The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [194]
He contributed little to the conversation after that, except for murmurs of vague agreement when someone commented on the beauty of the August weather or the prospect of rain, but from time to time his gaze focused on me or Nefret, and a singularly sweet smile warmed his thin face.
Pouring tea and offering plates of biscuits and cucumber sandwiches, I wondered what the devil Emerson was up to now. As a rule he avoided English squires and otherworldly eccentrics like the plague. Nefret, as puzzled as I—and as bored—gave me a questioning look. I smiled and gave my head a little shake. “Be patient,” was my unspoken message. “Emerson is bound to burst out before long.”
I confess, however, that I was not prepared for the precise nature of the outburst.
“The Old Testament,” said Emerson, fixing Morley with a piercing stare, “is a tissue of lies from start to finish.”
“Really, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “That is very rude to our guests, who probably take quite a different view of Scripture.”
Morley laughed and waved a plump pink hand. “Not at all, Mrs. Emerson. I fully expected some such view from the professor. I am here to change his views, if possible.”
“Proceed,” said Emerson, folding his arms.
But before Mr. Morley could do so, Panagopolous leaped to his feet and began speaking in tongues.
Genuine, actual languages, that is to say. I recognized Hebrew and Latin, and what sounded like Greek; but his speech was so disjointed and his voice so high pitched I understood only a few words. He might have been the reincarnation of one of the Old Testament prophets, eyes blazing, hair and beard bristling, arms flailing.
“What the devil,” Emerson exclaimed. “He is about to have a seizure.”
“Don’t touch him,” Morley said. “He is not ill. It will pass.”
Sure enough, the spate of speech stopped as suddenly as it had come on. The reverend’s bristling hair and beard settled back into place. He resumed his chair, and took a biscuit.
“Did you understand what he said?” Morley asked coolly.
“Gibberish,” Emerson said, even more coolly.
I realized I was staring rudely (if understandably) at the reverend, who was placidly munching his chocolate biscuit.
“Languages are not my husband’s specialty,” I said, getting a grip on myself. “I recognized a few words—names, rather. He referred, I believe, to the city of David and the conquest of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon.”
“Very good, Mrs. Emerson.” Morley beamed at me and patted his hands together in applause.
Emerson glowered at the reverend, who was working his way through the plate of biscuits with calm concentration.
“And is this your evidence?” Emerson demanded. “The ravings of a religious fanatic?”
The parlor door opened a few inches. Expecting to find that Gargery, frustrated in his attempt to hear through a heavy wooden panel, had eased it open, I was disconcerted to see Horus squeeze through the opening.
We have a good many cats, too many, as some might say. They were all descendants of a pair of Egyptian felines we had brought back with us from Egypt, and they had bred true to type, being handsomely brindled animals with large ears and a high degree of intelligence. Horus was undoubtedly one cat too many. He was a bully and a philanderer, whose contempt for us was matched by our detestation of him. For some unaccountable reason Nefret doted on him.
Apparently he had learned how to open doors. After an insolent survey of the persons present he sauntered across the room and jumped up onto the sofa next to Nefret, shoving her aside so he could sprawl out.
“What a handsome cat,” said the reverend, whose chair was beside the sofa. “Here, puss, puss, good puss. Would you like a biscuit?”
“Chocolate is not good for cats,” I said. The comment came too late; with a sudden lunge, Horus snatched the biscuit from the reverend’s fingers and crunched it up, sprinkling damp crumbs over the crimson velvet upholstery of the sofa.
Emerson had had enough. Breathing heavily through his nose, he fixed Morley with