Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

It was this last threat-which propriety prevents me from recording-that carried the greatest conviction. A chorus of protestations arose, and as Emerson waved his arms in mystic gestures, some of the men retreated to a safe distance.

I handed Emerson the last piece of cheese, plucking it out from under Plato’s hand. “Well done, my dear. Have we finished here? Obviously you cannot begin work today.”

“No,” Emerson admitted reluctantly. “We haven’t the necessary tools or the cameras, or…Camden, did Petrie teach you anything about opening a new site? How would you begin here?”

“Well, uh…As you said, sir, photographs…Laying out a grid…” He looked helplessly at the unprepossessing slope. “This isn’t at all like an ordinary tell.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, rubbing his chin. “Very well, that will be all for today. We won’t begin here for several days. How can we reach you?”

“I am at the King David Hotel, sir. Good day to you all.”

And off he went, at a pace that suggested he was relieved to have been relieved.

“He may know a great deal about pottery, Emerson,” I said, interpreting Emerson’s frown.

“He doesn’t seem to know much else, Peabody. What I wouldn’t give to have…” He broke off with a catch of breath. “Well, well. Let us see what we can do with Morley.”

We retraced our steps, back toward the pool and the area guarded by Morley’s men. I decided to improve Emerson’s state of mind by giving him a chance to lecture. He always enjoys that.

“I confess, Emerson, that I am somewhat confused about what Mr. Morley is doing. Is it Warren’s shaft he is exploring?”

Emerson took my arm and said in a pleased voice, “I don’t wonder that you find the situation confusing, my dear. This area is a warren of tunnels and sewers and cisterns, some ancient, some modern. In ancient times two passages were dug to ensure that a source of water would be available to the city in case of siege. The first, constructed by the Jebusites, was a shaft from inside the walls down to a point where jugs could be lowered into a pool below. That’s the one your friend Joab”-he jerked a thumb back at Plato-“is supposed to have used to lead the forces of David into Jerusalem. There is, of course, no evidence what ever for this. Eh, Joab?”

“It was a hard climb,” Plato droned. “The stone was slippery with damp and some fell, down, down into the pool.”

“At any rate,” said Emerson, “the next water tunnel was constructed by Hezekiah on the eve of the Assyrian attack.” He gave me a challenging look, which dared me to remind him that he had denied the historicity of the entire Old Testament. There was no denying this fact; the inscription found in the tunnel had been dated to that period.

“It ran,” Emerson went on, “from the Gihon spring to the present pool of Siloam and is still extant today.” He whirled on Plato, so abruptly that the latter let out a little scream. “Is that the tunnel referred to in your famous scroll?”

“I believe so.”

“Don’t you know?”

Plato raised his eyes to heaven. “It has been many centuries since I led the Israelites into the city. Since then Assyrians and Babylonians, Greeks and Romans-”

“Never mind the rest of them,” Emerson growled. “Confound it! That bastard Morley has gone on with his excavation despite my warning.”

We had reached the barricades, which were guarded by a few men in uniform. Some little distance beyond we could see a line of men carrying heavy baskets. They were stripped of most of their clothing and so coated with grayish dust, they resembled ambulatory mummies.

“They have been working underground,” said Emerson. “The tunnel must be badly silted up. Here, you-where is the Englishman?”

The man addressed had obviously been told about Emerson. He lowered the barrier and stepped back, gesturing. We found Morley seated under a shelter of canvas that resembled a tent whose sides have been raised. He was not at luncheon. He was taking tea. Seated next to him at the table was a woman whose fair hair was confined by a scarf of emerald-green silk and whose costume was an interesting mixture of East and West-tailored trousers and leather boots partially covered by a flowing silken tunic that matched the scarf.

“Typical,” Emerson muttered. “Dallying with a woman instead of supervising his workmen.”

She did not look the sort of woman with whom a man dallies. Her attire was exotic but not provocative; her features were strong, and her pale blue eyes studied me with steady self-assurance.

“Will you join-” Morley began.

“No,” said Emerson. “Devil take it, Morley, I told you not to go on with your work without a professional supervisor.”

“I have complied with your demand, Professor, though I still question your right to make it.” Morley’s cheeks rounded in a smug smile. “May I present my professional colleague, Frau Hilda von Eine, a noted excavator of Hittite and Babylonian ruins.”

Morley could not have planned his strategy better. Not only had he acquired a professional archaeologist, but that professional was a female. Emerson enjoys intimidating other men, but the chivalrous part of his nature makes it virtually impossible for him to bully a woman. This can be a cursed inconvenience at times. However, I am perfectly capable of dealing with it.

Seeing that Emerson was taken aback (quite understandably) by Morley’s announcement, I stepped into the breach.

“How do you do,” I said, offering the lady my hand. “I am Mrs. Amelia P. Emerson.”

“You are unmistakable, Mrs. Emerson” was the reply, in a soft gentle voice. “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

I went on to present my companions, beginning, as was proper, with Nefret. The lady-properly-acknowledged each with a smile and an inclination of her head. Reminded of his manners, Morley rose belatedly to his feet. Reminded of his manners, Emerson confined his response to a wordless mumble.

“How long have you been in Jerusalem, Frau von…” I began.

The lady took my catch of breath for a failure of memory and courteously repeated her name.

“Yes, of course,” I said, recovering myself with my customary aplomb. “Something caught in my throat. Hem. Well, we must not keep you from your tea. I hope you will do us the honor of calling on us one day.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” Frau von Eine suggested.

Nefret, who had not spoken a word until then, said, “Unfortunately, we are leaving Jerusalem tomorrow and may be gone for several days.”

It was too late to poke her with my parasol.

“Are you considering another site, then?” the lady asked. “Tell el Nasbeh and Jericho, for instance, have great possibilities.”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” I said. “I look forward to a meeting at a later time. Good day to you. Good day, Mr. Morley.”

Nefret was the first to turn away, followed by Selim and Daoud. Still staggered by the realization that had struck me, I did not notice at first that Plato had disappeared again. Interrogation produced the information that he had informed Nefret he intended to remain with Morley for a short time; she had seen no reason to forbid it.

“No reason!” I burst out.

“We cannot keep him a virtual prisoner indefinitely,” Nefret said. “What harm can he do us, after all? You weren’t proposing to take him with us tomorrow, were you?”

“Speaking of that,” I began.

“I hope you don’t mean to go back on your word,” Nefret said, fixing me with an icy blue stare.

“Just a bloody minute,” exclaimed Emerson, coming to a dead stop. “Why did you drag me away, Peabody? I had a number of questions to ask that bastard, and-er-the lady.”