The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [138]
“I wish you luck,” I said politely. Emerson said nothing.
“Yes, a veritable coup.” De Morgan sighed. “My picture would be in the Illustrated London News,” he explained, rather pathetically. “I have always wanted to be in the Illustrated London News. Schliemann has been in the Illustrated London News. Petrie has been in the Illustrated London News. Why not de Morgan?”
“Why not indeed?” I said. Emerson said nothing.
De Morgan rose and picked up his hat. “Oh, but madame, there is one little thing you have not explained. Your escape from the pyramid was truly marvelous. Accept my felicitations on that escape, by the way; I do not believe I expressed them earlier. But I do not understand why the Master—the leader of the gang—should put you there in the first place. It was the evil Hamid and the insane Ezekiel who were responsible for the other attacks on you, searching for the mummy case and the papyrus. Was the Master—the leader of the gang—also looking for the papyrus?”
Ramses stopped swinging his feet and became very still. Emerson cleared his throat. De Morgan looked inquiringly at him. “A slight touch of catarrh,” Emerson explained. “Hem.”
De Morgan stood waiting. “It seems,” I said, “that the leader—the Master Criminal—was under the impression we had some other valuables.”
“Ah.” De Morgan nodded. “Even Master Criminals are sometimes wrong. They suspect everyone, the rascals. Au revoir, madame. Adieu, professeur. Come soon to visit me, mon petit Ramses.”
After the Frenchman had gone out I turned a critical eye on my son. “You must give it back, Ramses.”
“Yes, Mama. I suppose I must. T’ank you for allowing me to arrange de matter wit’ de least possible embarrassment to myself.”
“And to me,” Emerson muttered.
“I will go and talk to him immediately,” said Ramses.
He suited the action to the word.
De Morgan had mounted his horse. He smiled at the small figure trotting toward him and waited. Ramses caught hold of the stirrup and began to speak.
De Morgan’s smile faded. He interrupted Ramses with a comment that was clearly audible even at that distance, and reached out for him. Ramses skipped back and went on talking. After a time a curious change came over the Frenchman’s face. He listened a while longer; then he dismounted, and squatted down so that his face was close to Ramses’. An earnest and seemingly amicable dialogue ensued. It went on so long that Emerson, standing beside me, began to mutter. “What are they talking about? If he threatens Ramses—”
“He has every right to beat him to a jelly,” I said.
Yet when the conversation ended, de Morgan appeared more puzzled than angry. He mounted. Ramses saluted him courteously and started back toward the house. Instead of riding off, de Morgan sat staring after Ramses. His hand moved in a quick furtive gesture. Had I not known better, I would have sworn the cultured, educated director of the Antiquities Department had made the sign of the evil eye—the protection against diabolic spirits.
ii
What was in the lost gospel of Didymus Thomas? We will never know the answer, although Emerson often engages in ribald and unseemly speculation. “Does he describe the trick the disciples played on the Romans, to make them believe a man had risen from the dead? Was Jesus married and the father of children? And what exactly was his relationship with Mary Magdalen?”
Brother Ezekiel, the only living person who actually read part of the lost gospel, will never tell us what it contained. He is a raving lunatic; and I have heard that he wanders the corridors of his home near Boston, Massachusetts, dressed in a simple homespun robe, blessing his attendants. He calls himself the Messiah. He is tended by his devoted sister and his sorrowing disciple, and I suppose that one day—if it has not already occurred—Charity and Brother David will be wed. They have in common not only their devotion to a madman but their invincible stupidity. Some persons cannot