The Serpent on the Crown (29 page)

“Did you see who it was?”

“I think it was your friend Katchenovsky.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Mikhail is totally harmless. If it was he, he probably only wanted to talk to me, or beg a ride back across the river. You scared him off. He’s a timid soul.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“You sound like Mother.”

“I take it that isn’t meant as a compliment.”

Ramses didn’t reply. They went on down the steps. The area around the hotel and the corniche was brightly lighted, and so was the dock. There were no shadows in which an assassin could lurk. Sethos had probably invented the lurker.

“That could be the man I saw,” Sethos said suddenly. He pointed.

The man was Adrian Petherick. He gave the impression of having been out for an innocent evening stroll; there was no guilty start when he saw them, no change in his bright smile.

“Good evening,” he said. “A beautiful night, is it not?”

“Yes, it is,” Ramses said. “Does your sister know you are out?”

Adrian chuckled. “Dear Harriet. I can’t have her trailing me all the time, you know. She had an appointment this evening. Was it with you, by any chance?”

“As a matter of fact, it was.”

“What did she tell you?”

His smiling face was without guile, but there was something in his tone that set off alarm bells in Ramses’s mind.

“She’s concerned about you,” he said bluntly. “You oughtn’t to go off without telling her. There is still an unknown killer at large.”

“Unless it’s me,” Adrian said cheerfully. “Is there any new information?”

“No.”

Adrian shook his head. “The police aren’t very clever, are they? That fellow, for instance—” He turned. “He’s been following me for two days. Plainclothes, you could say—he’s dressed like all the other Egyptians, in that flapping robe and turban. But I spotted him right away.”

“Well done,” Ramses said. Ayyid’s plainclothes detachment needed training. The turbaned head peering out from behind a tree was as conspicuous as a camel.

“I’m going in now,” Adrian announced. “Do give my regards to your beautiful wife and the rest of the family.”

“He doesn’t look anything like Mikhail,” Ramses said, watching Adrian ascend the stairs two at a time.

“They are approximately the same height, when Katchenovsky isn’t being Uriah Heep, and both are slightly built. I didn’t see his face. Standard clothing, pith helmet, dark trousers and coat.”

When they reached the dock, Sabir was lying in wait. “You let another boatman bring you across,” he said accusingly.

“But you found out,” Ramses said.

“Aywa, of course. So I waited to take you back.”

“I cannot imagine how a criminal remains undiscovered for long here,” Sethos remarked, as they took their seats. “Or is it only your activities that merit such close attention?”

“The latter, I think.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Young Petherick. You feel sorry for him because of his wartime experiences, but he is either mad as a hatter or extremely cunning. In either case he is a prime candidate for the role of murderer.”

“But why?” Ramses demanded, goaded into argument. “What motive could he have? According to his sister, he was devoted to his stepmother.”

“Motive, as all criminologists know, is not evidence. People kill people for the damnedest reasons. Some murderers hear voices. Others have such monumental egos that they appoint themselves judge as well as executioner. Then there are the simple souls who let small grievances pile up, month after month and year after year, until an equally small grievance pushes them over the edge. To say nothing of the—”

“You’ve made your point,” Ramses interrupted.

“No, I haven’t. I was working up to the fact that as yet we know almost nothing about any of these people. We need more background. I may have to go to Cairo for a few days.”

The boat bumped gently against the bank. Ramses jumped out, leaving his uncle to fend for himself. His concern for Adrian had been submerged in a more immediate worry.

Ramses was late. I had expected that, but I had not expected he would be accompanied by Sethos. The latter looked particularly bland.

“We’ve had to put dinner back,” Nefret said accusingly. “Even further back.”

“Sorry,” Ramses said.

Sethos went to the table and poured two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to Ramses and settled himself comfortably in a chair with the other glass in his hand.

“Hmmm,” I said. “That bad, was it?”

Ramses took a long swallow and a deep breath. “No, not at all. That is—uh—not in the conventional sense. I’ve just had an interview with Harriet Petherick.”

“I suspected as much,” I said.

“I didn’t,” said Nefret. “I believed you.”

Ramses’s eyes fell under her accusing stare. “I gave her my word I wouldn’t tell anyone beforehand.”

“You gave me your word you’d never go off again without telling me.”

“I did tell…Goddammit!” Ramses slammed his empty glass down on the table. “Do you want to hear what happened, or don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I certainly do,” Nefret said gently.

Without further ado, Ramses plunged into his narrative. His description of Harriet Petherick’s attire, though vague as one might have expected from a male observer, raised a number of eyebrows. Having completed what was obviously for him the most dodgy part of the story, he paused for breath and for another glass of whiskey.

“Pink,” I said thoughtfully. “Veeery interesting. She must have taken the garment from her stepmother’s wardrobe. That implies premeditation. What happened after you refused her advances, Ramses? Was that her only reason for inviting you?”

“She claimed she wanted to give me certain background information,” Ramses said, more at ease now that the worst was over. “She was extremely critical of her father, who was, in her own words, selfish and cold to his first wife and to his children. The second Mrs. Petherick was quite unlike his first wife, worldly and wealthy, famous and—er—feminine. Harriet couldn’t understand why Magda was attracted to Petherick, but she was determined to marry him, and she succeeded.”

“There are attractions a daughter might not understand,” I said. “And Petherick was rich, wasn’t he?”

“So was Magda,” Ramses said. “Flaunting her jewels and expensive gowns, to quote Harriet.”

“That is no indication of wealth,” I remarked. “Rather the reverse, in some cases. I don’t know what her income may have been, but she spent it lavishly. As for her success in—er—trapping Mr. Petherick, men of a certain age are particularly vulnerable to such advances. She caught him at a susceptible moment.”

Emerson cleared his throat noisily, and I amended my analysis. “Some men.”

“Not I,” said Sethos. “I have always been susceptible.”

“Is that all?” Nefret inquired of her husband.

“She said that the lady had made a concerted effort to win Adrian over, at least at the beginning, and insists that he was genuinely attached to her. In retrospect,” Ramses said slowly, “I believe she was, and is, primarily concerned with gaining our help for her brother. She claims the police have fixed on him as the killer. She wants to take him home for medical treatment.”

“He is in need of it,” Nefret said.

Sethos uncrossed his legs. “I’m not so sure, Nefret. We encountered the young man on our way to the dock, and his manner and conversation were those of a completely normal, very alert person. He even made a few little jokes about being under suspicion. A clever man can feign dementia, and it’s a legitimate legal defense.”

“I don’t believe it,” Nefret said stubbornly. “That is—I suppose you are right, but I don’t believe it applies to Adrian.”

Fatima poked her head out the door. “Dinner is served. Maaman says he cannot put it back any longer.”

“Is he crying?” Emerson demanded.

“Yes, Father of Curses.”

“Damnation. We’re coming, Fatima.”

While the others were taking their places, I had a quiet word with Nefret. “Ramses told you the truth, Nefret. Nothing of—er—nothing happened.”

“I know.” She put her arm round my waist; her blue eyes were clear and bright. “I just like to stir him up now and then. He’s absolutely irresistible when he loses his temper.”

She laughed and gave me a little squeeze.

“That’s all right, then,” I said, relieved. “I remember once when Emerson—”

“Peabody!” Emerson said loudly. “What are you gossiping about? Sit down, if you please.”

Over dinner I requested that Ramses and Sethos go into more detail about their conversations with the Pethericks. There was certainly food for thought in several of the statements that had been made.

“So Ayyid is having Adrian followed,” I said. “That is extremely—”

“Interesting,” growled Emerson. (The soup was quite salty.) “What you mean, Peabody, is that you are vexed because Ayyid hasn’t consulted you.”

“No, but I am a trifle surprised that Miss Petherick has not applied to
ME
for assistance.” Nefret gave Ramses a certain look, and realizing I had revived a delicate subject, I hurried on. “Or to a solicitor. British justice is British justice, and Adrian cannot be detained indefinitely.”

“I told her that,” Ramses said. He put his soupspoon down.

“Is it not good?” Fatima asked anxiously.

“It’s fine. I’m not hungry for lentil soup, that’s all.”

“Ayyid is only after one thing,” Sethos said. “Or rather, two things that are interrelated. He wants to be the one to catch the perpetrator—it would be quite a feather in his fez—and he wants to make sure one of his own people isn’t made the scapegoat.”

“That’s nonsense,” David said. “No Egyptian would dare kill a foreigner. The penalties are too severe.”

“You know that and I know that, and Ayyid knows that,” Sethos retorted. “He also knows that accusing an Egyptian would be the easiest way out of the mess for the British. We’ve had a number of chats on the subject.”

“What?” I cried. “You and the inspector? When?”

“On several occasions,” Sethos said with an infuriating smile. “He thinks I’m an agent of British intelligence.”

“You are,” David said blankly. He jumped. Someone must have kicked him in the ankle. I would have done so had I been closer to him.

“Not the one he thinks I am,” Sethos said.

“Who,” I demanded, “is Anthony Bissinghurst?”

“He’s me,” Sethos said. “Or rather, I am he.”

“One of your numerous personae?”

“It’s one I use when I require official support,” Sethos explained. “‘Tony’ is a bona fide member of the Interior Department, well known to the authorities.”

“Good Gad,” Emerson muttered. “So what has Ayyid told you?”

“He’s set his sights on Adrian, right enough. I understand why. There isn’t anybody else.”

“What about Harriet?” I inquired.

“Come now, Peabody,” Emerson exclaimed. “It can’t have been she.”

“Why not? Because she is a woman? I am surprised you should still suffer from prejudice against my gender, Emerson, in view of the fact that we have encountered more than one female antagonist. Harriet is, in my opinion, a much more likely suspect than her brother. Unlike him, she detested her stepmother, and she is tall enough and strong enough to pass for a man.”

“I wondered if you would think of that,” Sethos murmured.

“You did, of course.”

“Certainly. You cannot accuse me, Amelia dear, of harboring prejudices against the female sex.”

Before retiring that night, I made one of my little lists.

I
waited until Emerson had had his coffee next morning before I produced my list. “In my opinion,” I said, “we have been negligent in failing to follow up certain of the inquiries we launched some time ago and in exploring other avenues.”

Emerson snatched the paper from my hand. “Good Gad, Peabody, you’ve outdone yourself this time. I see that under ‘Suspects’ you have listed Sir Malcolm, Lidman, Karnovsky, Harriet, Adrian, and Mr. Salt, the manager of the Winter Palace! Why not Cyrus, or Winlock?”

“Because we are well acquainted with them, of course. The others are new to Luxor. Mr. Salt took over the management only a few months ago. How do we know he is not a homicidal maniac who was, perhaps, cheated by Mr. or Mrs. Petherick?”

“Anybody can be a homicidal maniac,” Emerson said with more passion than accuracy. “There are times when I feel myself leaning in that direction. Really, Peabody!”

“If you will look at the second column of my list, you will see that I have suggested several practical lines of investigation.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, scanning the paper again. “We can’t check on the backgrounds of all these people; for all we know, any guest in the hotel could harbor a grudge against Mrs. Petherick.” He started to close his fist on my list, caught my eye, and handed it back to me. “I haven’t time for this nonsense. Let us go.”

“Where?” I inquired acerbically. “KV55, Deir el Medina, or the West Valley? You can’t seem to make up your mind.”

“I know precisely what I am doing,” Emerson retorted. “Come, if you are coming.”

When Emerson and I are having one of our friendly discussions we are seldom interrupted. Now David ventured to speak.

“Do you want me to bring the cameras, Professor?”

“Certainly. Be quick, if you please.”

He strode out, followed by Nefret, David, and, after a moment, by Ramses.

“I may as well go along,” I said to Sethos. “What about you?”

Sethos smiled at Fatima, who was trying to refill his cup. “No, thank you, Fatima. Your coffee tempts me to remain, but duty calls. The Professor has questioned my abilities and impugned my talents.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked. Fatima, who had even less idea than I, nodded and beamed.

“He thinks I missed something while I was loot——er—investigating that tomb,” Sethos said. “I want to be on hand when he admits I didn’t.”

We joined the others in the stable. Ramses very kindly offered me Risha, but I declined in favor of one of the stallion’s granddaughters, a pretty little mare called Amber. As Sethos had guessed, Emerson led the procession to the East Valley and Tomb 55.