Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [33]
“I have no idea. Perhaps it contains some of the things we left Abdullah to pack and bring here from Mazghunah.”
He had taken out his pocket knife and was cutting the cords binding the parcel that contained the kettle. The merchants in the bazaar knew only two styles of packing—one used no string at all, so that the parcel fell apart in transit; the other employed vast quantities of heavy rope even when the parcel was only to be carried a few yards. The package I was inspecting was of the second variety, and I had to borrow Emerson’s knife to undo it.
He unpacked the kettle and some pots and pans, and turned to put them on the table.
“Emerson,” I said. “Look here.”
In a flash Emerson was at my side. He knows every tone of my voice, and on this occasion the few simple words quivered with the intensity of the inexpressible sensations that filled me.
“What is it, Peabody?” He looked into the box. I had pushed aside the top layer of straw. The curved sides of the vessel within gleamed in the lamplight with a soft luster.
Emerson reached for it. With a shriek I caught his arm and clung to it. “No, Emerson! Watch out!”
“What the devil, Peabody, it is only an old pot. A pot made of . . .” His breath caught. “Silver?”
“It is not the vessel itself I fear, but what may be concealed in the straw. A scorpion, a snake, a poisonous spider . . . Where are your gloves—the heavy work gloves?”
For a wonder they were where they were supposed to be, in the pocket of his coat. When I started to draw on the gloves, he took them from me, and performed the task himself. I was in a perfect quiver of apprehension until he had removed the last of the objects from the container. He then overturned it, spilling the packing material onto the floor.
“No spiders, no snakes,” he remarked, shoving the straw about with his booted toe. “Obviously you are in possession of information I lack, Peabody. Would you care to explain why you expected a shipment of venomous animals, and how you came into possession of what appear to be antique vessels of . . . antique vessels . . . No. No! I don’t believe it. Don’t tell me—”
“Obviously I needn’t tell you,” I replied. Normally I am tolerant of Emerson’s little fits of temper, for they relieve an excess of spleen; but this situation was too serious for theatrics. A sense, not of fear but of awe, as in the presence of something larger and more powerful than myself, stole over me. “These are indeed the communion vessels stolen from the church of Sitt Miriam at Dronkeh. Stolen by that villain, that wretch, that consummate master of evil, that genius of crime . . .”
I waited for him to voice an objection to the words he knew I was about to use, but he was incapable of speech. Flushed of countenance, bulging as to his eyeballs, he continued to stare at me in silence, and I concluded, “None other than—the Master Criminal!”
•
Four
•
Emerson had never seen the famous communion vessels, since he has a constitutional aversion to organized religion and refuses to enter a church, mosque, or synagogue. He had to take my word for it, but even if he had presumed to doubt my identification, the conclusion would have been forced upon him. The vessels taken from the church at Dronkeh had been valuable antiques, centuries old. There could not be many such sets of objects hanging about, as Emerson glumly and vulgarly expressed it.
“But why return them?” he demanded. Then his expression lightened. “Wait—wait, Peabody, I have it. The thief was not your cursed Master Criminal, but an amateur who yielded to a sudden temptation, hoping the theft would be blamed on the Master Criminal. He has repented, and has returned them.”
“To us? Were that the case, Emerson, the repentant thief would have returned the objects to the church. It is a challenge from our old adversary, Emerson; it can be nothing else.”
“Peabody, I thoroughly dislike your trick of selecting one theory out of a plethora of them and loudly proclaiming it to be the only possible solution. My explanation makes as much sense as yours.”
Upon