The Serpent on the Crown (18 page)

“But I must—I must—”

“It’s a waste of breath arguing with her,” Ramses said pleasantly. “We can fit you out with pajamas and the rest.”

He left it to Nefret and Fatima to make the arrangements, and went off to his workroom in a thoughtful frame of mind.

T
hey were all on the veranda waiting for tea, except for his mother, who was upstairs working on her notes, when his father returned. After a word of apology, he headed straight for the bath chamber, leaving a distinct smell of garbage in his wake. Emerson wouldn’t ask any man to do a job he shirked.

“Good heavens,” said Sethos, wrinkling his nose. “I see I was wise to remain here today.”

“I do hope you weren’t bored,” Ramses said. “How did you pass the time?”

“Playing with us,” Carla said. “He knows lots of good stories about tomb robbers.”

“I’ll just bet he does,” Ramses muttered.

“But he cheated at blindman’s buff.”

She grinned admiringly at Sethos, who grinned back at her. “So did you. How is your patient, Nefret?”

No need to ask how he had found out about Lidman. Fatima, arranging the tea things, was humming quietly.

“It’s nothing more than the usual stomach trouble,” Nefret said. “But I want to keep him here overnight to be certain.”

“There’s no time for sickness in this business,” said Emerson, erupting from the house in his usual abrupt fashion. “Get the fellow up, Nefret, work is the best medicine—as Peabody has often said.”

He held the door for his wife. “Isn’t that right, my dear?” he inquired politely.

“Generally speaking, yes.” She took a chair and beckoned to Fatima. “However, Nefret is quite right to be cautious. Egypt is full of perils for those who are not acclimated.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Emerson said. Ramses deduced they had had another argument. They were always excessively polite to each other afterward.

Lidman did not appear for tea or for dinner. Fatima had taken him a tray. Nefret reported that he had eaten everything on it and seemed better, but her mother-in-law couldn’t let that statement stand.

“I will just have a cheerful little chat with him,” she announced.

“So will I,” said Emerson. “Good Gad, can’t have the fellow lying about for days. Where have you put him, Nefret?”

She had given Lidman one of the guest rooms in their house. The whole family trailed along, even Sethos, though Ramses tried to dissuade him.

“If you wake the children, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I will be as silent as a little mouse,” said his uncle.

Lidman was wearing one of Emerson’s nightshirts, since Ramses’s pajamas wouldn’t button around his waist. Propped on pillows, he looked up from the book he was reading, his eyes widening in alarm. Ramses couldn’t blame him; the combined family gave the impression that this was an inquisitorial delegation rather than a call on a sick friend.

“Better, are you?” Emerson inquired, in what he presumably thought was an encouraging tone.

His wife had gone to the bedside. Lidman shrank back as she felt his forehead. “Nice and cool,” she announced. “Have you taken your medicine, Mr. Lidman?”

“Yes, madam. I am better. Oh, yes, much better. You are very kind.”

“Breakfast at six,” said Emerson. “Then off to the Valley, eh?”

“That depends,” Nefret said. “We’re right down the hall, Mr. Lidman. Don’t hesitate to call out if you need anything.” She added pointedly, “Good night.”

Sethos was one of the last to leave. “I believe we met several years ago, in Cairo, Herr Lidman. At the shop of Zaki Gabra, wasn’t it?”

“I am sorry,” Lidman said. “I do not remember.”

That wasn’t surprising, Ramses thought, since Sethos had probably been someone else at the time—if the meeting had actually taken place. He said good night and followed his uncle out.

“Was that a test?” he asked softly.

“If it was, he passed. Admitting to an acquaintance that never existed is a sure sign of guilt.”

“What do you suspect him of?”

“Like your dear mother, I suspect everyone of everything.”

“I’ll escort you past Amira,” Ramses said, following him along the corridor.

“No need. I spent part of the afternoon getting to know the dog. She adores me.”

“That’s no compliment. She adores everyone she’s ever met.”

“Think about that,” Sethos said, and went on his way.

It wasn’t the dog that wakened Ramses. He was on his feet and out of bed before he realized what had. Emerson’s voice was noted for its carrying qualities, and he was employing it freely. Ramses hurried down the hallway toward the children’s room. For a wonder they were both sleeping quietly. There was nothing at the window. On the way back he ran into Nefret—literally—caught her round the waist, and reported, “They’re all right. Stay here.”

He didn’t waste time putting on his boots; his feet were as hardened as those of an Egyptian. Most of the lamps along the pathway to the main house had burned out, but as he ran on he saw the dim light of a torch ahead. His mother held it.

“Ah, there you are,” she said. “This contraption needs a new battery.”

His father was bent over a dark form sprawled on the paving stones. Somehow Ramses wasn’t surprised to recognize Lidman’s round pale face and portly form.

“Wake up, damn it,” Emerson said, shaking the fallen man. “Peabody, stick those smelling salts under his nose.”

“I fear I neglected to bring them” was the calm reply; but by the time she finished the sentence, Lidman’s eyes were open.

“What happened?” he gasped. “Where has it gone?”

“Where has what gone?” Emerson demanded. Lidman’s head rolled back and forth.

“Stop shaking him, Father,” Ramses said.

“Oh, yes.”

Emerson let go. Lidman’s head hit the ground with a thump. “Sorry,” Emerson said. “Answer me, Lidman. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

Emerson’s methods were brutal but effective. Lidman raised clenched fists, crossing them over his chest. “It was at the window. I was afraid for the children. I went out, and saw it running toward your house. I caught hold of it, and then…I remember nothing more.”

“Damnation,” Emerson said. “‘It’?”

Something protruded from one of Lidman’s clenched hands. Ramses pried his fingers apart and removed a tattered scrap of black cloth.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H (CONT.)

T
hey found Amira lying beside the path. No one’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the motionless bulk, since they had located her by the volume of her snores. Poking her and yelling in her ear had no effect; presumably she had been given a drug of some sort, and letting her sleep it off seemed the wisest course. Nefret prescribed the same treatment for Lidman, who was trembling and even paler than usual. She led him to his room, and the others went back to the main house.

“Doesn’t this family ever get a full night’s sleep?” Sethos asked, concealing a yawn behind his hand. Ramses had noticed he was fully dressed.

Emerson, who considered pajamas a newfangled fad, had pulled on a pair of trousers over his nightshirt. Waving this rhetorical question aside, he said, “His story doesn’t ring true. Someone tried to get into the house. That was what woke me.” He glanced at his wife, whose silence fairly rang with the words she wasn’t saying. “Er—well, to be precise, it woke Peabody. For once she had sense enough to rouse me before she dashed out.”

“To be precise,” she corrected, “it was Sethos who woke first.”

All eyes turned to Sethos, who was draped elegantly across the settee. “I wasn’t asleep,” he said.

“What alerted you?” Ramses asked.

“I was sitting in the courtyard enjoying a quiet smoke and listening to Ali Yussuf snore,” Sethos explained. “I wouldn’t count on him to warn you, he’s a growing lad and needs his sleep. Unfortunately the intruder—I hate the phrase ‘man in black,’ if you don’t mind—came round the front, by way of the veranda. He heard me coming and beat a quick retreat. He’d bolted the door on the outside. I had to go back through the house, and I took the liberty of waking Amelia as I did so.”

“How long did that take?” Ramses asked.

“Not long enough for the purported afrit to return to your house, stare in the window, wake Lidman, and dash back in this direction,” Sethos said.

“If it was Lidman, why didn’t he simply return to his room? He had time for that, didn’t he?” Ramses asked.

“He ran the risk of encountering you before he got there, that’s why,” Emerson said. “It was safer to lie down and make up a wild story.”

“And the scrap of black cloth in his hand?”

“Prepared in advance,” Emerson said. “In case he was caught.”

“What about the dog?” Ramses persisted.

“Lidman had access to Nefret’s dispensary for several hours this afternoon, and a hearty dinner,” Sethos said. “Roast lamb, wasn’t it? I told you the dog wouldn’t bark at anyone she had met before. He didn’t want her following him, so he slipped her a treat.”

“It fits, but it isn’t conclusive,” Ramses said. “We can’t accuse him.”

“You are too trusting,” Sethos jeered. “Who is the fellow, anyhow? Did anyone take the trouble of investigating his story? Amelia, I am surprised at you.”

“Ramses recognized his name. But you are right, we ought to make further inquiries. You will see to it, won’t you, Emerson? Yes.”

Mr. Lidman came to breakfast with Ramses and Nefret, right on time, and looking no guiltier than anyone else. He assured us he felt quite himself again, and the way he engulfed Fatima’s excellent breakfast was testimony to his restored digestion. He couldn’t stop talking about his horrible experience with the afrit.

“I assure you, when I caught hold of it I felt nothing except the cloth itself,” he said, round-eyed. “It was as if there were nothing inside. I regret I could not apprehend it. I feared, you see, that it meant some harm to the children and—”

“Why should you suppose that?” Emerson asked.

“They are so young, so helpless, so trusting. You watch over them closely, do you not?”

“We do,” I assured him, not entirely pleased at his concern for the children. “You will be glad to hear that the dog is fully recovered this morning.”

“The dog? Yes, yes, I wondered why it did not bark. What was wrong with it?”

Either he is innocent as a babe in arms or he believes he’s got away with it, I thought, watching him as he stuffed his mouth with toast and marmalade. We had agreed not to speak of our suspicions, in order to put him off guard, so no one asked embarrassing questions. Sethos had been right to reproach me for being so gullible, but we would soon know whether Lidman’s claim to have worked at Amarna was true.

After a little reminder from me, Emerson instructed Ramses to remain at the house to get on with his translations. He waved goodbye to us as we rode away, and I thought he looked a trifle wistful at being left behind. He was interested in KV55 too, but I had no doubt that my arrangement was for the best. Sometimes people do not know what is good for them.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Ramses knew his feeling of disappointment at watching the others ride off was pure perversity. He had wanted to work on the papyri, and now that he had been given the opportunity, he didn’t feel like doing it. After a restless ramble through the house, and a check of the locked drawer in his father’s desk, he went to the stable and saddled Risha. He told himself he wasn’t exactly disobeying orders. His father had suggested he hire Mikhail Katchenovsky, and the only way of locating the Russian was through the Metropolitan Museum people.

It always lifted his spirits to see Hatshepsut’s temple and imagine how it might have looked when the trees from Punt lined the causeway with green ribbons and the newly finished colonnades glowed in the sunlight. Monumental statues of the queen-king had stood everywhere. The remains of them had been found, smashed into bits. The adjoining temple of the Eleventh Dynasty king Nebhepetre had not been as impressive even in its heyday, and there was not much of it left.

Feeling slightly guilty about his dereliction of duty and his interruption of their work, he declined Barton’s invitation to dismount.

“I’m looking for Katchenovsky. Is he here?”

“Not yet.” Barton slapped at his cheek, which was being explored by a gnat. “He doesn’t usually come until afternoon. If you’re in a hurry you could look for him. He’s staying at one of the West Bank hotels—the one with the bathtub in the courtyard.”

“Ah, yes, Hussein Ali’s luxurious place. I’m not in that much of a hurry. Just ask him, if you will, to come to the house after he’s through here. I have a proposition for him.”

Lansing came along in time to hear the last speech. He raised his eyebrows, and Ramses explained that he had no intention of stealing the Russian away from his work with the Met. “I’ll only need him for a few hours a day.”

“That’s okay,” Lansing said. “We really don’t have much for him to do. Felt sorry for the fellow, actually, he looked as if he needed a job. So you’re going ahead with translating the Deir el Medina material?”

Ramses nodded. “I plan to. Unless something else comes up.”

“Which it’s likely to, with your lot,” Lansing said. “You sure you won’t stay awhile and catch us up on the news?”

“There’s nothing new, except that David is due to arrive today or tomorrow. We’ll be having a little dinner party for him one of these days. Mother will let you know.”

“I’ll settle for an invitation to the exorcism,” Barton said. “When is it to be?”

“Where did you hear that?” Ramses asked.

“All the men are talking about it.” Barton’s voice dropped to a sinister basso. “‘The black afrit walks the streets of Luxor.’”

“Daoud,” Ramses said resignedly.

“The Oracle of Luxor,” Barton said with a broad grin.

“He’s more accurate than most oracles,” Ramses admitted. “Father is considering the idea, but he hasn’t made up his mind yet. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

On his way back he stopped at the guardhouse to tell Wasim he was expecting a caller that afternoon. “Let him pass. And no baksheesh,” he added sternly.

Wasim fondled the aged rifle. “If you say so, Brother of Demons. But I am a poor man, and there have been fewer visitors.”

Katchenovsky turned up several hours later, looking more cadaverous than ever, but he lit up like a lantern when Ramses offered him the position.

“I hoped,” he exclaimed. “But I did not dare ask.”

He’d done everything short of asking, though, during their conversation at dinner. Had it been that eager timidity that had prompted Ramses’s mother to bully her husband into changing his plans? She liked to think of herself as hard-hearted and practical, but everybody in Luxor knew she was the softest of soft touches. Katchenovsky was the sort of pathetic specimen she was fond of rescuing. He must be hard up if he was staying at Hussein Ali’s.

He led the Russian to his workroom and explained what he wanted done. “The first priority is to sort and stabilize the material we found yesterday at Deir el Medina. You know how quickly papyrus can deteriorate once it’s exposed to the air.”

He demonstrated the methods he used. The Russian was quick to catch on. They worked silently and efficiently until Fatima popped her head in and announced that tea would be ready shortly.

“You’ll stay, I hope,” Ramses said.

“Will your lovely children be there? I am very fond of children.”

“Oh, yes, they never miss tea.”

They interrupted a violent argument between Carla and David John. Carla was the violent one; her shouts had no effect on her brother, who stood with folded arms, shaking his head. The argument seemed to have something to do with the dog. Ramses deduced that Carla wanted Amira to join them for tea. The dog was peering hopefully through the bars at the door. The Great Cat of Re stared back at her, tail thrashing.

“Shame on you,” Ramses said, taking his enraged daughter in a tight embrace. “You know the dog isn’t allowed in. Is this any way to behave before a guest?”

Carla’s temper was as changeable as a windstorm. Her face was still bright red with fury when she hugged him back and gave Katchenovsky an angelic smile. “Good evening, sir. Can we have tea now, Papa?”

“As soon as the others get here.”

“They are here. Grandmama said they wanted to wash first.”

She left him to lean against Katchenovsky’s chair and tell him about Amira, but she instantly abandoned the Russian when Emerson came out of the house.

“Can we have tea now, Grandpapa?”

“Yes, yes, may as well,” said Emerson, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead. “Ah—good evening—er—Kravatsky. Is your work going well, my boy?”

Knowing his father had only asked out of politeness, Ramses said briefly, “Mikhail is being a great help. How did your day go, Father?”

“Well, very well. We have the debris cleared from the entrance and the steps.” He paused to light his pipe. “Have to go carefully from here on; there appear to be a number of pieces from the gilded shrine in the rubble in the corridor. You remember it was left there when Davis closed the tomb in ’07. Despite my protests,” he added, scowling.

“I thought Weigall removed it the following year,” Ramses said.

“While my back was turned,” Emerson growled.

Well and truly turned, Ramses thought. They had been far out in the Western Desert that year. Emerson’s diatribe—“no idea what he did with the damned thing, it never arrived at the museum, probably fell to pieces when he took it out”—was interrupted by the arrival of Nefret and his mother. Sethos was the last to turn up.

“It took a while to dry my hair,” he explained unnecessarily.

Fatima brought the tea things and everyone began talking at once, with the shrill voices of the children rising and falling like an obbligato. Ramses smiled apologetically at the Russian. “I’m afraid it’s always like this. Pure pandemonium.”

Katchenovsky started and came back from whatever internal world he had been occupying. “It is very pleasant. Such a large, loving family.”

Emerson continued to hold forth on the iniquities of other archaeologists, particularly those of the Davis excavations. Sensing that he had a new audience, he turned his attention on Katchenovsky.

“Are you familiar with the excavation of KV55?”

“No, sir,” the Russian said. True or not, it was the right answer.

“Botched from start to finish,” Emerson declared. “It contained the parts of a gold-encrusted shrine made by Akhenaton for his mother, Queen Tiy, and a battered coffin containing the badly decayed remains of an individual Davis insisted was the queen herself. However, examination of the bones proved they were those of a young man—too young, in my opinion, to be Akhenaton. The shrine had been dismantled; the persons who entered the tomb in antiquity were probably government officials who meant to remove it, after cutting out Akhenaton’s cartouches on the shrine and other objects. However, they found that the separate pieces were too large to get through the partially blocked corridor. They left one side of it lying atop the rubble in the corridor, and the other parts leaning against the wall of the burial chamber. I won’t bore you with the details…”

Thank God for that, Ramses thought. Katchenovsky was putting on a good show of interest, though, and when Emerson paused to relight his pipe, he said diffidently, “I did read something about it, Professor. As I recall, the tomb was completely cleared. May I ask why you are reexamining it?”

Emerson told him, in considerable detail. “If Petherick’s statuette was there in 1907, there may be some scrap of evidence left. It is imperative that we discover where and when it was found.”

“Why is that, sir?” Katchenovsky asked.

“Because,” said Emerson, surprised at such ignorance but ready to relieve it, “if it did not originate in KV55, we must look for another source. The thieves who took the statuette may have found equally valuable artifacts.”

His wife overheard question and answer. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Now who is letting his imagination run away with him? We are reexcavating the tomb, Mr. Katchenovsky, because it was not done properly the first time. That is sufficient reason. Enough about that. Ramses, my dear, have you heard anything more from the Pethericks?”

“No, Mother. I have to inform you, though, that Daoud has told everyone on the West Bank that an exorcism is planned. Barton and the rest of the Met crew want to be invited.”

“Oh dear,” his mother murmured. “Emerson, you must deny the story and give Daoud a talking-to.”