Free A River in the Sky by Elizabeth Peters Page A

wished to gain possession of the scroll.”
    “It all depends on his word,” Emerson protested. “The word of a man who is not in full possession of his senses.”
    “Not entirely,” I said. “Emerson, did you ever bother to look at that brochure Major Morley brought with him?”
    “Why should I have done so? It was pure fiction.”
    “What did you do with it?”
    After excavating in the pile of papers on his desk, Emerson located the pamphlet. We perused it together. A good deal of it did sound like pure fiction—for instance, Morley’s grandiose claim that he knew the precise location, within ten feet, of the temple treasure.
    “Why ten feet, I wonder?” I said.
    “It is a good round random number,” said Emerson, with a curl of his lip. “He does not supply precise information.”
    “One could hardly expect him to disclose the location,” I said fairly.
    “You are leaning over backward to be reasonable, Peabody. Look at this photograph, which purports to be that of the notorious scroll. It looks to me like a large knockwurst which has been chewed by mice.”
    “The photograph is somewhat unfocused,” I admitted.
    “And here,” said Emerson, reading on, “are the comments of the so-called experts Morley mentioned. Do you recognize any of the names or organizations?”
    “They all appear to be foreign. ‘Le Société Biblique, Marseilles…’”
    “He made them up,” said Emerson. “They might impress possible donors who are unfamiliar with the field and who wouldn’t bother investigating them. Good Gad, the gullibility of the human race never ceases to astound me. Look at some of the names on this list of contributors. Hardheaded businessmen, some of them, who ought to know better.”
    “When emotion supersedes reason, my dear, gullibility must follow. The subject is dear to the hearts of many true believers.”
    “Bah,” said Emerson, dismissing the subject. “What are we going to do about Papapagopolous?”
    “Our obvious course is to communicate with Major Morley. In my opinion we ought to have done so before this.”
    At my suggestion we dispatched telegrams both to his flat in Mayfair and his club. Not until the next day did we receive a reply from the latter source. “Major Morley sailed on Tuesday last. Forwarding address, the Augusta Victoria Hospice, Jerusalem.”

Chapter Three
    Pacing up and down the drawing room, waving the telegram, Emerson ranted and cursed until I interrupted his tirade with a timely reminder.
    “Why should the War Office inform you of Morley’s departure? They would have no excuse for detaining him, and you had already informed them that he was not a German agent.”
    “I had also informed them that I was prepared to follow the bastard to Palestine, sacrificing my own plans—”
    “What plans? You didn’t have any.”
    Emerson’s response was to snatch up his coat and dash out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Seconds later I heard the front door slam.
    I knew where he was going—straight up to London by the first train—and why he had departed so precipitately—in order to prevent me from accompanying him. I could only hope that by the time he arrived he would have calmed down enough to be sensible.
    I would not have wished to go in any case. Shouting at General Spencer would be a waste of time and breath, and I had too many other things to think about.
    We hadn’t heard a word from Ramses, though I had sent a series of letters to him and Reisner, each more emphatic than the last. I tried to tell myself that my son’s dilatory habits and the uncertain state of postal delivery in the region were probably responsible for his silence, but in my heart of hearts, doubt lingered. I knew my son only too well.
    The reverend was an additional source of concern. What were we to do with him? He appeared to be quite happy to remain with us; when I asked, in my tactful fashion, if his family and friends might not be worrying about him, he had replied he