The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [129]
Then a voice replied to what I had believed to be a rhetorical question. It came from the end of the room we had not been able to see and it spoke the purest classical Arabic-Egyptian. “There will be no killing unless Emerson leaves us no choice. And do not kick the cage. Did not the Prophet cut off his sleeve rather than disturb his sleeping cat?”
The speaker stepped forward into the illumination cast by the lamp on the table. Dark turban, black robe, black beard—and the features of Father Girgis of the church of Sitt Miriam.
In my astonishment I almost let my parasol fall from my hand. “You? You are the Master Criminal?”
He laughed and replied, in English as unaccented as his Arabic had been, “A melodramatic term, Mrs. Emerson. I am only the chairman of a business organization with whose operations you and your family have been interfering.”
Hands raised, eyes watchful, Emerson said calmly, “You speak excellent English. Is that, by any chance, your nationality?”
The “priest” smiled. “I speak most of the European languages with equal facility. Speculate, Professor—speculate! You are a determined pair of busybodies. If you had kept out of my way, you would not be in danger.”
“I suppose tossing us into a pyramid and sealing the entrance was not dangerous,” I said tartly.
“I would have taken steps to ensure your release once we had left the region, Mrs. Emerson. Murder is not my business.”
“What of the priest of Dronkeh? I am sure the Patriarch in Cairo has no idea that his local representative has been replaced. What have you done with the poor man?”
A flash of white teeth broke the blackness of that extraordinary beard. “The dear old gentleman is an honored prisoner. He is learning first-hand of the worldly pleasures he has abjured. I assure you, the only dangers he faces are spiritual.”
“And Hamid?”
A spark glimmered darkly in the deep-set eyes. “I would have executed the traitor, yes. But I did not. Another’s vengeance reached him before mine.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that, I hope?”
“Amelia,” said my husband, “there is surely no profit in annoying this—er—this gentleman.”
“It doesn’t matter, Professor. I don’t care whether Mrs. Emerson believes me or not. I am here on business. I was looking for a certain item….”
“That?” I raised my parasol to point, and both the Copts (or pseudo-Copts) jumped. Their leader swore at them. Then he answered my question.
“I am not such a fool as to waste my time over a fragment of Coptic manuscript, Mrs. Emerson. No. I came for this.”
He drew the box from the breast of his robe and removed the lid.
Lamplight caressed the gleaming gold and the soft glow of turquoise, the royal blue of lapis lazuli, the red-orange of carnelian. I caught my breath. “The Twelfth Dynasty pectoral!”
“Another Twelfth Dynasty pectoral,” the priest corrected. “With its necklace of gold and carnelian beads, and a set of matching bracelets. The parure of a princess of the Middle Kingdom, hidden so well under the floor of her tomb that it escaped the tomb robbers who looted her mummy. It is the second such cache we have found at Dahshoor, Mrs. Emerson, and were it not for that interfering brat your son, we would perhaps have found others. He has been digging around all the Dahshoor pyramids for the past weeks. One of my men was watching when he found the princess’s tomb and removed these ornaments, but we refrained from repossessing them because we hoped he would abandon his pursuits and leave us to go on with our work in peace. That hope has not been realized. You spoil the child, Mrs. Emerson; how many boys of that age are allowed to excavate on their own?”
I was about to reply when I saw something that made my blood run cold. It was a face, pressed against the barred window, and set in a hideous grimace. I might not have recognized it, had it not been for the nasal appendage that protruded into the space between two bars. Ramses!
The priest went on. “Such, however, are the unavoidable vicissitudes of my profession. Now I must beg you to