The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [135]
“That is most considerate of you,” said Emerson, with equal coolness. “Why don’t I fetch a goat—or a dog? You can cast the demons into it.”
“Afraid that won’t do,” said Ezekiel, shaking his head. “See, Professor, you have got a few demons in you too. I’ll have to deal with ’em before I let you out of here or they might lead you astray.”
“Mr. Jones—”
“That’s not the way to talk to me, my son. Call me by my right name. For I am the Annointed One, whose coming to redeem Israel was foretold by the prophets.”
“Good Gad,” I said involuntarily.
Emerson grimaced at me, and Ezekiel said, “She’s got more demons than any of ’em. Come in, sister, and acknowledge your Lord and Saviour.”
My pistol was in my hand, hidden by the voluminous folds of my trousers, but I never thought of using it. How long had the madness been festering in his poor warped brain? He had maintained a semblance of normalcy till now.
Emerson edged into the room. “That’s far enough,” said Ezekiel. “Now you, sister. Come in.”
I could not think what to do. The room was so small the madman was bound to hit someone if he pulled the trigger, and he might pull it if he were physically attacked. It seemed equally dangerous and fruitless to reason with him. Then something moved at the open window. Was it rescue—reinforcements? No. It was David, wild-eyed and pale with fright. We could not count on assistance from him.
Emerson saw him too, and with the brilliance that always marks his actions, seized the only possible advantage from his presence. “Look there, at the window,” he cried. As Ezekiel turned, Emerson leaped.
The gun went off. The bullet struck harmlessly into the ceiling. David shrieked and vanished. John jumped to his feet and promptly sat down again as his knees gave way. Charity slid fainting from her chair. Emerson tossed me the gun and enveloped Brother Ezekiel in a tight embrace. Footsteps sounded in the outer room. “Nom du nom du nom,” de Morgan ejaculated. “What has transpired here?”
Behind the Frenchman was my son Ramses.
“It was de Coptic manuscript after all,” Ramses said, some time later. Ezekiel was under guard and his victims had been attended to; we were once more in our own home and John, though pale and shaken, had insisted on making tea.
“Quel manuscrit coptique?” de Morgan demanded. “I understand nothing of this—nothing! It is of a madness unexampled. Master Criminals, manuscripts, raving missionaries….”
I explained about the Coptic manuscript. “I knew all along it must be involved,” I said. “But I could not think what to make of it. The trouble was—”
“That two different groups of criminals were at work,” said Emerson. “The first was the gang of antiquities thieves. They had discovered a cache of royal jewelry at Dahshoor and were searching for more. Their leader took the place of the village priest at Dronkeh in order to supervise their illicit digging—”
“But the thieves fell out, as such persons are wont to do,” I went on. “Hamid, who was a minor member of the gang, was not content with his share of the profits. He saw an opportunity to rob the thieves and sell some of his finds himself. He persuaded his father to market them. And among these objects—”
“Was the mummy case purchased by the baroness,” Emerson interrupted.
“No, no, my dear. There were two mummy cases. From that fact arose much of the confusion. Both are now destroyed, but I fancy they were twin coffins, made at the same time by the same craftsman. Belonging, I do not doubt, to a husband and wife who wished to express their mutual affection by eventually occupying identical—”
“Never mind that, Amelia,” Emerson growled. “The point is that they were made of the same materials—waste linen and old papyrus, dampened and molded into shape before being painted.