The Serpent on the Crown (12 page)

“That’s a favored technique of interrogation,” Ramses said. “None of us recognized the intruder. We told Ayyid as much.”

“I see. But you think it was Adrian, don’t you?”

“Do you?”

“He was with me that night. We sat up late discussing…family matters.”

“You would say that in any case.”

“Of course.” The smile was fleeting this time. “Adrian is incapable of harming anyone,” she said earnestly. “He is hypersensitive about violence of any kind. It stems from—”

“I know. I am deeply sorry.”

“Ah.” She was no more anxious to discuss the subject than he. After a moment she said, “I got off on the wrong foot with you and your family. I regret that, and apologize. Can we start again?”

She held out her hand. It would have been churlish not to take it. Her grip was as firm as a man’s, her gaze direct and warm. It was amazing what a difference that smile made.

“We’ll help in any way we can,” Ramses said.

“Thank you. I won’t detain you any longer.” She set the horse to a trot and moved away. She did not look back. Ramses sat watching her for a while before he turned Risha toward the stables.

Fatima had served tea before Ramses appeared, wearing riding kit and looking windblown.

“We didn’t wait for you,” I said. It was an accusation, not an apology, and Ramses recognized it as such.

“I’m sorry to be late,” he said, over the shrieks of greeting and inquiry from his children. “No, Carla, Papa did not bring you anything. You must not expect a gift every time I go away for a short while.”

“Grandpapa always brings me a present,” Carla retorted. “When is he coming home?”

I professed ignorance, knowing she would lie in wait for him if she knew the approximate time, and Carla returned to the table and the biscuits. David John repeated the question that had gone unheard because his sister’s peremptory voice had drowned him out. “Have the Metropolitan Museum people found anything of interest at Deir el Bahri, Papa?”

“Not lately.” Ramses took a chair and addressed his comments to Nefret and me as well as to his son, who leaned against the arm of his chair listening intently. “They are clearing the front part of the Nebhepetre courtyard.”

“Never mind that,” I said, filling a cup. “Had they heard anything new about the—er—object? David John, give this to your papa, please.”

The little boy did so. “Are you speaking of the statuette, Grandmama? I hope you will not take it amiss if I remark that in my opinion I ought to have been given an opportunity to examine it, particularly in view of the fact that so many other—”

“I take your point, David John,” I cut in. Though normally a taciturn child, he could talk interminably about a subject that captured his interest. Egyptology was one of those subjects—a fact that delighted his grandfather and roused the direst of apprehensions in his grandmother. I had had to put up with one juvenile pedant and did not look forward to living with another. I did not bother asking how he had found out about the statuette. Those wide blue eyes and that innocent countenance could winkle information out of the wariest. “But I fail to see what you could contribute.”

“One never knows,” said David John.

“True. However, you will have to discuss the matter with your grandfather. The statuette is safely hidden away and I prefer not to disclose its location.” Observing an all-too-familiar gleam in those cornflower-blue eyes, I added, “I strictly forbid you to go looking for it. That is an order, my dear, and admits of no exceptions.”

“Yes, Grandmama,” said David John. “What, if I may ask—”

“Have another biscuit,” I said.

“I believe Carla has eaten them all, Grandmama.”

She hadn’t quite. The last few were saved by the appearance at the door of the dog, who rose on her hind legs and peered hopefully in at us. Carla rushed to greet her, and Nefret said sharply, “Down, Amira! Carla, do not let her in.”

The dog obeyed. Carla did not. We always kept the door bolted. Carla began tugging at the bolt.

Ramses snatched her up, despite her protests. “You heard your mama. How did the dog get loose? I tied her to a post before I left this afternoon.”

She had broken the rope. A frayed end dangled from her collar. Pleased at the attention she was receiving, she opened her mouth and let a long pink tongue loll out. It was quite a disgusting sight.

“Take her away,” I said. “Carla, it is time you and David John got ready for supper and bed.”

“There’s no sense in tying her,” Nefret said. “She won’t run away. She follows the twins everywhere.”

She held out a hand to each child. When they went out the door, the dog fell in behind them, like a military escort.

“It appears,” I remarked, “that your idea of a dog was a good one. Now that the little dears have gone, tell me what happened this afternoon.”

“Wait until Nefret comes back.”

Fatima emerged from the house and began to clear away the tea things. It was a task she left to no one else, since (at her insistence) we always used my second-best tea set, a pretty Limoges pattern of rosebuds and forget-me-nots. Kareem, who had followed her, stood looking on. “Shall I bring the whiskey?” he asked.

“No,” Fatima snapped. “You will drop it. Open the door for me.”

“I cannot imagine why she wants a footman,” I remarked. “She won’t let him do anything.”

“Status, no doubt,” said Ramses indifferently. “I ran into an interesting fellow today—”

Nefret came back, and he broke off.

“Did Mother show you the latest post?” she asked.

I selected one of the missives that overflowed the post basket. “We have been offered five hundred pounds for an article on Mrs. P.’s disappearance and the curse of the golden statue.”

“Not a bad offer,” said Ramses judiciously. “Who’s it from?”

“Kevin O’Connell, of course.
The Times
only proposed three hundred, and the
Daily Mirror
’s offer was a paltry two hundred and fifty.”

Ramses laughed, and Nefret, who had been watching him closely, said, “Anything new?”

“I was just telling Mother about the chap I met today. His name’s Mikhail Katchenovsky. His specialties are demotic and hieratic. He published several excellent articles before the War.”

“How nice for you,” I said. “I expect you had an enjoyable chat. Is he working for Mr. Winlock?”

“I don’t believe the arrangement is official. He looked a little down-at-the-heels, to tell the truth.”

“Perhaps he would be interested in a position,” Nefret said.

“Father wouldn’t agree to that,” Ramses said, with a certain air of regret. “He would claim, correctly, that we don’t need another translator.” He finished his tea, and then said, somewhat abruptly, “I ran into Miss Petherick on the way home.”

Nefret said nothing. I nodded encouragingly, and Ramses went on. “She apologized for her behavior the other night, expressed her belief in her brother’s innocence, and asked for our help in clearing him.”

“What did you say?” Nefret inquired.

Ramses shrugged. “I was courteous but noncommittal.”

“Oh?” Nefret’s eyes narrowed. “You feel sorry for him. I can understand why; his experience during the War was enough to break any man’s mind. But that doesn’t mean he is guiltless. And I imagine Miss Petherick can be quite persuasive when she likes.”

“Just what are you accusing me of?” Ramses demanded.

His cheeks were a trifle flushed and so were Nefret’s. I knew what was on her mind, and although I deplore jealousy in any form, I had to admit that my son’s well-cut features and athletic frame—and a certain additional quality that is potent, though hard to define—have a devastating effect on women, especially strong-minded women.

On this occasion I had misjudged Nefret. She burst out laughing and settled herself on Ramses’s lap, winding her arms round his neck. “I’m not accusing you of anything, darling, except being irresistible to women—through no fault of your own.”

“Oh,” said Ramses. He gave me a self-conscious look, then grinned and put his arm round his wife, who wriggled into a more comfortable position. I smiled benignly at them.

“Never mind the Pethericks, your father will be back tomorrow and we will be in a better position to deal with them. Should we not meet the train?”

“Not under any circumstances” was Ramses’s emphatic reply. “We would be followed to the station by every journalist in Luxor, and there is a faint chance Father may be able to escape their attentions if his arrival is not heralded by us.”

“They will find out,” I predicted. “Emerson is a conspicuous individual.”

Emerson’s arrival the following morning was certainly conspicuous. As he told us later, several persons on the train had recognized him, and as he made his way through the streets of Luxor, his entourage grew. When we first beheld him striding up the road he was followed by a crowd of people. They stayed at a respectful distance, since Emerson kept swatting at them and shouting threats. Seeing the rebuilt guardhouse, he stopped and stared at it. We could hear him all the way to the veranda.

“What the devil is this?” he demanded of Wasim, who had returned to his duties. Wasim’s reply was inaudible, but Emerson nodded in satisfaction. “If anyone, male or female, attempts to get past you, shoot to kill.”

He came on at his usual brisk pace. A thrill of pride and admiration ran through my limbs at the sight of that stalwart form, unbowed by the years, impressive as a Roman god. To be sure, his suit was in a frightful state of wrinkles, his necktie was askew, and his black hair (what the devil had he done with his new hat?) looked as if it had not seen comb or brush for days. A smile spread across his tanned face when he saw me waiting at the door, and he quickened his steps.

A slight diversion was occasioned by the arrival of the twins, who were followed by the dog, who was followed by the Great Cat of Re. Emerson’s immediate reaction—quite understandable, I admit—was to push both children behind him and aim a blow at the dog’s head. The blow missed, since the beast immediately collapsed at his feet.

“Good Gad,” said Emerson, as the children tugged at him, emitting shrill cries of explanation and expostulation. “Who—what—where—”

“It’s all right, Father. She’s perfectly harmless. Ramses thought we needed a watchdog.” Nefret opened the door. Emerson, not entirely convinced, pushed the children in and followed. The dog would have done the same had not the Great Cat of Re stepped in front of it. The dog backed off, the Great Cat of Re walked in, and Amira lay down outside, her face pressed to the screen.

“Well, well,” said Emerson. “Not a bad idea.” He directed a malignant glare at the crowd gathered round the guardhouse. “If you are sure the creature won’t harm the children.”

“Amira is a noble beast,” said David John.

“She would let us ride her, but Mama says we may not,” Carla said. “What did you bring me, Grandpapa?”

With a self-conscious look at me, Emerson removed two small packets from his pocket and handed one to each child. He had visited the suk and bought a silver bracelet for Carla and a box of colored pencils for David John. “Now run along,” he said. “And take the dog with you.”

Carla gave him a huge hug. “I don’t want to leave you, Grandpapa. Fatima has made sugar cakes.”

Emerson chuckled and I said, “You may not have any sweets, Carla, it’s too close to luncheon. Go to Fatima.”

Emerson removed his coat, tie, and waistcoat, tossed them onto a chair, and sat down on them. “Good to be back,” he said, beaming. “I have wonderful news, my dears.”

“You have learned the name of the dealer who sold the statue to Mr. Petherick?” I asked.

“You have located Sethos?” Nefret inquired.

Emerson waved both questions aside. “Better than that, better than that. But where is Ramses? I want to tell him the great news myself.”

Fatima bustled out with a tray of coffee and cakes. She was followed by Ramses. “I was working,” he said. “But I heard you coming.”

“Most of the West Bank heard him,” I remarked. “Very well, Emerson, don’t keep us in suspense. What is your great news?”

Emerson gulped down his coffee and held out the cup for a refill. “Ah, just what I needed. Thank you, Fatima. No one makes better—”

“Emerson,” I said loudly.

“KV55,” said Emerson,

“Davis’s tomb? What about it?”

“I have Lacau’s permission to reexcavate it!”

His grin faded as he looked from one blank face to the next.

“The dam——The confounded tomb is empty, Emerson,” I said.

“You don’t know that,” Emerson said. “Davis’s excavation was careless in the extreme. Lord only knows what he missed. Good Gad, Peabody, you don’t seem to grasp the possibilities.”

Ramses cleared his throat. “I believe I grasp some of them, sir.”

“That’s better,” Emerson said approvingly. He took out his pipe. “Well, my boy?”

“You wanted an excuse to work in the Valley. That’s why you were so pleased when you found the newspaper fragment—it was evidence that someone had been there recently—and when you caught Deib and Aguil in the act of digging. What I don’t understand is what you hope to accomplish. Everyone agrees there are no more royal tombs in the East Valley.”

“My dear boy, I have no expectation of being allowed to begin new excavations in the Valley of the Kings,” Emerson said. “Carter and Carnarvon hold the firman, and I would never behave in an underhanded manner toward another archaeologist.”

“Certainly not, sir,” said Ramses, his tilted eyebrows contradicting his words.

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “The statuette must have come originally from a royal tomb. An Amarna period tomb, since the artistic style is of that period. We know of three that immediately postdate Akhenaton—KV55 and those of Horemheb, in the East Valley, and Ay, in the West Valley. None of them has been properly investigated. Horemheb’s was another of Davis’s botched excavations; several objects from the tomb have been floating round the antiquities markets for years.”

He paused to light his pipe and I exclaimed, “For pity’s sake, Emerson, don’t tell me you want to reexcavate that infernal tomb of Horemheb. It’s one of the longest in the Valley. Ramses is right, and Cyrus was right; you are tired of Deir el Medina and want an excuse to work, in however limited a manner, in the Valley of the Kings. You cherish the delusion that once you get a foothold there it will be difficult to get you out. I am astonished at you. A conscientious excavator, which I had supposed you to be, does not abandon a project in the middle of the season.”