The Serpent on the Crown (21 page)

“Would they be more likely to agree if I were to perform the autopsy?” Nefret asked.

It was a bitter pill for Ayyid to swallow; only his respectful admiration for Nefret enabled him to do so. “I do not like to ask a lady to take on such a disagreeable task, madam.”

“I’ve done it before,” Nefret said, smiling at him.

Ayyid nodded. “I took the liberty of mentioning that possibility to the high commissioner, subject, of course, to your decision. If the lady’s children agree—”

“I don’t see why their permission is required in a case of suspected murder,” I said. “But if it proves necessary, I will speak to them. I have no doubt my arguments will prevail. You have no suspects at the present time?”

Ayyid rose. He was obviously unwilling to discuss the progress of the case—or the lack of progress. “Until the cause of death is determined, we have no reason to search for suspects. She may have died of natural causes.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “After vanishing for a week she returned to the hotel, lay down under a bougainvillea or rosebush, folded her hands, and passed away?”

Ayyid could think of no reply to this—nor could anyone have done so. He bowed himself out, after telling Nefret he would let her know whether her services would be required.

Emerson fixed me with a terrible look. “If you say ‘I told you so,’ Peabody—”

“As you know, Emerson, I deplore the use of that phrase, especially between married persons.”

“Ha,” said Emerson. “I have lost count of the number of times you—”

“An unjust and unjustified accusation, Emerson. Anyhow, I did not contradict your—as it has proved—incorrect assumption in so many words. I only—”

“Looked contradictory,” Emerson shouted.

“Now, now,” said Sethos, trying to control the quiver of his lips. “Do not allow disharmony to mar the spectacle of marital accord, I beg. You wouldn’t want to set me a bad example.”

“Are you and Margaret about to be married at long last, then?” I asked interestedly. I had thoroughly disliked Margaret Minton when I first met her, in her role as a determined lady journalist, but I had learned to admire her talents and her strong character. She and Sethos had been…well acquainted…for some years, but she had refused his offers of marriage—for good reason, I should say. Passionate devotion to a man should not blind a woman to his flaws, and Sethos had a good many of them, including his hazardous occupation as a secret service agent and his checkered past.

“We can’t seem to come to an agreement,” Sethos said. “But we are edging closer, I think. Perhaps you can help, Amelia. You are well known for your success in assisting romantic affairs. I expect Margaret will turn up before long, this story is becoming irresistible.”

“Oh, wonderful,” snarled Emerson. “That’s all we need, Margaret and perhaps her old rival Kevin O’Connell badgering us. I refuse to be distracted by this twaddle. Ramses, Peabody, Nefret, David, get your gear together.”

“Where are we going?” Nefret asked.

“Deir el Medina first. Selim said he’d run across something he wants to show me. Then the Valley of the Kings.”

Nefret and Ramses rose obediently. I reached for another piece of toast. It was rather leathery, but I spread marmalade on it anyhow.

Emerson began muttering. He hadn’t done that for a long time. “Expected this…hopeless cause…confounded female…”

“I presume,” I remarked, “that the final phrase applies not to me but to poor Mrs. Petherick. Such sentiments are unworthy of you, Emerson. I cannot so callously ignore the horrible murder of a fellow human being. That takes precedence over all other activities. However, if you are determined to—”

“You don’t know that it was murder,” Emerson said. “And if it was…Damnation! What are you going to do?”

“Examine the scene of the crime. Question witnesses. Offer my condolences to Miss and Mr. Petherick.” I took a bite of toast, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed. “After that, we shall see.”

Emerson threw up his hands, literally and figuratively. “What about you, Sethos?”

“Why, I share Amelia’s humanitarian views, of course” was the smooth reply. “Anyhow, her activities ought to be much more entertaining than yours.”

A
s Sethos and I walked down the road toward the river, we were amused to observe several Egyptians industriously digging in the ashes of the fire, looking for the remains of the statuette. I didn’t doubt that some of the tourists would have been doing the same if Wasim had let them by. With the aid of my parasol and Sethos’s stick we made our way through the hangers-on near the guardhouse. There were not so many of them that morning; some had abandoned the unproductive siege and others, I surmised, had been drawn to the scene of the crime. I hoped Ayyid had been able to keep it relatively uncontaminated, but I did not count on it.

It was a fine, clear morning, as are most mornings in Luxor. Sunlight sparkled on the water and the white sails of feluccas dipped and swung. I had sent word to Daoud’s son Sabir; when we reached the riverbank, his boat was waiting. The gangplank, which served as a makeshift oar when necessary, was at a challenging angle and quite narrow, but I disdained the hands stretched out to assist me. Long before it became acceptable for ladies to do so, I had given up cumbersome skirts in favor of trousers. Thus attired, I ascended quite nimbly, the various useful items attached to my belt of tools jingling.

“You seem to be carrying more odds and ends than ever,” said Sethos, settling himself onto the bench next to me. “Canteen, knife, flask of brandy, coil of rope, candle and matches—what’s in this box?”

“Medical supplies. Bandages, sticking plaster, and so on.”

“I shudder to think what ‘and so on’ might consist of.”

He was being frivolous, so I did not deign to reply. In fact I had fewer “odds and ends” on my belt than usual, since the numerous pockets in my coat and trousers provided an alternative. Emerson had always complained, not so much about the accoutrements as about the noise they made when I moved. Admittedly this made it more difficult for me to creep up on a suspect unheard, so I had made a few adjustments.

I always enjoy the trip across the river; it is like watching a motion picture unreel, as the structures on the East Bank seem to move ever nearer and clearer. On this occasion, however, impatience tempered pleasure. As soon as we docked I disembarked, instructing Sabir to wait for us.

The gardens behind the Winter Palace are normally a scene of peace and beauty. Paths wind through close-clipped greensward and beds of bright blossom in the shade of exotic trees. Such was not the case that morning. It was as I had feared. Ayyid had left two constables on guard, but they had been bribed or intimidated into turning a blind eye to the depredations of ghoulish sightseers. Cameras clicked and one lady was sawing at a flowery spray with a pair of nail scissors.

My loud but ladylike expostulations dispersed most of the ghouls. The others simply backed off and began photographing
ME
. I took my own little Kodak from the pocket of my coat, wishing I had insisted on Nefret accompanying me. I have always had a bit of trouble with cameras.

The spot where Mrs. Petherick’s body had rested was not under a rosebush or bougainvillea, though both grew nearby. At the base of a splendid specimen of dom palm lay a mass of twining vines which had enveloped the lower four feet of the trunk and climbed farther up it. The plant, I believe, was not indigenous to Egypt, but it flourished here, forming a tapestry of green and vivid pink, the flowers being small but profuse. Part of the plant had been rudely torn away. The broken boughs were already withering. The area they had once covered was bare ground, without so much as an indentation or outline to show the location of the body. The only visible marks were those of shod feet—the ghouls’, I presumed. Kneeling, I focused my camera and took several photographs of the spot, hoping the lens would bring out more detail than was visible to the naked eye. I was photographing the wider area when a hail from one of the constables caused me to turn. Coming toward me was Inspector Ayyid.

“You need not bother taking photographs, Mrs. Emerson,” he said. “I did so this morning before and after the body was moved.”

“Was there any sign of a struggle?” I added, in some vexation, “The area has been so disturbed that even I cannot tell what damage was done by whom, and when.”

“It was necessary to cut away the vines before we could examine the body.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, making a mental note of the fact that he had not really answered my question. “What is the name of this pretty pink vine?”

Ayyid looked blank. “I do not know, Mrs. Emerson.”

“No matter. Were you looking for me, Mr. Ayyid, or is this a fortuitous meeting?”

“One of my men told me you were here. I expected you would be.”

There was the hint of a smile on his stern face. I smiled back at him. “How is the investigation proceeding?”

“The authorities have been persuaded that the circumstances are unusual enough to justify a postmortem. We await only the agreement of Mrs. Petherick’s heirs. They are…not pleased at the idea.”

“Many people find the idea repugnant,” I said—though I would not have supposed the Pethericks to be so sentimental about their stepmother. “I will have a little chat with them. I had intended to do so in any case. I would also like to question the gardener who found the body.”

“That can be arranged.”

In fact there was no way he could have prevented it. I had observed a man in an earth-stained galabeeyah hovering nearby.

I thanked him, nonetheless, and went on, “Will you be good enough to tell Miss and Mr. Petherick that I will call upon them shortly?”

Recognizing this as a courteous dismissal, Ayyid nodded and walked away. I turned to Sethos, who had not—for a wonder—uttered a word.

“Did you observe any clues?” I asked.

“No more than you, I fancy.”

“Hmmm.” I beckoned to the gardener, who came limping to me, hopeful of baksheesh. He was a lean little man, probably in his late thirties, though he looked older. I deduced that his limp was caused by rheumaticky knees, probably a result of kneeling long hours on the hard ground.

“You were the one who found the lady?” I asked in Arabic.

“Yes, Sitt!” His right hand quivered. “It was a terrible thing, I do not know whether I will be able to work again in this accursed place.”

“The curse will be lifted. My word on that. Now tell me how you found her.”

Nothing loath, the fellow launched into his tale. (I omit the expressions of woe and distress.)

He was the head gardener, in charge of the crew, so he made it a point to arrive early. The sun was barely up when he came to the gardens. As he strolled along the paths, smoking and enjoying the solitude and fresh morning scents (and so on, and so on) and appraising the places that needed attention, he saw an ugly intrusion among the pink-flowered vines. At first he thought it was a dead animal or bird. Closer examination disclosed the fact that it was a shoe, with a foot in it.

“I pushed the vines aside, Sitt, and saw her. I fell down in a faint and cried out. Then I ran away—to get help. When the police came they tore away the vines—my beautiful coral vine,” he added, with what appeared to be genuine emotion.

“So the vines were in place until the police came? You didn’t look to see whether she was dead?”

The slightest tightening of his lips betrayed his reaction to that naive question. “It was not for me to touch the lady, Sitt.”

“No,” I agreed. “Describe exactly what you saw—her expression, her clothing, everything you can remember.”

“I did not see her face, Sitt, it was too dark under the vines. She wore a gown of that color”—he indicated the crimson scarf knotted around my throat—“and shoes like the English ladies wear, with sharp heels and diamond buckles.”

“Evening dress,” I said to Sethos. “And not her usual black. Interesting.”

“The only part that showed was one foot,” Sethos said. He had not required me to translate; his Arabic was as good as mine. “So she must have crawled—”

“Or been pushed.”

“—or been pushed under the mass of vines, with enough care to avoid disturbing it unduly. In the hope of delaying the discovery of the body?”

“It couldn’t have been delayed for long,” I replied, reminded of an unpalatable but pertinent fact. “Nor can her burial be long delayed, not in this climate. I must speak with the Pethericks. But first…”

I asked the gardener whether he had looked for suspicious signs elsewhere in the gardens. He shook his head.

“I was too saddened, Sitt, and too afraid of the afrit.”

“It was not an afrit that killed her,” I said. “Come with me now.”

We walked slowly along the winding paths, looking from side to side. Several constables were making halfhearted attempts to search, but I did not credit them with keen powers of observation. In fact it was Sethos—I always endeavor to give credit where it is due—who saw sunlight wink off a scattering of crystal beads. There were only a few of them, almost hidden in the loam, but I felt certain they had come from Mrs. Petherick’s evening frock.

“She was killed here,” I said, retrieving the beads. “It is one of the most secluded spots in the gardens, far enough from the hotel so that an outcry would go unheard.”

Sethos looked skeptical. “You have an innocent mind, Amelia. Any lady might have lost a few beads off her frock if she were…Shall we say, clasped in a firm but nonlethal hold in a discreetly secluded spot?”

“I appreciate the delicacy of your description. That is of course a possibility; I expect that such encounters are not infrequent.”

“Quite,” said Sethos, in the tone of a man who speaks from personal experience.

“I consider my theory to be more likely,” I went on. “And it will be easy to confirm it, as soon as I compare these beads with the ones on her gown.”

The gardener was unable to identify the beads. They might be the same as those on the lady’s dress; they might not. He conceded, when I pressed him, that the earth appeared to have been disturbed and then hastily smoothed, not by the rakes employed by the gardeners, but by hand. I wrapped the beads in a handkerchief and tucked them into one of my pockets.