The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [195]
“This prospectus,” said Morley, removing a handsomely bound booklet from his breast pocket, “contains a photograph of the scroll I mentioned when we last—”
“Photograph, bah,” said Emerson. “I would have to see the scroll itself.”
“It is in extremely fragile condition, professor, and cannot be carried about. Several learned authorities have inspected it and pronounced it genuine. You may communicate directly with them if you like.”
“Well, I don’t like,” Emerson declared. “So-called experts can be hoodwinked as easily as other men. Anyhow, I have no interest whatsoever in biblical legends, or in the Israelites, who were treacherous, bloodthirsty sinners, turning on one another whenever they ran out of Amalekites, Jebusites, Philistines, and Moabites to slaughter. Furthermore, the scheme you propose is unacceptable on several grounds.”
“What scheme?” I asked.
I might as well have saved my breath. Having regained his, after his long diatribe, Emerson continued. “You cannot be unaware of the unsettled state of the area in question. Your scheme may—almost certainly will—enflame conditions that endanger the peace of the entire region.”
I got one word out—“What”—before Morley interrupted. The narrowing of his orbs indicated rising temper but—I do him credit—though his voice was a trifle loud his speech was measured.
“With all due respect, Professor Emerson, that is only your opinion. I have permission from the authorities to carry out my scheme.” He sipped genteely at his tea.
“What scheme?” I demanded.
I can, when occasion demands, raise my voice to a pitch that is difficult to ignore. Morley started and burst into a fit of coughing—having, I deduced, swallowed the wrong way. Emerson, who knew the futility of ignoring it, replied in a tone almost as vehement as mine.
“The damned fool is mounting an expedition to Jerusalem, to look for the Ark of the Covenant.”
The ensuing silence was broken by Nefret’s melodious chuckle. “I do beg your pardon,” she murmured, trying to keep a straight face.
“Your derision is justified,” said Emerson. “People have been looking for the damned thing for centuries. They are welcome to keep on looking for it, insofar as I am concerned; it is a harmless enough fantasy. That is not my point. My point is—”
“You have made it, Professor.” Morley placed his cup carefully on the table and rose to his feet. “I will take no more of your time.”
Though as a rule I deplore Emerson’s bad manners, I was as anxious as he to get our visitors out of the house. I had fully expected the reverend to fall writhing to the floor during his initial outburst. His present look was almost as disconcerting; looking up from his pensive contemplation of the (empty) biscuit plate he inquired, “Are we going now?”
I accompanied our guests into the hall. Morley took his hat from Gargery, who was hovering, and turned to me.
“If the Professor should change his mind—”
“He will be sure to inform you,” I said. “Good afternoon.”
We shook hands, and I offered mine to the reverend. He met it with a surprisingly firm grip and a sweet, childlike smile.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Emerson. Those were excellent biscuits!”
Gargery followed me to the parlor, so closely he was almost treading on my heels, and began clearing away the tea things, with glacial slowness.
Emerson went to the sideboard and poured the whiskey. “Here you are, Peabody. We both deserve it, I believe, after that interview.”
“He can’t have been serious,” Nefret exclaimed.
“Why on earth did you bother listening to such an absurd proposal?”
“I had my reasons,” said Emerson. He gave me a sidelong glance. “They were excellent reasons. That is all I can tell you.”
“Can, or will?” I inquired. A few sips of the genial beverage had restored my composure and a few ideas were simmering in my head.
“Can,” said Emerson, with considerable emphasis.
“Sworn to