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.”
A River in the Sky Page 29