Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

“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.”

Nefret’s jaw was set at an angle I was more accustomed to see from Emerson. “Are you actually suggesting I purchase a husband for her? I cannot believe you mean it.”

“It is the only thing you can do for her,” I said sadly but firmly, “and probably the thing she would choose for herself. Don’t let your kind heart and romantic notions overcome your common sense. You cannot snatch her away from her home and her people and try to turn her into someone other than who she is. In time, let us hope, her daughter or granddaughter or great-granddaughter will have other choices.”

“Let us hope.” Nefret turned her head away for a moment. “It is such a sweet baby.”

“A very sweet baby.”

“I will interview the candidates personally.”

“You might give Ghada a voice in the decision too,” I suggested.

Nefret gave me a watery smile and a hearty hug. “You are always right, Aunt Amelia.”

I DID NOT NEED to make a new list of “Things to Be Done.” All the pressing issues on the original list had been dealt with, except for two. I decided to confront the least difficult first.

I had determined that Frau von Eine was staying at the Grand Hotel, the best in Jerusalem. The effrontery of the woman was amazing! Her plot had been thwarted, her influence ended. It must be pure arrogance that kept her here. In fact, we would have had a difficult time proving she was guilty of a crime. The Turkish authorities would never have arrested a prominent citizen of a nation whose influence with the Sublime Porte was so high.

I sent up my card and received an immediate response. A veiled servant opened the door and was dismissed with a wave of Frau von Eine’s hand.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Emerson. I will order tea.”

“No, thank you, I prefer to stand. I will not keep you long.”

“Have you come to revel in your triumph?”

In fact, I had, but it was an unworthy motive, one I preferred not to admit. “Only to settle a few details,” I said.

“It is only a temporary triumph, you know. This particular strategy failed, but I have laid the groundwork for a movement that will win in the end.” Her chin lifted proudly and her pale eyes glittered. “I work for my country, Mrs. Emerson, as you do for yours. The Ottoman Empire will crumble, it is rotten to the core. And when it does it will be replaced by a firm yet benevolent government that will give these poor people the security they deserve.”

“They don’t want it, not from another occupying power,” I said in some exasperation. “They want independence and the right to make their own mistakes instead of suffering from the mistakes of others. Good Gad, you are as bad as the British imperialists like Mr. Hogarth.”

“We will never agree on that, Mrs. Emerson.”