(Emerson: “What blunt instrument?” Myself: “For pity’s sake, Emerson, will you stop making irrelevant objections? A pistol butt, a rock, a stocking filled with sand.”)
“Damnation,” said Emerson morosely. “Very well, Peabody, let us not drag this discussion out. I have not the slightest hope of winning it anyhow. Your hypothetical assailant then removed all means of identification, overlooking only the scrap of paper naming me, and put the body onto the bed in the hope that a cursory examination would conclude Panalopagus-Panepororous-curse it, I cannot be expected to remember such a ridiculous name-that he had suffered a stroke or heart attack?”
“Well done, Emerson.”
“It is good of you to say so. Have you concluded your investigations?”
“Almost.” I had searched the reverend’s small valise, which contained only toilet articles, a change of clothing, nightclothes, and a well-thumbed Bible. Turning back to the bed in order to make another examination, I was surprised-and, of course, relieved-to find that my patient’s breathing had strengthened and that some color had returned to his face.
“He appears to be regaining consciousness,” I exclaimed, and removed the bottle of sal volatile from my medical bag. Waving it under his nose, I was rewarded by a sneeze so violent that Panagopolous’s lower limbs jerked up and his head jerked forward. His eyes opened.
“Excellent,” I exclaimed. “How do you feel?”
“Feel,” the reverend repeated dreamily. “I feel, therefore I am. But who, kind lady, am I? Who are you? And who is this Panagopolous to whom you refer?”
“Hell and damnation!” cried Emerson. Hands clapped to her ears, Mrs. Finney fled.
THE REVEREND’S PHYSICAL CONDITION being sufficiently improved, we called for our own carriage and dismissed the ambulance (a nice hay wagon belonging to Mrs. Finney’s cousin). He came with us willingly, having concluded-as he informed us-that I must be a dear acquaintance from one of his former lives. Emerson’s attempts to correct this misapprehension were met with a shake of the head and an amiable smile. “Perhaps it was in Athens, when I was preaching to the heathen,” he mused. “‘Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you…’ They mocked me, but some believed…Were you by chance the woman Damaris?”
“I doubt that very much,” I said gently but firmly. To Emerson I remarked, “Apparently in that life he was the apostle Paul. Do not argue with him, Emerson, I feel sure his amnesia is temporary and that he will come out of it in due time and with the proper treatment.”
“One of the kindly women in Bordeaux who sewed the crosses on our surplices when I proclaimed the great crusade?”
“Peter the Hermit?” asked Emerson, increasingly intrigued. “He doesn’t suffer from excessive humility, does he?”
Panagopolous ignored this as he had ignored our other comments, and I said, “People who believe they have lived past lives were seldom anonymous commoners in those lives. Napoleon is a favorite, I believe, and so is Ramses the Second.”
“I must admit,” said Emerson, over the mumbling of Panagopolous, “that the fellow is rather entertaining. I give you three days, Peabody. If you haven’t got him back to 1910 by then, I will inform Captain Morley and request he remove his demented friend from our premises.”
Nefret had returned from her ride during our absence and, having been informed of our mission by Gargery, was waiting impatiently to hear what had ensued. She agreed with me that the reverend should rest, so we handed him over to John, our large and dependable footman, who helped him to his room and into bed. I told Rose to ask Cook to make chicken soup. Panagopolous submitted to Nefret’s examination without protest; indeed he seemed quite pleased to be with us, though he was still trying to decide who we were. When he saw Horus, who had pushed his way into the room in pursuit of Nefret, his face flushed with pleasure. “One of the sacred cats of Bastet,” he exclaimed. “Her worship was proscribed after I brought Pharaoh Akhenaton to the knowledge of the One God, but do you know, I missed having the cats about.”
After he had eaten a hot bowl of chicken soup, Panagopolous declared he would sleep awhile. Once outside the room, I asked Nefret for her diagnosis. It agreed, of course, with mine. Temporary loss of memory is not uncommon following such a blow on the head. It is usually only a matter of time. Panagopolous’s belief in reincarnation probably would not pass off, but I doubted there was anything I could do about it.
Emerson was mightily entertained by the reverend’s comments about the so-called heretic pharaoh. “So he was Moses, was he? Who will be next? I wonder. Abraham? Pope Leo?”
“He knows his history, at any rate,” I replied thoughtfully. “Few people are familiar with the short-lived religious revolution of Akhenaton, or the theory that he learned of the sole god from Hebrews dwelling in Egypt.”
“Far-fetched theory, you mean,” said Emerson.
Panagopolous’s recovery was slow but sure. On the following day he remembered my name, and the day after, his own-his present name, that is to say. His vital signs were normal and his appetite was excellent. On the third day I deemed him well enough to join us for tea, and the plate of chocolate-iced biscuits proved, as I had hoped, the catalyst.
“I have been here before,” he exclaimed (taking a biscuit). “Or have I been here all along? What has happened?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” I replied. I proceeded to recount the circumstances that had led to his present whereabouts. “Do you remember arriving at the inn?”
Stimulated by my questions (and the consumption of a number of biscuits) Panagopolous was able to recall his arrival, and being shown to a room. He was engaged in prayer (Emerson smirked at me) when a knock at the door interrupted him. Here he paused, his brow furrowed.
“Who was it at the door?” I asked.
Panagopolous shook his head. “I remember nothing more.”
“Don’t distress yourself,” Nefret said, patting his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
“The devil it doesn’t,” said Emerson. “Well, well. Of equal importance, sir, is the question of what you were doing at the inn. Were you coming to see us? And if so, for what reason?”
“You,” Panagopolous repeated. The lines across his brow were perfectly parallel, like those of a musical staff. In mounting excitement he went on, “For what reason? Why, to show you the scroll. To give it into your keeping. Is it safe? Is it secret? You must not let him have it!”
The news that no scroll had been found-blurted out by Emerson before I could stop him-brought the reverend to his feet in a fit of incoherent agitation. We put him back to bed and after Nefret had administered a sedative we returned to the parlor for a council of war.
“All is now made clear,” I said. “Someone was after the famous scroll, the manuscript that describes the location of the treasure. And he found it.”
“Clear as a foggy day,” said Emerson. “We have no proof that any such scroll exists. This may be a plot designed to convince us that Morley’s project is worth supporting.”
“Forgive me, sir, but that is rather far-fetched,” Nefret exclaimed. “His injury was genuine. Would he go to such an extreme to persuade you?”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, rubbing his chin.
“Neither have we proof that such a manuscript did not exist,” I said. “When the reverend is coherent again, we can ask him whether he has reason to suspect that any particular individuals wished to gain possession of the scroll.”
“It all depends on his word,” Emerson protested. “The word of a man who is not in full possession of his senses.”
“Not entirely,” I said. “Emerson, did you ever bother to look at that brochure Major Morley brought with him?”
“Why should I have done so? It was pure fiction.”