The Serpent on the Crown (40 page)

“Where in the Valley of the Kings, you mean?” Emerson nodded, smiling, and I said, “You have a theory, do you not?”

“I always have a theory,” said Emerson. “You, my dear, have your little lists. Don’t tell me you haven’t made another.”

“Well,” I said modestly, “since you ask…”

A little ripple of amusement accompanied the removal of the paper from my pocket. I did not mind, since I knew it was prompted by affection. I returned Sethos’s smile and unfolded the paper.

“I have set it out in the form of a syllogism,” I explained. “The statue is from the Amarna time. The thief took it from a tomb in the Valley of the Kings—the Great Place. There are no tombs of that period known in the Valley. So—”

“There must be another tomb, an unknown tomb,” David exclaimed.

“I see one flaw in your syllogism,” said Emerson, taking out his pipe. “There is an Amarna period tomb in the Valley—KV55.”

“That has always seemed to me an unlikely possibility,” I declared. “The tomb was stripped of its valuables by people who ripped off the gold face of the coffin and tried to remove the shrine. They also erased the cartouches of Akhenaton, which indicates that they were not random thieves, but officials of the government that had assumed power after his death and wished to obliterate his heresy. They would have reused or melted down any gold they found.”

“Well done, Peabody,” said Emerson, his sapphirine eyes shining with the familiar pleasure of debate. “I agree. While we are on the subject of syllogisms and lists, would you care to explain why you suspected Katchenovsky ‘from the first,’ as you claimed?”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes,” Ramses said. He reached for my hand. “But you weren’t—you weren’t entirely yourself, Mother.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now.” I gave his hand a little squeeze. “I did suspect him, though perhaps not from the very first. Shall I tell you why?”

“Please,” said Emerson, grinning broadly.

“It was after the first attack on Ramses that I began to wonder about Katchenovsky,” I explained. “What, I asked myself, was the one factor that distinguished Ramses from the rest of us? Nothing to do with Mrs. Petherick—er—with Magda. It was his work with the papyri from Deir el Medina, was it not? I concluded that there might be something in those texts that inspired the murderous interest of the only other person here who could translate them. Though I will not claim I anticipated anything as remarkable as a confession,” I added modestly.

A round of applause broke out, led by Emerson. “Peabody,” he declared, “you really are the most…”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“You really are, Aunt Amelia,” David said. “But to return to KV55—if you believed nothing was to be found there, why did we spend all that time reclearing the confounded tomb?”

“Yes,” Nefret said. “Why, Father?”

“For the sake of thoroughness,” Emerson replied. “We found nothing. And now we know”—he gave his son a respectful nod—“that the theft of the statuette dates from the Eighteenth Dynasty, some years before the traditionalists began destroying Akhenaton’s monuments and memory.”

Ramses cleared his throat.

“Now, Emerson,” I said sternly, “you see how important Ramses’s little scraps of papyrus, which you scorned—”

“How many times must I apologize, Peabody?”

“Father,” Ramses began. “You need not—”

“You are too generous, my boy,” Emerson said grandly. “I do apologize. And while I am in a forgiving mood, I would like to apologize formally to my—er—to Sethos, for suspecting him. I will never do so again.”

“The more fool you,” said Sethos, grinning. “But I appreciate your sentiments, all the same. Perhaps if I repeat them to Margaret she will look more kindly upon me. I’m off to Cairo tomorrow to meet her and, as the saying goes, press my suit.”

“You must bring her here for the wedding,” I said. “I will make the arrangements.”

“Don’t let Fatima start on the wedding cake yet,” said my brother-in-law amiably. “Margaret may turn me down again.”

“You can tell her I have apologized too,” Ramses said. “And that if she does accept you she has my heartfelt sympathy.”

Sethos burst out laughing. “Spoken like the true son of your father. And the true nephew of your uncle.”

Emerson said, with seeming irrelevance, “Carter is in town. He wanted to pay his respects to you, Peabody, but I put him off.”

“I would be glad to see Howard. Ask him for tea tomorrow.”

“He and I have an appointment tomorrow in the Valley of the Kings. No, Peabody, you cannot come along, so don’t badger me.”

I put my glass down. “Emerson, you have been playing games with me for weeks. I know why you have been so slow to finish in KV55, and I think I know what you are up to. It is time you confessed.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. His eyes moved warily from one face to the next—David’s open and candid, Nefret’s curious, Sethos’s wearing a knowing smile, and Ramses’s even more enigmatic than usual.

“You can trust all of us,” I said.

“Hmph,” said Emerson again. He picked up the statuette, which occupied a place of honor on the tea table, the uraeus restored by Ramses’s careful hands. “This is not Akhenaton, and it did not come from any tomb of his. It came from the burial of the only Eighteenth Dynasty pharaoh whose tomb is still missing—namely and to wit—”

“Tutankhamon,” said Ramses.

Emerson turned a reproachful look on his son. “I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Father,” Ramses went on. “But although Mother’s analysis was brilliant, as usual, it does not entirely eliminate the possibility that ordinary thieves entered KV55 before the official government party did so. I can now prove that was not the case.”

“What?” Emerson cried. “How the devil?”

Ramses leaned back and folded his hands. I had the distinct impression that he was enjoying himself. “As I told you, the papyrus was fragmentary and partially indecipherable. I have been working on it for the past few days. The scrap I located yesterday has an additional sentence. It includes one of the names of the king whose tomb was robbed: Nebkheperure.”

“Tutankhamon!” I exclaimed.

“Hmph,” said Emerson, obviously crestfallen.

Ramses is a kindly soul, and he adores his father. Having enjoyed his moment of triumph, he at once made amends. “But you knew that, Father. When you spoke some time ago about your far-fetched theory, as you put it—”

“Ha, yes,” said Emerson, cheering up. “I thought at once of the missing tomb of Tutankhamon, but it seemed impossible that any modern thief could have found the place without anyone knowing of it. In fact, the idea was so preposterous I felt it necessary to examine the other tombs of the period, in case the excavators had overlooked something.”

“Well done, Father,” said Ramses. “That idea never occurred to me.”

“Or to me,” I said. “Brilliant, my dear Emerson!”

“Would you care for another whiskey, my dear Peabody?” Emerson asked, smiling broadly.

M
ore cursed tourists than ever this year,” said Emerson. He shook his head sadly. “Very difficult working in that part of the Valley.”

He had brought Howard back with him for tea, after their visit to the Valley. I had been touched by Howard’s concern for me, though the sight of the statuette had distracted him somewhat.

“When will you start work?” I asked. “It is getting to be late in the season.”

Howard accepted a second glass of whiskey. “His lordship is due in a few days. I had hoped to find a few good pieces in the Luxor antiquities shops, but no one has come up with anything worthy of Carnarvon’s interest.”

As if drawn by a magnet, his eyes went back to the statuette.

“Well, well,” said Emerson. “One never knows what may happen, does one?”

Emerson does not lie, but this was unquestionably a misleading statement, since Harriet Petherick had accepted Cyrus’s offer for the statuette.

“So where are you going to excavate this year?” Emerson inquired politely.

“I was thinking,” Howard said, “of finishing up that small section near Ramses the Sixth, under the workmen’s huts. We left it, you know, because there were so many visitors that year.”

“Same problem this year,” Emerson said. “It took us longer than I had expected to finish in KV55 because of the cursed tourists.”

Mellowed by Emerson’s affability and the whiskey, Howard became confidential. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” he demanded. “I mean to say, look at Theodore Davis—one royal tomb after another for that old reprobate, and not a confounded thing for his lordship. I mean to say, it almost makes a fellow believe in—in curses, and luck, and that. Why should Davis have that kind of success?” He took another sip.

“Carnarvon deserves better,” said Emerson.

Howard shook his head and leaned forward. “He’s showing signs of losing interest,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “This could be my last season here, Emerson, old chap.”

“Then I hope it will be successful,” Emerson said. “I have a few ideas.”

Carter brushed his hand across his eyes. “You’re a fine chap, Emerson, old chap. I knew I could count on you. What would be your advice?”

Emerson leaned toward him. Their foreheads almost touched. “I told you the ibn Simsahs had been digging in that debris near Siptah’s tomb. One of them went so far as to fire a pistol at me while I was investigating the area.”

“That’s right, you did! Significant, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” said Emerson. “You never finished there, did you?”

“No. No, we didn’t. Time ran out…So you think we ought to go back to that area?”

“Why not?” Emerson inquired.

E
merson,” I said, while we prepared for bed, “that tomb is not where you told Howard to look.”

“I didn’t tell him to look there,” said Emerson virtuously.

“No,” I admitted. “But you think it’s somewhere else, don’t you?”

“My dear Peabody, I do not know where Tutankhamon’s tomb is located. Anyhow, it’s probably been looted, like all the others.”

I seated myself at my dressing table and began brushing my hair. “Very well, Emerson, keep your own counsel.”

“It’s only a guess, Peabody.” He came up behind me and gathered my loosened hair into his hands. “And a distant possibility.”

“That Lord Carnarvon will abandon the concession, you mean.”

“I left it in the hand of Fate,” said Emerson. “You see, I promised—that is—”

I twisted round to face him. “You promised? Who?”

“Er,” said Emerson.

“You are pulling my hair, Emerson.”

“Oh. Sorry. Turn round again, why don’t you?”

“Emerson, did you pray? You?”

Color stained his cheeks, but he met my eyes squarely. “I don’t know to whom or what, Peabody. It may have been more along the lines of a threat than a request…”

“Knowing you, I expect it did sound like a threat,” I agreed. “What did you promise?”

He knelt beside my chair and put his arms round me. Face hidden against my breast, he said in a muffled voice, “That I would give up every bloody damned tomb in Egypt if you were spared to me.”

“Oh, my dear,” I said softly.

“I couldn’t get on without you, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

Emerson raised his head. His lashes were a little damp, but he was smiling. “You might return the compliment.”

“I couldn’t get on without you either, my love.”

“That’s all right, then.” Emerson sat back on his heels. “Er—I meant it. Every word.”

“All the same,” I said, stroking his tumbled hair, “it is not always necessary to complete the sacrifice. You recall the case of Abraham and Isaac. The willingness is all.”

“We will see what Fate has to say about it, Peabody.”

“Next season should be interesting,” I mused.

“Next season be damned,” said Emerson, seizing me in a firm grip.

“Just as you say, my dear.”

I
am indebted, as so often before, to my official and unofficial editors—Jennifer Brehl of Morrow, Kristen Whitbread of MPM Manor, Dennis Forbes of KMT, and George B. Johnson. It is impossible for mere mortals, even those as talented as the abovementioned, to attain perfection; but thanks to them, I believe I’ve managed to eliminate the most egregious of the little lapses that marked the first draft. Any remaining goofs are my responsibility, not theirs. I can’t imagine what I would do without them.

Informed readers will spot various Egyptological jokes. Dennis Forbes is responsible for what I consider the most entertaining of these: the unexpected appearance of a certain golden statuette.

The translation of Thutmose III’s Poetical Stela is based on that of Miriam Lichtheim in her indispensable
Ancient Egyptian Literature.