Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

“Emerson,” I said. “Perhaps you had better leave the interrogation to me.”

Morley had recovered himself. “Interrogation? What right do you have to question me?”

I would have told him, but he hurried on, now flushed with anger instead of deathly pale. “Why would I want to harm Panagopolous? We had come to an amicable agreement, after a-er-slight misunderstanding.”

“Stemming,” I said, “from your attempt to cheat him of his share of the profits of this expedition. You took the scroll and left him penniless. Believing, as proved to be the case, that we would be following you to Palestine, he came to us with a cock-and-bull story. You did not attack him; you had already left the country. He inflicted the injury upon himself in order to win our sympathy. Once here, he blackmailed you into taking him back into partnership by threatening to expose the falsity of his famous scroll. He cheated you, and you cheated him. A pretty pair, I must say.”

If Morley had been flushed before, he was now reddish-purple as a beet. “The scroll is not a fake! It is genuine. It will lead me to the secret passage.”

“He speaks the truth,” Ali Bey said interestedly. “Or I am no judge of men.”

“He speaks what he believes is the truth,” I said. “Where is the scroll now, Major Morley?”

His eyes shifted. “I gave it back to Panagopolous. I have no idea what he did with it.”

“Hid it, I expect,” I said. “He didn’t trust you. With good reason.”

“I don’t have to put up with this,” Morley said loudly. “I didn’t kill the old fool and you cannot prove that I did. Now get out.”

“Shall I come with you?” Ali Bey asked Emerson hopefully.

“What about your errand here?”

“It can wait. I wish to observe the English police methods. You may need me if my subordinates are already there.”

“Good Gad!” Emerson shouted. He set out for the barrier at a dead run.

“Come if you like,” I said to the commandant. “We must hurry, Emerson is in one of his states. Major Morley, you have not seen the last of us.”

“What set the Professor off?” Nefret asked as we hastened away.

“He’s afraid someone will get at his precious discovery,” said Ramses, on my other side.

“Do you have any idea what it might be?” I asked.

“I wasn’t there,” Ramses reminded me.

Daoud, close behind us, had overheard. “Something caught his eye, Sitt Hakim, and he ordered us all out of the trench. He trusts no one but himself to deal with unusual objects.”

I suppose Emerson had counted on the usual delays that accompany any official action in Ottoman territory. He had not expected such a prompt reply from the authorities. I myself could only account for it by the fact that Panagopolous held a British passport. At any rate, when we arrived on the scene it was to see poor Plato’s body lying beside the open pit, surrounded by a group of policemen, who seemed to be arguing about what should be done next. From the depths of the trench came Emerson’s voice, raised in profane lamentation.

“Oh dear,” I said. “Ali Bey, will you be good enough to take charge of these people? Selim, what has happened to anger Emerson?”

Selim wiped his perspiring face. “I tried to stop them, Sitt Hakim, but they said they were from the police and they pushed me away, and then they went into the trench and dragged the body out, and-”

“Oh dear,” I said again.

The commandant had taken charge with a vengeance. One of the police persons lay on the ground, nursing a bloody head. Another was in full flight and the others had retreated to a safe distance.

Emerson’s head appeared. He was a dreadful sight, his face set in a hideous grimace and his black hair wildly askew. “Stop that man!” he bellowed, pointing at the fleeing police officer. “Stop them all! Search them to the skin! It is gone, someone has stolen it!”

WITH THE ENTHUSIASTIC ASSISTANCE of Ali Bey, I soon had the situation more or less under control. The uncontrollable part of the situation was Emerson. He insisted on searching each of the police officers, so thoroughly that I was forced to turn my back. The one who had fled had made good his escape.

“He’s got it!” Emerson shouted, and would have set out in futile pursuit had I not caught hold of him.

“In heaven’s name, Emerson, what has he got?”

“I would like to know that too,” said Ali Bey. “What have we been searching for? A clue to the identity of the murderer?”

“What?” Emerson stared at him. “No, no, nothing so insignificant.” He passed his hand over his brow, leaving a broad smear of dirt, and groaned aloud.

“An artifact of some sort,” I explained to the officer. “It is the only thing that sets Emerson off like this. But there is no use trying to get him to make sense just now. We have more imperative matters to settle. Selim, find someone to construct a coffin. He can’t be left lying here.”

“What shall we do with him, then?” Selim asked.

“Have him carried to our house,” I said.

As I had expected, this served to distract Emerson. “Now see here, Peabody-”

“What else can we do, Emerson?”

“Drop him off at Morley’s tent. You want to examine the body and look for clues and meddle in matters that ought not concern you.”

“I’m afraid they do concern us, Father,” Ramses said. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that one of us might be under suspicion?”

“Me?” Emerson inquired.

“Your antipathy toward him is well known. He was found in your excavation area.”

Ali Bey was listening with intent interest. “Motive and opportunity!” he exclaimed. “It is the British method.”

“Balderdash,” Emerson said.

“What does that mean?” the commandant asked.

“It means,” I explained, “that other people had even stronger motives for disposing of Panagopolous, and that the body may have been placed here in order to cast suspicion on Emerson. My husband, sir, does not carry a knife and his principles would not allow him to murder a helpless man.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Emerson, who-I was sorry to see-had begun to take a perverse pleasure in being a suspect. “Come up to the house with us and search for bloodstained garments. You can also examine my hands and arms for scratches.”

“You permit?”

“I insist. What is taking Selim so long?”

When Selim came back he was accompanied by Kamir and two fellows carrying planks of wood. The two set to work at once constructing a crude coffin while Kamir stood staring down at Plato’s body. He murmured something that might, or might not, have been a prayer and then said, “Who is he?”

“Don’t you recognize him?” I asked. “He was with us at the house the other day.”

“I did not see him there.” He turned away, as if the sight were distasteful.

The workmen finished nailing the coffin together and were persuaded, by the offer of extra baksheesh, to put the dead man into it. Upon the payment of additional baksheesh they agreed to carry the coffin up the hill to our house. Emerson handed over the money without arguing. His brow was furrowed in thought.

“My dear,” I said, for I believed he was brooding over his lost artifact, “shall we go?”

“Hmmm? Yes, certainly. Would there,” he asked pathetically, “be coffee, do you think?”

I MADE SURE THERE was coffee, enough for all of us, including Ali Bey. Selim and Daoud had been left at the excavation, with strict instructions to allow no one to approach it. We had some difficulty finding a place for the coffin, since none of the servants wanted it anywhere near them. At last we settled on one of the unoccupied rooms, the one I intended to be used as a study.