The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [50]
“Oh, yes, gladly.” It was the first time the girl had ventured to speak. Her voice was as soft as a breeze sighing through the leaves. And the look she gave young David spoke louder than words.
“No,” I said.
“No?” Ezekiel repeated.
“No.”
When I employ a certain tone and accompany it with a certain look, it is a brave man who dares contradict me. Brother Ezekiel was not a brave man. If he had been, his companion’s sense of fitness would have intervened.
“We will take our leave then,” he said with a graceful bow. “I hope our offer has not been misinterpreted.”
“Not at all. It has only been declined. With thanks, of course.”
“Humph,” said Brother Ezekiel. “All right, then, if that’s how you want it. Good-bye. I will see you in church on Sunday.”
It was a statement, not a question, so I did not reply. “And your servant too,” Ezekiel continued, glancing in a meaningful way at the partially open door. “We make nothing of the social distinctions you Britishers believe in. To us all men are brothers in the eyes of the Lord. The young man will be heartily welcome.”
I took Brother Ezekiel by the arm and escorted him out of the house.
As I watched them ride away, the girl a modest distance behind the two men, such indignation flooded my being that I stamped my foot—a frustrating gesture in that region, since the sand muffled the sound. The wretched pastor was not only a religious bigot and a crude boor, he was no better than a panderer for his god. Seeing John’s interest in Charity, he meant to make use of it in winning a convert. I almost wished Emerson had been there, to take the wretch by the collar and throw him out the door.
I described the encounter later to my husband as we sat before the door enjoying the magnificent display of sunset colors across the amber desert sands. Ramses was some distance away, still digging. He had amassed quite a sizable heap of potsherds and bones. The cat Bastet lay beside him. From time to time her whiskers quivered as the scent of roasting chicken from the kitchen reached her nostrils.
To my annoyance Emerson gave me scant sympathy. “It serves you right, Amelia. I told you you were too polite to that fellow.”
“Nonsense. If you had met the Reverend Ezekiel Jones, you would realize that neither courtesy nor rudeness affects him in the slightest.”
“Then,” said Emerson coolly, “you should have drawn your pistol and ordered him to leave.”
I adjusted the weapon in question. “You don’t understand the situation, Emerson. I foresee trouble ahead. The girl is infatuated with young David, and John—our John—has taken a fancy to her. It is a classic triangle, Emerson.”
“Hardly a triangle,” said Emerson, with one of those coarse masculine snickers. “Unless the pretty young man takes a fancy to—”
“Emerson!”
“To someone else,” Emerson concluded, with a guilty look at Ramses. “Amelia, as usual you are letting your rampageous imagination run away with you. Now that your detectival instincts have been frustrated, by my removing you from the scene of Abd el Atti’s death, you are inventing romantic intrigues. Why can’t you confine your energies to the work that awaits us here? Forgo your fantasies, I beg. They are all in your own head.”
Ramses glanced up from his digging. “John,” he remarked, “is in de house reading de Bible.”
vi
Alas, Ramses was correct. John was reading the Bible, and he continued to spend a great deal of his spare time in this depressing pursuit. The rest of his spare time was employed in mooning around the village (the expression is Emerson’s) in hopes of catching a glimpse of his love. When he came back with a light step and an idiotic smile on his face I knew he had seen Charity; when he tramped heavily, looking as if his dog had died, I knew his vigil had been unrewarded.
The morning after the visit of the missionaries we completed our preliminary survey of the site. Its total length was about four miles, from the village of Bernasht to a line approximately half a mile south of the Bent Pyramid of Dahshoor. We found traces of many small