The Mummy Case (31 page)

John scratched his head. "Well, sir..."

"The young lady, I suppose. Give it up, John. You will never make headway there; she has given her heart to Brothers David and Ezekiel, and to Jesus—not necessarily in that order."

"Emerson, you are being rude," I said.

"I am never rude," Emerson said indignantly. "I am consoling John and assisting him to a better understanding. If he wishes to persist in his absurd attachment I won't stand in his way. Have I stood in his way? Have I prevented his wandering off to the mission half the evenings in the week? What do you do there, John?"

"Well, sir, we talk, sir. It is what Brother Ezekiel calls the hour of social intercourse."

Emerson's mouth widened into a grin. I coughed in a pointed manner; catching my eye, he refrained from comment, and John went on, "Brother Ezekiel speaks of his boyhood days. His mother, sir, must have been a regular saint. He can't tell how many switches she wore out on him—beating the devils out, you know, sir. I tell them about what's going on here—"

"You gossip about us?" Emerson demanded in awful tones.

"Oh, no, sir, I would never gossip about you and Mrs. Emerson. Only the little things that happen, and Master Ramses' adventures, like... Brother David explains Scripture and helps me with my reading."

"And what does Charity talk about?" I asked.

"She don't talk, madam, she sits and sews—shirts for the childern and for Brother Ezekiel."

"It sounds very dull," said Emerson.

"Well no, sir, I won't say dull; but it ain't exactly lively, if you understand me."

"Aha!" Emerson burst out laughing. "Amelia, I believe I detect the first crack in the devotional facade. There may be hope for the lad yet. John, you had better spend your evenings with Abdullah and the men, improving your Arabic. Their conversation is a good deal more lively."

"No, sir, I can't do that. To tell the truth, sir, I'm worried about the reverends. There ain't so many converts as there was. One of the childern threw a stone at Sister Charity t'other day. And there's been other things."

"Humph." Emerson stroked his chin. "You confirm my own fears, John. Something will have to be done about it. Well, my lad, I'm glad you unburdened yourself. Off to bed with you now; Mrs. Emerson and I will deal with the matter."

After John had gone, Emerson said complacently, "I knew he had something on his mind. You see, Amelia, a little tact, a little sympathy are all that is needed to win the confidence of an unassuming lad like John."

"Humph," I said. "What are you going to do, Emerson?"

"Steps must be taken," said Emerson, firmly but vaguely. "I do wish people would work out their own problems and not expect me to rescue them. No more, Amelia; I have work to do."

His pen began driving across the page. I picked up my pen; but instead of the scale drawing of the pottery fragments I was making, a vision intruded between my sight and the page—that of a painted woman's face with liquid dark eyes and a faint, enigmatic smile.

How could I concentrate on pots or even pyramids when an unsolved crime demanded my attention? The very perplexity of the problem held an unholy fascination; for I felt sure all the scraps of fact fit into a pattern, if I could only make it out. Mummy and mummy case, portrait panel and Twelfth Dynasty pectoral, murder, burglary, arson__All parts of a single underlying plot.

Before me on the table lay the lists Emerson had made of the contents of Abd el Atti's shop. I put out a cautious hand. Emerson did not look up. I drew the lists to me.

It came, not as a dazzling burst of mental illumination, but as a tiny pinhole of light. Slowly it widened, meeting another crack of understanding here, connecting with something else there....

The scratch of Emerson's pen stopped. I looked up to find him watching me. "At it again, Amelia?"

"I think I have it, Emerson. The clue is here." I held up the lists.

"One of the clues, Peabody."

"You have a new theory, Emerson?"

"More than a theory, my dear. I know who murdered Hamid and Abd el Atti."

"So do I, Emerson."

Emerson smiled. "I expected you would say that, Peabody. Well, well; shall we enter into another of those amiable competitions—sealed envelopes, to be opened after we have apprehended the killer?"

"My dear Emerson, there is no need of that. I would never doubt your word. A simple statement to the effect that you knew all along will suffice—accompanied, of course, by an explanation of how you arrived at the answer."

Emerson reflected, but the advantages of the arrangement were so obvious that he did not reflect long. A humorous twinkle brightened his blue eyes as he nodded agreement. "I can hardly do less than return the compliment. Your hand on it, my dear Peabody!"

I spoke no more and no less than the truth when I told Emerson I had discovered the identity of the murderer; however, in the privacy of these pages I will admit that a few of the details still eluded me. I was pondering how best to acquire the necessary information when an event occurred that gave me the chance I needed. I refer to the discovery of the entrance to our pyramid.

So bright was the flame of detective fever that that statement, which would ordinarily be adorned by several exclamation marks, is presented as a simple fact. I was not entirely unmoved, never believe that; the sight of the dark hole gaping in the ground roused a brief spurt of enthusiasm and only Emerson's strong arm, plucking me back, prevented me from entering at once.

After a brief examination he emerged covered with dust and gasping for breath. "It is in wretched condition, Peabody. Some of the stones lining the passageways have collapsed. They will have to be shored up before any of us goes farther in."

His eyes moved over the group of workmen, all of whom were as excited as he. One man bounced up and down on his toes, waving his arms. Mohammed was short and fat, with small, pudgy hands; but those hands had a delicacy of touch unequaled by any others in the group. He was a carpenter by trade, when he was not employed by us—the best possible man for the task that awaited us—and he knew it.

Emerson grinned companionably at him. "Be careful, Mohammed. There are some planks remaining from the construction of the donkey shed, I believe; start with those. I will go to the village and find more."

"You could send one of the men," I remarked, as we walked away, leaving Abdullah shouting orders.

"So I could," said Emerson agreeably.

"I will go with you."

"I rather thought you might, Peabody."

"And afterwards, a call on M. de Morgan?"

"We are as one, Peabody. A final roundup of our suspects, eh?"

"Suspects, Emerson? You said you knew the answer."

"Ah, but this is a complex matter, Peabody—a criminal conspiracy, no less. Several people may be involved."

"Quite true, Emerson."

Emerson grinned and gave me an affectionate pat on the back. "I also intend to have a word with the missionaries. I promised John I would__Just a moment, Peabody. Where is Ramses?"

He was, as Emerson had feared, in the thick of the group clustered around the entrance to the pyramid. Emerson took him aside. "You heard me warn Mohammed to be careful?"

"Yes, Papa. I was only—"

Emerson took him by the collar. "Mohammed is our most skilled carpenter," he said, emphasizing each word with a gentle shake. "The task will be dangerous, even for him. You are not under any circumstances to attempt to assist him or go one step into that or any other passageway. Is that clear, my boy?"

"Yes, Papa."

Emerson released his grip. "Will you come with us, Ramses?"

"No, Papa, I think not. I will just go and do a little digging. I will take Selim, of course."

"Don't go far."

"Oh, no, Papa."

I had not been in the village for several days. Outwardly it looked normal enough—the group of women gathered around the well filling the huge jars they carried with such apparent ease atop their heads, the men lounging in the shade, the stray dogs sprawled in the dust of the path. But the greetings were
strangely subdued, and none of the children accosted us with their perennial and pitiful demands for baksheesh.

Emerson went straight to the house of the priest. At first it appeared we would be refused entrance. The guard—one of the "deacons," as Emerson called them—insisted the priest was still praying. Then the door opened.

"You fail in courtesy to guests, my son," said the deep voice of the priest. "Bid them enter and honor my house."

When we had seated ourselves on the divan the priest asked how he could serve us. Emerson explained our need of wooden planks, and the priest nodded. "They shall be found. I hope your walls have not fallen down—your roof given way—your peace disturbed, in that ill-omened place?"

"It is the pyramid that has fallen down," Emerson replied. "We have had troubles at the monastery, to be sure, but they were not caused by demons; they were the work of evil men."

The priest shook his head sympathetically. I almost expected him to click his tongue.

"You did not know of these things?" Emerson persisted. "The breaking into my house, the attack on my son?"

"It is unfortunate," the priest said.

"'Unfortunate' is not the word. A man murdered, a fire at the mission—it seems, Father, that there have been too many 'unfortunate' happenings."

Even in the shadows where he sat I saw the flash of the priest's eyes. "Since the coming of the men of God. We had no trouble before they came."

"They did not set the fire," Emerson said. "They did not break into my house."

"You think my people did these things? I tell you, it is the men of God who are responsible. They must go. They cannot stay here."

"I know there has been provocation, Father," Emerson said. "I beg you—I warn you—do not let yourself be provoked."

"Do you take me for a fool?" the priest asked bitterly. "We are no more than slaves in this country, tolerated only so long
as we do nothing. If I lifted my hand against the men of God, I and all my people would die."

"That is true," I said.

The priest rose. "You come here and accuse me of violence and crime. I tell you again—look to the men of God for answers to your questions. Find out for yourself what kind of men they are. They must leave this place. Tell them."

We could not have been more firmly dismissed. Emerson bowed in silence, and I felt a certain... well, perhaps embarrassment is the proper word. For the first time I could see the priest's point of view. The strangers had moved into his town, told his people they were wrong, threatened his spiritual authority; and he had no recourse, for the strangers were protected by the government. A way of life centuries old was passing; and he was helpless to prevent it.

We walked away from the priest's house. Emerson said, "Perhaps we can persuade Brother Ezekiel to set up headquarters elsewhere."

"It will require superhuman tact to persuade him, Emerson. The slightest hint that he may be in danger will only make him more determined to stay."

"Tact, or a direct order from the Almighty." Emerson's face brightened. "I wonder..."

"Put it out of your head, Emerson. Your simple parlor magic may work with our people, but I do not believe you can deceive Brother Ezekiel into taking your voice for that of Another."

The mission was a scene of utter tranquillity. School was in session. The drone of voices came through the open windows like the buzz of bees on a lazy summer afternoon. The shadows of palm and tamarisk lay cool upon the ground; and in a shady corner a sewing class was in progress. The little girls sat with their bare feet modestly tucked under their somber robes and their shining black heads bent over their work. Perched on the block that had served Emerson as a seat, Charity was reading aloud from the Arabic translation of the New Testament. Her gown was of the same dark print she always wore, and perspiration sparkled on her face, but for once she was without the hideous bonnet. Her pronunciation was poor; but her voice was soft and sweet, and the beautiful old story took on added charm because she read it with such feeling. '"And Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me; for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.'""

I felt as if I were seeing the other side of the argument the priest had presented so eloquently. Brother Ezekiel was the most irritating man in the world and, in my opinion, wholly unfit for the profession he had embraced; but the missionaries were performing a worthwhile task, particularly with the ignorant and ignored little girls. Coptic women were no better off than their Muslim sisters. If the missionaries did nothing else, they might be the salvation of the women of Egypt.

I think even Emerson was moved, though one would not have known it from his expression. Few people see Emerson's softer side; in fact, some people deny that he has one.

It was not the time for sentiment, however. I repressed my emotions and Emerson said in a low voice, "We are in luck. Here's our chance to talk to the girl alone."

I cleared my throat loudly. There was a serpent in the little Paradise after all; the harmless sound made Charity start violently and look around with fear writ large upon her face. I stepped out from the shadow of the trees. "It is only I, Miss Charity. And Professor Emerson with me. Resume your seat, I beg, and let us have a little chat."

She sank down upon the stone from which she had risen in her alarm. "You may go home now, girls," I said. "Class is over."

One of the youngsters began the old cry of baksheesh, but cut it off after glancing at Charity. I took a seat beside the girl. "I apologize for startling you," I said.

Emerson made an impatient gesture. "We are wasting time, Peabody. Heaven knows how soon we will be interrupted. What are you afraid of, child?"

He knelt beside her. I expected she would flinch away, but something in the stern face so near her own seemed to give her
courage. She even smiled faintly. "I was absorbed in that wonderful story, Professor. I was not expecting anyone—"

"Bah!" Emerson exclaimed. "Doesn't your creed tell you that lying is a sin, Miss Charity?"

"It was the truth, sir."