Sunday evening, a month later
Lang Reilly had to step over a snoring Grumps to toss a log on the sputtering fire. “There! That ought to keep it going awhile longer.”
Father Francis, seated on the couch, looked up from the one of the sections of the Sunday edition of the New York Times Lang had given him. “So, Alexander’s mummy might still be in Alexandria after all these years?”
Lang retrieved his glass from the mantlepiece. “Who knows? The only thing certain is that it is not and probably never was in Venice or Paris. Or for that matter, Haiti.”
“You’re basing that on the president’s announcement that Chinese troops are leaving that fortress…”
“La Citadelle.”
“The Citadel. The Chinese are leaving, ergo duPaar didn’t get what he wanted-Alexander’s relics.”
Lang finished off the contents of his glass and crossed the room to the bar. “Elementary, my dear Watson.”
Francis held up his glass. “Watson is thirsty, too.”
Lang tinkled ice into the priest’s glass, followed by a generous measure of scotch.
Lang lifted his glass. “To my health, which I have seriously damaged, drinking to yours!”
Francis was about to reply when Manfred appeared in the doorway, solemn faced, to make an important announcement. “Mommy says dinner is ready.”
Lang stepped back to let Francis through the library/den’s entrance into the dining room. “I hope what we are about to receive is sufficient compensation for your missing the Women’s Guild Potluck Supper at the church tonight.”
“A lot more pot than luck. Bless them all, but I’ve had enough cold fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans and banana pudding to last me the next fifty years.”
“The tribulations of Job.”
Francis took his customary seat at the table. “Not Job but perhaps the culinary equivalent of the hermit’s cave of Saint Jerome.”
Gurt emerged from the kitchen, a ceramic Dutch oven held in gloved hands. “You will have ‘pot’ again. This time pot roast.”
Manfred followed Gurt. With Francis engaged in the newspaper article rather than in the games the priest and small boy normally played, he had “helped” his mother with dinner. Without his assistance, Lang guessed, the meal would have been on the table a half hour earlier.
Lang turned to Francis. “OK, padre, you’re on, but remember, no one wants cold pot roast.”
After a mercifully short blessing, everyone busied themselves with filling their plates. Grumps, ever the optimist, lurked nearby in hopes of spills.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Francis said between bites. “The box. I mean, Napoleon carries a box with epaulets from Egypt, sends it to Haiti and winds up hiding it in a secret compartment in a funeral effigy? Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”
Lang speared a potato with his fork. “Maybe not to us. Remember, Napoleon was what today we would call a superstitious man, had an astrologer available at all times to consult as to the most propitious times to invade, go into battle, et cetera. The contents of that box, the stuff he associated with his rise to power, was his talisman, his good-luck charm. Sort of like lending out your lucky rabbit’s foot.”
“Which is less than lucky for the rabbit.”
“Whatever. I’m guessing Napoleon thought the articles from his past, the gold cross, the epaulets from his first general’s uniform, would bring luck to Leclerc.”
“So why did he hide them in a church?” Francis wanted to know.
“I think he knew there would be a wave of reaction to anything having to do with the empire, at least among the victorious allies. Prince Metternich of Austria was leading the Congress of Vienna, composed of the allies, in that direction, dismantling Napoleon’s empire. He hid what he thought was valuable so his son might have it. Unfortunately for him, the plan somehow misfired.”
They were silent for a few more minutes before Francis looked over at Lang, a tray of hot rolls in his hand. “We were so busy discussing Alexander and Napoleon, I forgot to ask. What’s in store for that charlatan, the Reverend Bishop Groom?”
Lang sighed deeply. “I thought forgiveness was part of your shtick, Francis.”
“I forgive all charlatans but I’m hoping the law won’t.”
Lang accepted the bread tray. “He’s pondering an offer to plead to two counts of tax evasion and one of mail fraud. I did a hell of a job getting the U.S. attorney to make the offer. The feds usually won’t bargain. He should be a free man in five or six years.”
“Enough time to repent.”
Gurt changed the subject. “Do you think your friend Rossi will find Alexander’s mummy?”
Lang shrugged. “For his sake, I hope so.”
“For your sakes, I hope not.”
Both Lang and Gurt stopped with forks halfway to mouths and stared at Francis.
“Why not?” she wanted to know.
“You’re joking! Surely there’s not a religious reason not to discover the greatest pagan of them all?” Lang added.
Francis put his silverware down and looked from one to the other. “Of all the people in the world who should know better, you two should. Alexander the Great’s mummy-if it exists-has brought nothing but trouble to those who searched for it. Alexander’s general, Perdiccas, lost an army trying to get it. Napoleon lost Egypt. You two could have lost your lives.”
Lang forgot his dinner for the moment. “Are you saying there’s a curse on it, like King Tut’s curse? Talk about pagan!”
Francis calmly returned his attention to his plate. “Pooh-pooh all you want. Within less than a month of opening Tutankhamen’s tomb in 1923, Lord Carnarvon, the expedition’s financial backer, was dead.”
Lang wiped his mouth and put down his napkin, fascinated Francis could believe in such hogwash. “The curse of the mummy? The twenty-six other people present, including Howard Carter, the man who found Tut’s tomb, survived. Surely you don’t believe in curses?”
Francis was unperturbed. “Of course not. I do believe some things are inherently evil, including grave robbing, even of pagan graves.”
Lang started to respond but caught a slight negative head shake from Gurt- No, don’t go there. Francis was by far the brightest person Lang had ever know. But sometimes there were issues that simply could not be discussed within the framework of their friendship. Faith could be neither explained nor rationalized. Intrinsic evil was not an arguable subject.
Gurt broke what could have become a heavy silence. “If Alexander’s mummy is found, then what?”
“The Egyptian, Hawass, will claim it for his country,” Lang said.
Francis smiled, reaching for another helping of pot roast. “Let us hope it stays there.”
Although Lang didn’t agree with his friend’s idea of evil per se, he hoped so, too.
