The Mummy Case (8 page)

"I don't see why," said Emerson, with the air of a man who has determined to be disagreeable. "The personal activities of others, scholars or not, are exceedingly dull. And the professional activities of most of the archaeologists of my acquaintance are not worth talking about."

I tried to turn the conversation by a courteous inquiry after Mrs. Wilberforce. I had, of course, included that lady in my invitation, but she had been forced to decline. She was always
forced to decline. She appears to have been a rather sickly person.

My tactful efforts were unavailing, however. The Reverend Sayce, who had been needled by Emerson on only too many occasions, was not Christian enough to forgo a chance at revenge. "Speaking of professional activities," he said, "I understand our friend de Morgan has great hopes for his excavations at Dahshoor. Where is it that you will be working this season, Professor?"

Seeing by Emerson's expression that he was about to launch into a diatribe against de Morgan, I kicked him under the table. His expression changed to one of extreme anguish and he let out a cry of pain. "Mazghunah," I said, before Emerson could collect himself. "We are excavating at Mazghunah this season. The pyramids, you know."

"Pyramids?" Wilberforce was too courteous to contradict a lady, but he looked doubtful. "1 confess I don't know the site, but I did think I was familiar with all the known pyramids."

"These," I said, "are unknown pyramids."

Conversation then became general. It was not until we had retired to the lounge for brandy and cigars (in the case of the gentlemen) that I produced my scrap of papyrus and handed it to the reverend.

"I procured this today from one of the antiquities dealers. Since you are the biblical authority among us, I thought you might make more of it than I have been able to do."

The reverend's deep-set eyes lit with the flame of inquiry. Adjusting his spectacles, he examined the writing, saying as he did so, "I am no authority on Coptic, Mrs. Emerson. I expect this is probably..." His voice trailed off as he bent his full attention to the text, and Wilberforce remarked, smiling, "I am surprised at you, Mrs. Amelia. I thought you and your husband refused to buy from dealers."

"I do refuse," said Emerson, his nose in the air. "Unfortunately, my wife's principles are more elastic than mine."

"We are looking for papyri for Walter," I explained.

"Ah, yes—Professor Emerson the younger. One of the finest students of the language. But I'm afraid you will find the competition keen, Mrs. Amelia. With so many of the younger men studying Egyptian, everyone wants new texts."

"Including yourself?" I asked, with a keen look at Mr. Wilberforce.

"To be sure. But," the American said, his eyes twinkling, "I'll play fair and square, ma'am. If you find something worthwhile, I won't try to steal it."

"Which is more than can be said for some of our associates," grumbled Emerson. "If you happen to meet Wallis Budge, tell him I carry a stout stick and will use it on anyone who tries to make off with my property."

I did not hear Mr. Wilberforce's reply. My attention was caught by two people who had just entered the lounge.

The young man had turned his head to address his companion. The profile thus displayed was pure Greek, with the spare and exquisite modeling of a fifth-century Apollo or Hermes. His hair, brushed back from his high, classical brow, shone like electrum, the blend of silver and gold used by the Egyptians in their most priceless ornaments. The extreme pallor of his skin— which led me to deduce that he had not been long in the sunny clime of Egypt—added to the impression of a carving in alabaster. Then he smiled, in response to some comment of his companion, and a remarkable transformation took place. Benevolence beamed from every aspect of his countenance. The marble statue came alive.

The lady with him... was no lady. Her gown of deep-purple satin in the latest and most extravagant style suggested not the world of fashion but the demi-monde. It was trimmed with sable and beads, ruffles and lace, bows, puffs and plumes, yet it managed to bare an improper amount of plump white bosom. Gems blazed from every part of her portly person, and cosmetics covered every square centimeter of her face. If the gentleman
was a classic marble carving, his companion was a blowsy, painted carnival statue.

Emerson jogged my elbow. "What are you gaping at, Amelia? Mr. Wilberforce asked you a question."

"I beg your pardon," I said. "I confess I was staring at that extremely handsome young man."

"You and every other lady in the room," said Mr. Wilberforce. "It is a remarkable face, is it not? I was reminded when I first met him of the young horsemen on the Parthenon frieze."

The pair came toward us, the female clinging to her companion's arm, and I saw with a shock that the Greek hero wore a clerical collar. "A clergyman," I exclaimed.

"That accounts for the fascination of the ladies," said Emerson with a curling lip. "All weak-minded females dote on weedy curates. One of your colleagues, Sayce?"

The reverend looked up. A frown wrinkled his brow. "No," he said, rather curtly.

"He is an American," Wilberforce explained. "A member of one of those curious sects that proliferate in my great country. I believe they call themselves the Brethren of the Holy Jerusalem."

"And the—er—lady?" I inquired.

"I cannot imagine why you are interested in these persons," Emerson grumbled. "If there is anything more tedious than a pious hypocrite of a preacher, it is an empty-headed fashionable woman. I am thankful I have nothing to do with such people."

It was Mr. Wilberforce to whom I had addressed my inquiry, and as I expected he was able to satisfy my curiosity. "She is the Baroness von Hohensteinbauergrunewald. A Bavarian family, related to the Wittelsbachs, and almost as wealthy as that royal house."

"Ha," Emerson cried. "The young man is a fortune hunter. I knew it. A weedy, sanctimonious fortune hunter."

"Oh, do be quiet, Emerson," I said. "Are they engaged? She seems very friendly with the young man."

"I hardly think so," said Wilberforce, smothering a smile. "The baroness is a widow, but the disparity of their ages, to mention only one incongruity... And to call the young man a fortune hunter is unjust. All who know him speak of him with the greatest respect."

"I don't want to know him, or talk about him," said Emerson. "Well, Sayce, what do you make of Mrs. Emerson's fragment?"

"It is a difficult text," Sayce said slowly. "I can read the proper names—they are Greek—"

"Didymus Thomas," I said.

"I congratulate you on your understanding, Mrs. Emerson. I am sure you also noted this ligature, which is the abbreviation for the name of Jesus."

I smiled modestly. Emerson snorted. "A biblical text? That's all the Copts ever wrote, curse them—copies of Scripture and boring lies about the saints. Who was Didymus Thomas?"

"The apostle, one presumes," said the reverend.

"Doubting Thomas?" Emerson grinned. "The only apostle with an ounce of sense. I always liked old Thomas."

Sayce frowned. '"Blessed are they who have not seen and who have believed,'" he quoted.

"Well, what else could the man say?" Emerson demanded. "I admit he knew how to turn a phrase—if he ever existed, which is questionable."

Sayce's wispy goatee quivered with outrage. "If that is your view, Professor, this scrap can be of little interest to you."

"Not at all." Emerson plucked it from the reverend's hand. "I shall keep it as a memento of my favorite apostle. Really, Sayce, you are no better than the other bandits in my profession, trying to steal my discoveries."

Mr. Wilberforce loudly announced that it was time to go. Emerson continued to talk, expressing a series of opinions calculated to infuriate the Reverend Sayce. They ranged from his doubts as to the historicity of Christ to his poor opinion of Christian missionaries. "The effrontery of the villains," he exclaimed, referring to the latter. "What business have they forcing their narrow-minded prejudices on Muslims? In its pure form the faith of Islam is as good as any other religion—which is to say, not very good, but..."

Wilberforce finally drew his affronted friend away, but not before the reverend got off a final shot. "I wish you luck with your 'pyramids,' Professor. And I am sure you will enjoy your neighbors at Mazghunah."

"What do you suppose he meant by that?" Emerson demanded as the two walked off, Wilberforce's tall form towering over that of his slighter friend.

"We will find out in due course, I suppose."

Those were my precise words. I recall them well. Had I but known under what hideous circumstances they would recur to me, like the slow tolling of a funeral bell, a premonitory shudder would have rippled through my limbs. But it did not.

After looking in on Ramses and finding him wrapped in innocent slumber, with the cat asleep at his feet, Emerson proposed that we seek our own couch.

"Have you forgotten our assignation?" I inquired.

"I hoped that you had," Emerson replied. "Abd el Atti is not expecting us, Amelia. He only said that to get rid of you."

"Nonsense, Emerson. When the muezzin calls from the minaret at midnight—"

"He will do no such thing. You ought to know better, Amelia. There is no midnight call to prayer. Daybreak, midday, mid-afternoon, sunset and nightfall—those are the prescribed times of
salah
for faithful Muslims."

He was quite correct. I cannot imagine why the fact had slipped my mind. Rallying from my momentary chagrin, I said, "But surely I have sometimes heard a muezzin call in the night."

"Oh yes, sometimes. Religious fervor is apt to seize the devout at odd times. But one cannot predict such occasions. Depend on it, Amelia, the old scoundrel won't be at his shop."

"We can't be certain of that."

Emerson stamped his foot. "Curse it, Amelia, you are the most stubborn woman of my acquaintance. Let us compromise—if that word is in your vocabulary."

I folded my arms. "Propose your compromise."

"We'll sit on the terrace for another hour or so. If we hear a call to prayer, from any mosque within earshot, we will go the Khan el Khaleel. If by half past twelve we have heard nothing, we will go to bed."

Emerson had come up with a sensible suggestion. The plan was precisely what I had been about to propose, for after all, we could not start out for the shop until we had heard the signal.

"That is a very reasonable compromise," I said. "As always, Emerson, I submit to your judgment."

There are worse ways of passing an hour than on Shepheard's terrace. We sat at a table near the railing, sipping our coffee and watching the passersby, for people keep late hours in the balmy clime of Egypt. The stars, thickly clustered, hung so low they appeared to be tangled in the branches of the trees, and they gave a light almost as bright as day. Flower sellers offered their wares—necklaces of jasmine, bouquets of rosebuds tied with bright ribbons. The scent of the flowers hung heavy and intoxicating in the warm night air. Emerson presented me with a nosegay and squeezed my hand. With the warm pressure of his fingers on mine, and his eyes speaking sentiments that required no words of ordinary speech; with the seductive breeze caressing my cheek and the scent of roses perfuming the night— I almost forgot my purpose.

But hark—what was that? High and clear above the moonlit cupolas, rising and falling in musical appeal—the cry of the muezzin!
"Allahu akbar, allahu akbar—1a ilaha illa'llah!"
God is great, God is great; there is no God but God.

I sprang to my feet. "I knew it! Quickly, Emerson, let us be off."

"Curse it," said Emerson. "Very well, Amelia. But when I get
my hands on that fat villain he will be sorry he suggested this."

We had, of course, changed into our working attire before coming down to the terrace. Emerson changed because he hated evening dress; I changed because I had been certain all along we would be going to the Khan el Khaleel. And, as events proved, I was right. Emerson insists to this day that Abd el Atti never meant us to come, and that the spontaneous exclamation of the muezzin that night was pure coincidence. The absurdity of this should be readily apparent.

Be that as it may, we were on our way before the last testimonial of the religious person had faded into silence. We went on foot; it would have been inapropos to take a carriage to a secret rendezvous, and, in any case, no wheeled vehicle could have entered the narrow alleys of the Khan el Khaleel. Emerson set a rapid pace. He was eager to have the business over and done with. I was eager to reach the shop and learn what deadly secret threatened my old friend. For I had a certain fondness for Abd el Atti. He might be a scoundrel, but he was an engaging scoundrel.

After we had turned from the Muski into the narrower ways of the bazaar, the starlight was cut off by the houses looming high on either hand, and the farther we penetrated into the heart of the maze, the darker it became. The protruding balconies with their latticed wooden shutters jutted into the street, almost meeting overhead. Occasionally a lighted window spilled a golden glimmer onto the pathway, but most of the windows were dark. Parallel slits of light marked closed shutters. The darkness teemed with foul movement; rats glided behind heaps of refuse; lean, vicious stray dogs slunk into even narrower passageways as we approached. The rank stench of rotting fruit, human waste and infected air filled the tunnel-like street like a palpable liquid, clogging the nostrils and the lungs.

Emerson plunged on, splashing through puddles of unspeakable stuff and sometimes slipping on a melon rind or rotten orange. I stayed close behind him. This was the first time I had been in the old city at night without a servant carrying a torch.

I am not easily daunted. Danger I can face unafraid, enemies I have confronted without losing my calm; but the stealthy, stinking silence began to overpower my mind. I was glad Emerson was with me, and even happier that he had not suggested I remain behind. In this, as in all our adventures, we were equal partners. Few men could have accepted that arrangement. Emerson is a remarkable man. But then, if he had not been a remarkable man, 1 would not have married him.