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Authors: Elizabeth Peters
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the register to determine Papagopolous’s room number, and knock at the appropriate door. Papagopolous would probably have assumed it was the maid. Turning to flee when he recognized his enemy, he had been struck down by a blunt instrument.
(Emerson: “What blunt instrument?” Myself: “For pity’s sake, Emerson, will you stop making irrelevant objections? A pistol butt, a rock, a stocking filled with sand.”)
“Damnation,” said Emerson morosely. “Very well, Peabody, let us not drag this discussion out. I have not the slightest hope of winning it anyhow. Your hypothetical assailant then removed all means of identification, overlooking only the scrap of paper naming me, and put the body onto the bed in the hope that a cursory examination would conclude Panalopagus—Panepororous—curse it, I cannot be expected to remember such a ridiculous name—that he had suffered a stroke or heart attack?”
“Well done, Emerson.”
“It is good of you to say so. Have you concluded your investigations?”
“Almost.” I had searched the reverend’s small valise, which contained only toilet articles, a change of clothing, nightclothes, and a well-thumbed Bible. Turning back to the bed in order to make another examination, I was surprised—and, of course, relieved—to find that my patient’s breathing had strengthened and that some color had returned to his face.
“He appears to be regaining consciousness,” I exclaimed, and removed the bottle of sal volatile from my medical bag. Waving it under his nose, I was rewarded by a sneeze so violent that Panagopolous’s lower limbs jerked up and his head jerked forward. His eyes opened.
“Excellent,” I exclaimed. “How do you feel?”
“Feel,” the reverend repeated dreamily. “I feel, therefore I am. But who, kind lady, am I? Who are you? And who is this Panagopolous to whom you refer?”
“Hell and damnation!” cried Emerson. Hands clapped to her ears, Mrs. Finney fled.
T HE REVEREND’S PHYSICAL CONDITION being sufficiently improved, we called for our own carriage and dismissed the ambulance (a nice hay wagon belonging to Mrs. Finney’s cousin). He came with us willingly, having concluded—as he informed us—that I must be a dear acquaintance from one of his former lives. Emerson’s attempts to correct this misapprehension were met with a shake of the head and an amiable smile. “Perhaps it was in Athens, when I was preaching to the heathen,” he mused. “‘Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you…’ They mocked me, but some believed…Were you by chance the woman Damaris?”
“I doubt that very much,” I said gently but firmly. To Emerson I remarked, “Apparently in that life he was the apostle Paul. Do not argue with him, Emerson, I feel sure his amnesia is temporary and that he will come out of it in due time and with the proper treatment.”
“One of the kindly women in Bordeaux who sewed the crosses on our surplices when I proclaimed the great crusade?”
“Peter the Hermit?” asked Emerson, increasingly intrigued. “He doesn’t suffer from excessive humility, does he?”
Panagopolous ignored this as he had ignored our other comments, and I said, “People who believe they have lived past lives were seldom anonymous commoners in those lives. Napoleon is a favorite, I believe, and so is Ramses the Second.”
“I must admit,” said Emerson, over the mumbling of Panagopolous, “that the fellow is rather entertaining. I give you three days, Peabody. If you haven’t got him back to 1910 by then, I will inform Captain Morley and request he remove his demented friend from our premises.”
Nefret had returned from her ride during our absence and, having been informed of our mission by Gargery, was waiting impatiently to hear what had ensued. She agreed with me that the reverend should rest, so we handed him over to John, our large and dependable footman, who helped him to his room and into bed. I told Rose
(Emerson: “What blunt instrument?” Myself: “For pity’s sake, Emerson, will you stop making irrelevant objections? A pistol butt, a rock, a stocking filled with sand.”)
“Damnation,” said Emerson morosely. “Very well, Peabody, let us not drag this discussion out. I have not the slightest hope of winning it anyhow. Your hypothetical assailant then removed all means of identification, overlooking only the scrap of paper naming me, and put the body onto the bed in the hope that a cursory examination would conclude Panalopagus—Panepororous—curse it, I cannot be expected to remember such a ridiculous name—that he had suffered a stroke or heart attack?”
“Well done, Emerson.”
“It is good of you to say so. Have you concluded your investigations?”
“Almost.” I had searched the reverend’s small valise, which contained only toilet articles, a change of clothing, nightclothes, and a well-thumbed Bible. Turning back to the bed in order to make another examination, I was surprised—and, of course, relieved—to find that my patient’s breathing had strengthened and that some color had returned to his face.
“He appears to be regaining consciousness,” I exclaimed, and removed the bottle of sal volatile from my medical bag. Waving it under his nose, I was rewarded by a sneeze so violent that Panagopolous’s lower limbs jerked up and his head jerked forward. His eyes opened.
“Excellent,” I exclaimed. “How do you feel?”
“Feel,” the reverend repeated dreamily. “I feel, therefore I am. But who, kind lady, am I? Who are you? And who is this Panagopolous to whom you refer?”
“Hell and damnation!” cried Emerson. Hands clapped to her ears, Mrs. Finney fled.
T HE REVEREND’S PHYSICAL CONDITION being sufficiently improved, we called for our own carriage and dismissed the ambulance (a nice hay wagon belonging to Mrs. Finney’s cousin). He came with us willingly, having concluded—as he informed us—that I must be a dear acquaintance from one of his former lives. Emerson’s attempts to correct this misapprehension were met with a shake of the head and an amiable smile. “Perhaps it was in Athens, when I was preaching to the heathen,” he mused. “‘Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you…’ They mocked me, but some believed…Were you by chance the woman Damaris?”
“I doubt that very much,” I said gently but firmly. To Emerson I remarked, “Apparently in that life he was the apostle Paul. Do not argue with him, Emerson, I feel sure his amnesia is temporary and that he will come out of it in due time and with the proper treatment.”
“One of the kindly women in Bordeaux who sewed the crosses on our surplices when I proclaimed the great crusade?”
“Peter the Hermit?” asked Emerson, increasingly intrigued. “He doesn’t suffer from excessive humility, does he?”
Panagopolous ignored this as he had ignored our other comments, and I said, “People who believe they have lived past lives were seldom anonymous commoners in those lives. Napoleon is a favorite, I believe, and so is Ramses the Second.”
“I must admit,” said Emerson, over the mumbling of Panagopolous, “that the fellow is rather entertaining. I give you three days, Peabody. If you haven’t got him back to 1910 by then, I will inform Captain Morley and request he remove his demented friend from our premises.”
Nefret had returned from her ride during our absence and, having been informed of our mission by Gargery, was waiting impatiently to hear what had ensued. She agreed with me that the reverend should rest, so we handed him over to John, our large and dependable footman, who helped him to his room and into bed. I told Rose
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