The Serpent on the Crown (15 page)

“It is simply told.” Sir Malcolm leaned forward, hands clasped tightly round his cane. “I wish to make an offer for the statuette Mrs. Petherick gave you. I will pay any reasonable price.”

“Sight unseen?” Ramses inquired, his heavy brows tilting.

Emerson had been slow to recover from Sir Malcolm’s unexpected appearance. Now he got his wits together.

“Ah, but he’s seen it before,” he said. “Haven’t you? When and where?”

“That is irrelevant, Professor Emerson.”

“No, it isn’t,” retorted Emerson, now fully himself again. Nothing annoys him so much as well-bred insolence. “I refuse even to discuss the matter until you answer my questions. Was it in Mr. Petherick’s collection when you saw it?”

“No.” Sir Malcolm looked warily at Carla, who had joined her brother. The intent gaze of blue eyes and black seemed to disconcert him even more than Emerson’s bluntness. “I was offered the piece two years ago by a dealer in London. Unfortunately, Petherick got in ahead of me.”

“The name of the dealer?”

“Aslanian.”

“Ah. Where did he obtain it?”

“I did not ask. There are unwritten rules about such transactions.”

“So I have been told,” said Emerson, sneering. “So you know nothing more about its origins?”

“No.” Sir Malcolm hesitated. “One can, of course, make certain deductions. You, experts that you are, have no doubt made them.”

His tone was more conciliatory, but it had no effect on Emerson, who was now anxious to rid himself of the visitor. “We have. As for the statuette, it is not mine to dispose of. The legal owner would appear to be Mrs. Petherick.”

“But she gave it to you. And the confounded—er—excuse me, ladies—the woman has taken herself off.”

“She left it in my keeping,” Emerson corrected. “I am not the man, sir, to take advantage of a distracted female. When she turns up I will discuss the matter with her. I should warn you, however, that you are not the only one interested in the piece.”

“Vandergelt,” Sir Malcolm muttered. It had the ring of a swearword. “Do Carter and Carnarvon know of it?”

“Carter is due in Cairo before long,” said Emerson, who was beginning to enjoy himself. “I suggest you ask him.”

“Will you have another cup of tea, Sir Malcolm?” I asked.

“I haven’t had one yet, Mrs. Emerson.”

“Oh dear. Nefret, didn’t you—”

“I did offer,” said Nefret. “I don’t believe Sir Malcolm heard me.”

“I was distracted by your daughter snapping at my hand.” The gentleman bit off the words. “I will not take tea, Mrs. Emerson, thank you.”

He stalked to the door. He was in something of a temper—not surprising, considering the provocation—so much so that he had forgotten the dog. It barked hopefully. Sir Malcolm shied back. “Will someone kindly remove this beast?”

“It won’t hurt you,” Nefret said. (I suspected she was hoping Amira would knock him down and get his nice suit dusty.)

“I am not inclined to take your word, madam.”

“Oh, very well.” Nefret slipped out and caught hold of Amira’s collar. “Come ahead, Sir Malcolm.”

The dog paid no attention to Sir Malcolm, being preoccupied with licking Nefret’s hands. Before leaving, he turned and hurled a sentence sharp as a spear. “You haven’t seen the last of me!”

“Have we?” Emerson inquired of me.

“When I last saw—er—you know who I mean—he was in the process of altering his appearance. Heaven only knows what he’ll look like now.” I knew he would have black hair, but I saw no reason to mention that.

“I’ll go and tell him the coast is clear,” Emerson said. “I expect he could do with a whiskey and soda. I certainly could.”

Ramses rose, lifting Carla onto his shoulder. “It’s time the children got ready for bed. Come along, David John.”

“Before you go, I want a word with Carla,” I said. “Young lady, did you really try to bite the gentleman?”

“He patted me on my head, Grandmama.”

“That is no excuse.”

“I haven’t bited anyone for a long time,” Carla protested. “I don’t like that man. He has a mean face.”

“Decidedly,” said David John. “Though I would prefer the word ‘sly.’ He is up to no good.”

Ramses carried his opinionated children away and Fatima emerged from the house to clear away the tea things and bring the drinks tray. She avoided looking at me, but I couldn’t help noticing her secretive little smile. When Emerson and Sethos joined us she didn’t bat an eye, though the latter’s hair was black—very black—and so was the dashing cavalry style mustache that veiled his mouth. The distinctive clothing of Sir Malcolm had been replaced by an ordinary lounge suit.

“Whiskey?” Emerson asked.

“Excellent idea. That was a close one. I thought the bas——the fellow was still in London. Where are the kiddies?”

“Gone to bed,” I said. “We were fortunate they never got a look at you as Sir Malcolm. They didn’t take to him.”

“Carla tried to bite him,” Nefret said.

“Good girl. I must find a little present for her.”

“I won’t have such behavior encouraged,” I said sternly. “Don’t you want to know why Sir Malcolm called on us?”

“He’s after the statuette, of course.” Sethos took a refreshing sip and relaxed. “All collectors are a trifle insane, but Sir Malcolm is one of the maddest. There are some nasty rumors about how he acquired certain of his artifacts, and they say he doesn’t take kindly to losing.”

“But he is known as a philanthropist and supporter of worthy causes,” I protested.

“That’s his public side. He’d have sucked the breath out of Petherick personally if he could have gained possession of the statue that way.”

Fatima had lit the lamps. The flames flickered as the lamps swayed gently in the night breeze, and shadows gathered, as if darkness were hungry for the light.

“The statue has that effect,” I mused. “‘Obsession’ is not too strong a word, at least for some persons.”

“Not for me,” said Emerson. “I want to know where the confounded thing came from and how it—” He whirled round. Whiskey splashed. “Damnation! Don’t sneak up on a fellow like that, Ramses.”

“Sorry, sir.” Ramses closed the door behind him.

“He doesn’t do it on purpose,” Nefret said indignantly.

“I know, I know. I apologize, my boy. Help yourself to the whiskey—and you just might give me a touch more.

“Sir Malcolm did give us one bit of useful information,” Emerson went on. “Petherick purchased the statue from Aslanian in London. I shall wire Walter tomorrow and tell him to go round and interrogate Aslanian. The trail goes farther back, of course.”

“Don’t bother Walter,” Sethos said. “I doubt he can get anything out of Aslanian; the man is an old hand at this sort of thing, and Walter doesn’t have your forceful personality.”

“True.” Emerson nodded glumly, and Sethos went on, “I’ll get in touch with some of my people.”

“Who will break into the shop and look through Aslanian’s records?” Ramses suggested. “I thought you’d retired from the—er—profession.”

Sethos said, “I could do with another glass, if you would be so good, Ramses.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Emerson sent them all to bed immediately after dinner. He wanted to get an early start next morning. “I intend to finish Section twenty-three tomorrow,” he announced.

Ramses would have sworn it was impossible, had he not known his father so well. It turned out to be impossible, even for Emerson; late in the day, when they had almost finished clearing the last of the houses in Section 23, the men came across a layer of debris littered with scraps of pottery and papyri. Cursing, Emerson conceded that a proper excavation would take longer than he had planned. It was a weary, grubby crew that dispersed into the gathering darkness. Not surprisingly, Sethos had avoided the dirty job by announcing he had business in Luxor that could not be put off. When they met on the veranda, after ablutions curtailed by weariness, Sethos was waiting, stretched out on the settee with the Great Cat of Re reclining on his chest as he (Sethos) chatted with Fatima.

“Amazing woman,” he remarked, shifting the cat and sitting up. “She seems to take my metamorphoses for granted.”

“I trust your day was productive?” Ramses inquired.

His uncle ignored the sarcastic tone. “I sent off a few telegrams. There were two for Emerson waiting at the telegraph office. I took the liberty of bringing them along.”

He indicated the post basket, which was overflowing again.

After a suspicious examination of the first telegram—it was still sealed—Emerson ripped it open. “Ah! I told you Gargery would come through. He found out the name of Petherick’s solicitor and made friends with the clerk. The terms of the will were easy to remember. Everything to the wife. It seems the lady was telling the truth about that.”

He opened the next. “From Carter,” he announced, and read it aloud. “‘Appreciate supervision. Arriving shortly to resume excavations.’”

“Quite a tactful way of warning you to restrict your activities,” Sethos remarked. “Anything else of interest, Amelia?”

“The usual unwanted invitations and impertinent inquiries. Here’s one for you, Ramses. Hand delivered.”

“It’s from Heinrich Lidman,” Ramses reported. “Repeating his application for a position.”

“What?” Emerson glared. “You haven’t gone and hired someone without my permission, have you?”

“If you had listened to what Ramses said you would have realized we did nothing of the sort,” his wife replied. “We told him we would consider his offer, but that you would have to approve it.”

“Well, I don’t. Who is the fellow, anyhow?”

“He was with Borchardt at Amarna before the War,” Ramses said. “Experience like that might be useful to us. I met another fellow the other day you may also want to consider. He’s a demoticist and—”

“Why the devil would I want another demoticist when I have you?” Emerson demanded. “I don’t want anyone else. Once David gets here, my staff will be adequate. I wish the boy would hurry up. I need a skilled photographer when I open KV55.”

“He’ll be here in a few days,” Ramses said. Emerson was being his unreasonable self. He had curtly dismissed both Ramses’s suggestions, and airily ignored David’s other skills, which far outshone his talents as a photographer. Nefret and Selim were almost as competent in that specialty. Trying to conquer his annoyance, Ramses said, “If you need David so badly, why don’t you wait for him?”

Emerson stroked his chin. “I suppose another day or two won’t matter. Give me a chance to have a general look round.”

“And,” said his wife, “pursue our inquiries into Mrs. Petherick’s disappearance.”

“Bah,” said Emerson. “There’s no mystery about that. She’ll reappear in a day or two, and regale the newspapers with lurid stories.”

In this Emerson was mistaken. Mrs. Petherick did not reappear next day, or the day after. The search for her was sporadic at best, since no one knew where to look, or what to look for—a living woman or a dead body. The newspapers attempted to keep the sensation alive with dire hints of foul play and deadly curses, but the official position was that the lady was presumed to be alive unless proven dead, and without a corpus delicti the press had little to work on. They had taken up the term “black afrit,” however, and it appeared frequently in their stories, together with an explanation of the meaning of the word “afrit,” how it was pronounced, and fictitious reports of its appearances in various localities. This filled in space which was otherwise devoid of interest.

Emerson, of course, ignored the matter. He was unable to get ahead with his work at Deir el Medina as rapidly as he had hoped (an assessment any sensible individual would have made in the beginning). We had to spend an entire day excavating the broken pots and scraps of papyrus. They had apparently been dumped into a hole in the floor, covered over, and stamped down, and it was necessary to examine and record each bit in order to determine their relationship.

A small rebellion occurred that afternoon. With my tacit support (emphatic nods), Nefret declared she and Ramses would stop work early—that is to say, at the same hour most excavators quit for the day. “We promised the children we would take tea with them this afternoon,” she announced. “You won’t finish with those fragments today anyhow, Father.”

“Yes, I will,” Emerson declared. “But—er—if you promised the children…”

Emerson is the most stubborn man of my acquaintance. Having made that dogmatic claim, he kept us at it until gathering dusk made careful work impossible, and even then only my insistence made him stop. I was quite out of temper with him. We had missed tea and would barely have time enough to bathe and change before dinner.

However, when we dismounted in front of the house, we saw Sethos, Ramses and Nefret, and a fourth individual on the veranda, and Fatima just clearing away the tea things. The stranger, a shabby, undersized individual with gray-white hair, jumped to his feet when we entered. “Good evening, Professor and Mrs. Emerson. Your son was good enough to invite me to stay, but if I intrude—”

“Who the devil are you?” Emerson asked.

Ramses said, with a defiant look at his father, “This is Mikhail Katchenovsky, of whose work in demotic I told you. I took the liberty of asking him to stay for dinner. I told Fatima.”

“My dear boy, this is your home,” I said. “You are free to invite anyone you choose. Good evening, Mr. Katchenovsky. Have you two been having a jolly time gossiping about demotic?”

“It has been an honor,” Katchenovsky exclaimed. “To see the very working room where the great translations of texts were made, the papyri themselves.”

Emerson’s expression indicated his opinion of people who would wax ecstatic over crumbling papyri and obscure texts, but since this group included his son he refrained from stating that opinion. My little reminder, that Ramses had a perfect right to invite guests, had had a humbling effect. “Well, well,” he said, with forced geniality. “Good to meet you, Karchenovsky. Ramses tells me you have done good work. Not for me to judge. Demotic is more or less Greek to me.”

Uncertain as to whether this was a joke, Katchenovsky smiled, sobered, and smiled again. “I am honored that he should be familiar with my work, Professor. I have not published for a good many years, owing to…to circumstances over which I had no control.”