The Serpent on the Crown (19 page)

“What, no exorcism?” Nefret asked. “I was looking forward to it.”

“Hmmm,” said Emerson.

A
t breakfast next morning Emerson announced that they would spend a few hours in the West Valley, “helping” Cyrus. He took it for granted that Ramses would come along. His wife opened her mouth to object, but Ramses said quickly, “That’s quite all right. I’ve arranged with Mikhail to work on the papyri during the afternoon, so I can certainly spare Father a few hours in the morning.”

“Oh,” said Emerson. “Yes. Thank you, my boy.”

Cyrus’s crew was hard at work when they reached the site, carrying out baskets of rubble from the stairs and corridor. “Have you been inside?” Emerson asked, peering into the open rectangle of the door.

“Had a quick look yesterday,” Cyrus admitted. “It’s not as bad as some I’ve seen; no collapsed walls or ceilings, a fairly thin layer of debris. The paintings in the burial chamber are in poor condition. They need to be copied and photographed. When can I have David?”

“After I’ve finished with him,” Emerson said ominously. He stopped one of the men and examined the contents of his basket. “Rain debris. Washed down. You are sifting it thoroughly, of course.”

“Of course,” Cyrus said. “Want to go in?”

Ramses had never been in the tomb before, though it had gaped open since the early nineteenth century. He gave his mother a hand during the descent of the rock-cut stairs, which were crumbling and uneven. A sloping passageway led down to a second, longer flight of stairs and to a second corridor, also sloping down. Dust rose from under their feet and dimmed the light of their torches. The air was close and hot.

A chamber, its walls bare like those of the corridors, opened directly into the presumed burial chamber, and the figures painted on the walls seemed to leap out at them: a row of sacred baboons, which had given the West Valley its Arabic name—the Valley of the Monkeys; scenes of sacrifice and worship; a long hieroglyphic inscription from the Book of the Dead; and a badly battered scene which appeared to represent the tomb owner on a skiff in the marshes, hunting birds.

“Unusual to find that theme in a royal tomb,” Ramses said, indicating the hunting scene.

This unthinking remark prompted a lecture from Emerson on the design and decoration of royal tombs. The trouble with Father, Ramses thought—one of the troubles—was that he really did know a lot about Egyptology, and he talked about the subject with passion and authority. If only he would chose a nice airy lecture hall instead of the depths of a tomb! After approximately twenty minutes his wife mopped her face for the second time and said, “That was very interesting, Emerson, and I am sure we all enjoyed it. Now let us go.”

“Debris is thicker down here,” Emerson said obliviously. “Is that a pelvic bone?”

“Cyrus will excavate this room in due course and with all proper care,” his wife said firmly. “Out, Emerson.”

They retraced their steps, “emerging from the underworld,” like reanimated Egyptians.

“Someone really hated the old fellow, didn’t they?” Nefret said. “His name and his figures deliberately hacked out, along with those of his wife. How do they know it’s his tomb?”

That got Emerson started again. “The desecrators missed one image, which was that of the king’s ka figure, identified, not by the usual cartouches but by an unusual spelling of his Horus name. They were working from a list, which didn’t include that variant. By the way, Vandergelt, I saw something sticking out of the dried mud in the burial chamber that could be a sarcophagus lid. Will you—”

“I will, I will,” Cyrus said with a grin. “What about a drink?”

Even Emerson drank thirstily of the cold tea Cyrus provided. Keeping an eagle eye on the workmen, he said suddenly, “Where’s that fellow Lidman?”

“He didn’t turn up this morning.”

“What?” Emerson scowled blackly.

“I told him to be at the Castle at five-thirty. We waited until six.”

“He may be ill again,” Ramses suggested.

“Then he ought to have sent word,” Emerson grumbled. “You shouldn’t have taken him on, Vandergelt.”

“You recommended him,” Cyrus said mildly. “If we don’t hear from him today I’ll send someone over to the hotel to inquire.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “You’ll let me hear what you find out. Ramses, we had better be getting back.”

They did hear from Cyrus later that afternoon. Lidman’s body had been found washed up on the bank half a mile north of Luxor.

“It’s a miracle he didn’t drown,” Nefret exclaimed.

“It was a near thing,” I replied. “The police consider it an unfortunate accident. According to the barman at the Winter Palace, he had been drinking rather heavily.”

I had, of course, felt obliged to go at once to Luxor after we received Cyrus’s message. I located the fellahin who had found Lidman and pumped the water out of him—thereby saving his life, as they repeatedly pointed out—and rewarded them appropriately. They had taken him to the office of Dr. Westin, so I turned my steps thitherward.

Westin was not the man our dear departed Dr. Willoughby had been. He bore a certain resentment against us, possibly because Nefret’s rate of cures exceeded his. (A most unprofessional attitude, as I had often told him.) A tall, stout man who had compensated for the loss of hair on his head by encouraging an excessive amount of beard, he was at first reluctant to let me see his patient. Naturally I prevailed.

“The poor fellow did not seem to know me at first,” I explained to my listeners. “He had suffered injuries to his head as well as his limbs. How severe they were I was unable to ascertain, since Westin had swathed him in bandages.”

“Perhaps he charges by the yard,” Nefret suggested.

Cyrus, who had dropped in to hear my report, let out a whoop of laughter, and then sobered. “I feel responsible for the fellow, since he was technically in my employ. I’ll tell Westin to send his bill to me. Guess I can pay for a few miles of bandages. What did he say was wrong with Lidman?”

“Severe bruises and contusions,” I replied. “And a possible concussion, resulting in temporary loss of memory.”

“So he doesn’t remember what happened?” Cyrus asked.

I glanced over my shoulder at the tea table, where both children were busy with the plum cake and caught the inquiring eye of David John. Ramses can, as Daoud’s saying has it, “hear a whisper across the Nile,” and I feared his son was following in the paternal footsteps. I lowered my voice.

“He had gone for a walk, a long walk, along the river toward Karnak. He remembers seeing a shadowy form approach him.”

“A shadowy form?” Sethos echoed. “Oh, please, don’t tell me…”

“I fear I must, since that is what he said. He even employed the term…You know the one.”

“‘The black afrit’?” Cyrus exclaimed.

“Keep your voice down,” I said sharply. “David John, I believe you are eavesdropping. When I wish to include you in the conversation I will invite you to join us.”

“Yes, Grandmama,” said David John. No cherub could have looked more innocent.

“The newspapers are going to be all over this,” said Sethos.

“I made it very clear to Mr. Lidman that he was not to repeat the—er—phrase in question to anyone else, including Dr. Westin. I took the liberty of intimating that he stood the risk of losing his position with you, Cyrus, if he were indiscreet.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Cyrus said. “What do you make of his story, Amelia?”

I helped myself to a second cup of tea and sipped it reflectively. I knew everyone was hanging on my words, so I chose them with care. “This event has forced me to revise my tentative theory. There are only three possible explanations for his seeming accident. One, it
was
an accident. He wandered off the road while intoxicated and fell off the bank, hitting his head and losing consciousness. However, there are only a few places along the route that offer the necessary combination of deep water and a rocky shore. Two, he faked an attack in an effort to turn suspicion away from himself. Risking death seems an extravagant expedient, though.”

“It might have been a trick that went wrong,” Sethos suggested. “He jumped in the river and accidentally hit his head.”

“No such risk would have been necessary,” I retorted. “All he had to do was give himself a bump on the head and arrange himself in a picturesque position of collapse. No, I fear we must admit the third possibility. He was telling the truth. He did encounter the—er—you know—the other night, and the same person pushed him into the river. And that means—”

“We know what it means,” Emerson said. “Or what you think it means. Confound it, Peabody, I weary of meaningless speculation. Is anyone going to Luxor to meet the train?”

We had received a telegram from David explaining he would arrive that evening.

“Nefret and I are,” Ramses said.

“Quite proper,” I said. “We cannot have dear David arrive in Luxor without a welcoming committee. Perhaps I should come along too.”

The reaction to this was unanimously negative, though the nature of the objections varied. Emerson said he refused to let me on the loose in Luxor with Lidman and the Pethericks. The other remarks were more tactfully phrased and I finally agreed with Nefret’s suggestion that I make sure everything was in readiness for David.

Shortly after midnight the welcoming committee, which included Emerson, returned with our long-awaited guest. David’s room was in order (including the rose petals in the wash water), but though he looked a little tired he declared he could not sleep until he had heard all about our activities.

“I told you about them,” said Emerson, settling down with his pipe and glass.

“About your archaeological activities,” David corrected. “At the risk of incurring your scorn, sir, I want to hear about the black afrit and the statue and the strange disappearance of Mrs. Petherick.”

He was sitting next to me on the settee, my hand in his. I gave his a squeeze and returned his fond smile. He and Ramses were almost of a height, with the same black hair and well-shaped frames, but David’s amiable countenance expressed emotion more openly than that of his friend, and his soft brown eyes were warm with affection.

“I read the Cairo newspapers,” David went on. “A good deal of the story is exaggerated, I presume. What’s the true story, Aunt Amelia? What are you up to now?”

It was almost two in the morning before we had finished bringing him up-to-date, and he had been shown the statuette. His artist’s soul responded to its beauty, and his trained mind to the mystery of its origin.

“At least the journalists did not exaggerate this,” he declared, his long fingers gently caressing the golden curves. “You think it may have been taken from KV55?”

Sethos had said very little. Slumped in his chair, legs stretched out and eyes half closed, he appeared to be dozing. He wasn’t asleep, though. “I didn’t do it,” he murmured.

Fatima was hovering, pressing various kinds of food on him and David, so out of consideration for her I proposed that we all retire.

“Breakfast at five
A
.
M
.,” said Emerson.

“Nonsense,” I replied. “David needs a good night’s rest.”

“Oh, very well,” said Emerson. “Six
A
.
M
.”

I
n fact, we did not set off for the Valley until midmorning. The children had not had an opportunity to greet David, who was a great favorite of theirs. He was also kin to half the village of Gurneh through his grandfather Abdullah. His uncle Selim and his cousin Daoud came by to welcome him, and then he had to be introduced to the dog.

“An excellent idea,” David said, scratching the great jaw. “But he—she?—doesn’t strike me as much of a watchdog.”

“She hasn’t sounded the alarm as yet,” Ramses admitted.

“Evildoers have heard of her presence,” said Daoud. “They do not come near.”

“I expect you are right, Daoud,” I said. I didn’t really believe it, for anyone who spent five seconds with Amira knew she was harmless, but Daoud was very proud of his contribution. “Things have been rather quiet of late.”

“Except for the near drowning of that fellow Lidman,” David said.

“It was an accident,” I declared, for we had decided that was to be our official story.

“Only God knows,” said Daoud. “His breath left his body, did it not?”

“Is that what they are saying in Luxor?” Sethos inquired.

“Some of them. They want the Father of Curses to perform an exorcism.”

“An excellent idea,” Sethos said seriously. “What about it, Emerson?”

“I may have to,” said Emerson, trying to pretend the idea was not enticing, “if our fellows get it into their heads that the black afrit is still on the loose.”

Selim, who did not believe in afrits or curses, smiled and caressed his splendid beard. “It can do no harm, Emerson. They say that the black afrit was seen last night in Luxor, walking by the river.”

“Who says?” Ramses asked.

“The usual ‘they,’” Emerson retorted. “Someone heard it from his cousin, who had heard it from his friend, who was drunk or under the influence of hashish. Ah well, I will give the matter some thought. Who knows, it might lure Mrs. Petherick out of hiding.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

In his own way, Daoud was invaluable. It was he who brought them the news next morning that Lidman had been declared out of danger by Dr. Westin and that Cyrus had invited him to the Castle to convalesce.

“That was sweet of Cyrus,” Nefret said.

Not so much sweet as precautionary, Ramses thought. Cyrus hadn’t been convinced of Lidman’s innocence. His palatial house near the Valley of the Kings was as secure as any prison. High walls surrounded the estate, and the gates were always locked and guarded. Lidman couldn’t creep out without being seen, and if another “event” involving the black afrit occurred while he was there, he would have a cast-iron alibi.

“Sweet, bah,” said Emerson. “Vandergelt wants to keep an eye on the fellow. Excellent idea. Peabody, I sent word this morning to Winlock and his staff inviting them to dinner this evening. I told Fatima.”