A River in the Sky Read online

  We went straight upstairs to my room, and I asked Daoud to tell David to join us for tea. It was early, but the skies were so dark and the rain was falling so heavily, I felt the familiar ritual would cheer us.

  It certainly cheered the reverend, who, of course, accompanied David. Watching him tuck into biscuits and scones, I wondered how he could eat so much and retain his willowy figure.

  I had intended to steam the letters open, but the others came too soon and Nefret ignored my hints that she change her damp clothing. Under other circumstances I might have opened them anyhow and braved Emerson’s loud complaints; however, I had a difficult task ahead of me persuading him to go along with my plans. A further source of aggravation might render him even more recalcitrant.

  A considerable noise in the corridor finally betokened the arrival of Selim and Emerson. Emerson’s primary source of complaint appeared to be the weather. Flinging the door open, he continued without interruption: “…ridiculous for this time of year. The rains do not come on until November.”

  “God works in mysterious ways.” Plato piped up.

  Emerson gave him an awful look. He and Selim were both drenched. Emerson had, naturally, insisted on walking the entire way instead of searching for a covered conveyance or waiting until the heaviest of the rain stopped. Nefret hurried to him and helped him out of his coat. She hung it over the back of a chair, where it continued to drip distractingly for the next hour.

  David took Selim off to his room and persuaded him to change into one of his dressing gowns; Emerson divested himself of his boots and wrung out the bottoms of his trousers, which he declined to change. I knew he would not catch cold. He never did. I rang for more tea. The arrival of the genial beverage and a further supply of bread-and-butter sandwiches put Emerson in a better frame of mind.

  Comparatively better, that is. Fixing me with a critical look, he declared, “Selim and I will probably catch pneumonia, Peabody, and all for nothing.”

  It had occurred to me, after I sent them off, that it probably would be for nothing. The War Office would not risk sending information by telegraph. It had also occurred to me that Emerson must have worked out some covert means of communication with MO2. He certainly had not bothered to mention it to me. Why hadn’t I sat him down and interrogated him? I ought to have made one of my little lists. The answer was now plain to me, and I realized I ought to have anticipated it. Emerson would never of his own free will have selected a temperance hotel.

  Controlling my understandable vexation, I replied in moderate tones. “The message came here, to the hotel, Emerson. May I ask why you did not tell me that was the arrangement?”

  I held out the envelope.

  Emerson snatched it and inspected it carefully. “I didn’t tell you because it was none of…Er, hmmm. Well, where else could it have been sent, to be certain of delivery?”

  He gave me another look, reminding me that the others were still in the dark about our connection with the War Office, and it was obviously preferable that it should stay that way.

  “Were you expecting a particular message?” Nefret asked, stressing the adjective.

  Emerson rose nobly to the occasion. “I have been expecting the firman—our permission from the Sublime Porte to excavate at Siloam.” He ripped open the envelope and withdrew a document even more impressive than its container, edged in gold and covered with blobs of red sealing wax. “And here it is,” he concluded triumphantly.

  “Emerson,” I said, forestalling further questions, “you really must change out of those damp trousers. Will the rest of you please excuse us?”

  “We haven’t decided what we are going to do tomorrow,” Nefret protested.

  “We will discuss it later, when we meet for dinner. Now run along.”

  I got them all out the door, closed it, and leaned against it, sighing. Keeping the lot of them under control had begun to tax even my powers.

  “What are we going to do tomorrow?” Emerson inquired.

  “We may find the answer here.” I took the second envelope from my pocket. I felt sure Nefret had not forgotten about it, but my dictatorial manner had prevented her from pursuing the subject. She was certain to bring it up again, however, and we had to have a plausible reply ready.

  “Hmph,” said Emerson, taking the envelope. “Hand-delivered. I wonder who—”

  “Open it!”

  The envelope contained a single sheet of paper. The message had been printed in block letters. I read it over Emerson’s shoulder.

  “Send pomegranates Glasgow. Humboldt seeking Siberian lettuce v.I.”

  “Code,” I said.

  “What did you expect? ‘Morley is a German spy, we told you so, now find proof’?”

  “Is that what it says?”

  “I rather doubt it,” said Emerson, holding the paper close to the lamp.

  “You do have the key, don’t you?” With an effort I kept my voice calm.

  “Certainly. It is a simple substitution code, almost impossible to decipher without the key, since the substitutions are arbitrary and not susceptible to the—”

  “Where is it?”

  “What? Oh,” said Emerson, recognizing in my measured tone signs that an explosion might be imminent. “In my head, of course. They made me memorize it before I left the office. One doesn’t carry such—”

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Um,” said Emerson, squinting at the paper. “Er. Most of it.”

  “Oh, bah,” I cried. “If that isn’t just like a man! Men, I should say—you and that pompous fool General Spencer. He believes no mere female should be trusted with classified information, and you—don’t tell me, you gave your word to remain silent, didn’t you?” In my agitation I jumped up and began pacing back and forth across the room. “It is my own fault,” I said bitterly. “I ought to have questioned you. But I trusted you, Emerson, I trusted you to confide in me.”

  Emerson intercepted me and caught me in a close embrace. “Peabody, my love, you are right to reproach me. I was a fool. It will never happen again, I promise.”

  It is unusual to see Emerson in a penitent mood. I find him much more persuasive when he is in one of his rages, sapphirine eyes narrowed, heavy brows drawn together, teeth bared. However, I did not suppose his conciliatory mood would last, and his embraces have a softening effect, even when, as in this case, he was squeezing the breath out of me. I indicated with a gesture that such was the case, and Emerson relaxed his grip.

  “My love,” he began.

  “I accept your apology, Emerson. Now let us see how much you remember of the code.”

  Emerson has what I believe is called a selective memory. He can recall minute details of particular excavations but is likely to forget where he left his hat. Since he was scarcely more interested in codes and ciphers and spies than he was in the location of his hat, I did not suppose he had made much of an effort to remember the key. However, with the proper prodding, he might be prevailed upon to dredge up enough detail to interpret this particular message.

  It was not really a very ingenious code. Perhaps in order to make it easier to remember, the inventor had used proper names for other proper names and verbs for other verbs. Once Emerson had recollected that “send” stood for “proceed” and “seeking” for “made contact” it was childishly easy to interpret the gist of the message. “Glasgow” had to be “Jerusalem” that was our agreed-upon destination, after all. Prodded by me, Emerson admitted that “Siberian” was a not too clever substitution for “German.”

  “So ‘lettuce,’” I said, “must stand for ‘spy’ or ‘agent.’”

  “That is right,” Emerson exclaimed. “I remember now. How did you know?”

  “Because the War Office is obsessed with German spies. Humboldt, of course, is Morley. Why Humboldt, I wonder? Really, one could almost anticipate their instructions without any written orders at all. We are left with only two unknowns. I would hazard a guess that ‘pomegranates’ is an adverb�
��‘immediately’ or ‘posthaste.’ What about ‘v.I.’?”

  “Any ideas?” Emerson inquired hopefully.

  “Nothing occurs to you?”

  Emerson fingered the dimple, or cleft, in his chin. “Honestly, Peabody, it strikes no chord whatsoever. Thanks to your intelligent reminders I now recall a good many other words—Dutch for British, Norwegian for French, Julius for Wilhelm—”

  “Caesar for Kaiser,” I said contemptuously. “Why on earth would Kaiser Wilhelm need to be mentioned?”

  “Well, one never knows what the old buzzard will be up to next,” said Emerson. He proceeded to reel off several dozen other words and their code equivalents, which I immediately committed to memory, knowing that Emerson would probably have forgotten them next day. However, try as he might, he was unable to interpret the final, unknown word.

  “It could mean anything,” I said. “A place name in Jerusalem, a day of the week. In any case, the instructions are clear. We are to proceed immediately to Jerusalem because Morley has been in contact with someone the War Office believes to be a German agent—although precisely what they expect us to do about it I cannot imagine. If this rain lets up we should be able to leave tomorrow.”

  “You mean, then, to abandon our son?” Emerson’s manly tones were tremulous with reproach.

  I repeated the arguments I had used with Nefret. The one that finally convinced Emerson was the last—that we might endanger Ramses by going openly in search of him.

  “We cannot be certain that he is held prisoner,” I concluded. “Ramses may have had some obscure motive for using a woman’s handkerchief—his motives are often obscure—or someone may have added it without his knowledge.”

  “For equally obscure motives,” Emerson grumbled.

  “I can think of at least two that are not obscure to me.”

  “That does not surprise me in the least.” After a moment, Emerson added, “What are they?”

  “Time is getting on,” I said, rising. “Nefret will be pounding on the door before long, demanding to know what we intend to do. Are you and I agreed? We must present a united front, since I expect protests from both Nefret and David.”

  “I suppose so,” said Emerson glumly.

  “I think we have time for a little sip of whiskey,” I suggested. “It was clever of you, my dear, to think of bringing several bottles.”

  A little compliment, I always say, smooths over small disagreements. (The whiskey was no deterrent either.) Emerson cheered up and even agreed to change his trousers before Nefret, as I had predicted, knocked emphatically at our door.

  “You haven’t changed for dinner,” I said.

  “Neither have you.” She settled herself into a chair and gave me a challenging look. “Is that whiskey? May I have some?”

  Except for wine and sherry before dinner, Nefret seldom touched alcoholic beverages. On this occasion I saw no reason to deny her request. It might put her in a more pliable mood.

  The others soon joined us and we returned to the café where we had lunched. The rain had stopped and the air smelled clean and fresh. Once we were seated I made my announcements, since I believe in taking the bull by the horns—or, as Emerson had once expressed it, riding roughshod over objections.

  “We are leaving for Jerusalem first thing tomorrow morning. I will make arrangements for travel this evening. There is a good carriage road, but if anyone would prefer to ride we can hire horses. Selim, I am sure you would rather do that. In fact, I would appreciate it if you would take charge of selecting the beasts. Nefret, what about you?”

  “I too would prefer to ride,” Nefret said quietly.

  “And I,” said David.

  “And you, Mr. Plato?” I asked, expecting I would have to explain what I was talking about.

  “I have not bestrode a beast since that memorable day on the road to Damascus,” Plato replied. “It was not a horse, of course. A dear little donkey.”

  Emerson decided he too would ride if he could find a steed up to his weight, so after we had returned to the hotel I left the others to make the necessary arrangements and went to my room to pack.

  The sun was setting and lingering clouds darkened the west; even after I had lighted the lamps the room was gloomy and dismal. It had to have been the War Office that had selected this particular hotel; it could not have been recommended by any fastidious traveler.

  Another idea came to me then, and I let out a little expletive of annoyance. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I had had a good deal on my mind, but that was no excuse. I usually have a great deal on my mind.

  Picking up my handbag and my parasol, I hurried back to the lobby. Mr. Boniface was not behind the desk. Under interrogation the clerk on duty admitted he was in his office and indicated the door to that room.

  I did not knock. Boniface had his feet on his desk, a cigar in one hand and a glass of amber liquid in the other. My unexpected appearance caused him to drop the cigar and spill a considerable quantity of the liquid onto his shirtfront.

  “What a hypocrite you are,” I said. “Swilling liquor in your office while refusing to supply it in this temperance hotel of yours. Are you also an agent of the British government?”

  The question made his eyes widen even more. His mustache vibrated with agitation. “Good God,” he gasped. “Mrs. Emerson—please…don’t say such things! Not with the door standing open!”

  I closed the door and took a chair. “Confess, Mr. Boniface. What are you afraid of? We are on the same side, I believe. If I am correct, and I am certain I am, your hotel is a communication center for agents working in this region. Really,” I added vexedly, as Boniface continued to gape stupidly at me, “this cursed obsession with secrecy is a confounded nuisance. The time may come when I will need to use that system of communication. Who gave you the code message you passed on to me today?”

  Boniface took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “You’ve got it all wrong, Mrs. Emerson. That is…Yes, I do receive and pass on messages. But that is all I do! I don’t know names. I don’t want to know them. That is the truth, I swear.”

  “You didn’t know the man who delivered that message?”

  “Never saw him before in my life. Dressed like a pilgrim—spectacles, dark suit, clerical collar. But he gave me the sign, so I knew he was—”

  “Sign? What sign?”

  Solemnly Boniface pinched the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger and wriggled it back and forth. He looked perfectly ridiculous, with his bulging eyes and perspiring brow.

  “Ah,” I said. “That could come in useful. Though it seems to me a rather unsafe signal. It might be made by chance.”

  “It’s the number of times that matters,” Boniface said. He seemed almost relieved to have unburdened himself. “Back and forth, back and forth. Twice, no more.”

  “I see. Thank you, Mr. Boniface, for your cooperation. I believe you know we are leaving in the morning. I may or may not see you again.”

  I deduced, from Boniface’s expression, he hoped the second alternative was the correct one.

  I had almost finished my (and Emerson’s) packing when he returned to announce that the arrangements had been made.

  “According to Selim, the horses are a poor lot, but Nefret says they are healthy enough.”

  “Selim’s standards are high,” I remarked. “And he prefers to believe nothing in this country is the equal of what Egypt can provide. I trust the others have gone to their rooms to pack?”

  “Yes.” Emerson flung himself into an armchair and took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. Then he burst out, “I am worried about Nefret.”

  “What has she done?”

  “Nothing! That is what worries me. I expected her to complain, protest, object. It’s unnatural, Peabody.”

  “Not at all, my dear. You know my methods. Once again they have proved to be effective. She has seen reason and will not try to run off by herself.”

  My judgment was correct. When we gathered
in the gray light of dawn, Nefret was present. David was not.

  Chapter Five

  David was never late.

  Turning on Mr. Plato, I cried, “Where is he? Was he still in your room when you left it?”

  The reverend took a step back. “What is the matter, Mrs. Emerson?”

  I had not the patience to deal with him then. I hastened up the stairs, with Emerson close on my heels.

  The room David and the reverend had shared was unoccupied. Both beds were unmade; David’s two suitcases stood against the wall. It was Emerson who saw the piece of paper pinned to the pillow of his bed.

  “I beg you will refrain from mentioning hideous forebodings, Peabody,” he remarked.

  Wringing my hands, I cried, “I had none, Emerson. Would that I had! I ought to have had! Let me see that.”

  Emerson held it away from me. “I will read it to you. Sit down and get a grip on yourself.”

  Characteristically, the note began with an apology.

  “‘Forgive me for going against your expressed wishes and neglecting the duty I owe you, but there is another duty that must come first. I do not believe Ramses would neglect his responsibilities so cavalierly. He is in trouble, and I must find him. I think I have found a way to do that without endangering him. I am the only one who can.’”

  “Is that all?” I demanded.

  “It is quite enough, I believe.” Emerson folded the note and put it in his coat pocket.

  Regretting my temporary loss of calm, I made a hasty inspection of David’s suitcases. The wardrobe was empty; he had packed all his belongings, ready for us to take with us. So far as I could tell, he had taken only a small valise, toilet articles, and a change of clothing with him.

  Emerson carried the suitcases downstairs and handed them to Daoud, instructing him to place them with the rest of our luggage. Daoud obeyed without comment, his broad brow furrowed.

  The reverend broke off his sotto voce rendition of what sounded like a hymn. “Shall we have breakfast now?” he asked.

  I was tempted to take him by the collar and shake him, but I refrained. “When did David leave?” I asked.