The Serpent on the Crown (26 page)

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “That’s not proof, Peabody.”

“What about this, then?” I held up a linen underbodice and indicated the name written inside the seam in the indelible ink used by laundries.

“Hmph,” said Emerson, in a different tone.

“Oh, come, Emerson, be generous,” Sethos said. “She was right on the mark. Acknowledge it.”

“I did,” grunted Emerson.

We had to explain the situation to poor bewildered Mr. Salt. He kept shaking his head and muttering about the press. “They will have to be told, I suppose?”

“Not by us,” I replied. “But the police will certainly have to be notified, and I don’t doubt the news will get out.”

We made a thorough search of the room. I turned the dresses inside out and felt along the seams while Sethos unfolded the linens, shook them out, and refolded them. Emerson, who would as soon have spied on a naked lady as handle her personal undergarments, watched his brother’s long, deft hands with unconcealed disapproval. We found nothing of importance except another jewelry box. The ornaments were few, but of a much more valuable nature than the trinkets I had found earlier. As I had observed, the Countess Magda liked sparkling gems, the shinier the better. Two pairs of diamond earrings, a bracelet encircled by emeralds and diamonds, a tastelessly large diamond brooch, and a string of pearls made up the contents of the box. I handed it immediately to Mr. Salt and asked him to put it in the hotel safe.

“Tell your employees that under no circumstances are they to enter the room until after the police have been here,” I instructed.

“Locking the barn door?” Sethos inquired, raising his eyebrows. “They have had ample opportunity to go in and out as they pleased already. Which of them has keys?”

Mr. Salt started. “Oh dear,” he murmured. “Oh dear. Keys? Oh. Let me think. The chambermaid, the laundryman, the suffragi on duty, the assistant manager…”

“The door might as well have been left open,” Emerson said. “Well, well, it’s too late to remedy that. Shouldn’t we tell the Pethericks what we’ve found?”

“They went out early this morning,” Mr. Salt said.

“Where?” Emerson asked.

“They asked me to recommend a reliable dragoman, so I presume they intended to visit some of the sites. I do not spy on my guests, Professor.”

“That’s a job for the police,” Emerson agreed. He gave the manager a consoling clap on the back. Salt staggered. “Here, now, Salt, buck up. This will all blow over in a few days.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Emerson was reverting to his old habits. He sent them all off to the Valley of the Kings before he and his wife left for Luxor, with instructions to continue clearing the tomb, keeping copious notes and taking photographs of every stage. Ramses went without protest. His father’s new schedule meant he would have from midmorning until late afternoon for his own work, which was fair enough. His mother didn’t protest either; she was suffering from a severe case of detective fever and couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

There was only room for a few people to work inside the burial chamber, and dirty work it was. The floor was covered with a layer of hardened mud, some of which had to be removed with dental picks. So far the results had been meager: scraps of broken pottery and stone vessels, bits of gold foil, and a few seals. Examining one of these, Ramses said in disgust, “Unreadable. This looks like a neb sign, but that’s all I can make out.”

“What part of the tomb did the seal come from, do you suppose?” David asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. The outer entrance was closed and the seals of the necropolis applied to the stones, but the tomb was entered at least once after the burial. Davis’s lot demolished the blocking they found and apparently destroyed or lost any remaining seals.”

“Do you think the Professor will want a photograph?” David asked, eyeing the unintelligible scrap.

“Doesn’t he always? Take it upstairs with the rest of this rubbish.” Ramses put the seal carefully into a tray with the few other objects that had come from the square on which they were working.

A short time later Hassan came down. “There are many, many tourists,” he announced. “Two of them ask to see you.”

“Tell them to go to blazes.” Ramses got stiffly to his feet.

“They say they are the son and daughter of the lady who died.”

“The Pethericks?”

Nefret, who had been diligently scraping away at the brick-hard mud, straightened.

“You had better talk to them, Ramses.”

“Oh, hell, I suppose I had. We may as well leave off work for now, Hassan. Find anything, Nefret?”

She held out her hand. Cupped in her dusty, scratched palm were several small golden beads. She tipped them into the box Hassan held out and Ramses took advantage of the young man’s departure to kiss her scraped fingers. “Not much to show for all that effort.”

She smiled and stroked his cheek. “But, darling, it’s such a romantic ambience. Here alone, with you…”

She sneezed. Ramses laughed and helped her up the three-foot drop between the corridor and the burial chamber. “Here you go, darling. We’ll find more romantic surroundings later.”

Tourist cameras clicked as they emerged into daylight. “One of the most discouraging aspects of this job,” said Nefret resignedly, “is that my dusty, dirty, crumpled image will appear in thousands of photo albums all over the world.”

“It will be the most beautiful image in the album,” her husband said gallantly. “Damn it, Hassan, get those idiots back from the edge.”

Nefret scrambled nimbly up the ladder. Ramses followed, after ordering Hassan to remove the ladder, and joined Nefret, who was talking to Adrian and Harriet. “I’m sorry we have to be so strict about visitors,” Nefret was saying. “It isn’t only tourists we have to worry about; some of the local people refuse to believe we aren’t looking for gold.”

“Have you found anything?” Adrian asked eagerly. One wouldn’t have known there was anything wrong with him, Ramses thought; he was smiling and at ease, his hat in his hand as he addressed Nefret.

She smiled back at him and indicated one of the boxes of scraps. “As you see.”

Harriet Petherick offered her hand. Ramses shook his head and spread his own filthy hands out for her inspection. “It’s dirty work, Miss Petherick.”

“And unproductive,” she said. “What are you hoping to find?”

He couldn’t think of any reason for refusing to answer. “Some evidence that the statue came originally from this tomb. In Father’s opinion this is the most likely place, so we are looking here first.”

“That’s a rather negative approach, isn’t it? Your failure to find evidence doesn’t mean the statue wasn’t there.”

“Right,” Ramses said. She was as quick as she was forceful, and she was looking almost feminine that morning, her thick hair rolled back under the broad-brimmed hat which was tied under her chin with a jaunty bow. He went on, “However, it’s the only approach open to us at this time. We’ve learned the name of the dealer from whom your father bought the statue—”

“How?” The word was as sharp as a shout.

“From Montague. He came to us first, trying to purchase the statue.”

“That won’t do him any good, will it, so long as your father sticks to his promise.”

“You may rest assured that my father will do precisely that.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” She put a propitiatory hand on his arm. It was a strong, capable-looking hand, with a broad palm and long fingers. “Professor Emerson’s reputation is of the highest. I understand why Mrs. Petherick went to him.”

“Thank you.” The sun was hot and he wanted to get home and wash. He was about to make his excuses when Nefret addressed him.

“Adrian would like to see the tomb.”

Ramses scowled at his beloved wife. “I don’t think—”

“We can spare a few more minutes,” Nefret said. “Can’t we?”

“I’d really appreciate it,” Adrian said. “This is my first trip to Egypt, you see, and I am trying to understand why my father was so keen on the country and its antiquities.” His eyes fell. “I wish I had taken a greater interest while he lived. It would have pleased him so much.”

Ramses looked to Harriet Petherick for help but got only a shrug and a cynical half-smile. It would have been heartless to reject that appeal, even though Adrian’s interest was born of guilt, and Pringle Petherick probably wouldn’t have given a damn whether his children shared his interests.

“All right,” he said. “Just for a few minutes. Hassan, will you please lower the ladder? I’ll go down first.”

Adrian had no difficulty negotiating the ladder. Harriet swung herself neatly onto the topmost rung and descended as easily as her brother had.

“Adrian, watch where you step,” Ramses said. “Miss Petherick, take my hand, please.”

Dust motes swam in the ray of sunlight that angled off one of the mirrors used for lighting. They had lost a good deal of their effectiveness, as the sun had moved since they were last adjusted. Ramses switched on his torch.

“Aren’t these mirrors rather an old-fashioned method of illumination?” Harriet Petherick asked.

She’d caught on to the idea immediately. Showing off her intelligence? Ramses wondered. Or admitting to a greater knowledge than her expressed disinterest in Egyptology had implied? If it was an admission, it was deliberate. This was not a woman who made careless mistakes.

Adrian had to have the method explained. “Jolly clever,” he exclaimed. “But why not torches or electricity?”

“Torches burn out too quickly and don’t give an even light,” Ramses explained. “It’s hard to get permission to run an electric line. This works well enough.”

He stopped them on the edge of the three-foot drop into the burial chamber. “This is as far as we go. There’s not much to see, really.”

“Not like some of the other tombs we saw this morning.” Adrian sounded disappointed. “Why aren’t you digging in places like that?”

Ramses patiently explained again why they were here. Adrian lost interest; he preceded them up the sloping passageway.

“Look here, Miss Petherick,” Ramses said softly but urgently. “If you know anything about the statue that you haven’t told us, I strongly advise you to do so. Holding back information will only damage you and your brother.”

A pebble slipped under her feet; she caught more tightly at his hand. “Can I trust you?”

“To do my best for you and Adrian, yes. I believe in his innocence.”

“A carefully equivocal statement,” she said mockingly. “So you wouldn’t lie for us?”

“No. But I hope I won’t have to. He’s not entirely responsible for his actions. Though he seems much more cheerful today.”

“He has his moods.” She stopped and turned to face him. “I admit I haven’t confided fully in you and your parents. I doubt I can tell you anything that will throw light on my stepmother’s death, but perhaps I haven’t the right to hold anything back. May I speak to you in private, without anyone knowing? I will leave it to your discretion to decide what to tell the others.”

“Yes, of course. When?”

“Not today. Adrian is determined to see every tomb in the Valley of the Kings. I will send you a message.”

H
is parents returned from Luxor shortly after Nefret and he reached the house. Emerson immediately demanded a report on the morning’s work. Ramses was able to condense it into two sentences. “We’ve finished the burial chamber except for the far corner and the niche. Nothing.”

“Hmmm,” said Emerson. “Starting tomorrow—”

Perched on the arm of his chair, Nefret interrupted with a laugh and a playful hand across his lips. “Never mind about tomorrow; I want to know what you discovered this morning. To judge by your expression, Mother, you were right about the mysterious Mrs. Johnson.”

“It was not a difficult deduction,” his mother said. The words were modest, but her expression could only be described as smug. “Mrs. Petherick’s name was inscribed on certain of the linens, and the gowns—none of them black—were obviously hers. There was also a jewel case, with several valuable pieces of jewelry.”

“Did you find a wig?” Ramses asked.

His mother’s smile widened. “Well done, Ramses. No, we did not. She must have been wearing it the night she was murdered, which means the killer took it away with him. One can only speculate about his reasons for doing so, but—”

“Don’t speculate,” Emerson ordered.

“If you say so, my dear. We intended to inform the Pethericks of our discovery, and ask them to look over the contents of the room to see if anything is missing, but we were unable to locate them.”

“They were in the Valley of the Kings,” Nefret said. “Behaving like ordinary tourists.”

“Except,” Ramses added, “that they asked to see KV55.”

“You let them in?” Emerson demanded.

“Not into the burial chamber, obviously.”

“Oh. All right, then. Now, as I was saying…”

Ramses had become accustomed to his father’s abrupt changes of plan, but this one caught all the others by surprise—even his mother.

“Join Cyrus in the West Valley?” she exclaimed. “Why, for pity’s sake? I thought you wanted to finish in KV55.”

“I do. I will,” said Emerson, fumbling with his pipe. “I am only postponing it. Too bloody many tourists.”

There would be just as many tourists in a week’s time, or in two weeks’. Ramses was beginning to get an inkling of what his father was up to. He had a foothold in the Valley of the Kings, and he intended to hang on to it. The only question was why?

After luncheon, Emerson sent David to Deir el Medina to take photographs and confer with Selim. The rest of them headed for the West Valley, leaving Ramses with his papyri and Mikhail Katchenovsky. Ramses was becoming attached to the quiet Russian; he was so anxious to please and so efficient, and so good with the children. The twins gravitated to him at once when they all met for tea, and as he watched them Ramses wondered if the Russian had had children of his own. It would have been inappropriate to ask, of course; the man’s personal life was his own affair, and the subject might be a tender one.

Wasim came up to the house with the post while Katchenovsky was telling a story about an evil werewolf and a princess and the brave peasant boy who had rescued her. Ramses sorted through the messages as he listened.