The Serpent on the Crown (24 page)

Adrian answered the door. He had transferred his fickle affection from Sethos to Nefret; with scarcely a glance at the former, he took Nefret’s hands and spoke with febrile vivacity.

“So good! So kind of you to come. Please take a chair. Harriet! The Emersons are here.”

We were not the only callers. I had observed Sir Malcolm at the cemetery, looking on with a sneer and twirling his silver-headed cane. He must have left before the service was over in order to arrive before us.

“I was not aware that you were acquainted with Mrs. Petherick, Sir Malcolm,” I said, acknowledging his bow.

“I was well acquainted with her husband, Mrs. Emerson. I felt obliged to pay my respects.”

Harriet came out of the neighboring bedchamber with a hatbox in her hand. Tossing it onto the floor, she said, “Your hypocrisy will not deceive the Emersons any more than it did me, Sir Malcolm. They know quite well why you are here.”

“How much did you offer?” Emerson inquired bluntly.

“I hardly think, Professor, that that need concern you.”

“Five thousand pounds,” said Harriet Petherick. “Will you take tea or coffee, Mrs. Emerson?”

She indicated several trays of light refreshments on the table.

David let out a stifled exclamation. The lady did not miss much. Looking at him, she inquired, “Too little, you think? How would you know?”

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I believe you have not met Mr. David Todros, our nephew by marriage. He is a well-known sculptor and painter, and an authority on Egyptian art.”

Harriet’s critical expression changed to one of interest. “I am familiar with your work, Mr. Todros. At what price would you value the statue?”

“The worth of such objects depends on the market,” David said cautiously. “But that price strikes me offhand as extremely low.”

“It is also irrelevant,” Emerson said. “Miss Petherick has not the right to sell the statuette.”

“Then who does?” Sir Malcolm demanded. “Mrs. Petherick is no more. She had no children. Her property passes to her husband’s children. I am offering—”

“You, sir, are no gentleman,” I interrupted.

Sir Malcolm’s pale face turned pink. “I beg your pardon, madam!”

“The poor lady is barely cold in her grave,” I went on with mounting indignation. “Is your greed so uncontrolled that you could not wait a decent interval before intruding on the grief of her kin?”

“And hoping to cheat them,” Emerson added. “The statuette is worth four or five times that amount, possibly more. Trying to steal a march on Vandergelt and Carnarvon, are you?”

Sir Malcolm gathered the shreds of his dignity around him and rose. “I see no reason to listen to your insults, Professor. Should you change your mind, Miss Petherick, I am staying here at the Winter Palace.”

Emerson called after him. “Don’t hold your breath, Sir Malcolm. The ownership of the statuette has yet to be determined—as you are well aware.”

The door slammed. Emerson chuckled; then, remembering the solemnity of the occasion, he set his face in sober lines.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Petherick.”

“Why should you beg my pardon? It was Sir Malcolm whose behavior was unseemly.”

“We won’t stay,” I assured her. “We only came by to see if we can be of assistance.”

Miss Petherick glanced at the hatbox. “I am packing my stepmother’s clothing and trinkets. Perhaps you know of a charity here in Luxor that would like to have them.”

Needless to say, I leaped at the opportunity to be of service. “I can hardly say until I have seen them. Pray allow me to assist you in what must be a painful task.”

Emerson gave me a baleful look. “At least have the courtesy to chat for a while, Peabody, before you rummage around in other people’s belongings.”

“I appreciate Mrs. Emerson’s offer and accept it,” said Miss Petherick. “But please, Mrs. Emerson, finish your coffee first and have a cucumber sandwich.”

“Are you leaving Luxor soon, then?” Nefret asked, as I bit into the sandwich.

Miss Petherick’s lips curved in a sardonic smile. “I have been informed by Captain Rayburn, the British adviser, that we may not leave Egypt until Mrs. Petherick’s murder has been solved.”

Adrian leaned forward, his hands tightly clasped and his eyes unnaturally bright. “We owe it to Magda and our father to remain, Harriet. He loved her.”

“He enjoyed being married to a celebrity,” said Miss Petherick.

“She made him happy,” Adrian said heatedly. “How could we depart without seeing her killer brought to justice?”

“A very proper attitude,” Sethos said. “Had she enemies?”

“Literary rivals, perhaps?” Miss Petherick’s smile bared a number of teeth. “Or a Devoted Reader who disliked her last book? We have already informed the police that we know of no one who had a motive to harm her.”

“Money, revenge, fear,” said Emerson. “Those are the usual motives for murder. You had not known her long. How can you be sure she was not a threat to someone’s reputation or that she had not done someone a deadly injury in the past?”

“I said we know of no one,” replied Miss Petherick.

She was a worthy adversary, and Emerson’s expressive countenance showed a certain admiration. He much prefers women of character to those who “fall weeping onto their beds,” as he had once put it. She looked almost handsome in her elegant black coat and skirt, her thick black hair coiled into a heavy knot, and color brightening her cheeks. The hand that held her teacup betrayed not a tremor.

“Come now, Professor,” she went on. “Postulating unknown enemies is like chasing will-o’-the wisps when you have a solid, tangible motive staring you in the face. Mrs. Petherick was my father’s sole heir. His collection is worth a great deal of money.”

“Who are her heirs?” Emerson asked.

“I don’t know that either. If she made a will, it would, I presume, be in the hands of her solicitors. I can assure you of one thing, Professor. She didn’t leave her estate to Adrian or me.”

“You told me, on the first occasion we met, that you were both fond of her,” Emerson shot back.

“I didn’t say she was fond of us,” Miss Petherick said, cool and unshaken. “She and I were on civil terms. If there was little affection between us, there was no animosity, and Adrian’s attachment to her was genuine. Have you any more questions, Professor?”

“Not at the present time,” Emerson admitted.

“Mrs. Emerson?”

‘If you are asking for my opinion, Miss Petherick, I think we should get your task over and done with.”

Miss Petherick’s doubtful expression indicated that she had had second thoughts about accepting my offer of assistance, but of course I proceeded as I had planned. The others left; I rolled up my sleeves and went into the bedchamber, followed by Miss Petherick.

The room was in a frightful state of confusion. Instead of proceeding methodically, she had emptied the wardrobe, flinging the garments haphazardly across chairs and tables and turned drawers upside down onto the bed. I considered this highly significant, though to be honest I wasn’t sure what her hasty, untidy methods signified. Had she cared more for her stepmother than she admitted, and found the sight of her belongings painful? Had she detested her so thoroughly that she wanted to remove every reminder as soon as was humanly possible? I confined my comments to a mild “Dear me, this will never do,” and began folding sable dresses and silken undergarments into neat piles. Stockings, shoes, handkerchiefs, and scarves went into one of the drawers. All of them, even the handkerchiefs, were heavily scented with some musky perfume. Miss Petherick stood watching me, her arms hanging limp at her sides.

“I know several ladies of limited means who might be glad of the gowns,” I said finally. “Mourning, alas, is always useful. The underclothes are worn and a trifle—er—youthful.”

“Daring, you mean?” Miss Petherick folded her arms.

“I suppose I do. Ah well, I suggest we simply bundle everything up—hats, gloves and all. I will have them brought to me and I will send them on to the proper persons. There is nothing you would like to keep?”

“No.”

“Not even her jewelry?” The contents of her jewelry box had also been tossed onto the bed in a glittering, shimmering tangle.

“The gems are all paste and the gold false.”

An examination, which I proceeded to make, proved she was right. I was a trifle surprised that a successful authoress, the wife of a man of means, should not have a few important jewels. I wondered whether Miss Petherick had already taken them.

It was none of my business if she had, but my expression must have been somewhat critical, for she volunteered a statement. “I took a few trinkets that had belonged to my mother. Their only value is sentimental, but if you would like to see them—”

“I assure you, that is not necessary.”

“I insist. I don’t want you to have any doubts about my honesty.”

She pulled open the drawer of the night table.

It took only a single glance to survey the contents. Unlike the tangle on the bed, these ornaments had been carefully laid out on the bottom of the drawer: several small brooches, set with seed pearls and chips of turquoise, two rings of equally modest value, and a garnet parure, consisting of bracelets, hair combs, and a necklace. They were of a style popular fifty years earlier, a mosaic of small gems set in silver. One of the combs had lost two of its teeth.

“She never wore them,” said Miss Petherick. Her tone left no doubt as to which “she” she meant. “They were too old-fashioned and restrained.”

I was unexpectedly touched by the little mementos and their careful disposal, nor did I blame Miss Petherick for taking them. By rights they ought to have gone to her instead of being handed over to her mother’s successor. I said as much, and saw the young lady’s stern face soften.

“My mother was a gentle, unassuming woman, Mrs. Emerson. She never asked for much, and she got even less.”

I
am somewhat ashamed to admit my true reason for offering to take charge of Mrs. Petherick’s clothes. Miss Petherick had thanked me for my kindness, but as my more astute Readers no doubt realize, my motive was not so benevolent. I had not had the opportunity to examine the garments closely, turning out pockets and cuffs and looking for stains. All is fair in love, war, and detection, and one never knows when a clue may turn up.

In fact, several new clues had turned up. Most interesting was the young lady’s feelings about her stepmother. Civil she may have been, but it was obvious that she harbored a long-standing, deep-seated resentment of the woman who had taken her mother’s place, not to mention her mother’s poor little ornaments. She might not stand to gain monetarily from Mrs. Petherick’s death, but, as Emerson had cogently pointed out, an equally strong motive is the desire for revenge.

Almost as interesting was the fact that the wardrobe I had seen was not as extensive as it ought to have been. Ladies of fashion travel with a wide variety of clothing and accoutrements. There had only been a few changes of underclothing, and they were patched and darned. She had brought at least one flamboyant garment with her—the crimson gown in which she had been buried. And surely she had owned more jewelry than the contents of that single rosewood casket.

Pondering these matters, I made my way along the corridor, exchanging absentminded compliments with the suffragis and waiters I encountered. I stopped at the desk to give instructions to the clerk about Mrs. Petherick’s things, and then said casually, “Who is the lady in room 354?”

If the fellow had said, “What lady?” my theory would have collapsed on the spot. Instead he replied readily, “A Mrs. Johnson, madam. She arrived a week ago.”

“Ah,” I said. “I think I may know her. Is she of middle age and medium height, with black hair and eyes?”

The young man was sorry to disappoint me. “The age and size are correct, Mrs. Emerson, but Mrs. Johnson has yellow hair. Bright yellow hair. Very bright.”

I was sorely tempted to take the final step that would prove my theory, but the spirit of fair play demanded that I admit Emerson to my confidence first. So I thanked the young man and turned away. My brisk stride (and my raised parasol) got me through the lobby and out of the hotel without being accosted, though the confounded journalist and his camera made an abortive attempt to stop me. “Mrs. Emerson!” he called. “My friend Kevin O’Connell—”

He was mistaken if he believed that name would gain him favor. Kevin was a friend but he was also a journalist, and at times, such as the present, the two were incompatible. I brushed the fellow aside and went on.

They were all waiting for me on the veranda, including the Vandergelts and Jumana. Katherine had decided they should not attend the obsequies, since they had not been acquainted with Mrs. Petherick, so they were understandably curious about what had gone on.

“You were wise to stay away,” I said, giving Katherine a kiss. “It was a disgusting spectacle.”

“So I have been told” was her reply. “And I gather that the brother and sister have been ordered not to leave Egypt. I cannot understand that, Amelia. There is no evidence against them, is there?”

“So far there is no evidence against anyone,” Emerson grunted. “Unless Peabody discovered something while she was examining the lady’s belongings?”

All eyes returned to me. Emerson’s sapphire blue orbs were narrowed.

“My dear, how can you impugn my motives?” I inquired, with a merry little laugh.

Lounging at ease, legs crossed, Sethos shook his head. “Don’t annoy him, Amelia. He is already in a vile humor.”

Emerson opened his mouth, closed it, drew a deep breath, and spoke in a soft, controlled voice. “I asked Cyrus and Bertie—and Jumana—to meet with us in order to determine our plans for excavation, not to gossip about matters that do not concern us.”

“So you are not interested in what I learned after you left?”

Emerson could not admit he was dying to hear. He said grumpily, “The sooner you get it out, the sooner we can dismiss the subject.”

I didn’t want to increase his aggravation for fear he would go back on his promise to hire additional staff and give the children more freedom to get on with their own work. So I explained my deductions about Mrs. Petherick’s wardrobe and jewelry, ignoring Emerson’s muttered comments (“Typical female…clothes…balderdash…”), and went on to describe my conversation with the desk clerk. At that point Emerson gave over muttering in favor of profanity.