A River in the Sky

I had not expected him to come to the point quite so suddenly. The point being, in this case, the iniquities of Major Morley, which, I was somewhat embarrassed to recall, we had promised to end. I was trying to think of a way to get round the embarrassing fact that so far we had been unable to do so, when Emerson said, “If you are referring to Major Morley, the problem is in hand and will soon be resolved to our mutual satisfaction. Ours, not his.”

“How soon?” Mr. Page demanded.

“Within forty-eight hours.”

“That would certainly be a relief,” said Glazebrook. “If I may say so, Page and his associates have been driving me-er, that is to say…”

“My husband’s word is his bond,” I said, wondering what the devil Emerson was up to. His ordinary way of dealing with difficulties like Morley was to threaten, harass, and, if necessary, physically remove them. So far as I knew he hadn’t been anywhere near Morley in recent days.

“That is not why I asked you gentlemen here,” I said. “David, did you bring your sketching pad and pencils?”

“As you asked, Aunt Amelia.”

David opened his sketch pad to a page that bore an excellent likeness of Plato Panagopolous, as he had appeared in death.

“Very good,” I said. “Now, David, take your pencils, remove his beard and give him a full head of fair hair.”

“Good Gad,” said Emerson. “He looks entirely different. I had no idea a thick head of hair could alter a person’s appearance so drastically.” He ran his hand complacently over his own black locks.

“He shaved his cranium,” I said. “I noticed the stubble when I examined him after he was attacked on the street, and then I remembered he was careful to wear a hat whenever he could. It was a clear indication that he needed to disguise himself from someone here in Jerusalem who might recognize him in his earlier incarnation. He was conspicuously absent when we visited you, Mr. Page. Do you recognize him?”

“I cannot say that I do,” Mr. Page admitted.

“Then he had another reason for being elsewhere that day. Mr. Glazebrook?”

Glazebrook’s eyes had opened wide. “Good heavens, yes! Though I might not have known him as Papapa-er-”

“Panagopolous,” I said.

“Herbert Jenkins,” the consul exclaimed. “That was the name under which I knew him two years ago, when I had the pleasure of expelling him from Palestine. He had been the subject of innumerable complaints from tourists he had swindled by selling them faked antiquities, but it was not until he seduced a young native girl that I found sufficient grounds for diplomatic action. He went willingly, in fact, since the girl’s family was after his blood and his only hope was to leave the country.”

“I doubt we will be able to trace his subsequent movements,” I said. “Since he was in the habit of changing his appearance as well as his name. We must assume, however, that he ended up in Greece, where he encountered the original Plato Panagopolous and realized that that unfortunate man’s wild theories could provide him with the means for a new swindle, one that suited his knowledge of and interest in antiquities.”

“Are you saying he murdered the poor fellow?” Emerson demanded.

“We may never know. In a way, Jenkins is a tragic figure; had he but turned his talents to honest labor he might have been an authority in the field of biblical history. His memory was phenomenal, his ingenuity superb. The inscription he produced when you challenged him to reproduce part of his scroll was a copy of the inscription found in the Siloam tunnel. It is now in Constantinople and has been reproduced in various books.”

“How do you know that?” Emerson demanded skeptically.

“I showed it to Ramses.”

“Oh,” said Emerson.

“At any rate, Jenkins has received his just deserts. I do not doubt that the girl he seduced was not the first or the last. A man of base appetites and no morals, he may have pursued other victims during the hours he was not in our company. Finally he became careless. The vengeance of an outraged parent or betrothed caught up with him. Let us hope it occurred before this poor girl was ruined, like Ghada.”

“Like who?” Emerson said in bewilderment.

He can never remember the servants’ names, but in this case I couldn’t blame him. She had not been often in his presence. Nefret remembered, though.

“Ghada? Do you mean that Plato”-she choked on the name-“was her seducer?”

“Herbert Jenkins,” I corrected. “I rather think so. The baby is fair-skinned, and you recall Plato’s behavior when he saw her. He fled precipitately and never came here with us again. He knew he could not count on his disguise rendering him unrecognizable, for the eyes of love-or hate-are not easily deceived.”

“Hate, surely,” Nefret muttered. “He took me in completely, Aunt Amelia. We must do something for Ghada.”

“We will discuss it later, Nefret.”

Which we did, as soon as the gentlemen had left. I had, of course, considered the problem of Ghada and arrived at a solution, which I proposed at once.