The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [28]
“I don’t want to know him, or talk about him,” said Emerson. “Well, Sayce, what do you make of Mrs. Emerson’s fragment?”
“It is a difficult text,” Sayce said slowly. “I can read the proper names—they are Greek—”
“Didymus Thomas,” I said.
“I congratulate you on your understanding, Mrs. Emerson. I am sure you also noted this ligature, which is the abbreviation for the name of Jesus.”
I smiled modestly. Emerson snorted. “A biblical text? That’s all the Copts ever wrote, curse them—copies of Scripture and boring lies about the saints. Who was Didymus Thomas?”
“The apostle, one presumes,” said the reverend.
“Doubting Thomas?” Emerson grinned. “The only apostle with an ounce of sense. I always liked old Thomas.”
Sayce frowned. “‘Blessed are they who have not seen and who have believed,’” he quoted.
“Well, what else could the man say?” Emerson demanded. “I admit he knew how to turn a phrase—if he ever existed, which is questionable.”
Sayce’s wispy goatee quivered with outrage. “If that is your view, Professor, this scrap can be of little interest to you.”
“Not at all.” Emerson plucked it from the reverend’s hand. “I shall keep it as a memento of my favorite apostle. Really, Sayce, you are no better than the other bandits in my profession, trying to steal my discoveries.”
Mr. Wilberforce loudly announced that it was time to go. Emerson continued to talk, expressing a series of opinions calculated to infuriate the Reverend Sayce. They ranged from his doubts as to the historicity of Christ to his poor opinion of Christian missionaries. “The effrontery of the villains,” he exclaimed, referring to the latter. “What business have they forcing their narrow-minded prejudices on Muslims? In its pure form the faith of Islam is as good as any other religion—which is to say, not very good, but…”
Wilberforce finally drew his affronted friend away, but not before the reverend got off a final shot. “I wish you luck with your ‘pyramids,’ Professor. And I am sure you will enjoy your neighbors at Mazghunah.”
“What do you suppose he meant by that?” Emerson demanded as the two walked off, Wilberforce’s tall form towering over that of his slighter friend.
“We will find out in due course, I suppose.”
Those were my precise words. I recall them well. Had I but known under what hideous circumstances they would recur to me, like the slow tolling of a funeral bell, a premonitory shudder would have rippled through my limbs. But it did not.
After looking in on Ramses and finding him wrapped in innocent slumber, with the cat asleep at his feet, Emerson proposed that we seek our own couch.
“Have you forgotten our assignation?” I inquired.
“I hoped that you had,” Emerson replied. “Abd el Atti is not expecting us, Amelia. He only said that to get rid of you.”
“Nonsense, Emerson. When the muezzin calls from the minaret at midnight—”
“He will do no such thing. You ought to know better, Amelia. There is no midnight call to prayer. Daybreak, midday, mid-afternoon, sunset and nightfall—those are the prescribed times of salah for faithful Muslims.”
He was quite correct. I cannot imagine why the fact had slipped my mind. Rallying from my momentary chagrin, I said, “But surely I have sometimes heard a muezzin call in the night.”
“Oh yes, sometimes. Religious fervor is apt to seize the devout at odd times. But one cannot predict such occasions. Depend on it, Amelia, the old scoundrel won’t be at his shop.”
“We can’t be certain of that.”
Emerson stamped his foot. “Curse it, Amelia, you are the most stubborn woman of my acquaintance. Let us compromise—if that word is in your vocabulary.”
I folded my arms. “Propose your compromise.”
“We’ll sit on the terrace for another hour or so. If we hear a call to prayer, from any mosque within earshot, we will go to the Khan el Khaleel. If by half past twelve we have heard nothing, we will go to bed.”
Emerson had come up with a sensible suggestion. The plan was precisely what I had been about to propose, for after all, we could not start out for the shop until we had