspect. I’ll have him out of that hole if I have to go down and drag him out.”
We retraced our steps in some haste. “It’s Major Morley Father suspects, isn’t it?” Ramses asked. “Why? Is—was, I should say—the victim that fellow Plato you told me about?”
“That is right, you never met him,” I said. “Yes, that is—was—he.”
“But why Morley?” Ramses persisted. “From the look of it, the fellow’s throat was cut. Morley wouldn’t dirty his aristocratic hands, would he?”
“He would hire someone to do the job,” I said thoughtfully. “Perhaps your friend Mansur? We still don’t know precisely how they are connected.”
“If they are,” said Ramses, who then relapsed into silence.
I had not been near Morley’s excavation for some days. There had been significant changes. Several tents, one large and ornate, now occupied the space beyond the barrier. I wondered why neither Emerson nor Mr. Camden had seen fit to mention this. Or rather, I did not wonder. They were both men. They wouldn’t have realized that Morley would not have abandoned his elegant hotel for a tent, however large, without good reason. The obvious explanation was that he had to be on the scene day and night because he was running short of time. Time to do what? Reach the location Plato had designated as the hiding place of the Ark? That would not be as simple as it sounded. According to Emerson and other authorities, the underground regions were a maze of abandoned cisterns, tunnels old and new, deep shafts and ancient burial caves. More than ever I was determined to get into those regions and explore them for myself.
I did not mention this to Ramses.
When we joined Emerson he was talking with one of the guards at the barrier. The fellow was someone I had not seen before, an imposing figure almost as tall and burly as Emerson, distinguished by a black patch over one eye. As we came up to them Emerson turned to me and said, with a deference I had yet to see him display to a Turkish guard, “My dear, may I present Ali Bey Jarrah, the commandant of the Turkish gendarmerie.”
“And this, of course, is Mrs. Emerson.” Ali Bey made me a polite bow, which I acknowledged with a nod and a smile. His English was excellent, his voice a reverberant baritone, his smile displaying several broken teeth.
Emerson went on to introduce the others. Nefret received an admiring glance, Ramses a courteous acknowledgment, and Daoud an appraising look. I had a feeling that that one eye had measured us and memorized us.
“Ali Bey is also in search of Major Morley,” Emerson explained. “I was asking him to do us the favor of postponing his errand in favor of the sudden emergency that has arisen. As I told you,
sir, the body is that of a European, a colleague of Major Morley. I have sent someone to report the discovery, but it is absolutely necessary that I inform Morley at once. I want you to come with me and observe his reaction.”
“Ah.” Ali Bey’s one visible eye lit up. “It is the British police method? You will question him cleverly and determine whether he is the killer?”
“Aywa, yes,” said Emerson. “With your help.”
“It is well known that the Father of Curses and his lady have brought many criminals to justice. Come, follow me.”
“Daoud has been talking again,” Emerson said to me. “I really must stop him from spreading those wild stories.”
I thought he looked rather pleased, though.
“Were you formerly acquainted with the commandant?” I asked. “You seem to be on excellent terms with him.”
“I was not, but I had heard a great deal about him. He lost his eye during a riot at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre when he stepped between an ax-wielding Greek monk and the Franciscan who was the holy man’s intended victim.”
I could think of nothing to say to this. So I said nothing.
The commandant led the way to an area some distance behind the tents. The scene reminded me of Doré or some other painter of horrors. A group of half-naked men were gathered around a primitive pulley standing over a black hole in the ground. Grunting and straining, one of the men hauled on a rope stretching down into the hole and brought up a heavy basket, which he unhooked and carried away. Another man took his place; another basket was pulled up and taken off to a dump nearby.
A brusque order from Ali Bey brought the work to a stop. “Where is the Mudir?” he asked.
“Down there.” One of the workmen gestured.
Before I could stop him, Emerson caught hold of the rope and went down hand over hand.
A River in the Sky Page 26