Lion in the Valley by Elizabeth Peters

you—"
    "How
can you —"
    We
were both out of breath by then and had to pause to take in oxygen. Then
Emerson said cheerfully, "You were quite right, Peabody; this parcel is
one I remember and it does indeed contain a new teakettle, which I purchased in
the suk. I seemed to recall that the kettle of last season had become sadly
dented after I used it to kill a cobra."
    "It
was clever of you to think of it, Emerson. I confess that the incident of the
cobra had quite slipped my mind. What is in this last parcel?"
    "I
have no idea. Perhaps it contains some of the things we left Abdullah to pack
and bring here from Mazghunah."
    He
had taken out his pocket knife and was cutting the cords binding the parcel
that contained the kettle. The merchants in the bazaar knew only two styles of
packing—one used no string at all, so that the parcel fell apart in transit;
the other employed vast quantities of heavy rope even when the parcel was only
to be carried a few yards. The package I was inspecting was of
the second variety, and I had to borrow Emerson's knife to undo it.
    He
unpacked the kettle and some pots and pans, and turned to put them on the
table.
    "Emerson,"
I said. "Look here."
    In
a flash Emerson was at my side. He knows every tone of my voice, and on this
occasion the few simple words quivered with the intensity of the inexpressible
sensations that filled me.
    "What
is it, Peabody?" He looked into the box. I had pushed aside the top layer
of straw. The curved sides of the vessel within gleamed in the lamplight with a
soft luster.
    Emerson
reached for it. With a shriek I caught his arm and clung to it. "No,
Emerson! Watch out!"
    "What
the devil, Peabody, it is only an old pot. A pot made of..." His breath
caught. "Silver?"
    "It
is not the vessel itself I fear, but what may be concealed in the straw. A
scorpion, a snake, a poisonous spider ... Where are your gloves—the heavy work
gloves?"
    For
a wonder they were where they were supposed to be, in the pocket of his coat.
When I started to draw on the gloves, he took them from me, and performed the
task himself. I was in a perfect quiver of apprehension until he had removed
the last of the objects from the container. He then overturned it, spilling the
packing material onto the floor.
    "No
spiders, no snakes," he remarked, shoving the straw about with his booted
toe. "Obviously you are in possession of information I lack, Peabody.
Would you care to explain why you expected a shipment of venomous animals, and
how you came into possession of what appear to be antique vessels of... antique
vessels ... No. No! I don't believe it. Don't tell me—"
    "Obviously
I needn't tell you," I replied. Normally I am tolerant of Emerson's little
fits of temper, for they relieve an excess of spleen; but this situation was too
serious for theatrics. A sense, not of fear but of awe, as in the presence of
something larger and more powerful than myself, stole over me. "These are
indeed the communion vessels stolen from the church of Sitt Miriam at Dronkeh.
Stolen by that villain, that wretch, that consummate master of evil, that
genius of crime ..."
    I
waited for him to voice an objection to the words he knew I was about to use,
but he was incapable of speech. Flushed of countenance, bulging as to his
eyeballs, he continued to stare at me in silence, and I concluded, "None
other than—the Master Criminal!"
    Four
    E merson
had never seen the famous communion vessels, since he has a constitutional
aversion to organized religion and refuses to enter a church, mosque, or
synagogue. He had to take my word for it, but even if he had presumed to doubt
my identification, the conclusion would have been forced upon him. The vessels
taken from the church at Dronkeh had been valuable antiques, centuries old.
There could not be many such sets of objects hanging about, as Emerson glumly
and vulgarly expressed it.
    "But
why return them?" he demanded.