The Serpent on the Crown (36 page)

Ayyid had to accept that. I promised to inform him at once if there was any change in Lidman’s condition.

When I relieved Nefret after dinner, a single glance was enough to assure me that Lidman’s condition had worsened. His breathing was shallow and his face bloodless. Nefret looked exhausted, her blue eyes sunken. It was mental distress, not physical weariness that affected her; a doctor hates to lose a patient, even one as despicable and beyond help as Lidman. I sent her off to bed, promising to call her if there was a change.

My vigil was twice disturbed, once by Emerson, who took one look at Lidman, swore, and went away, and again by Sethos. The latter was disposed to linger. He selected the most comfortable of the armchairs in the guest chamber whither Lidman had been moved, and sat down.

“I received several telegrams this afternoon,” he said. “Would you like me to tell you about them?”

“That depends on what they contain.”

“One was in answer to my inquiries about Heinrich Lidman. He did work for the Germans at Amarna. When war broke out he joined up, like a loyal lad, and was declared missing in action in 1917.”

“Then his story was true.”

“In the confusion following the cessation of hostilities many men were lost sight of,” Sethos said. “And some records were never corrected.”

“It is irrelevant now.”

“Is it?” Before I could answer, he went on, “The second telegram was from one of my associates in London. Aslanian purchased the statue two years ago in Cairo, from Zahi Gabra.”

“Well done,” I said. “Another step along the trail.”

“The trail ends there, I am afraid. Gabra is dead. If he kept records, which is unlikely under the circumstances, they have been lost.”

“And the third telegram? You said there were several.”

“Margaret. She arrived in Cairo this morning and will be coming on to Luxor shortly.”

“How nice.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” He rose lightly to his feet. “I would offer to take your place, but you wouldn’t let me, so I will say good night.”

The night wore on. Sitting by the bed, notebook and pencil in hand, I beguiled the time by thinking over what Sethos had told me and making one of my little lists. It clarified my thoughts wonderfully and kept me from drowsiness. (So did the chair, a hard wooden object that did not permit slumping.) In the small hours after midnight the change I had hoped for occurred. It is at that time, according to old folk legendry, that the soul of the dying takes wing. Lidman’s eyes opened. He knew me.

“Are you in pain?” I asked softly, for the duty of a Christian woman demanded that I ask that question first.

“No.” The word was so faint I had to bend close to hear it.

“In that case, perhaps you have something you would like to tell me.”

“Am I dying?”

“Yes. By the mercy of Providence you have been given an opportunity to cleanse your conscience before you face His judgment.”

“I never meant you harm,” Lidman whispered. “I never meant harm to anyone. I only wanted what was mine.”

“Tell me,” I urged. “If you make a clean breast of it you will have my forgiveness to carry with you into—er—whatever hereafter awaits you. Where have you hidden the statue?”

If he heard me he did not answer. Slowly and with difficulty, his broken speech interrupted by long pauses, he began to speak, not so much to me as to himself, and I knew he was reliving parts of the past.

At daybreak the last breath rattled out of Lidman’s laboring lungs. I said a little prayer, folded his hands over his breast, and closed his staring eyes.

Y
ou missed Mr. Lidman’s funeral,” I announced. “But the case is solved. I have his confession.”

“That makes three confessions,” David said.

He and Ramses had arrived shortly after midnight, unannounced and unexpected. Jamad’s shout of welcome roused the household; we all tumbled out of bed and, attired in a variety of hastily assumed garments, rushed to the veranda. I had ordered them to sit down and Fatima hurried off to make tea. Ramses’s eyes were shadowed with dark stains of exhaustion. I knew what had caused them; neither he nor David had suffered physical injury, but mental distress affects my son almost as painfully. Nefret sat next to him on the settee, holding his hand in hers.

“Both the Pethericks confessed?” I exclaimed. “Nonsense. Tell me what happened.”

After one glance at Ramses, Emerson had gone back into the house. He came out with a glass in his hand.

“Here,” he said gruffly. “This may prove more therapeutic than tea.”

Ramses took the whiskey but did not speak.

“It is quickly told,” David said, watching his friend. “We had some difficulty finding them, since they registered under Mrs. Petherick’s nom de plume. Unluckily the desk clerk at the Mena House informed them we were there, and they set off into the desert before we could speak to them. We followed; they rode to Abu Roash, and when we came up with them Adrian was holding a rifle. He was in a state of considerable agitation, and actually fired the rifle before Ramses tackled him. No one was hurt.”

It was a bald and boring narrative, but I did not insist on elaboration at that time. “What did you do with him?” I asked.

“We escorted them back to Cairo, and late last night managed to get Adrian admitted to the Presbyterian Hospital. He had relapsed into a state of stupor and did not resist. Harriet stayed with him, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured. “And you say he confessed to murdering Mrs. Petherick?”

Nefret had managed to get Ramses to drink some of the whiskey. He looked up and spoke for the first time. “His confession doesn’t count. Neither does hers; she was trying to take the blame for him, as she has always done.”

“It must have been distressing,” I said, for my sympathetic imagination had filled in some of the gaps in the narrative. “Thank you, Fatima, but I don’t believe either of them is hungry, or in a proper state of mind for prolonged discussion. Sleep is what they need. We will have a little council of war tomorrow, after we have all rested. Cyrus will wish to be present, I am sure. Now off to bed with you, boys.”

In fact I was not sorry to postpone my account. It may come as a surprise to my Readers to learn that I myself have, on occasion, a weakness for the theatrical. I had deliberately held back from Emerson some of the information I had learned from Lidman, and certain of the conclusions I had drawn from it, and I was looking forward to addressing a larger and more appreciative audience.

A
fter a late breakfast Fatima assisted me in arranging chairs and tables in the sitting room. As our friends arrived, I directed them to their seats.

“Is this to be a lecture?” Emerson inquired, taking in the rows of chairs and the desk behind which I had seated myself.

“A discussion, my dear,” I corrected. “Will you take this chair at my right? Thank you. Katherine, you there—and Jumana—Daoud and Selim—”

It took a while to get everyone settled, since Ramses exclaimed over Jumana’s spectacular bruises and David asked about Bertie’s arm. I was forced to exert my authority and make everyone sit down and be quiet. I took my place behind the desk and arranged my papers. First I invited David and Ramses to give their account, since some of the others had not heard it. Ramses, who was looking better, gave a more detailed version of their adventures. It inspired quite a variety of reactions.

“He is mad,” Daoud said. “A madman is not responsible for what he does.”

“You’re right there, Daoud,” said Bertie.

“Ha,” said Selim, scowling. He had not his cousin’s kind heart and was as skeptical about psychology as Emerson.

“Did he describe how he killed her and why?” I asked.

Ramses shook his head. “He said very little after he recovered consciousness. There’s no real motive, Mother. You can talk about ambivalence all you like, but postulated emotions aren’t evidence.”

“He didn’t do it,” Emerson said, fidgeting. “We know who did. Peabody, why don’t you get to Lidman’s confession?”

“First,” I began.

“Second, you mean. Or third?”

“If I am boring you, Emerson, you may be excused. Go play with the children.”

Emerson grinned. “I beg your pardon, Peabody. Proceed.”

“First,” said Ramses, “if you will allow me, Mother, I would like to know how you caught Lidman. It seems to have been a rather physical encounter.”

“That is precisely what I intended to do, dear boy. It all began when we learned that Lidman had broken into the drawer in Emerson’s desk and taken the statuette.”

By raising my voice at intervals I was able to keep comments and questions to a minimum. “And now,” I said, “we come to the heart of the matter. The identity of Mrs. Petherick’s murderer. First”—I quelled Emerson with a stern look—“first I want to read you the biographical notice her publishers put out.”

Having done so, I went on without pausing. “And now, my friends, I will read you the true story of her life.

“Magda Ormond—no ‘von’—was born in Leipzig to a respectable merchant family. From an early age she displayed considerable intelligence and her father, having no son, hired tutors for her. One of them was a young teacher of English, Morritz X. Daffinger. He too recognized the girl’s abilities. She had a taste for tales of the supernatural and made up stories which she told her indulgent tutor.

“He had fallen in love with her. She was at that time approximately sixteen years of age, and quite striking in appearance. She returned his love, and when her parents got wind of the situation they dismissed young Mr. Daffinger and arranged a marriage for her with the son of a prosperous butcher. The lovers eloped to Berlin, where they were married. To augment his paltry salary as a teacher, Daffinger got the idea of writing novels. At first it was a collaboration; she wrote the books, basing the plots on the tales of werewolves and vampires in which she reveled, and he rewrote them in proper English. The books were an immediate success. Realizing that they might appeal more strongly to a female audience if they were written by a woman, the lovers invented a romantic background for Magda. The publishers never questioned it because they too realized it would sell more books. To do them justice, they had no reason to question her biography, but I fear the mercantile instinct is strong in the industry.

“Then war broke out. Daffinger shouldered arms and went off to battle. Magda never heard from him again. I am forced to believe that she didn’t try very hard to find out what had become of him; she had begun to yearn for a more exciting life and here was her chance to achieve it. In the last months, when the German lines were crumbling and the populace was suffering from despair and privation, she made her way to England. Success, popularity, and a good marriage followed.”

I turned over a page. “Daffinger had suffered greatly during the War. He had served on the Russian front and been taken prisoner. Ill and impoverished, he made his way back to Berlin and searched for his loving wife. The search took months. No one knew what had become of her. He was forced to dubious expedients, including theft and assault, to stay alive. Not until two years ago did he come across a story in an English newspaper about her most recent book—and her forthcoming marriage to Pringle Petherick.”

I could tell by the looks of dawning comprehension on the faces of my listeners that they had anticipated my denouement, so I hastened on.

“You can imagine her consternation when her husband—her legal husband—came back from the grave and confronted her. I am sorry to say that his was not a forgiving nature, and he certainly had grounds for bitterness. She was now rich and successful, in part because of his help; he was poor and unknown. To make a long story short, he demanded payment in return for his silence. She sold many of her jewels to satisfy him; when her resources began to run out, Petherick conveniently passed away.”

Emerson had maintained his silence; now he could control himself no longer. “She killed Petherick?”

“We will never know for certain,” I replied. “What we do know is that Daffinger increased his demands. One of the men who had served in his unit during the War was a young archaeologist named Lidman. They became friends and talked about their various interests. In the final bloody weeks, Lidman was killed—blown to bits, as Daffinger put it.

“Daffinger had learned a great deal from Lidman, including the value of antiquities. He wanted half of Petherick’s estate. Magda fled, taking with her the most valuable object in the collection. Furious at what he considered her betrayal, he pursued her.”

I turned over another page. “By the time he tracked her down, Mrs. Petherick had got her nerve back. She pointed out that if he spoke she stood to lose her inheritance, but he stood to lose everything, and might have to face a charge of blackmail. They entered into negotiations; fearing he might attempt to steal the statuette from her room, she presented it to us. She had already concocted her story about the curse and taken another room in the name of Mrs. Johnson, in order to set up her scheme.”

Emerson had heard most of this before, and was waxing restless. “She took us in completely,” he growled. He does not like to be taken in. “With all that talk of curses and black afrits.”

“I didn’t believe it, and neither did you,” I retorted. “But I admit we might have been more skeptical about her motives. At any rate, Daffinger was furious when he found out what she had done. He made several attempts to break into the house; being unsuccessful, he tried another trick, representing himself as his deceased friend in order to be hired by Cyrus, which would, he hoped, gain him entry to this house. He was an intelligent man with an excellent memory, and he had spent hours listening to Lidman expound on Amarna. I suppose there wasn’t much else to talk about in the trenches.”

“It was he who killed her, then?” David asked. “Why? It’s usually the blackmailer who is murdered, not the victim.”

“She tried to kill him,” I said. “That night when they went walking along the river. She had offered to meet him to discuss his demands. She was a large, strong woman, and he wasn’t expecting danger. It was pure bad luck for her that he survived. Naturally that angered him even more, and when they met next, in the Winter Palace garden, he was in no mood for trifling. Seeing her sumptuously attired, bewigged and bejeweled, with no sign of remorse, was bad enough; then she made the fatal mistake of offering him a trumpery pair of diamond earrings and told him this was her last payment. She had learned that he had a criminal record in Germany; now he was the one who stood to lose most. In a fit of rage he attacked her, and in the process of stifling her cries for help, caused her heart to stop. He claimed he didn’t intend to kill her. Perhaps he didn’t; but once the deed was done he had no choice, as he explained, but to conceal the body. He took the earrings, though, and stripped her of her jewels, in order to give the impression that robbery had been the motive. The strangest thing of all was what he did after he had placed her under the coral vine. Daoud’s informant was right; there were white petals strewn over the body. Ayyid, who is not interested in horticulture, did not observe them; but white roses were her favorites.”