The Serpent on the Crown (20 page)

“You didn’t tell me, Emerson.”

“I just did, Peabody. Now let’s get to work.”

Sethos had condescended to join them that morning, now that the dirtiest part of the clearance had been completed and there were prospects of new finds. He was dressed appropriately for the role of a dedicated archaeological amateur, in worn tweeds and a pith helmet that had seen hard usage. Ramses hadn’t been able to stay away either. After all, he told himself—and his mother—Katchenovsky was only putting in half a day, which included an invitation to stay for tea.

As Emerson had predicted, they found several scraps of the gold-encrusted shrine in the rubble of the corridor. Most of the gold foil had fallen off; there was not enough to reconstitute even part of the scene that had covered the side. It was depressing, but not surprising; Ramses had seen the flakes falling like golden sleet, shaken loose by the entrance of air into the sealed space, and by Davis and his crew and his innumerable visitors crawling along the plank that provided a precarious pathway over the shrine and into the burial chamber. If his father had been in charge, the shrine section would have been copied, photographed, stabilized, and carefully removed before anyone went farther into the tomb, but Davis hadn’t been able to wait to see what was down there.

Even Emerson admitted there was no point in marking the location of each scrap of foil. They were so light and so small they had fluttered randomly down. As they collected the bits, squatting uncomfortably, Ramses caught David’s eye and returned his smile. In 1907 David had made a copy of the scene, which showed the queen facing the empty space that had originally depicted her son, his image destroyed by the traditionalists who despised his religious beliefs. It couldn’t be published, though, since that would admit they had been in the tomb without Davis’s knowledge or permission.

He found the whole business more depressing than he had expected—so much lost that could have been saved!—and he wasn’t sorry when midday approached and he got ready to return to the house. He was about to head for the donkey park when his father sidled up to him. Seeing Emerson sidle was a sight in itself; he wasn’t very good at being unobtrusive.

“A word with you, Ramses,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

It was more than one word. “Does Mother know about this?” Ramses asked.

“It’s to be a surprise,” said Emerson. “Can I count on you, my boy?”

“Sir, I don’t think—”

“I’ll ask David, if you would really rather not.”

He looked so disappointed Ramses hadn’t the heart to hold out—or the cruelty of forcing David into a role he would detest.

“All right, Father. Whatever you say.”

“And not a word to your mother!”

I knew what Emerson was up to, of course. I always do. There was no way of stopping him, so I ordered work to be halted earlier than usual in order to give myself time to prepare for guests, and for the worst.

It was as well I had done so, since the first of the guests arrived only a few minutes after I had finished bathing and dressing. I had asked Mr. Katchenovsky to stay for dinner, and in deference to him (and Emerson) I assumed a simple frock of blue voile (with a handkerchief hem, elbow sleeves, and a draped bodice) instead of formal evening dress. I was just in time to greet the Vandergelts, whom Emerson had not mentioned, but whom I was not surprised to see. Katherine, attired in green satin that darkened her eyes to emerald, embraced me affectionately and thanked me for inviting them.

Despite my duties as hostess, I observed that Jumana, wearing pale yellow that set off her hair and complexion, had immediately abandoned Bertie and settled herself on a hassock next to Sethos. He did make rather a dashing figure. Like his brother he had always looked younger than he really was, and the black hair and mustache took several more years off his actual age. His smile dazzled. So did Jumana’s, and her long lashes fluttered like fans. That would be a nice complication! I thought. If Jumana should take a fancy to Sethos, and Bertie to Sethos’s daughter, she might end up as his mother-in-law.

That idea was a wild stretch of imagination even for me! Nevertheless, I took Jumana away to join the group that included young Mr. Barton.

We were twenty for dinner, including Daoud and Selim. Mr. Winlock was in Cairo, but the remainder of the Metropolitan Museum crew had accepted Emerson’s invitation with pleasure. Fatima was in her element; she loved large parties. She even went so far as to allow Kareem to serve some of the dishes. It was a superb meal, from the tomato and leek soup to the huge saffron cake with David’s name and “Welcom (sic) to Luxor!” in red icing. Everyone did justice to it, but I sensed anticipation rising, and when Emerson and Ramses excused themselves during the after-dinner coffee service, not an eyebrow was raised.

I turned to Selim, who always had the seat of honor on my right. “Well? What happens now?”

Selim proudly inspected his new wristwatch, which had been a present from us. “In ten minutes, Sitt Hakim, you will lead the way to the veranda.”

“So it’s to take place in front of the house?”

“We had meant to have it in the courtyard, but too many people wanted to come.”

There certainly were too many people for the courtyard. Half the West Bank seemed to be there—men, women, children, and babes in arms, forming a dark and squirming mass approximately twenty feet from the door of the veranda. In front of them and a little to one side was a smaller group, taking the choicer position with the arrogance of their class—tourists, “white” residents of Luxor and a few of the inevitable journalists, pens poised. I recognized some of the faces, but not the one I had rather hoped to see.

The lamps on the veranda had not been lighted. As I took the seat of honor (the settee, moved to a position facing the crowd), curiosity had overcome my vexation. I had seen a number of Emerson’s exorcisms, the most memorable being the one in which he had seemingly produced the cat Bastet from an ancient feline mummy case. The cat Bastet had not liked it at all, but the effect had been very fine. I hoped Emerson had no designs on the Great Cat of Re.

A tongue of flame shot up from the wood piled before the door. It rose to a column of shimmering fire that dazzled the eyes—and conveniently left the audience just outside the radius of the light. A voice beside me said, “Shift over a bit, will you, Peabody?”

To the audience outside, it must have seemed that he emerged from the fire. The flames licking at the tail of his robe added to the illusion and indicated, to his wife, that he had gone a little too close to the fire. Cursing under his breath, Emerson beat the flames out. I think his costume was intended to be that of an ancient sem priest—long white skirts and full sleeves, and an imitation leopard skin draped over one shoulder. He stood still, his arms raised. In the awed silence that followed I heard a snicker from Mr. Lansing.

Having got everyone’s attention, Emerson began to speak. He has no trouble at all making himself heard at a distance and the audience hung on his every word.

The black afrit had had the audacity to challenge him, the Father of Curses. Now the time had come to make an end of the wretched being. “No one defeats the Father of Curses!” Emerson bellowed, and a roar of agreement rose from the crowd. Emerson’s voice rose to an even louder pitch. “Come forth, evil one, and face your master!”

“Excuse me, Mother,” said Ramses. He was almost invisible in the darkness, enveloped in a long black robe. While Emerson, pointing and gesticulating, directed the audience’s attention toward the area behind it, Ramses slipped out the door and made his entrance, letting out a piercing shriek. The crowd screamed in unison, including the babies. Emerson whirled. He flung himself at Ramses, who fell to the ground, kicking and struggling. They rolled back and forth, edging ever closer to the shadows at the edge of the firelight. Since I was one of the few people watching for it, I saw an occasional black-clad leg (Ramses’s best evening trousers, I supposed, since he had no others of that shade) and glimpses of a black face with grotesquely flattened features (one of Nefret’s black silk stockings?).

With a mighty effort Emerson flung his opponent into outer darkness and staggered back into the light carrying the limp black garment over his arms. He moved so fast no one could have got a good look at the object before he hurled it into the heart of the flames.

Shrieks of delight and approval arose from the crowd. I saw a slim black form slither snakelike farther into the darkness. All other eyes were fixed on the mighty form of Emerson. (I was sorry to see he was smoldering again.)

“And now in conclusion,” Emerson shouted, “I return the object of the curse to the fires of Gehenna!” From the breast of his robe he drew out a shape that glowed gold-red in the firelight, and pitched it into the flames.

Sethos was laughing uncontrollably. “In conclusion!” he sputtered. Cyrus sprang to his feet with a cry of anguish, and would have rushed out the door had I not got in his way.

“No, Cyrus. Stop and think before you act.”

The performance ended rather abruptly when Emerson extinguished the fire with a conveniently placed bucket of water. A column of smoke replaced the flames. Coughing, the crowd retreated, and Emerson came to the door.

“Not so bad, eh?” he inquired. “Curse it, I can’t see a thing. Light the lamps, someone.”

He entered, tossing off his robe (one of my best sheets).

“How many garments did you destroy?” I inquired, having recognized the “leopard skin” as the remnants of a woolen jumper.

“Was that, by chance, one of my evening cloaks?” Nefret asked in a carefully controlled voice.

“I’ll get you another,” Emerson said. “Good gad, is that all you can think about? I expected commendation, if not riotous applause.”

The applause broke out, mingled with laughter and comments. Emerson was pouring the whiskey when Ramses came in through the house. They
were
his best trousers. Or had been.

“Here you are, my boy,” said Emerson, handing him a glass. “And well deserved. I hope I didn’t bruise you too badly.”

“No, sir. Thank you.” Ramses flattened his tumbled hair. “How did it go, do you think?”

“It wasn’t bad,” Sethos said judiciously. “Not bad at all. Though if you had let me take a hand—”

I gave him a little kick on the shin to remind him that Anthony Bissinghurst was a harmless archaeological amateur, not a Master of Disguise.

“We saw it from behind the scenes, so to speak,” Lansing said. He was still chuckling. “From the point of view of the spectators, it must have been extremely effective. Winlock will be sick at having missed it.”

“The audience was not uncritical,” I pointed out. “How many of them were actually convinced is difficult to say.”

“It does not matter,” said Selim. “What matters is that they enjoyed it.”

“Just tell me,” Cyrus pleaded, “that you didn’t throw the statue into the fire.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Emerson said rudely. “It would require a hotter flame than that to melt solid gold. What went into the fire was made from the mold we cast the other night. Plaster of paris. I spent an hour painting it gold.”

After our guests had left, Emerson went off to bathe, for he was quite smutty. I was brushing my hair when he returned, a little singed around the calves, but extremely pleased with himself.

“That should settle the black afrit,” he declared, embracing me. “What about a reward for the magician, eh?”

I put down the brush and gave him his reward. “It was well done,” I said, between kisses. “But I had hoped Mrs. Petherick would be unable to resist attending. I didn’t see her in the audience.”

“Neither did I. Ah well, she’ll turn up eventually.”

She did turn up, early the following morning. She had not been as lucky as Heinrich Lidman.

W
e were officially informed of the discovery by Inspector Ayyid. We were finishing breakfast when he was announced. Looking round at our grave faces, Ayyid said, “I see you have heard the news. I suppose it was Daoud who told you. Perhaps he would consider working for me; he seems to get information before my men do.”

“Our informants are assiduous but not always accurate,” I said, waving him to a chair. “We would appreciate hearing the facts. You will join us for breakfast, I hope?”

“Coffee, if you will be so good.” Ayyid’s eyes fixed on Sethos. “I do not believe I have met this gentleman.”

Napkin in hand, Sethos rose and made an elegant bow. “Anthony Bissinghurst, at your service. I am honored to meet an individual of whom I have heard so much.”

His excessive courtesy made no impression on Ayyid. “I regret that I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before this, sir. Have you just arrived in Luxor?”

I could tell by the glint in Sethos’s eyes that he was tempted to spin the inspector a preposterous story; knowing I would instantly contradict it, he restrained himself. “I arrived day before yesterday with Professor Emerson. I trust that constitutes a sufficient alibi?”

“Don’t be a tease,” I said, giving my brother-in-law a sharp look.

“You had no connection with the dead lady?” Ayyid inquired.

“None whatsoever,” I said. “Where was she found and how did she die?”

The body had been found early that morning by one of the workmen who tended the flower beds in the Winter Palace’s famous gardens. It had been laid out neatly and reverently, the hands folded across the breast, under a flowering shrub. So much we had already heard from Daoud, who had hurried to inform us as soon as he got the news from his network of informants in Luxor. He had added a poetic touch: the petals of the flowers lay scattered like snowflakes upon the poor lady’s quiet form.

Inspector Ayyid did not mention the petals. “We do not yet know how she died. There were no marks of violence upon the body. An autopsy will be necessary.” He added, with a flash of quickly controlled temper, “I am awaiting permission from the British authorities.”

Like most Egyptians, Ayyid fiercely resented the refusal of Britain to give Egypt complete independence. That it must come no one except the extreme imperialists in the British government doubted, but the latter group was stridently opposed to seeing Britain yield authority. Even the moderates, led by Allenby, envisaged British troops remaining in Egypt, and England retaining control over Egypt’s “national security.” As the partisans of independence pointed out, so long as foreign troops remain in a country, it cannot be said to be fully sovereign.