“What did you do with it?”
After excavating in the pile of papers on his desk, Emerson located the pamphlet. We perused it together. A good deal of it did sound like pure fiction-for instance, Morley’s grandiose claim that he knew the precise location, within ten feet, of the temple treasure.
“Why ten feet, I wonder?” I said.
“It is a good round random number,” said Emerson, with a curl of his lip. “He does not supply precise information.”
“One could hardly expect him to disclose the location,” I said fairly.
“You are leaning over backward to be reasonable, Peabody. Look at this photograph, which purports to be that of the notorious scroll. It looks to me like a large knockwurst which has been chewed by mice.”
“The photograph is somewhat unfocused,” I admitted.
“And here,” said Emerson, reading on, “are the comments of the so-called experts Morley mentioned. Do you recognize any of the names or organizations?”
“They all appear to be foreign. ‘Le Société Biblique, Marseilles…’”
“He made them up,” said Emerson. “They might impress possible donors who are unfamiliar with the field and who wouldn’t bother investigating them. Good Gad, the gullibility of the human race never ceases to astound me. Look at some of the names on this list of contributors. Hardheaded businessmen, some of them, who ought to know better.”
“When emotion supersedes reason, my dear, gullibility must follow. The subject is dear to the hearts of many true believers.”
“Bah,” said Emerson, dismissing the subject. “What are we going to do about Papapagopolous?”
“Our obvious course is to communicate with Major Morley. In my opinion we ought to have done so before this.”
At my suggestion we dispatched telegrams both to his flat in Mayfair and his club. Not until the next day did we receive a reply from the latter source. “Major Morley sailed on Tuesday last. Forwarding address, the Augusta Victoria Hospice, Jerusalem.”
Chapter Three
Pacing up and down the drawing room, waving the telegram, Emerson ranted and cursed until I interrupted his tirade with a timely reminder.
“Why should the War Office inform you of Morley’s departure? They would have no excuse for detaining him, and you had already informed them that he was not a German agent.”
“I had also informed them that I was prepared to follow the bastard to Palestine, sacrificing my own plans-”
“What plans? You didn’t have any.”
Emerson’s response was to snatch up his coat and dash out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Seconds later I heard the front door slam.
I knew where he was going-straight up to London by the first train-and why he had departed so precipitately-in order to prevent me from accompanying him. I could only hope that by the time he arrived he would have calmed down enough to be sensible.
I would not have wished to go in any case. Shouting at General Spencer would be a waste of time and breath, and I had too many other things to think about.
We hadn’t heard a word from Ramses, though I had sent a series of letters to him and Reisner, each more emphatic than the last. I tried to tell myself that my son’s dilatory habits and the uncertain state of postal delivery in the region were probably responsible for his silence, but in my heart of hearts, doubt lingered. I knew my son only too well.
The reverend was an additional source of concern. What were we to do with him? He appeared to be quite happy to remain with us; when I asked, in my tactful fashion, if his family and friends might not be worrying about him, he had replied he had no family, few friends, and no plans whatsoever. I felt about him as I might feel about a friendly, dimwitted stray dog that had decided to move in with us. He could not be cast out onto the street, but he was shedding all over the furniture. (I speak metaphorically.) I found an ally in Nefret, who had taken him under her wing, as she might have done with any other stray.
We had been unable to settle on final plans for our forthcoming expedition (forthcoming, that is, unless Emerson infuriated the War Office into canceling its support altogether). I wanted to arrange for our men to meet us in Jaffa instead of “stopping off in Egypt to pick them up,” as Emerson had nonchalantly suggested. I had managed to persuade him that going out of our way to remove Ramses in person from the dig at Samaria would be an additional waste of time. He too could meet us in Jaffa. Emerson put up a stiff fight about that, since he had been looking forward to inspecting Reisner’s excavations and telling him what he had done wrong, but eventually I prevailed-as I generally do. I had taken the precaution of writing to Reisner myself, putting the matter as a request instead of an order, as Emerson would have done. I felt sure Reisner would oblige me, especially since the alternative would have been to have Emerson descend upon him.
Another little matter Emerson had blandly refused to discuss was the question of additional staff. What we lacked, in my opinion, was an individual acquainted with pottery. To an untrained eye there is nothing more boring than undecorated, broken pieces of pottery. I am inclined to share this view, since I have seen too many of the cursed things. Unlike most of his predecessors, who were primarily interested in impressive architectural features and attractive grave goods, Emerson considered that every scrap of material from a site had potential value and must be noted and preserved. When inscriptional material was lacking, the comparative development of pottery types was sometimes the only way a tomb or occupation level could be dated. I could not argue with this principle, but since I was generally the one in charge of sifting the debris and finding such fragments, my feelings about them were less than enthusiastic. I did not look forward to continuing that labor in an area where the pottery was likely to be even less interesting than in Egypt. However, my inquiries (made without Emerson’s knowledge) failed to locate a suitable person. Our staff, therefore, consisted of Nefret, David, and Ramses in addition to our two selves.
Well, we had managed with as few persons before, particularly since our primary purpose was not excavation but preventing Morley from doing the same. The site we had fixed on was on a rocky slope south of the Old City of Jerusalem. The modern name of the village there was Silwan, and there was general agreement that it derived from the biblical Siloam. According to Second Chronicles, King Hezekiah, anticipating an attack by the Assyrians, had dug a tunnel from a spring outside the walls in order to bring its waters directly into the city. The actual tunnel had been found in 1838, thereby confirming the accuracy of the biblical account, and thirty years later a British engineer named Robinson had traversed its entire length, despite the silt that had accumulated over the years. I hoped we would have an opportunity to explore the tunnel, since Robinson’s description of crawling on his stomach through its dark, dank, constricted length was quite intriguing. When I mentioned this possibility to Emerson, his response was so profane that I decided not to pursue the matter…For the present.
Emerson returned in time for tea, his arrival heralded by his usual slam of the front door and his hearty halloo: “Peabody, where are you? I am back. Peabody!” I was reading in the drawing room, but I had no difficulty in hearing him.
“Well!” I said, returning his friendly embrace. “You are in a much better frame of mind than you were when you left. I take it all went well at the War Office?”
“I cannot imagine why you should assume otherwise.” Emerson removed his coat and tossed it in Gargery’s general direction. “Why isn’t tea ready, Gargery? I am famished.”