“That’s where every archaeologist who comes here wants to dig, Peabody. The majority, I daresay, would have better sense or better principles than to respond to such a proposition, but not Morley. He was getting desperate and he believes money will buy anything.”

Emerson paused and took out his pipe.

“Go on,” I urged. “You have me on pins and needles.”

“Really?” Emerson beamed. “Well, up to the Mount he went last night, after midnight, with one companion. The custodian was not there. Believing that the fellow had been bribed to stay away, Morley began work. Before he had struck more than a single blow, a horrible cry burst out, and there was the custodian, wringing his hands and screaming. He picked up a mattock Morley had brought, and went after Morley, leaving the latter in no doubt that his plan had misfired. He fled, leaving his tools-all the evidence any court would need as to his intentions. By the time he reached the foot of the Mount, a small mob was on his heels. It soon became a huge mob. Ali Bey, who had been watching the entire performance from hiding, distracted the infuriated worshippers long enough for Morley to get away. He didn’t want a mob tearing a foreigner to bits, whatever the offense. A splendid fellow, Ali Bey.”

“Yes, indeed. Where is Morley now?”

Emerson gestured. “In hiding, in Kamir’s donkey shed. I met him, as planned, and took him there. Kamir has agreed to smuggle him out of Jerusalem and set him on his way to Jaffa in exchange for most of Morley’s remaining funds. He will reach England impoverished-and, as soon as word of this affair reaches the English press, disgraced.”

“Emerson,” I said sincerely, “I did not think it possible, but you have excelled yourself. How did you persuade Kamir to overcome his religious scruples to assist a heretic?”

Emerson snorted. “Kamir has no scruples, religious or otherwise. How is Ramses this morning?”

“Sleeping soundly. He seems fully recovered. However-”

“I know, I know.” The incessant drumbeat of rain on the roof never stopped. Emerson sighed. “You are going to tell me he should not be working in this weather.”

“No one can work under these conditions, Emerson. Everyone shuts down his excavation during the rainy season. I know what a blow it is to you, my dear, to admit defeat, but it is already too late to salvage anything. What the rain has not swept away the local thieves have found. Let us go home.”

“Back to England?” His heavy black brows drew together. “Now?”

“No, my dear. Home. To Egypt.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again I am indebted to Dennis Forbes, editor of KMT: A Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt, for reading the entire manuscript and catching several errors. Thanks as well to Dr. Donald P. Ryan for the material on Samaria, a subject on which I was less well informed than he. (And still am, despite his best endeavors.) As always I owe effusive thanks to my friend and assistant Kristen Whitbread, who made me work when I didn’t want to and encouraged me with snacks and cups of coffee.

About the Author

ELIZABETH PETERS earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago ’s famed Oriental Institute. She was named Grand Master at the inaugural Anthony Awards in 1986 and Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America in 1998. In 2003, she received the Lifetime Achievement Award at the Malice Domestic Convention. She lives in a historic farmhouse in western Maryland.