The Serpent on the Crown (23 page)

His mother had gone on to describe the arrangements for the burial, which would be in the foreign cemetery of Luxor.

“One might have supposed she would wish to be buried in England, beside her husband,” Ramses said.

“Miss Petherick felt it was unnecessary and impractical,” said his mother. Which it was; but Ramses knew his mother wouldn’t give a curse about practicality in a comparable situation. His mind winced away from the idea. He’d deal with it when he had to, if he had to, but he didn’t want to think about it.

“Ayyid agrees with me that the circumstances are suspicious,” his mother continued. She repeated the gardener’s account of his discovery of the body. Her audience listened with morbid fascination.

“I took a number of photographs,” she concluded. “Though I don’t suppose they will tell us much. The ground had been too trampled. Nefret, perhaps you and David can develop the photographs for me.”

Nefret rose and brushed the crumbs off her skirt. “Not today, Mother. I must get my instruments ready.”

Ramses had no intention of allowing his wife to go to Luxor alone. He couldn’t do anything except be there, but that at least he owed her. He explained the situation to Katchenovsky, who had arrived precisely on schedule, and apologized for leaving him alone.

“Not at all. I am so very sorry,” the Russian murmured. “Do you want me to continue cataloging the remaining scraps?”

“I’ve had a look at most of them. I’d rather you tried your hand at copying and translating the fragment I’ve laid out for you. It appears to be a list of supplies.”

Ramses had known his mother wouldn’t miss the autopsy, and where she went, Emerson followed. She refused Cyrus’s invitation to dine.

“I don’t know how long we will be,” she explained. “Come round tomorrow, if you like.”

David and Sethos joined the group, and they went straight to the zabtiyeh, where they found not only Ayyid but two other officials waiting. One was an Egyptian, the district commandant of police from Sohag; the other was the British district adviser, a red-faced, stern-looking man named Rayburn. Ayyid’s tight lips indicated what he thought of their interference, but it was standard procedure, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. To their obvious relief, Nefret told them there was no need for them to be present while she operated. She was, however, unable to keep her mother-in-law from accompanying her and Ayyid.

Ramses’s mother was gone less than ten minutes. “What?” demanded Emerson. “Don’t tell me Nefret wouldn’t let you help carve the poor woman?”

“Don’t be disgusting, Emerson. I only wanted to have a look at her clothes before they were removed.”

“Hadn’t they removed them?” Ramses asked.

“I asked Ayyid not to do so. Anyhow, given the delicate circumstances, he preferred to have a woman take care of that.”

“Quite proper,” muttered Rayburn.

“Quite,” Emerson agreed. “Well, Peabody?”

His wife gave him a tolerant smile. “I will spare you the details, my dear, since fashion means nothing to you. Suffice it to say that she was wearing evening dress—quite an expensive model, to judge by the designer’s label—of crimson satin, pleated across the bosom and caught on the shoulders with diamond clips—fake diamonds—”

“I thought you were going to spare us the details,” Emerson objected.

“Though costly, the dress was last year’s model,” his wife continued, unperturbed. “As I suspected, the beads we found in the garden were identical with others trimming her sleeves and bodice. Her jewelry had been taken.”

“How do you know she was wearing jewelry if there wasn’t any?” Emerson demanded.

“No woman would have assumed an elaborate evening costume without the appropriate jewels.”

“So the motive was robbery!” Rayburn exclaimed in unconcealed relief. “Confound it, Ayyid, you ought to have searched the hotel servants and their quarters.”

“I did,” Ayyid said tightly.

“They—he—had ample time to conceal the jewelry elsewhere,” Rayburn insisted. “Isn’t that so, Mrs. Emerson?”

“Robbery was not the motive, Captain Rayburn.”

“But, Mrs. Emerson—”

“No thief would have taken the trouble to arrange the body so respectfully. Her eyes were closed and her hands folded on her breast. Pray allow me to continue. Underneath her gown she was wearing—”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” said Emerson in some confusion. “Get to the point.”

“I fear that you are missing the point, Emerson. According to the guests at the hotel, Mrs. Petherick wore only black, in keeping with her role as a grieving widow. Why was she attired that night in crimson? And where had she come from? She had been missing for almost a week. Was she about to stage a dramatic reappearance, but was prevented by the murderer?”

Observing the skeptical expressions of the others, she said impatiently, “Someone was with her when she died, that much is undeniable. Someone who arranged the body, someone who had enough regard for the proprieties to treat it with respect. All her garments were intact, with no tears, cuts or bloodstains.”

“Then how did she die?” Emerson demanded.

He repeated the question to Nefret when she returned, looking as calm and fresh as if she had been engaged in arranging flowers.

“Congestive heart failure” was the reply.

“Then—no murder,” said Emerson, with a telltale look at his wife.

“Oh, it was murder,” Nefret said. “Her heart was damaged, but what caused it to stop was suffocation. I believe she was unconscious when the cloth was pressed to her face, since there were no bruises on her arms and no traces of skin or blood under her nails.”

“You’re sure?” Rayburn asked.

“Yes. There were threads caught in her teeth. If you would like a second opinion—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Rayburn sighed heavily. A murder investigation, with the victim a British subject, was a complication he did not appreciate.

“So her breath was sucked out,” said Sethos, with unseemly relish. “Just wait till the newspapers hear about this.”

I
felt it my duty to be the one to inform the Pethericks of the results of the postmortem. Emerson did not object; in fact, he said he would go with me. I knew why, of course. His detectival instincts were temporarily in the ascendance, and having been proved wrong (by me) on several essential points, he was hoping to win a few points of his own. I did not mind, since I always play fair in our little competitions in crime, but I sent Nefret home with Ramses. Coolly professional she might be, but she was also a tenderhearted individual, and she had been acquainted with her subject. David went with them; as he pointed out, he did not know the Pethericks and it would be inappropriate for him to meet them under such delicate circumstances.

Miss and Mr. Petherick were dining in her room. As soon as we were shown in, Miss Petherick rang for the waiter to remove the table. I observed that one of them had only picked at the food, while the other had made a good dinner. It was not difficult to guess which was which. Adrian Petherick seemed to have shrunk in the past hours; his clothing hung loosely on his body and his face was pasty-pale. Was it guilt or grief?

I broke the news with merciful bluntness. Adrian let out a cry and covered his face with his hands. His sister’s expression did not change. “We anticipated this. I presume you want to question us?”

“Not tonight,” said Sethos soothingly. He had gone to the table and was examining the floral displays. There were several more, including a vase of lovely white roses. “Allow sleep to knit up the raveled sleeve of care. And think of the dear lady at rest in the arms of Jesus.”

“Yes,” Adrian murmured. “Yes. Thank you.”

Emerson choked. He must have swallowed the wrong way.

“I have a question,” said Harriet Petherick. “What about the statue?”

“What about it?” Emerson inquired gruffly.

“There can now be no doubt as to its legal ownership. I would think you would wish to get it off your hands.”

“I would not suppose you would want it in
your
hands,” said Emerson. “No, no, Miss Petherick, I will not have it on my conscience that I gave such a deadly object to innocents like you and your brother.”

“You would prefer to bring the curse on your own family?” She added, with what I could only view as deliberate malice, “We were told of your remarkable performance the other night. It wasn’t particularly effective, was it?”

Emerson refused to be provoked. “You and I know such—performances, did you say?—affect only the superstitious. The curse of such objects is the violence they provoke in unprincipled persons. I am capable of protecting my family in more practical ways, and I intend to do the same for you and your brother.”

The logic of this silenced the lady. I confirmed the arrangements I had made for the service on the following morning, and she had enough courtesy to thank me. Adrian said nothing. He had taken one of the white roses from the vase and was removing the petals, one by one, and arranging them in a pile on the table.

Curious glances and whispers followed us as we passed through the lobby, but my parasol and Emerson’s scowls kept even the journalists back.

“Good Gad,” said Emerson to his brother. “I have never heard such hypocritical blather in my life, not even from you. The arms of Jesus, indeed!”

“It made the boy feel better,” Sethos said.

“Nor have I known pity to motivate your actions,” grumbled Emerson. “Taking advantage of his weak-mindedness is a contemptible method of winning his confidence.”

Sethos grinned, and I said severely, “Speaking of blather, did I hear you nobly promising to protect Harriet and her brother? From what and in what manner, may I ask?”

Emerson stopped short in the middle of the street. I shoved him out of the way of a horse-drawn calèche, and Emerson said, “Do not impugn my motives, Peabody, if you please. We need to settle this distraction so that I can get on with my work.”

“And bring a murderer to justice.”

“That, too.”

Sabir had returned for us after taking Ramses and Nefret across. Emerson helped me up the gangplank and went on, frowning, “Though at the present moment I haven’t the faintest notion who it might be. Don’t tell me you do, Peabody, or I will regret my candor.”

“The Pethericks, brother and sister, are certainly the most obvious suspects,” I replied, settling myself onto the bench.

“They are the only suspects,” Emerson retorted.

“Which is a strong indication of their innocence, my dear. It is true they had a motive. We know that Petherick’s collection was left to his wife. Were they aware of that? Did they suppose the valuables would go to them if she died?”

“That isn’t a motive, it is a string of conjectures,” Emerson exclaimed. “Curse it, Peabody, make up your mind. First you say they are probably innocent—though your reasoning is as feeble as any I have ever heard—and then you invent reasons for believing in their guilt.”

He had a certain logic on his side, so of course I immediately went on the offensive. “It just goes to show that you were foolish to entrust Gargery with the delicate matter of Petherick’s will. We need to know the precise terms—whether his wife was to inherit unconditionally, or whether his children were secondary legatees.”

“‘Everything to the wife’ certainly implies the former,” said Sethos. “Her husband predeceased her. Did she have a will? And if she did not, who would inherit? Are stepchildren considered next of kin?”

“More damned conjectures,” Emerson shouted. “You don’t know, and I don’t know, and neither does Peabody, though she will probably claim she does.”

“Not at all, my dear. The investigation is in its early stages. For all we know there may be a dozen people who wanted Mrs. Petherick dead. The murderer must have been someone she knew and trusted, or she would not have gone alone to meet him in the garden. She would have had no reason to fear either of her stepchildren. They must have some claim to her property, through her husband’s will or hers, or they would have had no reason to dispose of her.”

“Confound it, Peabody, you are arguing in circles again,” Emerson exclaimed.

The boat bumped gently into the bank and Sabir ran out the gangplank. In a spirit of amity I accepted the hand Emerson offered. “Shall we have one of our little competitions?” I asked.

“What sort of competition is that?” Sethos tried to take my other hand but was foiled by the parasol.

“We each write down the name of the person we believe to be the villain and seal it in an envelope until after the case is solved,” I explained.

“What a charming idea,” said Sethos. “Is there a prize for the winner? May I play too?”

“I am not yet ready to commit myself,” Emerson said, ignoring this provocative remark.

“Nor am I,” I said. “As you pointed out, Emerson, we have not enough suspects.”

The silvery moonlight of Egypt lit our path, but with Sethos beside us making frivolous suggestions I was not tempted to linger along the way. Emerson was of the same mind. “Hurry up,” he grumbled. “We have missed tea and will probably be late for dinner.”

Thanks to Maaman’s new schedule, we were not late for dinner. There was even time for a quick whiskey and soda with Ramses and Nefret, who were anxious to learn how the Pethericks had taken the news. Nefret looked grave when I described Adrian’s reaction.

“I wish dear Dr. Willoughby were still with us. He had some skill in treating nervous disorders. His successor is a pompous fool.”

“Adrian Petherick requires something more than the skill of an amateur,” Sethos said. “However, I believe I was of some assistance in calming his mind.”

“Safe in the arms of Jesus,” Emerson growled. “Good Gad!”

A
t my insistence the entire family (excepting the children, of course) attended Mrs. Petherick’s funeral next morning. I had assumed there would be a scanty number of mourners, since she knew few people in Luxor, but I had underestimated the morbid curiosity of the public and the persistence of the press. A line of constables, impressive in their white jackets and red fezzes, kept the crowd at bay, and as we walked toward the newly dug grave I couldn’t help thinking that Mrs. Petherick would have taken the display as only what was due a famous author.

The efforts of the Ladies’ Committee for the Beautification of the Resting Place of Our Lost Loved Ones (founded by me, though I must make it clear I am not responsible for the name) had improved the looks of the once desolate cemetery. Flowering shrubs struggled bravely for survival and the feral dogs had been frustrated by an enclosing fence. Fences are no impediments to cats, however, and several families of felines had taken up residence. Tabby-striped and black, gray and orange and calico, they slunk along the fence or guarded huddles of varicolored kittens. In my opinion they added a rather pleasant touch, a testimonial to life in the place of the dead. A good number of the ladies did not share this opinion, but even a fence was insufficient to keep the cats out.

I had been acquainted with a number of those who were interred there—friends from Luxor, victims of the various criminals I had brought to justice, and one or two of the criminals themselves. In a remote corner of the cemetery, under a stone I had caused to be raised, lay the remains of one of my deadliest adversaries—Bertha, Sethos’s former lover and the mother of Maryam. Sethos avoided looking in that direction. He had refused to come at first, fearing I would insist on his paying his respects to the woman who was, after all, the mother of his child. To be sure, she had tried several times to kill him (and me), but the beautiful precepts of our faith tell us to forgive even the worst of sinners. My lecture on this subject had had no discernible effect on my brother-in-law, so I did not persist.

Emerson had not wanted to come either. Stamping along at my side, he said loudly, “Who are all these overdressed people? I thought you said no one would attend.”

“I had forgotten Mrs. Petherick’s literary reputation,” I admitted. “Some of the ladies may be Devoted Readers.”

Emerson glared at a youngish man who was holding a camera. “There’s that confounded journalist again. If you point that camera at me, sir, I will knock it out of your hand.”

We were among the few who were allowed to pass the constables and join the Pethericks and Father Benedict at the grave site. Harriet Petherick thanked us rather perfunctorily for coming and then addressed the priest. “We may as well get on with it, Father.”

I kept a close eye on Adrian as the service proceeded. He appeared to be in one of his stuporous states, standing close to his sister and staring dreamily at the cloudless blue sky overhead. I could have wished that some of the spectators behaved as well. Several of the ladies wept loudly throughout, and when Father Benedict had finished, one of them—the stout, heavily corseted woman who had been the first to ask Mrs. Petherick for her autograph—fainted onto a constable, knocking him flat. The photographer whom Emerson had threatened earlier got an excellent picture of her and the constable inadvertently entwined.

“Disgusting,” said Emerson loudly. “Let’s get out of this.”

I resisted his attempt to pull me away. The spectacle held a certain unholy fascination. I had not supposed that Dedicated Readers were capable of such vulgar behavior. The flowers they flung toward the grave fell short, pelting priest and onlookers. Someone started to sing a hymn and other wavering voices joined in. It was an inappropriate melody, given Mrs. Petherick’s religious affiliation; most of the singers could not carry a tune and some did not know the words. I caught only a few—something about being deep-dyed in sin. Harriet Petherick’s composure finally broke. Tight-lipped and pale, she looked about as if seeking assistance. I was not the only one to observe her distress, and a thrill of maternal pride ran through me when Ramses approached her and offered his arm. She clung tightly to it as he led her past the constables.

Nefret and David had taken charge of Adrian, who went with them unresisting and oblivious. I hastened to precede the group, with exclamations of “Shame! Shame!” I was forced to swat the more importunate Readers away with my parasol, and Emerson knocked down two journalists. When we had got the Pethericks into their waiting carriage, Emerson, in a much better humor, actually remembered to take off his hat when he addressed Harriet Petherick.

“Confounded ghouls! Er—that is to say, Miss Petherick, I regret you should have been exposed to this unpleasantness.”

“Thank you. I am grateful to all of you. Would you join us at the hotel for a little refreshment? I believe that is customary after a funeral.”

I assumed the invitation included me, though she had looked only at Emerson and Ramses. “We will be along shortly,” I said. “I think we ought to rescue Father Benedict.”

However, the good father did not want to be rescued. He was a jolly, sociable man who seldom found himself the center of such interested attention. We left him posing for photographs and comforting afflicted Dedicated Readers.

I instructed the driver of our hired carriage not to whip up the horses. We do not permit cruelty to animals. Besides, rapid motion raises a cloud of dust and I was wearing my second-best hat.

Emerson leaned back and took out his pipe. “I presume, Peabody, that this is not so much a visit of condolence as an inquisition.”

“That is not a nice way of putting it, Emerson.”

“It is an accurate way of putting it, I hope,” said Sethos. “Or I would not attend.”

“I thought you were concerned about Adrian,” I said critically.

“You do me too much credit, dear Amelia.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The boy held up well today.”

“He is in a state of shock.” Nefret’s smooth brow furrowed. “I am afraid that the reaction may be sudden and violent. I wish I knew how to help him.”

“Your specialty is surgery, not psychology,” I said. “Your good heart does you credit, my dear, but you must learn not to take on unnecessary burdens.”

“Like you?” Emerson inquired.

We had outstripped the reporters and the sensation seekers; the hotel guests who did not fall into the latter category had gone off to see the sights, so the lobby was relatively deserted. When I asked the clerk at the desk to inform the Pethericks we had arrived, he said we were to go straight up. “The lady is now in the rooms formerly occupied by Madam Petherick.”