The Serpent on the Crown (16 page)

Another casualty of the War? I wondered. It had ended four years ago, but some of the survivors of that awful conflict had been slow to recover from physical injury and mental anguish. Close inspection indicated that he was younger than his gray hair and lined face had led me to believe. Perhaps he had resisted the Bolsheviks and suffered imprisonment and privation.

Emerson would have said I was letting my imagination run away with me. Imagination, as I always say, is only another word for sympathetic intelligence.

Nefret said, “Dinner will be a little late, Mother. You have time for a whiskey and soda if you like.”

“Excellent,” I said. “It was thoughtful of you to tell Maaman to put it back.”

Nefret chuckled. “I didn’t. I think it’s his new method of punishing us for being late so often.”

“Better than burned food and salty soup,” Emerson said.

He pushed emphatically on the lever of the gasogene. Soda spurted. Emerson wiped the table with his sleeve and handed me the glass.

“Any news of Mrs. Petherick?” I asked.

Nefret shook her head. “Not that we’ve heard. Nor any word from Miss Petherick. I’ve been expecting her to make another demand for the statue.”

“It is a strange story,” Katchenovsky said. “What will become of the statue?”

“I will return it to the legal owners, whoever they may be,” Emerson replied. “That has yet to be determined.”

“You are an honest man, Professor,” Katchenovsky exclaimed. “But I would have expected no less of you.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “My sole interest in the statuette is in where it was found. We are still in the dark as to that.”

“I wonder if I might see it,” Katchenovsky said hesitantly. “I am by no means an authority, but one never knows what a new observer may notice.”

“Have we time?” I asked Nefret.

“Yes, I think so. I wouldn’t mind having another look myself.”

“I’ll get it.” Emerson put his glass down and went into the house.

He was back almost at once, wild-eyed and fuming. “It’s gone! The damn thing is gone!”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

No one bothered to ask whether he was certain. The statuette had been in a locked drawer in Emerson’s desk. A single look would have been enough.

Emerson drew a deep breath and gained command of himself. “Peabody,” he said.

“Good Gad, Emerson, are you accusing me?”

“It would be just like you to decide the hiding place wasn’t secure enough.”

His wife gave him a look that should have raised blisters. “To be honest, I thought your desk was not secure. It is one of the first places a thief would look, and that lock can be easily broken. However, I would never have moved it without telling you. How can you think that of me?”

“Then who did take it?” Emerson shouted.

All eyes went to the unfortunate Russian. Katchenovsky huddled in the chair and burst into passionate denials.

“It can’t have been he,” Ramses broke in.

“He was in the house, in the storage room next to my study,” Emerson said.

“And with me the entire time. I left the room once, to get a book from your study. I was gone less than three minutes, and Mr. Katchenovsky did not accompany me.”

“Thank you,” Katchenovsky gasped. “Thank you. It is true, I did not—”

“Oh, very well,” Emerson said.

The ensuing silence was heavy with suspicion. Ramses tried not to look at his uncle. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn that Sethos had been unable to resist a piece so unique. Yet such a blatant theft was unlike him; he must have known he’d be the first to be suspected. After a long moment Sethos said, “It wasn’t me either. Amelia—you believe me, don’t you?”

She roused herself from a brown study. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are the children in bed yet?”

“They are supposed to be,” Ramses said wryly. “But I wouldn’t bank on it.”

His mother rose. “Come along with me, all of you. Yes, Mr. Katchenovsky, you too. You have been accused, you have the right to learn the truth.”

“What are you suggesting?” Emerson demanded. “Those dear little innocent children—”

“Do not leap to conclusions, Emerson, just come.”

They followed the tree-lined curving path between the two houses. The gardener had lit the lamps; pools of light painted the clumps of flowers in the beds along the way, and leaves rustled like the soft murmur of running water. As they neared the house, a dark form leaped at them, baying like an infernal hound. Katchenovsky got behind Ramses.

“Go away, Amira,” Ramses said, shoving at the dog.

The children were in bed, but naturally they were not asleep. Ramses heard the maidservant’s soft Arabic. She was telling them a bedtime story. Both children were bilingual, having spoken both languages from infancy.

“And when the good mother snake found that her children were gone, taken as pets by the bad little boys of the house, she became very angry and spat her venom into the water jar, so that all who drank of it would surely die.”

Ramses put out his arm to stop the others. “Let her finish the story, or they won’t ever drink water again.”

It was a very moral tale. Luckily for the household of the bad little boys, their father was a saint who knew the resident snake was benevolent, a protector of the house. When he saw his sons playing with the poor little snakes he scolded them. “In the name of the Prophet, release your victims at once!”

As soon as the little snakes, unharmed, returned to their mother, she was ashamed and thought how she could avert the damage she had done. She coiled herself round the water jar and squeezed until it broke into nine and ninety pieces, spilling the poisoned water harmlessly onto the ground.

“So you see,” said Ramses, looking in the door, “it is wrong to torment animals.”

“Particularly when they are animals that can spit venom,” his mother added.

Carla leaped up with a scream of delight. “Have you all come to say good night again? Mr. Katchenovsky too!”

“You have met the gentleman?” Emerson asked, returning Carla’s hug.

“I have had that pleasure,” Katchenovsky said. “At tea.”

“And Carla didn’t try to bite you?”

“Why, no. She is a sweet little girl.”

Carla giggled.

“Well done, Carla,” said her grandmother. “Now, David John. What did you do with the statuette?”

David John’s great blue eyes were as calm as a pool of still water. “It is in my toy chest, Grandmama.”

She fished around among the stuffed animals and miniature trains and rocks of various sizes and shapes, and drew out the painted box. Handing it to Emerson, who was staring openmouthed at his grandson, she said sternly, “David John, you are guilty of deliberate disobedience. I told you you were not to go looking for it.”

“Yes, Grandmama, those were your precise words. I did not have to go looking for it, since I knew where it was.”

I
ngenious little beggar, isn’t he?” said Emerson with a fond chuckle. “To think of getting into the locked drawer by removing the one above it.”

“‘Ingenious’ is certainly one word for him,” said his wife grimly. “However, I believe I have now composed an order that will thwart future attempts.”

Ramses certainly hoped so. His mother had carefully avoided looking at him while she lectured her grandson, but he knew she was remembering
his
youthful exercises in ingenuity. Had he really been that devious? One or two examples came to his mind, and they moved him to take his mother’s arm and give it a little squeeze as they walked back to the main house. She looked up at him and gave him a knowing smile.

Emerson has a frightful temper, but he is at heart a just and kindly man. As if to make up for his suspicions of Mr. Katchenovsky, he was excessively polite to the Russian during dinner, urging him to take second helpings of everything and even inviting him to talk about his work. Under the spell of his geniality the Russian gradually relaxed. Emerson listened with a glazed but benevolent eye while Ramses and Katchenovsky carried on a conversation of which none of us understood more than two sentences.

“You restore
dmd.n
at the beginning of the column, but there is not sufficient room for the full spelling of the word, and the final sign does not appear to me to be the bookroll, but rather…”

That was not one of the sentences I understood.

It did my heart good, however, to see Ramses enjoy himself so much. I determined to have a little talk with Emerson that very night. The dear fellow was getting out of hand. His plan of working at two different sites simultaneously increased the difficulties I had considered earlier. The plain truth of the matter was that we had not enough staff.

I made it up to him afterward.

Emerson said nothing of the alteration in our plans at breakfast. When we reached Deir el Medina, and he had inspected the area where we had worked the previous day, he called the others to him.

“Another two hours will finish here,” he announced. “Cyrus, what about you?”

Cyrus stroked his goatee. “We’ve filled in the entrances to the tombs that don’t have protective gates. I was planning to go over to the West Valley later today.”

“Very good,” said Emerson. “David’s boat got in this morning, so he will be here tonight—”

“You can’t count on that, my dear,” I said. “He may not have disembarked in time to catch the morning train. Boat schedules are erratic, and—”

“Or tomorrow morning,” Emerson said loudly. “At which time I will open KV55. My staff will consist of—”

“Excuse me for a moment, Emerson, while I get pen and notepaper. I know you keep your notes in your head, or claim to, but the rest of us require—”

“Excuse me, Mother,” Nefret broke in. “I have writing materials. Please take them.”

It sounded like an order, not a suggestion. I accepted and nodded a silent acknowledgment, since Emerson’s face was turning red.

“As I was saying,” he said, with a pointed glance at me. “My staff will consist of Peabody and myself, Nefret and David, and half a dozen of our fellows. Selim and Daoud will continue here. Ramses, I want you to get on with your translating.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ramses’s face was a study in astonishment.

“I won’t need you,” Emerson said, as firmly as if he had arrived at this decision on his own, instead of giving in after a prolonged shouting match. “The tomb is small and cramped, and there’s nothing there for you. If we are to conclude our work at Deir el Medina properly, the inscribed materials we found need to be translated and published. That’s your job.”

“But…” Ramses’s eyebrows rose even farther. “But then…you mean for me to continue working on the papyri indefinitely? It will take weeks, if not months. There’s a lot of material.”

“I can help,” Jumana said eagerly. “I would like very much to gain more experience in translating hieratic and demotic.”

“Your first obligation is to Mr. Vandergelt,” Emerson said. “He has greater need of you than Ramses does.”

“Yes, sir,” Jumana said submissively. Bertie, whose face had fallen when she spoke, brightened up. He hadn’t ventured to contribute his opinions. He hardly ever did.

“I say!” Emerson exclaimed, as if the idea had just struck him, “what about employing that Russian fellow—Karnovoskovitch?—to give you a hand, Ramses? You said he was well qualified.”

“He is,” Ramses said.

“Of course, if you’d rather not share the credit…”

“That’s never been an issue with me, Father,” Ramses said reproachfully.

“I know that. You are generous to a fault. Well, that’s settled. Unless we encounter some unforeseen difficulty, we should be able to finish in KV55 within a few weeks at most. While we are there, Cyrus and his crew will be working in the West Valley. If you take my advice, Vandergelt, you will begin with the tomb of Ay and the other unoccupied tombs nearby—Numbers 25 and 26. Look for foundation deposits and make sure you sift the damned debris thoroughly.”

“Righto,” said Cyrus, in a dreadful imitation of a British accent. “Any further orders, old chap?”

His sarcasm—which was accompanied by an amiable grin—was wasted on Emerson. “A fellow came by the other day looking for a position. Claims to be an expert on Amarna, worked at the site before the war. Name of—um—”

“Lidman,” Ramses supplied. “Heinrich Lidman.”

“That is what I was about to say,” remarked Emerson. “I suggest you consider taking him on.”

“Fine with me,” Cyrus said. “I’ll get in touch with him right away. Where is he staying?”

Emerson looked at his son, who said, “The Luxor.”

Emerson nodded and went on. “As soon as we finish with KV55, you can have David and Nefret.”

“That’s darned generous of you,” Cyrus exclaimed.

It was darned generous of
me
. As I am sure I need not tell the Reader, these arrangements were my idea and Emerson had not given in easily. I did not claim the credit, since I had learned that in marriage tact is not only good manners but good strategy.

We finished recording and removing the remaining debris before midday, and I persuaded Emerson to return to the house for a hasty luncheon. He barely gave us time to eat before he was on his feet again, urging us to hurry. “I told Vandergelt to meet us at half past one, and it is almost that now.”

“I’ll be along later,” I said.

“So will I,” said Sethos, stretching out on the sofa.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Ramses’s mother never ceased to amaze him. Though she had not admitted it and never would, he knew she was the one responsible for Emerson’s altered arrangements. He would have to think of a way of thanking her.

Cyrus was as impatient as Emerson to start the new work. He was waiting for them, astride his fat mare Queenie, at the foot of the road that led up to his house on the hill overlooking the Valley. Jumana looked like a doll perched on the big chestnut she had selected from Cyrus’s stable, but, as Ramses knew, she had wrists of steel and a determination few horses would dare challenge. Bertie was there too, and so was none other than Heinrich Lidman. Cyrus hadn’t wasted any time.

“You all know each other, I guess,” he said. “Herr Lidman was good enough to respond immediately to my message.”