The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [66]
“Oh yes, madam. There was another service in the evening. Sister Charity sang divinely that touching ’ymn, ‘Washed in the blood of the Lamb.’”
“And was it a good dinner?”
“Oh yes, madam. Sister Charity is a good cook.”
I recognized one of the symptoms of extreme infatuation—the need to repeat the name of the beloved at frequent intervals. “I hope you are not thinking of being converted, John. You know Professor Emerson won’t stand for it.”
The old John would have burst into protestations of undying loyalty. The new, corrupted John looked grave. “I would give me life’s blood for the professor, madam. The day he caught me trying to steal ’is watch in front of the British Museum he saved me from a life of sin and vice. I will never forget his kindness in punching me in the jaw and ordering me to accompany him to Kent, when any other gentleman would ’ave ’ad me taken in charge.”
His lips quivered as he spoke. I gave him a friendly pat on the arm. “You certainly could not have continued your career as a pickpocket much longer, John. Considering your conspicuous size and your—if you will forgive me for mentioning it—your growing clumsiness, you were bound to be caught.”
“Growing is the word, madam. You wouldn’t believe what a small, agile nipper I was when I took up the trade. But that is all in the past, thank ’eaven.”
“And Professor Emerson.”
“And the professor. Yet, madam, though I revere him and would, as I mentioned, shed the last drop of blood in me body for him, or you, or Master Ramses, I cannot endanger me soul for any mortal creature. A man’s conscience is—”
“Rubbish,” I said. “If you must quote, John, quote Scripture. It has a literary quality, at least, that Brother Ezekiel’s pronouncements lack.”
John removed his hat and scratched his head. “It does ’ave that, madam. Sometimes I wish as ’ow it didn’t ’ave so much. But I’m determined to fight me way through the Good Book, madam, no matter ’ow long it takes.”
“How far have you got?”
“Leviticus,” said John with a deep sigh. “Genesis and Exodus wasn’t so bad, they tore right along most of the time. But Leviticus will be my downfall, madam.”
“Skip over it,” I suggested sympathetically.
“Oh no, madam, I can’t do that.”
A wordless shout from my husband, some little distance away, recalled me to my duties, and I indicated to John that we would begin photographing. Scarcely had I inserted the plate in the camera, however, when I realized Emerson’s hail had been designed to draw my attention to an approaching rider. High blue-and-white striped robe ballooning out in the wind, he rode directly to me and fell off the donkey. Gasping theatrically, he handed me a note and then collapsed facedown in the sand.
Since the donkey had been doing all the work, I ignored this demonstration. While John bent over the fallen man with expressions of concern I opened the note.
The writer was obviously another frustrated thespian. There was no salutation or signature, but the passionate and scarcely legible scrawl could only have been penned by one person of my acquaintance. “Come to me at once,” it read. “Disaster, ruin, destruction!”
With my toe I nudged the fallen messenger, who seemed to have fallen into a refreshing sleep. “Have you come from the German lady?” I asked.
The man rolled over and sat up, none the worse for wear. He nodded vigorously. “She sends for you, Sitt Hakim, and for Emerson Effendi.”
“What has happened? Is the lady injured?”
The messenger was scarcely more coherent than the message. I was still endeavoring to get some sense out of him when Emerson came up. I handed him the note and explained the situation. “We had better go, Emerson.”
“Not I,” said Emerson.
“It isn’t necessary for both of us to respond,” I agreed. “Do you take charge of the photography while I—”
“Curse it, Peabody,” Emerson cried. “Will