The Serpent on the Crown (37 page)

Nefret shivered. “Why do I find that horrifying?”

“Ambivalence,” I said. “Love and hate intertwined and inseparable. To those of us who never feel such conflict it
is
horrifying.”

“What about the wig?” Nefret asked. Her mouth was tight with distaste. “Did he keep that as a—a memento?”

“Nothing so bizarre,” I said. “It fell off during their struggle, and he couldn’t get it back on. One can imagine how difficult that would have been, with his hands shaking and her head—”

“Quite,” said Ramses, glancing at his wife. “So he took it away with him?”

“And discarded it. He didn’t say precisely how.”

“Well done, Mother,” said Ramses. “You got all that from Lidman’s—Daffinger’s—confession, did you?”

“Most of it.” I stacked my papers neatly. “That concludes my lec——the discussion. And the case.”

“Not quite,” Ramses said. His eyebrows were tilted and his eyes were intent on me. “We still haven’t found the statue.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Not that they hadn’t tried. No one except his mother and Nefret had bothered to attend Lidman-Daffinger’s hastily arranged funeral; the others had spent the day searching the areas in and around the West Valley tomb where he had been hiding.

“It isn’t in the tomb,” Emerson said flatly. “I’d stake my reputation on that. We couldn’t do a complete excavation, not in such a short time, but we shifted everything that could be shifted—”

“And put it back in the original place, of course,” Ramses suggested.

“Of course. Took a cursed long time.”

They were on their way back to the West Valley. It was early afternoon and the sun was merciless, but Ramses shared his father’s desire to get on with the job. There could be no question now about the legal ownership of the statuette; since Magda Ormond’s marriage to Petherick had been illegal, Petherick’s children would inherit. They could use the money—and they would get it, one way or another. Emerson would see to that. It was not only the prospect of losing a great sum of money that bothered him, though. His reputation was at stake, and he would spend the next ten years looking if he had to.

Emerson spoke forcibly to his horse and forged ahead to join Sethos, who had taken his place at the head of the procession. The whole family had come, including Selim and Daoud and a full crew of workmen. Those magnificent, soaring cliffs were full of hundreds of crevices large enough to conceal something the size of the small golden statue.

Ramses waited for his mother and Nefret and fell in beside them. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to his mother in private since her performance that morning.

“All right, are you, Mother?” he asked.

“Certainly.” She wiped her wet face with a neat white handkerchief.

“Cyrus has had the men bring plenty of water,” Ramses said. “Enough for the horses too.”

“I appreciate your concern, my dear, but it is unnecessary. You have something else on your mind, don’t you?”

“That was an impressive summary you gave us this morning,” Ramses said. “Are you completely satisfied about the solution to the case?”

A little murmur of amusement escaped her lips. “You noticed a few unexplained items? The others will, eventually, but I threw so much information at them they haven’t had time to absorb it.”

“Why?” Ramses asked bluntly.

Her smile faded. “For one thing, I hadn’t heard your story when I arranged my notes. Obviously it cannot have been Daffinger who was responsible for the attacks on you in Cairo. You don’t believe it was Adrian, do you?”

“I don’t see how he could have managed them. The man—the person—who shot at us outside Bassam’s used a pistol. Adrian had only a rifle. I searched him and his luggage before we went back to Cairo that night.”

“He might have disposed of the pistol.”

“Possibly. But why would he?”

Emerson, now well ahead, turned and shouted at them to hurry up.

They joined the others, who were gathered in an attentive group around Emerson. “We’ve been over some of this ground before,” said Emerson, his jaw set. “We will do it again, painstakingly and methodically, leaving not a square inch of ground unexplored.”

Under his direction they fanned out in three directions, right, left, and up, starting at the mouth of the unfinished Tomb 25, probing into every opening in the rock. It was going to take forever, Ramses thought. He looked at his uncle, who was strolling slowly along, hands clasped behind his back and whistling, in perfect tune and meter, a complicated air Ramses recognized as the opening theme from a Mozart horn concerto. Sethos’s ostentatious nonchalance provoked him into speech.

“I didn’t know you were fond of the classics,” he said.

“There are a number of things you don’t know about me,” said Sethos blandly. He dusted off a boulder with his handkerchief and sat down. “I am a man of many talents.”

“A talent for hard manual labor isn’t among them.”

“Why should I do that when I can get someone else to do it for me? For instance,” said Sethos, with the slightest sideways movement of his head, “that fellow up there—no, don’t turn and stare!—has been watching us for over an hour. Perhaps you would care to wander casually in his direction?”

The direction was straight up, on a ledge that jutted out from the cliff face. There was a path of sorts, winding up from the valley floor. Out of the corner of his eye Ramses caught a flash of light (binoculars?) and what might have been a head looking down.

“Wander and casually don’t apply,” he said caustically. “He’s got a good vantage point. He’ll see me start to climb.”

“I will provide a distraction,” said Sethos. He stood up and dusted off the seat of his trousers. Then he walked back to where Emerson was standing, shouting instructions to the searchers. Ramses didn’t hear what Sethos said, but it galvanized Emerson into a furious retort that was clearly audible, not only to his son but to everyone for some distance.

“You dare criticize my relationship with my wife?”

“You don’t deserve her.” Sethos pointed accusingly at Ramses’s mother, who was working her way along the cliff face just above them. She stopped and stared down. “No man worthy of the name would allow her to take such a risk,” Sethos shouted.

Ramses didn’t see what happened after that; he was too intent on making his way up the cliff with all possible speed. He heard grunts and thumps and several outraged cries from his mother. The outcropping hid him from sight most of the way. When he reached the ledge he hauled himself up and over in a single movement.

The flash of light hadn’t been made by binoculars, but by a camera lens. The photographer had his eyes glued to the camera and was snapping photographs of the melee below. He was too absorbed to notice Ramses until the latter caught hold of the camera with one hand and the man’s collar with the other.

“Don’t drop the camera,” he shrieked, squirming.

Ramses got him down by way of the path, which was negotiable for a man in reasonably fit condition. The others were waiting for them at the bottom. Sethos was dabbing delicately at his nose with a bloody handkerchief. There wasn’t a mark on Emerson, who was crimson with rage.

“A damned journalist!” he shouted, extending a long arm.

“Don’t damage the camera!” the photographer gasped.

Emerson snatched it from him and threw it onto the hard ground. The photographer screamed.

“It’s Mr. Anderson, isn’t it?” Nefret looked more closely at the man’s face. “You fell into the tomb the other day.”

“And tried to get information out of my daughter,” Ramses said.

“Anderson, my eye,” Cyrus exclaimed. “That’s the artist I told you about, the one who came asking for a job and never turned up again. Maillet.”

I
wondered briefly if Mr. Anderson was a relation of Kevin O’Connell’s, a cousin or younger brother. But no, I thought. Kevin’s hair was fiery red and this man’s was brown; instead of the cerulean blue of Kevin’s, his eyes were a muddy green. The resemblance was not physical but one of expression and manner.

“He is a journalist,” I said. “Is he also, I wonder, a thief and a murderer?”

The question got Mr. Anderson’s mind off the camera, whose broken pieces he was collecting with little moans of anguish. He jumped to his feet.

“Now see here, Mrs. Emerson, don’t go round accusing people like that! All I wanted was an exclusive story. Mr. O’Connell is my mentor, my idol; he taught me everything I know and challenged me to equal his success in—um—”

“Worming his way into our confidence,” I said grimly. “You represented yourself as an archaeological artist in order to get a position with Mr. Vandergelt. A scheme worthy of Kevin himself.”

“Not so clever,” Anderson admitted. “I can sketch a bit, and thought I could carry out the deception for a few days, but when Mr. Vandergelt refused to hire me without seeing my portfolio, I knew I’d have to try some other method.”

“Ha,” Emerson exclaimed. “I was right, you see. I said those bastards would stop at nothing, even blowing up the guardhouse.”

Anderson’s eyes widened in alarm. “No, sir, I never did that! Look here, let’s call it square. You’ve smashed my camera and ruined some first-rate pictures, so I’ll just be on my way.”

“How did you get here?” I asked.

Anderson grimaced. “Walked. All the way from the East Valley. Me and a dozen Egyptians. They said you were here yesterday, looking for something, so they figured they would have a look too.”

“Damnation,” said Emerson. “Did they find anything?”

“I don’t think so, but they’re sneaky rascals. They ran off when you came along.”

“Hell and damnation,” said Emerson. “I have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Anderson, and this is not the time or the place for an interrogation. Hassan, escort this person back to our house and keep him there until we return.”

Anderson had perked up as the discussion became more civilized. His face fell. “But, sir, I haven’t any transport. Not even a confounded donkey.”

“You got here on foot, you can return the same way.” Emerson bared his large white teeth. “Off you go. And don’t try to bribe Hassan, he is incorruptible.”

Hassan glanced at his father, Daoud, who stood with arms folded. “He is,” said Daoud. “Whatever it means.”

We watched them walk off together. Anderson was limping.

Sethos removed the handkerchief from his nose. “Thank you, Nefret. It’s stopped bleeding.”

“I’m an expert at nosebleeds,” said Nefret.

“Er,” said Emerson.

“Apology accepted,” said Sethos with a grin. “Accept mine as well. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“It was well done,” Ramses conceded. “Anderson was so fascinated he didn’t spot me until I was on top of him.”

Emerson, who had gone as far as he was capable of going in the way of apology, uttered the familiar litany. “Back to work. We have to find the statuette today or risk one of those energetic rascals stealing a march on us.”

“It’s over there,” said Sethos. “About eight feet to the left of the entrance, buried in the scree.”

No one so much as questioned that arrogant assertion. In an unruly scamper the whole lot us of went pelting back toward the spot he had described. It took a few minutes to retrieve the wrapped bundle, since we had to proceed with care, but the disturbance of the scree was so obvious I could only wonder why none of us had observed it. Because it was too obvious! We had assumed Daffinger would take greater pains to conceal his prize.

Emerson unwrapped enough of the bundle to make certain we had found what we sought. Cradling it as tenderly as if it were an infant, he hurried back to where his brother had seated himself nonchalantly on a rock. “How did you know?”

Sethos ruefully examined his stained handkerchief. “I asked myself where I would have hidden it. Like Daffinger, I am averse to strenuous exercise.”

Cyrus burst out laughing. “Like the old saw about where to look for the lost horse, eh?”

“As Amelia would say, there is often profound truth in such aphorisms.”

I had been just about to say that.

W
e passed Mr. Anderson and Hassan on our way back to the East Valley. Anderson raised a face of piteous appeal; he looked so miserable, hobbling and dripping with perspiration, that Nefret pleaded with Emerson to let him ride for a while. Emerson, who could have walked the whole distance without breaking into a glow, shook his head and gave Mr. Anderson an evil smile. He hates journalists even more than he hates tourists.

However, he is not a cruel or vindictive man, and Nefret’s good opinion means a great deal to him. When we reached the donkey park he sent one of the men back with a mount.

Again I found myself side by side with Ramses. “Another suspect,” he remarked.

“I hardly think so,” I replied.

“Daffinger’s confession doesn’t explain everything, Mother.”

I gave him an affectionate smile, thinking with some complacency how well he had turned out. Except for his father, there was not a finer-looking man in Egypt—or anywhere else. He sat his horse with the ease of an athlete, and his features were as finely shaped as those of a Greek statue (except for his nose, which was a trifle large, and in my opinion all the better for it). I did not doubt that Harriet Petherick had been motivated by more than concern for her brother when she made that clumsy attempt to win Ramses over.

“Well?” Ramses demanded. My intent regard had made him self-conscious.

“My, but you are persistent. We will discuss it later.”

“Vandergelt has asked us to stop at the Castle for a spot of luncheon.” Emerson turned to address me. “I presume that is agreeable to you, Peabody.”

“Yes, Katherine will be anxious to know that we have found the statue.”

Emerson’s smile was particularly smug.

“You agreed to the delay because you want to keep Mr. Anderson sweating awhile longer,” I said accusingly.

“How can you think that of me, Peabody? We need to discuss our future plans. Our work has come to a complete standstill these past days.”

“Murder takes precedence over excavation,” I said. “You needn’t pretend, Emerson, I know you too well. Your strong sense of duty demanded that you avenge Mrs. Petherick and now you have done so.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, and urged his horse ahead.

When we unwrapped the statuette we found that a few more bits of the inlaid collar had fallen out. Thanks to our care, they had been preserved and could be replaced.

“It’s a pity about the uraeus serpent,” Cyrus said.

Daoud rumbled in agreement. “We should try to find it,” he declared.

“I’m afraid that’s a lost cause, Daoud,” Ramses said. “We can’t sift every tomb in Egypt.”

With the statuette as a centerpiece, we sat down to a sumptuous meal, served by Cyrus’s aging but devoted majordomo, Albert. At Cyrus’s direction he opened several bottles of champagne, and we toasted our success and, as Cyrus put it, the triumphant conclusion of another investigation.

“I don’t know how you do it, Amelia,” he declared.

“She had Daffinger’s confession,” said Emerson.

“It sounds to me,” said Ramses, toying with his glass, “as if he confessed to everything except sinking the
Titanic.
Mother, are you sure you didn’t—I don’t quite know how to say this—”

“Put words in the mouth of a dying man?” I finished the sentence with perfect good humor.

“Unconsciously, of course,” Ramses said quickly.

Emerson twitched. He had become somewhat sensitive to any mention of the unconscious.

“He was not as coherent as my account suggested,” I admitted. “Especially toward the end. However, I already had reason to suspect him.”

I took a folded paper from my pocket. Emerson groaned, Cyrus chuckled, Sethos grinned broadly, and Daoud put his fork down, prepared to give me his full attention.

“Another of your little lists?” Sethos inquired.

“Clues,” I said. “There are three of them. The Clue of the White Petals, the Clue of Generosity, and the Clue of Excessive Erudition.”

“I get the first one,” Cyrus said eagerly. “The flower petals meant that she was killed by someone who knew her well—who cared for her, even.”

I nodded approvingly.

“Generosity,” Ramses said thoughtfully. “I presume that refers to Mrs. Petherick’s handing the statue over to us.”

“Precisely,” I said. “We assumed her motive was to involve us in the publicity she was courting, but she could accomplish that without actually giving it into our hands. I asked myself whether her real motive was fear. A potential thief would transfer his attentions to us and leave her alone.”

“I say,” Bertie exclaimed. “This is as good as a Sherlock Holmes story. But so far all you’ve proved is that she was afraid of someone. What about the third clue?”

“That one pointed directly to Lidman-Daffinger,” I said. “Aside from the coincidence of his turning up when he did, his familiarity with Egyptology was of a highly suspect nature. He knew a great deal about matters that could have been learned from others—in person or from books—but he always found an excuse to avoid actual field excavation.”

“Whenever anyone asked him a question he couldn’t answer, he started lecturing,” Ramses said in some chagrin. “I ought to have spotted that.”

“It was far from conclusive,” I said. “There were other suspicious circumstances, though. His illness was feigned; Nefret was unable to find anything seriously wrong with him. It accomplished two purposes: getting him out of a job he couldn’t do, and admitting him to this house. He was in a perfect position to feed the dog a sleeping potion and make another attempt at searching for the statue.”

“It seems so obvious now,” Bertie said ingenuously.

It always does, afterward. I caught Ramses’s skeptical eye and smiled pleasantly at him. “We had better be getting home. Poor Mr. Anderson must be in quite a state by now.”

“Poor Mr. Anderson, bah,” said Emerson.

H
assan had taken his instructions seriously. Mr. Anderson was seated on a very hard chair, his eyes fixed on Hassan, who stood over him fingering his knife.

“Please,” Anderson gurgled. “Tell this man to back off. He threatened me!”

“Well done, Hassan,” said Emerson. “You can go now.”

Hassan did so, and Anderson let out a long breath of relief. He took off his hat, not so much as a token of courtesy but in order to push his damp hair back from his face. “That was intimidation,” he declared. “I could sue.”

“O’Connell would be proud of you,” Emerson said, taking a comfortable chair. “You are as resilient as he. But he ought to have mentioned that threats get you nowhere with us. You’re damned lucky to get away without a sound thrashing.”

“All I wanted—”

“Yes, yes. An exclusive story. Well, you’ve got it. I’m sure you can make a lurid tale of this morning’s events even without photographs.”

“Would you care for something to drink, Mr. Anderson?” I asked. “You look very warm.”

Anderson’s wary eyes moved from Emerson to me and back to Emerson. “What do I have to do?”

“Say ‘please,’ Mr. Anderson.”

Fatima was peeping out the door. At my gesture, she came out with a pitcher of lemonade and we each had a glass. Mr. Anderson had two.

“Now,” I said, taking a paper from my pocket, “a few questions before you go.”

This time my little list consisted of what I had labeled “Untoward Events.” “We have accounted for all but a few,” I explained. “I want to know which you are responsible for. The first attempt to break into the house?”

“I did that,” Anderson admitted. “But I only wanted—”

“Blowing up the guardhouse?”

“No! No, I never did that.”

“Luring Ramses out into the hills and attacking him?”

“What?” His consternation appeared to be genuine. “I never attacked anybody, Mrs. Emerson. That’s the God’s truth!”

“He’s too much of a coward,” Emerson declared. “Like his mentor.”

I went through the list, item by item, and then I said, “Very well, Mr. Anderson, I am satisfied. For the moment.”

“Then I can go?” He put down his empty glass and jumped up.

“One little reminder,” said Emerson, grinning broadly. “You have confessed, before witnesses, to breaking and entering.” Anderson’s lips parted, and Emerson amended his accusation. “Entering, then. I could have you arrested for that, and I will if you cause us any more trouble.”

Anderson was so glad to get away he didn’t even ask for the loan of a horse. As he ran down the road toward the landing I called, “Give my regards to Kevin, Mr. Anderson.”

“That takes care of that,” Emerson declared, rubbing his hands together. “Now we can get back to work.”

“I like the way you coolly dismiss murder, theft, and violent assaults,” Nefret said, perching on the arm of his chair and patting his hand. “Where do we go first, Father?”

“I have it all worked out,” Emerson said. “Deir el Medina tomorrow. I want to see what Selim has been up to.”

“Then we finish with KV55?” David asked.

“Er—hmm.” Emerson looked shifty. “Not yet. No, not yet. We will put in a few days at Deir el Medina. I think it’s time we closed down the dig there, as soon as I’ve made certain everything is in order for the French. Isn’t tea ready? Where are the children?”

I had been going through the post basket. I looked up from the letter I was reading. “Dear me, M. Lacau sounds somewhat put out with you, Ramses. Did you break an appointment with him while you were in Cairo?”

“There was no appointment, only a somewhat brusque summons,” Ramses said. “I had more urgent matters on my mind.”

“I will just drop him a little note explaining the situation,” I offered.

“The devil with Lacau,” Emerson said. “Who does he think he is, ordering us about?”

“The director of the Antiquities Service, that is who,” I reminded my husband. “There are a few other loose ends to be tied up as well. We have the statue back and we know who the legal owner is, but we must inform the authorities about what we have discovered. I doubt they are aware of Mrs.—of Magda’s first marriage. I must also get off a telegram to Harriet, giving her the good news. She will be glad of the money; the small inheritance she received from her mother was expended on her trip to Egypt, and Adrian’s care will probably be expensive. And Inspector Ayyid must be told that we know the identity of the murderer.”