“When did these arrive?” I asked.

“Today. Today. This afternoon. The post in this country is extremely-”

“In future,” I said sternly, “make sure all messages and letters are delivered to us at once.”

“Open them,” Nefret urged, trying to get a look at the envelopes. “Perhaps Ramses-”

“I can’t do that, Nefret, both are addressed to Emerson. The handwriting is not that of Ramses.”

We went straight upstairs to my room, and I asked Daoud to tell David to join us for tea. It was early, but the skies were so dark and the rain was falling so heavily, I felt the familiar ritual would cheer us.

It certainly cheered the reverend, who, of course, accompanied David. Watching him tuck into biscuits and scones, I wondered how he could eat so much and retain his willowy figure.

I had intended to steam the letters open, but the others came too soon and Nefret ignored my hints that she change her damp clothing. Under other circumstances I might have opened them anyhow and braved Emerson’s loud complaints; however, I had a difficult task ahead of me persuading him to go along with my plans. A further source of aggravation might render him even more recalcitrant.

A considerable noise in the corridor finally betokened the arrival of Selim and Emerson. Emerson’s primary source of complaint appeared to be the weather. Flinging the door open, he continued without interruption: “…ridiculous for this time of year. The rains do not come on until November.”

“God works in mysterious ways.” Plato piped up.

Emerson gave him an awful look. He and Selim were both drenched. Emerson had, naturally, insisted on walking the entire way instead of searching for a covered conveyance or waiting until the heaviest of the rain stopped. Nefret hurried to him and helped him out of his coat. She hung it over the back of a chair, where it continued to drip distractingly for the next hour.

David took Selim off to his room and persuaded him to change into one of his dressing gowns; Emerson divested himself of his boots and wrung out the bottoms of his trousers, which he declined to change. I knew he would not catch cold. He never did. I rang for more tea. The arrival of the genial beverage and a further supply of bread-and-butter sandwiches put Emerson in a better frame of mind.

Comparatively better, that is. Fixing me with a critical look, he declared, “Selim and I will probably catch pneumonia, Peabody, and all for nothing.”

It had occurred to me, after I sent them off, that it probably would be for nothing. The War Office would not risk sending information by telegraph. It had also occurred to me that Emerson must have worked out some covert means of communication with MO2. He certainly had not bothered to mention it to me. Why hadn’t I sat him down and interrogated him? I ought to have made one of my little lists. The answer was now plain to me, and I realized I ought to have anticipated it. Emerson would never of his own free will have selected a temperance hotel.

Controlling my understandable vexation, I replied in moderate tones. “The message came here, to the hotel, Emerson. May I ask why you did not tell me that was the arrangement?”

I held out the envelope.

Emerson snatched it and inspected it carefully. “I didn’t tell you because it was none of…Er, hmmm. Well, where else could it have been sent, to be certain of delivery?”

He gave me another look, reminding me that the others were still in the dark about our connection with the War Office, and it was obviously preferable that it should stay that way.

“Were you expecting a particular message?” Nefret asked, stressing the adjective.

Emerson rose nobly to the occasion. “I have been expecting the firman-our permission from the Sublime Porte to excavate at Siloam.” He ripped open the envelope and withdrew a document even more impressive than its container, edged in gold and covered with blobs of red sealing wax. “And here it is,” he concluded triumphantly.

“Emerson,” I said, forestalling further questions, “you really must change out of those damp trousers. Will the rest of you please excuse us?”

“We haven’t decided what we are going to do tomorrow,” Nefret protested.

“We will discuss it later, when we meet for dinner. Now run along.”

I got them all out the door, closed it, and leaned against it, sighing. Keeping the lot of them under control had begun to tax even my powers.

“What are we going to do tomorrow?” Emerson inquired.

“We may find the answer here.” I took the second envelope from my pocket. I felt sure Nefret had not forgotten about it, but my dictatorial manner had prevented her from pursuing the subject. She was certain to bring it up again, however, and we had to have a plausible reply ready.

“Hmph,” said Emerson, taking the envelope. “Hand-delivered. I wonder who-”

“Open it!”

The envelope contained a single sheet of paper. The message had been printed in block letters. I read it over Emerson’s shoulder.

“Send pomegranates Glasgow. Humboldt seeking Siberian lettuce v.I.”

“Code,” I said.

“What did you expect? ‘Morley is a German spy, we told you so, now find proof’?”

“Is that what it says?”

“I rather doubt it,” said Emerson, holding the paper close to the lamp.

“You do have the key, don’t you?” With an effort I kept my voice calm.

“Certainly. It is a simple substitution code, almost impossible to decipher without the key, since the substitutions are arbitrary and not susceptible to the-”

“Where is it?”

“What? Oh,” said Emerson, recognizing in my measured tone signs that an explosion might be imminent. “In my head, of course. They made me memorize it before I left the office. One doesn’t carry such-”

“Do you remember it?”

“Um,” said Emerson, squinting at the paper. “Er. Most of it.”

“Oh, bah,” I cried. “If that isn’t just like a man! Men, I should say-you and that pompous fool General Spencer. He believes no mere female should be trusted with classified information, and you-don’t tell me, you gave your word to remain silent, didn’t you?” In my agitation I jumped up and began pacing back and forth across the room. “It is my own fault,” I said bitterly. “I ought to have questioned you. But I trusted you, Emerson, I trusted you to confide in me.”

Emerson intercepted me and caught me in a close embrace. “Peabody, my love, you are right to reproach me. I was a fool. It will never happen again, I promise.”

It is unusual to see Emerson in a penitent mood. I find him much more persuasive when he is in one of his rages, sapphirine eyes narrowed, heavy brows drawn together, teeth bared. However, I did not suppose his conciliatory mood would last, and his embraces have a softening effect, even when, as in this case, he was squeezing the breath out of me. I indicated with a gesture that such was the case, and Emerson relaxed his grip.

“My love,” he began.

“I accept your apology, Emerson. Now let us see how much you remember of the code.”

Emerson has what I believe is called a selective memory. He can recall minute details of particular excavations but is likely to forget where he left his hat. Since he was scarcely more interested in codes and ciphers and spies than he was in the location of his hat, I did not suppose he had made much of an effort to remember the key. However, with the proper prodding, he might be prevailed upon to dredge up enough detail to interpret this particular message.

It was not really a very ingenious code. Perhaps in order to make it easier to remember, the inventor had used proper names for other proper names and verbs for other verbs. Once Emerson had recollected that “send” stood for “proceed” and “seeking” for “made contact” it was childishly easy to interpret the gist of the message. “Glasgow” had to be “Jerusalem” that was our agreed-upon destination, after all. Prodded by me, Emerson admitted that “Siberian” was a not too clever substitution for “German.”