The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [134]
“Brother John? Why, nothing. Has he disappeared?”
No theatrical person could have counterfeited the bewilderment on the young man’s face, but Emerson is notoriously hard to convince, once he has set his mind on something. “Of course he has disappeared! He is here—you have kidnapped him, or worse…. What of the shots in the night, you wretch?” Seizing David by his collar, he shook him like a mastiff worrying a rat.
“For heaven’s sake, stop asking him questions and then preventing him from answering,” I exclaimed.
Emerson let go of the young man’s collar. David’s head hit the sand with a thud and his eyes rolled up in his head. “What was it you asked?…I am not quite myself…. Shots in the night. Oh, yes—Brother Ezekiel was forced to fire his revolver at a would-be thief. He fired high, of course, only to frighten the fellow off.”
“Brother Ezekiel.” Emerson fingered his chin and glanced at me. “Hmmm. Where is Brother Ezekiel? He is usually the first on the scene.”
“He is at prayer, in his study. He is asking the Almighty to defend his saints against the enemies that surround them.”
Still astride his victim, Emerson studied him intently while he continued to stroke the dimple in his chin. “You were right, Amelia,” he said at last. “I concede defeat. This helpless weakling is not a murderer.”
Rising, he lifted David to his feet. “Mr. Cabot, your leader is a dangerous maniac. For his own sake, as well as the sake of others, he must be put under restraint. Follow me.”
The moment he released his hold, David scuttled away. The door of the church opened and banged shut. A pale face peered out from one of the windows.
“Leave him be, Emerson,” I said in disgust. “If you were mistaken about the creature, so was I. He will only be in our way. Let us smoke the murderer from his lair. I only hope we are not too late.”
The advantage of surprise now being lost, we proceeded without further ado to the house. The front door stood open as David had left it. There was no one in the parlor; it was as barren and cheerless as before. The Greek Testament was no longer on the table.
“Which do you suppose is his study?” Emerson asked, contemplating the pair of doors at the back of the room.
“There is only one way to find out.” Carefully I turned the knob of the right-hand door. The small chamber within was obviously Charity’s bedroom. The bonnet, and a gown of the familiar dark calico, hung from pegs on the wall. There was nothing else in the room except a cot as narrow and probably as hard as a plank. A single thin coverlet was thrown back, as if the sleeper had risen in haste.
I closed the door. “That one,” I said, indicating the other door.
We had spoken softly, but some sound of our presence ought, by then, have reached the ears of a listener. I began to wonder if the house were inhabited after all. Or were the occupants of that silent room lying dead in their gore?
I drew my pistol. “Stand back, Emerson.”
“Certainly not, Peabody. You are going about it the wrong way.” He knocked gently at the door.
To my astonishment a voice promptly replied. “I told you, Brother David, to leave me be. I am speaking with my Father.”
Emerson rolled his eyes expressively. “It is not Brother David. It is I—Emerson.”
“Professor?” There was a pause. “Come in.”
Emerson opened the door.
Prepared as I was for any ghastly sight—priding myself as I do on my aplomb under all circumstances—even I was struck dumb by the sight that confronted me. My eyes went first to John, who sat on the edge of the bed. A bloody bandage encircled his brow, but his eyes were open—staring wildly, in fact—and he did not appear seriously injured. I breathed a sincere but necessarily brief prayer of thanksgiving.
One of the two chairs was occupied by Charity. She appeared to be in a trance; her white face was utterly expressionless and she did not look up when the door opened. Brother Ezekiel sat at the table, an open book before him and a pistol in his hand. It was pointed at John.
“Come in, brother and sister,