The Serpent on the Crown (28 page)

Hassan’s turbaned head appeared. “Emerson,” he called. “Will you come? We have found something.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

“A scrap of wood with a half-obliterated cartouche,” Emerson said disgustedly. He laid it on the table in front of Ramses. “But Hassan’s announcement got the whole mob in a twitter and there was a considerable amount of pushing and shoving. And that bastard Montague—”

“Now, now,” his wife said soothingly. “His interest was understandable. And he was very polite.”

“He’s changed his tactics,” Emerson declared. “But he’s still after the statuette. Can you make out anything, my boy?”

Holding the scrap delicately by one side, Ramses turned it to catch the fading light. “Most of the original paint is gone. The impression at the top of the cartouche could be a sun sign, and this curve part of the kheper beetle.”

“Smenkhkare,” Emerson said triumphantly. “He was buried there, I knew it.”

“Not necessarily,” Ramses said. “A number of royal names have those signs, including Amenhotep the Second and Tutankhamon. What do you make of it, Mikhail?”

He handed the piece to the Russian, who received it on the palm of his hand. “It is as you have said, Ramses. Only those two signs are certain. They were usually more deeply carved than others.”

“I’ll have another look at it in the morning, when the light is stronger,” Ramses said. “Though I doubt if it is significant. KV55 was a cache, after all, with objects from various royals.”

He replaced the scrap in the box lined with fabric and moved it aside in time to avoid the reaching hand of his daughter. “How many times must I tell you not to touch antiquities without permission?” he asked sternly.

“It is only a dirty piece of wood,” said Carla.

“Any object may have historical value,” said her brother, blue eyes accusatory. “May I have a look, Papa?”

“Another time,” Ramses said. He didn’t want to discourage his son, who had already shown an interest in Egyptology, but he knew that if David John were permitted to examine the scrap, Carla would insist on her turn. “Here, Fatima, will you be good enough to take this to Father’s study?”

Katchenovsky distracted Carla by producing a piece of string and initiating her into the art of cat’s cradle. He really did have a knack with children.

Unfortunately his mother got at the post basket first. Fortunately Harriet Petherick did not indulge in dainty scented notepaper. His mother handed over the plain white envelope without comment. The handwriting was as large and emphatic as that of a man. There were several other letters for him; he read them first, and then opened Harriet’s.

It left him in what his mother would have called a moral dilemma. Harriet reiterated her request that he tell no one—and what a depressingly familiar sound that had! In this case, he told himself, there couldn’t be any danger in going alone. She’d asked him to come to her room at the hotel. He could imagine what his mother would suspect: poison in the tea, a passionate embrace that would end with a knife in his ribs, a posse of thugs hiding in the bath chamber…Plots worthy of the Countess Magda.

He laughed, and his mother looked up from the letter she was reading.

“Something amusing in your correspondence, my dear?”

“No, not very.”

The situation wasn’t at all amusing. He found himself between the devil and the deep blue sea: breaking his word to Harriet Petherick or deceiving his wife—again.

He could lie with a straight face when he had to, but the trouble with his affectionate, closely knit, inquisitive, helpful family was that the lie had to be clever enough to get them off the track. In the end, he told part of the truth.

“I’m going over to Luxor for a while. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

He hadn’t expected to get off that easily, nor did he. In the end he had to pretend to lose his temper. “For God’s sake, I don’t need a bodyguard every time I leave the house! I’m going straight to the Winter Palace and I’ll come straight back. I only want to have a chat with Abdul and one or two of the other suffragis.”

“You’ve remembered something?” his mother asked keenly.

“Just an amorphous idea. They’re more likely to talk to me if I’m alone. Now, please, Mama, may I have your permission to go?”

“May I beg a ride?” Katchenovsky asked. “I have some business in Luxor.”

The children set up a clamor of protest. The Russian smiled and held out his hands to them. “Little ones, I must not take advantage of your family’s kindness. I will see you tomorrow.”

F
eluccas and gaily painted boats crowded the river, as belated tourists returned to their hotels. The sun was setting when they reached the East Bank. Katchenovsky, who had spoken very little during the trip, said good night and left Ramses outside the Winter Palace.

Ramses hadn’t spoken much either. He had been remembering Nefret’s caresses and loving words. If he had to break his promise to someone—and he obviously did—that someone ought not be his wife. And yet, mingled with his feelings of guilt was that ungovernable curiosity. Damn it, he told himself, this was an opening not to be missed. His mother would have jumped at it and lied through her teeth if she had to.

He had overlooked one little problem. Several of the suffragis greeted him with knowing grins as he walked along the corridor toward Harriet Petherick’s room. They would spread the word, Nefret would find out where he had been, and she would know he had deceived her.

Harriet was some time responding to his knock. When she opened the door he stood frozen for a moment.

He wouldn’t have believed she had such a garment in her wardrobe. It was more like the sort of thing her stepmother would have worn, flowing and feathery, ruffled and beribboned. And pink.

Involuntarily he looked over his shoulder. There, only a few feet behind him, was Abdul, grinning and bowing.

“Thank you for coming.” Harriet threw the door wide, giving Abdul an excellent view of her dishabille.

Ramses indulged himself in a curt, explosive suggestion to Abdul, stiffened his spine, and went in. He was in no mood to be polite. The fat was in the fire, and he intended to make sure she would sizzle too. He gave her a long, insolent survey, from head to foot and back. Color brightened her cheeks. He doubted it was embarrassment. Rage, more likely.

“Is there anything you won’t do for him?” he asked.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “What makes you suppose I wouldn’t do this for myself?”

She came closer and put her hands on his shoulders, tilting her head back to look directly into his eyes. The line of her throat was long and smooth, the tanned skin fading into cream between her breasts. Her full sleeves had fallen back, displaying rounded arms. Ramses knew he ought to turn and walk out, but the damage was already done and there was still a chance she had something sensible to say. He took her hands and led her to a chair. “All right, you’ve made the effort. Why?”

“I told you—”

“Forget that. What’s he done that you feel obliged to go to such lengths to protect him?”

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Her hands tightened on the arms of the chair. Then they relaxed, and she looked up at him.

“You were attacked last night.”

“By Adrian?”

“No! I said I wanted to talk to you, and I do. I will. Please stop looming over me like that. Would you like a drink?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Then will you be good enough to get one for me? Brandy.”

No poison in the drinks, Ramses thought, as he went to the table. He didn’t take one for himself. At least he would go home without liquor on his breath. Moved by an embarrassing but irresistible impulse, he opened the door of the bath chamber and looked in after he had handed her the glass.

When he came back she was herself again, bolt upright in her chair, the ruffles drawn closer over her breast. She raised her glass in a sardonic salute.

“First round to you,” she said coolly. “What were you looking for? A journalist with a camera?”

He hadn’t thought of that. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.

“Have you anything pertinent to say, or shall I go?” he asked.

“I have a good deal to say. First, it could not have been Adrian who waylaid you last night. Oh, yes, I know all about it. The hotel servants gossip incessantly, especially with the help of a little baksheesh. They saw Adrian go to his room before midnight and will swear he did not leave the hotel.”

“I’m afraid their testimony won’t carry much weight.”

“Baksheesh.”

“And our European prejudices. However, there are points in his favor. I can’t see him forging a note in Arabic and laying such an elaborate trap. The fellow had some knowledge of the terrain. Adrian doesn’t.”

“You’ll tell that to the police?”

“If it comes to that, yes.” Ramses sat down facing her. “But I can’t imagine that it will. There’s no firm evidence against Adrian.”

“That policeman thinks there is.”

“Ayyid? What makes you think so?”

“He’s been round again, asking questions. Adrian…” She hesitated. “Adrian became agitated. It made a bad impression.”

“One can’t arrest a man because he became agitated,” Ramses said.

“He was so much better before we came here! I had found a new doctor; Adrian was improving. This business has set him back. I want to take him home, but the police won’t let us leave.”

“They can’t hold Adrian indefinitely, they’ll have to accuse him or let him go. Was that the reason you asked to talk to me?”

“I wanted to give you some background. I don’t know whether it will help clear Adrian, but perhaps knowing more about the persons involved will give you a clue. My father…” She paused to take a sip of brandy. “Pringle Petherick was a cold, uncaring father and a thoroughly selfish human being. His wealth and his interests were devoted solely to his collection. He married my mother for her money and spent it buying antiquities. She never had a penny for herself. She died, I have always believed, of indifference.”

Brutal as her assessment was, Ramses preferred this Harriet to the seductress. “He doesn’t sound like the sort of man who would fall in love with a woman like Countess Magda.”

“Love?” She pondered this for a moment, her eyes as cold as stone. “I don’t know what the word means, especially in this case. He was dazzled, intrigued, and for perhaps the first time in his life, manipulated. The real question is why she married him. He was not a bad-looking man, and in the eyes of the world a wealthy man. But she can’t have been after his money; she was one of the most successful authors of the time and she flaunted her diamonds and expensive gowns.

“Adrian was dazzled too. At first she made a great show of maternal affection. It was rather sickening, really, all that cooing and caressing and flattery, but he was too young to remember our mother and too much in need of love to be critical. His affection for her was genuine.”

She stopped speaking and drained her glass.

“Is that all?” Ramses asked.

“Does it help?” She leaned forward, hands tightly clasped. “There must be other suspects besides Adrian. Your mother has quite a reputation as a detective…”

“My mother. Yes.”

“Sooner or later they will find the person who killed her. It wasn’t Adrian. He loved her.”

A line of poetry slid into his mind. “For each man kills the thing he loves…” He didn’t repeat it aloud. It was only poetry, after all.

“I appreciate your confidence.” He got to his feet. “I had better be going.”

She went with him to the door, ruffles trailing. “Are you going to tell your wife you came here?”

“She’ll hear it anyhow,” Ramses said sourly. “My only hope is to confess before someone else tells her.”

“I’ve got you in trouble with her, haven’t I?”

“Probably.”

She was leaning against the door; he couldn’t reach for the handle without touching her. “If it’s any consolation,” she said, “you’ve had your revenge.”

“What do you mean?”

“You refused me, flatly and without hesitation. Do you have any idea what a devastating blow that is to a woman who is prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice?”

“I expect you’ll survive the blow.”

“It wouldn’t have been a sacrifice.”

“So you were good enough to say.” He reached past her for the doorknob. “Good night.”

He went straight out of the hotel without stopping and then stood by the door letting the night air dry the perspiration on his face. Harriet Petherick had enjoyed every moment of that awkward interview.

The terrace was full of tourists enjoying a late-night drink under the twinkling lights. One of them stood up and came toward him.

“How did it go?” inquired Anthony Bissinghurst, alias his uncle.

Ramses was glad to have a subject onto which he could focus his anger. “You followed me!”

Still in character, Sethos leaned languidly against the wall and folded his arms. “I’ve decided it’s time I took an active hand in this affair. You don’t seem to have sense enough to take care of yourself.”

“There wasn’t any danger.”

“Of another attack, perhaps not, but it will be all over Luxor by morning that you had a romantic tête-à-tête with the Petherick woman. A photograph of you and the lady together would cook your goose with Nefret and destroy your credibility as an impartial witness.”

“There was no photographer either.” He started down the stairs. “She isn’t as calculating as you.”

“Defending the lady, are we? How chivalrous. She was calculating enough to swathe herself in filmy robes and make sure Abdul and the other suffragis saw her.” Sethos hurried to catch him up. “Did she try to seduce you?”

“None of your damned business.”

“Observe that I said ‘try.’ If I were married to a woman like Nefret I wouldn’t be susceptible either.”

Ramses swung round and caught his uncle by the collar. “Why do you keep provoking me?”

“I can’t help it,” Sethos said plaintively. Without apparent effort he detached Ramses’s grip. “Old habits are hard to break. Look here, Ramses, let’s declare a truce. Someone was lying in wait for you tonight—lurking, as the saying goes. When he saw me join you he left.”