The Serpent on the Crown (30 page)

I hadn’t been there for several days, and I was impressed at the progress the men had made. Most of the burial chamber had been cleared. Only one corner, and the niche that had contained the beautiful canopic jars, remained to be examined.

The morning’s work was as unproductive as our earlier excavations. The far corner contained the same sort of miscellany we had already found: pottery fragments, one of them bearing a red-and-black floral design, an unshaped lump of yellow quartzite, and a few faience beads. The last of these having been recorded and removed, Emerson stood with hands on hips surveying the now empty chamber.

“No hidden rooms,” said Sethos in a studiously neutral voice.

“I didn’t expect there would be,” said Emerson.

“Not even a hole in the wall.”

Emerson shot him a hateful look. “There’s still the canopic niche.”

“Shall we start on it?” Ramses asked.

“Er—not today.” Emerson took out his watch. “Good Gad, it is later than I thought. Don’t you want to get back to your bits of papyrus, my boy?”

“Whatever you say, Father.”

“I’m off to Luxor,” Sethos announced.

Emerson muttered something that might have been “Good riddance,” and headed back toward the entrance, leaving David and Nefret to pack up the cameras. My brother-in-law gallantly offered me an arm.

“It’s odd, you know,” he said.

“What is?”

“Emerson’s behavior. He’s been digging in that wretched hole for the stated purpose of finding some evidence that the statuette was once there, yet he doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of success. One would expect a few curses at the very least, wouldn’t one?”

“We haven’t quite finished yet.”

“Hmmm,” said Sethos.

“Why are you going to Luxor?” I asked.

“I intend to follow some of the leads you so cleverly suggested. May I borrow that excellent little list of yours? I believe I saw you put it in your pocket.”

I handed it over. “You will, of course, inform me of the results of your investigations.”

“How could you suppose otherwise, my dear?”

He and Ramses went off toward the donkey park—not exactly together, for although they walked side by side they did not speak or look at each other. As we pushed through the tourists I saw Sir Malcolm, dapper as ever, under a very large umbrella held by his dragoman.

“What luck?” he called.

“None,” Emerson bellowed, without stopping.

It was only midmorning, so I took it for granted that Emerson had no intention of returning to the house just yet. “The West Valley?” I inquired hopefully. Cyrus always brought an ample supply of food and water. Emerson hadn’t given me time to pack a luncheon basket.

“May as well,” said Emerson.

“You are behaving most erratically,” I informed him.

“No, I am not,” said Emerson.

Nefret and David caught us up soon after we turned into the road to the West Valley. I prefer to set a deliberate pace over rough ground, for the sake of the dear horses.

Cyrus hailed us with delight. “I was hoping you’d come. Seems I’m in need of a photographer.”

“Happy to oblige,” said Emerson. “David—”

“Let the boy have a glass of tea first,” Cyrus said. “You all look pretty hot and dusty.”

“The ride is hot and dusty,” I replied. “Is that Mr. Lidman?”

Cyrus glanced round. Like myself, he always erected a temporary shelter when there was no convenient empty tomb at hand. My question had been unnecessary; seated under the canvas canopy, beside a large basket, was the unmistakable form of Mr. Lidman.

“He insisted on coming out today,” Cyrus replied. “He still isn’t fit for much, but he wanted to resume his duties.”

Lidman rose and removed his hat when we approached. In my opinion he had been unwise to leave his bed. Sunburn patched his pale, puffy face, and his attempt at a smile was rather pitiful.

“I have taken on the duties of a houseman, you see,” he said. “Alas, I am unable to do more.”

Nefret studied him with sympathetic concern. “You ought not tax your strength so soon, Mr. Lidman. Take it slowly.”

Emerson had very little patience with weakness and even less with Mr. Lidman. “Quite,” he said, having drained his glass. “Now then, Vandergelt, let’s see how you are getting on. David and Nefret, unpack the cameras. Peabody, there is a nice high heap of debris that requires sifting. You can help Jumana.”

“What, don’t I get Hassan and the other fellows too?” Cyrus inquired with a grin.

“They’ll be along later,” said Emerson, oblivious to sarcasm. “I left them closing up KV55.”

“You finished there already?” Cyrus asked.

“Not quite. No, not quite. However, there is more to be done here. Always give a friend a helping hand, eh? Ah, Bertie. What were you doing over there with Jumana? You ought to be working on your plan of the tomb.”

“I thought I’d wait until we finished the clearance,” Bertie said meekly. “The debris is piling up, and Jumana—”

“Mrs. Emerson will give her a hand. Come along.”

Nefret gave Bertie a consoling pat on the arm.

T
hough Cyrus yielded to Emerson in most cases, he was adamant about stopping work by midafternoon. “I’ve been out here since six
A
.
M
.,” he announced, “and I’m tired and hot and ready for a long cool bath. I sent Lidman home already, he was looking sickly.”

“The man is absolutely useless,” Emerson grumbled.

“I can’t fire a fellow because he’s been taken sick,” Cyrus said. “That wouldn’t be right. I’ll see you folks later.”

By the time we reached our house I too was ready for a long, cool bath. Ramses and Katchenovsky were working and Sethos had not yet returned from Luxor, so I was able to take my time. Splashing merrily about in my tin tub, I eventually attracted the attention of Emerson, and we had a nice little interlude. My attempts to persuade him to confess what he was up to failed, however, and I must admit I did not persist in them long.

Emerson’s cheerful frame of mind dissipated when he saw Mr. Katchenovsky on the veranda playing with the children. The game seemed to involve feeding one another pieces of biscuit. “I’m tired of having that fellow hanging about,” he complained. “Why is he here every day?”

“Not so loud,” I protested. “He will hear you. Taking tea with us is part of his agreement with Ramses, as you know perfectly well. Good afternoon, Mr. Katchenovsky. I trust you had a productive day?”

Katchenovsky was unable to reply, since Carla had shoved an entire biscuit into his mouth. Ramses answered for him. “Very productive. We’ve got most of the fragments flattened and dried, and have begun a preliminary catalog. Several look particularly interesting.”

“Ramses has a remarkable memory,” said Katchenovsky, after a strenuous swallow. “I believe he could recite a full list of the fragments.”

“It’s a matter of practice,” Ramses said modestly.

“It’s a matter of a peculiar mental quirk,” Nefret said with a smile. “At one time he could take one look at a room and recall every object in it. Carla, don’t keep pushing food into poor Mr. Katchenovsky’s mouth, you will choke him.”

“He winned,” Carla explained. “We do the paper, stone, knife, with our fingers, and the one who wins gets the biscuit.”

“Won,” I said absently. “Not ‘winned.’”

“Are you going to pour the tea, Peabody?” Emerson demanded. “What are you waiting for?”

“Fatima hasn’t brought the teapot yet, that is why. I expect she is waiting for your—for Seth—for Anthony.”

“He came in a while ago,” Ramses said. “And went to bathe and change.”

Fatima emerged with the teapot. “He comes,” she announced dramatically.

She had even trained Kareem to fling open the door so that Sethos could make his entrance without breaking stride.

“I hope I haven’t held you up,” he said, with a royal nod at Kareem.

“Pour the tea,” said Emerson, to me.

“So what is the news?” I said, to Sethos.

His gesture indicated the children, who had gathered round him and were simultaneously explaining the new game. “Ah,” said Sethos. “I believe I will have to consider my strategy before I enter into contention. Practice on Mr. Katchenovsky awhile longer, eh?”

“Something is wrong,” I said softly.

“There has been a new development,” Sethos said in equally subdued tones. “The Pethericks have left Luxor. They caught the late-night train to Cairo.”

“Good Gad,” Emerson exclaimed.

“I cannot say I am surprised,” I said, pouring tea.

“You wouldn’t, would you,” Emerson growled. “Come now, Peabody, not even you could have anticipated this.”

“I did not say I had anticipated it. I said I was not surprised, not after hearing Ramses’s account of his interview with Harriet.”

“I said nothing to bring this on,” Ramses protested. “Quite the contrary. I did my best to reassure her.”

“She was beyond reassurance, I believe,” I said. “What a foolish act! The police will take flight for a sign of guilt. How did Adrian and Harriet elude them? Surely Mr. Salt had been told to inform Ayyid if they checked out of their rooms.”

“They didn’t. They simply walked out of the hotel and went straight to the train station. They had each a single small suitcase. It’s taken me all day to find this out,” Sethos added petulantly. “And for Ayyid to get permission to alert the police in Cairo. The train isn’t due until this evening.”

“They won’t be on it,” Ramses said. He was sitting quite still, his cup in his hand.

“Why do you say that?” Nefret asked.

“Because Harriet Petherick knows the police will be on her trail and that they can’t possibly leave Egypt without being intercepted. God knows what she has in mind, but I don’t like this development. Adrian isn’t…dependable.”

“You surely don’t believe he is capable of harming her?” I exclaimed.

“I’m afraid he might be,” Nefret said in a stifled voice. She looked down at her clasped hands. “I’ve been thinking about what Ramses said last night. Adrian’s actions are consistent with a condition called manic-depressive disease—alternating states of energy and lethargy. I was taught that mental illnesses are always a result of damage to the brain, caused by purely physical agents, but that view is changing and the evidence is persuasive. Severe emotional trauma can also trigger such attacks.”

“I too am familiar with modern psychiatric theory,” I said. “In his manic state he could be dangerous.”

“He has been dangerous,” Nefret said wretchedly. “Bursting into someone’s house and threatening people with a gun can’t be considered harmless. If Ramses hadn’t taken the pistol from him I don’t know what he would have done.”

“That isn’t the only indication,” Ramses said. “I didn’t tell you because…well, because it seemed a violation of her privacy. There were bruises on her arms. I saw them when her sleeves fell back. Fresh bruises.”

“
I
’ve got to find them,” Ramses said.

Not until the next morning did we receive confirmation of our suspicions and fears. The train had been met and the passengers questioned. The Pethericks had not been among them. One of Sethos’s colleagues had, at his request, taken part in the inspection, and Sethos assured us he could not have been deceived by a disguise, however ingenious. It was clear that he took the matter as seriously as Ramses.

“Why you?” Nefret’s blue eyes were hard. “It isn’t your responsibility.”

The statement was true in the narrowest sense; but as she knew only too well, Ramses had that rare quality—a burden, some might call it—of feeling responsibility for the weak and defenseless. Harriet Petherick was a woman who had appealed to him for help. He would have done the same for any man, woman, or child. He had got this quality from me, so I did not attempt to argue with him.

Emerson did. “Nefret is right, you know. What can you do that the police cannot? The girl has lost her head—”

“As women are inclined to do,” I murmured.

“Oh, do be quiet, Peabody! Some women are, and some men, too. She doesn’t know her way around Egypt and it won’t take the police long to locate her and her brother.”

“No doubt that is true,” Ramses said. He had pushed his plate aside and was pacing up and down the dining room. “I am concerned about what may happen before the police find them.”

“‘For each man kills the thing he loves,’” Sethos intoned.

Ramses shot him a quick look, and Emerson said in disgust, “Poetry!”

“Poetry often expresses universal truths,” I said. “To put it in psychological terms, people may feel ambivalent about those they love, particularly if they are suffering from mental excitability.”

“Psychology!” Emerson exclaimed. “I have asked you not to talk psychology at me, Peabody. It is worse than poetry.”

“Whether you like it or not, Father, there is some truth in what Mother says,” Nefret admitted reluctantly. “Harriet is overprotective of her brother—for good reason, admittedly, but it would not be surprising if he unconsciously resented her.”

Emerson clapped his hand to his brow. “Please, Nefret. Not the unconscious. I don’t believe in it.”

Urged by Fatima, Ramses returned to his chair and picked up his fork. “I’m sure the authorities would agree with you, Father. They will be looking for a pair of fugitives, not for a woman who may be in danger from the person who is closest to her. They got off the train somewhere between here and Cairo. I’m going to try to trace them.”

His tone of quiet determination silenced even Emerson.

“There is a local train at eleven,” Ramses went on. “I mean to be on it.”

“And I,” David said, in the same tone.

“Curse it,” Emerson said.

“Nefret and Selim can handle the photography as well as I,” David said.

“Hmph.” Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. Let me do the dear man credit; consideration for his son overruled even his preoccupation with his excavations. He did not really believe Harriet Petherick was in danger, but he was familiar with Ramses’s reckless habits. David was a restraining influence as well as a loyal friend.

“What about your friend Karnovsky?” he asked.

“Katchenovsky,” Ramses corrected. “I suppose I am possessive about those scraps. He’s competent and reliable, but I’d rather be here while he’s working on them.”

“And I would rather he were not working here alone,” I said. “It is for his own protection, really; he won’t be under suspicion if anything untoward occurs.”

“Something untoward such as attempted murder or theft?” Sethos hadn’t spoken for some time. Unlike Ramses, he was making an excellent breakfast.

“Something along those lines,” I agreed. “What are your plans?”

Sethos patted his mouth delicately with his napkin. “In my opinion I can be of more use here. If David is with him, Ramses will be amply protected.”

“I’m going to pack a few things,” Ramses said, pushing his chair back. “Nefret, will you help me?”

Silently, lips tight, she went with him. Sethos chuckled. “He takes my little jokes too much to heart. A pity he can’t get over his dislike of me.”

“You go out of your way to annoy him, that is why,” I said.

“Ambivalence,” Sethos explained. “Unconsciously I am really very fond of the boy.”

That was too much for Emerson. He jumped up and threw his napkin on the table. “Then you can take his place on the dig.”

“What dig?” I inquired. “KV55 or the West Valley or Deir el Medina?”

“The West Valley, of course.”

There was no “of course” about it. I had a glimmer of an idea of what Emerson was up to. If he had had the courtesy to tell me and ask for my assistance, I would have lent it. As it was, I simply sniffed meaningfully.

“I can’t help you there,” Sethos said. “I’m no excavator.”

“You excavated the best objects out of KV55,” Emerson retorted. An evil smile spread across his face. “You can help Peabody sift the fill.”

We saw the boys off for Luxor an hour later. (I would never give over thinking of them as boys, despite the fact that I had to stand on tiptoe to kiss them good-bye.) Nefret had herself under close control; only her responsibilities as a mother prevented her from insisting upon accompanying them, but her lined brow and anxious eyes betrayed her concern for her husband.

“Remember,” she said, when they were about to leave, “to approach him carefully. Anything that can be interpreted as a threat may set him off. And don’t count on her to stop him, she will—”

“I know. You told me.” He smiled reassuringly and gave her a quick kiss. “Don’t worry. It’s all right, you know.”

We watched them set off along the road, side by side as they had so often been, close as brothers and closely resembling each other in the length of their strides and the athletic grace of their tall frames. And their waving black hair.

“Put on your hats,” I shouted.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

“You think I’ve gone off half-cocked, don’t you?” Ramses asked.

“I don’t understand all that talk about ambivalence and manic depression,” David admitted.

“You understand it, all right. You mean you don’t accept it. Like Father. One needn’t resort to psychological jargon to acknowledge a not uncommon human trait. Children love their parents, but they also resent their authority. In a way, Adrian is Harriet’s child. He’s all she’s got left. She’d fight for him like a mother tigress.”

They arrived early for the train, as Ramses had planned, in order to give them time to fahddle with the porters and clerks. Gossip, in other words. That leisurely, casual sort of exchange, at which they were both experienced, was more likely to yield information than interrogation, particularly by a police officer. Egyptians had a well-founded reluctance to confide in the police.

One of the porters remembered the Pethericks. He had told the police that, but he went on to add information he hadn’t bothered to give them. “They had only two small pieces of luggage. The gentleman did not speak. She did all the talking and held him always by his arm and pushed him into the carriage. What way is that for a woman to behave? She had the money. A woman in control of money is like a camel without a driver.”

“Perhaps he is an invalid,” said one more charitable listener. “God be merciful to him.”

By handing out additional baksheesh they got a carriage to themselves, but it was a long, tedious journey. “Quaint” mud-brick villages and humble minarets, groves of palm trees, and water buffalo splashing in the shallows had long since ceased to hold any novelty for them. The trip was enlivened only by their questioning of the porters at various stops. No one had seen the brother and sister at Qena, Akhmim, or Assiut. At Minya a peddler of fruit said he had sold oranges to a lady with dark hair and a voice as deep as a man’s. He endorsed the first porter’s assessment of women who held the purse strings. “Aywa, there was a gentleman with her, but he did not come to the window, he let her do the bargaining and hand over the money.”

“They didn’t leave the train, though?” David asked.

“No. Ah, blessings be upon you for your generosity, effendi!”

The train started up again. “That’s the last stop before Cairo,” David said, closing the window to keep the dust out. It already formed a thin layer on every flat surface. “The train does stop at other stations on demand. They might have got off at any number of places.”

“Not in the middle of the night.” Ramses lit another cigarette. He was smoking more than usual, an admission of worry he didn’t bother concealing from David. “And there are no acceptable hotels in the smaller cities. She’d probably be aware of that.”

“Not that I’m complaining, but this is beginning to look like a wild-goose chase. They must have got by the police in Cairo somehow.”

“There’s one more stop,” Ramses said.

“Damn, that’s right. Bedrashein. It’s so close to Cairo one doesn’t think of it as a separate place. You think that’s it?”

“They’d have arrived around midday, and tourists get off there to visit Sakkara and Memphis.”

“Safety in numbers,” David said, looking chagrined.

“And several alternate routes. They could hire a carriage to take them to Cairo or to the Mena House, from which one can catch the tram.”

“Wake me when we get there,” David said, and rested his head against the back of the seat.

Ramses had brought a book; in his family it was considered as much a travel necessity as shaving gear and a change of socks. He was unable to concentrate, though. Harriet Petherick’s face kept intruding between his eyes and the printed page. Not the face of the unpracticed seductress, but that of the girl who had met his eyes without flinching and whose features softened when she smiled.

He kept seeing the bruises, too—on her forearms, where hands might have gripped her. An exaggerated sense of delicacy had prevented him from mentioning them until he realized it was more likely they had been made by her brother than by a passionate lover. Harriet wasn’t the sort of woman who entertained men in her room.

The train didn’t reach Bedrashein until after midnight. He and David were among the few who got off at that hour, and they were able to hire a carriage without difficulty. The drivers were responsive but not helpful. Many persons had got off the midday train the day before. All foreigners looked alike, after all.

“Where to?” David asked, as they got into their carriage.

“The Mena House, I suppose. We may as well stay there tonight. I hope we can get a room. It’s the height of the season.”

The famous hotel, at the base of the pyramid plateau, was full, but Ramses and his family were well known there. They were given a suite kept reserved for distinguished guests, with a broad terrace overlooking the pyramids and a bath chamber big as a drawing room, with ornate gold fittings. When they inquired after their friends, who had arrived the day before, the clerk assured them that no one named Petherick had registered, and that he could recall no lady of Harriet’s description. Adrian’s description might have fit any of a number of men.

“They must have taken a carriage to Cairo from Bedrashein,” David said, yawning widely as he took out his pajamas. “It won’t be easy finding them, there are dozens of hotels.”

“Are you suggesting we give up?”

“Not at all. I’m perfectly happy to wallow in luxury for as long as it takes.”

They took the tram to Cairo next morning. None of the attendants remembered seeing the Pethericks.

Emerson had been quite serious about enlisting his brother’s assistance on the dig, though to be accurate it was more a matter of conscription than enlistment.

“I could stay here and supervise Katchenovsky,” Sethos offered, in a last-ditch effort. “And entertain the kiddies.”

“You do too much of the latter,” Emerson retorted. “David John gave me a lecture the other day on the best methods of forging ushebtis. As for Karnovsky, you know perfectly well he won’t be coming. Ramses sent a letter to the hotel for him explaining the change of plan. Now get ready to go.”

“I’ll help Fatima pack a luncheon basket,” said Sethos, and vanished before Emerson could object.

Cyrus greeted Anthony Bissinghurst cordially. “I can sure use you,” he declared. “Lidman’s walked out on me.”

“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “How did he elude you?”

“Walked out, as I said. Right after breakfast this morning, while we were getting our gear together. The gateman had no reason to stop him, not in broad daylight when he wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“But without even a word to you…” I began.

“Oh, he left me a letter. Apologies, excuses, and so on. He said he couldn’t handle the work, didn’t want to take advantage of my kindness, needed time to recover.”

“Did he say where he was going?” I persisted.

“Nope. None of my business, was it?”

“Hmmm,” said Emerson, stroking his chin.

“I rather think it is our business,” Sethos said. “We can’t let our suspects go scampering off in all directions, now can we? I’ll get on his trail.”

It might have been only an excuse to get out of sifting the fill—the most tedious and onerous of duties—but I didn’t think so. Neither did Emerson. He nodded. “Question the boatmen first. If Lidman has nothing to hide he will have returned to his hotel.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Sethos said. “I might not have thought of that.”

Emerson ground his teeth. Sethos gave us a cheery wave and rode off.

After a cursory glance into the tomb, where the men were still clearing the corridor, Emerson said, “May I borrow Bertie this morning?”

“I guess so,” Cyrus said. “What for?”

“I want to have a look at the other tomb in this area. Number 25.”

“What for?” Cyrus repeated.

“For the sake of thoroughness,” said Emerson loftily and unhelpfully.

Bertie asked the same question and got a slightly more informative answer. “One of the tombs—number 25—is probably late Eighteenth Dynasty. Some people believe it was meant to be Akhenaton’s, but it was never finished because he moved to Amarna and constructed his official tomb there.”