Lion in the Valley by Elizabeth Peters Page A

Then his expression lightened.
"Wait—wait, Peabody, I have it. The thief was not your cursed Master
Criminal, but an amateur who yielded to a sudden temptation, hoping the theft
would be blamed on the Master Criminal. He has repented, and has returned
them."
    "To
us? Were that the case, Emerson, the repentant thief would have
returned the objects to the church. It is a challenge from our old adversary,
Emerson; it can be nothing else."
    "Peabody,
I thoroughly dislike your trick of selecting one theory out of a plethora of
them and loudly proclaiming it to be the only possible solution. My explanation
makes as much sense as yours."
    Upon
further discussion, Emerson was forced to agree that the parcel must have been
among those brought with us from Cairo. Its neat style of wrapping would have
stood out like a sore thumb in the things Abdullah had caused to be transported
from Mazghunah, for Abdullah's notion of packing was to throw everything into a
sack and toss it over the back of a donkey.
    We
further agreed that it would be the simplest thing in the world for someone to
slip the parcel in among the others Emerson had ordered from the bazaar. One of
the hotel safragi's duties was to take deliveries and place them in our room,
and there was no reason why he would have taken special notice of any
particular parcel.
    "Quite
true," I said thoughtfully. "And yet, Emerson, I have a strange
feeling about that parcel. I cannot tell you how I know, but I am convinced
that the Master Criminal delivered it himself. That we were under observation
all that day; that our departure from the hotel was noted; that had we been
present, we would have seen a man stroll calmly along the corridor, parcel in
hand, eluding the safragi—who is, as you know, sound asleep most of the
time—entering our room, placing his parcel among the others—pausing to gloat
over our discomfiture and our bewilderment..."
    "Your
intuition tells you so, I presume," said Emerson, with a halfhearted
sneer.
    "Something
other than intuition. What it is I cannot say... Ah, I have it!" I
snatched up the discarded wrappings and turned them over in my hand. Yes, there
it was; I had not imagined it—a spot of what appeared to be grease or fat, as
large as the palm of my hand. I raised it to my nostrils and sniffed. "I
knew it!" I cried in triumph. "Here, Emerson, smell for
yourself."
    Emerson
shied back as I held the paper to his face. "Good Gad, Amelia—"
    "Smell
it. Just there, the spot of grease. Well?"
    "Well,
it is animal fat of some kind," Emerson grumbled. "Mutton or chicken.
What is so significant about that? These people are not given to the use of
knives and forks, they eat with their fingers and..." Then his face changed,
and I knew that his intelligence, equal to my own, had arrived at the same
conclusion. I also knew he was too stubborn to admit it.
    "Chicken
fat," I said. "No wonder the cat Bastet refused the meat Ramses
brought from Mena House. She had been stuffed with chicken. Emerson, that
villain—that remarkable, clever wretch—has seduced our cat!"
    Emerson
did not dispute my deduction. He ridiculed it, he derided it, he scoffed at it.
He kept this up even after we had retired. Our mattresses had been placed side
by side atop the roof. The cool breeze, the soft moonlight, the exquisite but
indescribable scent of the desert—even the smell of donkey droppings, wafting
from the courtyard below—should have induced a state of mind conducive to
connubial affection of the strongest kind; and yet, for almost the first time
in our marriage, Emerson's demonstrations were inadequate to the purpose. He
was ridiculously upset about it.
    "I
keep expecting to see Ramses' head pop up over the edge of the screen," he
groaned. "I cannot concentrate, Amelia. Tomorrow night we will move to the
pit. Ramses will be perfectly safe here with Nemo in the next room and our men
guarding the compound."
    "Much
as