Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [93]
Father Todorus was visibly relieved when, instead of returning to the awkward subject of his temptations, Emerson asked about his prison. Like so many people, the priest was a poor observer; specific questions brought out facts he had suppressed, not intentionally but because he had never thought about them. He had not been able to see out the windows, but he had heard sounds, though muffled and faraway. When added one to another, the noises he mentioned made it evident that he had been, not in a village or isolated villa, but in the heart of a city.
“Cairo, Emerson,” I cried.
“I assumed that from the first,” said Emerson repressively. “But where in that teeming hive of humanity?”
Further questioning failed to answer that important question. When we rose to take our leave, we were hardly wiser than when we had come. Father Todorus, who had consumed two cups of brandy, accompanied us to the door, reiterating his thanks and assuring us he would mention us in his prayers—a compliment Emerson received with a grimace and a growl.
As we walked toward the donkeys I said, “Father Todorus is certainly generous with his cognac. I suppose Sethos left in such haste, he could not carry away the comforts with which he had provided himself, but to judge from the rate at which it is being consumed he must have left a considerable quantity.”
Emerson came to a stop. “Ha!” he cried. “I knew some detail was nagging at my mind, but I could not imagine what it was. Good thinking, Peabody.”
Whereupon he ran back to the priest’s house, with, I hardly need say, me following. When Father Todorus responded to his peremptory knock, he was still holding his cup. Seeing Emerson, he smiled beatifically. “You have returned, O Father of Curses. Come in, with the honored sitt your wife, and have—hic!—more brandy.”
“I would not deprive you, Father,” said Emerson with a grin. “For surely your supply must be limited.”
The little man’s face lengthened. One might have thought Emerson had accused him of robbery and worse, and Emerson said aside, in English, “Really, Peabody, it is too easy to confound this fellow; he has no more talent for dissimulation than a child.”
“Less,” I said meaningfully, “than some children.”
“Humph,” said Emerson. Returning to Arabic, he addressed the priest. “Your supply has been replenished, Father—is that not true? How often and in what manner?”
The priest groaned. He started to wring his hands; remembering that he still held the cup, he quickly drained it. With a glance at the curious onlookers, he muttered, “It was the devils, O Father of Curses. I beg you will not let these people know; they might appeal to the patriarch for help against the powers of evil, and I assure you, I swear to you, that I can conquer the devils, I am constantly at prayer—”
Emerson reassured him and the little man found courage to speak. There had been two deliveries of cognac by the demons since his miraculous return from imprisonment. On both occasions he had found the boxes at his bedside when he woke in the morning. He had not bothered to look for signs of intrusion, since it was well known that devils, being bodiless, do not leave footprints.
With further assurances of our good will, we took our leave. The priest disappeared into his house, no doubt in order to rid himself of the demonic gift in the most appropriate manner.
“What a curious thing,” I exclaimed, as we trotted out of the village. “This man, this unknown genius of crime, is a strange mixture of cruelty and compassion. Cases of fine French cognac would not be my notion of apology and compensation for such rude handling, but—”
“Oh, do use your head, Peabody,” Emerson shouted, his face reddening. “Apology and compensation indeed! I never heard such balderdash.”
“Why else would he—”
“To complete the corruption of the priest, of course. A bizarre and evil sense of humor, not compassion, is the motive for these gifts.”
“Oh,” I said. “I had not thought of that, Emerson. Good Gad, it is no wonder, such consummate depths of depravity are