The Serpent on the Crown (38 page)

“I thought you did that this morning,” Emerson said.

“I dropped a few little hints, but we must make an official report, and give Ayyid a copy of Daffinger’s confession. I promised we would do that today or tomorrow. I had hoped we would be able to report that the statue had been recovered, and as you see, my optimism was justified.”

Sethos’s silence was as provocative as speech. “Thanks to you,” I said, nodding at him.

“We’d have found it sooner or later,” Emerson said.

“Don’t be a dog in the manger, Emerson. Say thank you.”

“Not at all.” Sethos waved a languid hand. “I trust that now you are willing to concede that my reformation is sincere, though I wouldn’t mind an apology for your suspicions. You did suspect me, didn’t you?”

I said, “I fear your past conduct could not help but inspire a certain doubt—not about the murder of Mrs. Petherick but about several of the attempts to steal the statue. Lidman-Daffinger’s suspicious behavior on the occasion of the dog that did not bark in the nighttime rested solely on your word and you had as much opportunity as he to drug Amira.”

“I wasn’t even here when the first attempt at robbery occurred,” Sethos protested. “Or the second.”

“I don’t doubt that we had more than one would-be thief at work,” I said. “However, for what it is worth, I apologize.”

“I too.” Emerson sounded as if the words had been wrenched out of him.

“Good heavens.” Sethos clapped a hand to his heart. “I hope the shock won’t be too much for me.”

Emerson declared we might as well go to Luxor and get the official part of the business over with. Sethos offered to accompany us. I declined the offer.

O
ur business was expeditiously concluded, as was our interview with Ayyid. I had taken the liberty of adding a few remarks to Daffinger’s confession, praising the work of the police and the dedication of the inspector.

Ayyid read the final sentence aloud. “‘Had he not immediately acted to prevent the suspect’s escape, the man might have been able to leave Luxor and lose himself, with his ill-gotten gains, in the teeming slums of Cairo.’ Very—er—eloquently put, Mrs. Emerson. Thank you.”

“You didn’t tell him about that bastard Anderson,” said Emerson, as we strolled arm in arm toward the riverbank and our waiting boat.

“I am holding it over Anderson’s head,” I replied. “That method is more effective with journalists.”

Emerson helped me into the boat and took his place beside me. “We’re in no hurry,” he informed Sabir. “Take your time, eh?”

Moonlight made a shimmering path across the dark water. Emerson glanced at Sabir, who had tactfully turned his back, and put an arm round me. “Good to be alone at last,” he declared. “That bas——that—er—Hissinhurst was always on our heels.”

“Bissinghurst,” I corrected. “You mustn’t let him get on your nerves, Emerson, ‘he only does it to annoy because he knows it teases.’”

I had expected the romantic ambience would keep Emerson occupied, but he had something on his mind.

“Why were you and Ramses exchanging those meaningful glances?”

“When did we do that?”

“Off and on all day. Don’t equivocate, Peabody.”

“Never, my dear.” I moved a little closer to him. “Ramses isn’t satisfied that Daffinger’s confession solved all the unexplained incidents.”

“You said yourself that there were dozens of people after the statuette.”

“A slight exaggeration, my dear. To be honest, I would love to find Sir Malcolm guilty of something, but I fear he is too cautious to break, or even bend, the law. However, the points that bother Ramses are the incidents directed at him, here and in Cairo. Daffinger couldn’t have been responsible for the latter, since he never left Luxor.”

“It was the Petherick boy,” Emerson said flatly.

“So I assume. Ramses doesn’t want to believe it.”

“He’s too damned softhearted,” Emerson said in a fond grumble. “I pity young Petherick—he’s another casualty of that filthy, unnecessary War—but he can’t be held blameless because of his misfortune. I wonder what will become of the girl.”

“Harriet? You rather liked her, didn’t you?”

“I admire her spunk. And her loyalty.”

“I fear she is another casualty of the War. She will spend the rest of her life taking care of Adrian, with no chance for her own happiness. I wonder if I ought not make a quick trip to Cairo—”

“Now there I draw the line, Peabody.” Emerson gathered me into a close embrace. “You cannot take all the troubles of the world on your shoulders. I need you here. Tomorrow—”

“We go to Deir el Medina. And Ramses gets back to work on his papyri.”

“Oh,” said Emerson. “Hmmm. It will help distract him, I suppose.”

“I do wish you would take more interest in his work, Emerson. He seems to be quite excited about some of the fragments we found this year.”

“I don’t mean to denigrate his work,” Emerson said guiltily. “It is of first-rate importance. You think I haven’t been complimentary enough? Very well, my dear, I will try to make it up to him.”

He meant it most sincerely, as he proceeded to demonstrate at dinner. His unexpected interest so astonished Ramses that at first he replied only in monosyllables.

“Tell us more, my boy,” Emerson urged, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Consciousness of personal sin, you say?”

Ramses hadn’t said that; I had, when I explained his theory to Emerson. He couldn’t avoid the question, though, and as he went on, enthusiasm overcame his modesty.

“I think the concept appears much earlier than Professor Breasted believed,” he explained. “There is one fragment in particular—quite a large one—that from the handwriting would seem to be Eighteenth Dynasty. I haven’t had a chance to translate it as yet, but the words ‘crime’ and ‘forgiveness’ appear several times.”

“Then it’s time you did,” Emerson declared. “Get your friend Katchevsky back, why don’t you?”

“Katchenovsky,” Ramses said patiently. “I’m sure he is waiting to hear from me. Thank you, Father.”

“Not at all, not at all.” Emerson looked at me for approval. I nodded and Emerson beamed. “Tell me more, my boy.”

O
ur morning’s work at Deir el Medina went smoothly. We had borrowed Bertie, who began a final plan, and Emerson’s praise made Selim glow with pride. The only one of our crew who appeared somewhat sulky was Daoud.

“We did nothing to help,” he said. “All by yourselves you found the evil man and what he had stolen. We did nothing.”

“You protected the house and brought us the dog,” Ramses offered.

Daoud’s large face wrinkled. “The dog did nothing.”

“There was no need,” I said, realizing that his distress was genuine. “It was the magic of the Father of Curses that prevailed—er—eventually.”

“Ah,” said Daoud. “Eventually means—”

“That the magic took a little longer than usual to work,” Ramses explained.

“Ah.” Daoud thought it over. “Yes. The black afrit was very strong.”

“The black afrit has gone for good,” I said. “It will not return.”

“Inshallah,” said Daoud.

Fatima was preparing the tea tray when we got back to the house. “You are early,” she said accusingly.

“We are in no hurry,” I said. “Where is Ramses?”

“With his friend. They have been working.”

“I will tell them tea will be ready soon.”

When I approached the workroom I heard their voices. I stood still and listened, my heart pounding.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Katchenovsky had been slow to respond to Ramses’s message. Ramses had been working on the papyri for some time before he arrived, full of apologies and questions. Ramses answered the latter somewhat abstractedly. The suspicion that had entered his mind seemed absurd. The Russian looked and behaved as he always had, eager and humble. He took the text Ramses handed him and began transcribing it. Ramses watched him for a while. Then he selected another piece of papyrus.

“You translated this, didn’t you?”

Katchenovsky looked up. When he saw what Ramses was holding, he got quickly to his feet and backed off a few steps. Ramses’s heart sank. He had been almost certain, but he had hoped he was wrong.

“I know you did,” Ramses said. “It wasn’t in quite the same position where I put it originally.”

Katchenovsky raised both hands, as if in protest, and then shoved them into his pockets. “Why deny it? Your memory is faultless. I read it, yes.”

“A remarkable document,” Ramses said, scanning the crabbed lines. “It would make your reputation if it were published.”

“It’s worth more than that, and you know it,” the Russian said. “One might look at it as a treasure map. There are some people who would give a great deal to have the information it contains.”

Ramses straightened and turned to face the other man. Katchenovsky had taken a pistol from his pocket. Ramses recognized it as the one that had belonged to Adrian Petherick. He had hidden it at the back of a shelf in the workroom, high above the reach of small hands. He’d meant to dispose of it eventually and had never got round to doing so. Serves me right, he thought, noting that Katchenovsky held the gun like a man who had had experience with such weapons.

“Why, Mikhail?” he asked.

“I don’t want to.” Katchenovsky’s eyes were haunted. “But I must. If I take it you would know, you remember every wretched scrap. You are the only one who would know it came from here. I can say I bought it from a dealer.”

“That’s why you tried to kill me in Cairo?”

“And in Luxor, when you replied to my message that night.” Katchenovsky’s bowed shoulders straightened. His hands were steady. “I had to. If you were dead no one else would know.”

That takes care of the unexplained items on Mother’s list, Ramses thought. He was faintly surprised at his own coolness, at his relief that he had been right about Adrian Petherick. He simply couldn’t take this threat seriously, not from the mild, amiable Russian.

“You can’t kill me now,” he argued. “The house is full of people. They’ll hear the shot. You’ll be caught red-handed.”

Katchenovsky glanced at the open window. “I’ll tell them someone burst in. Two shots—one for you, one minor wound for me. He dropped the gun and fled.”

Sethos had been right. When Katchenovsky was standing straight, his head lifted, he was taller than anyone else had noticed, and his thin frame had a wiry strength. His will was as strong. Ramses didn’t doubt the man had struggled with his conscience, but now he had made up his mind and there wasn’t much chance he could be persuaded to change it. There was a slim chance, though, and he was prepared to go on talking as long as he could.

Then he heard a sound outside the door—a too-familiar sound—and knew the time for talk had passed. Katchenovsky turned toward the door and his finger tightened on the trigger.

She burst into the room and ran straight at the Russian, firing her little pistol. As usual, she missed. Katchenovsky didn’t.

Ramses didn’t feel the bullet that tore through his sleeve. He didn’t hear the cries of alarm and the sound of running feet. He was only conscious of his fists ramming into yielding flesh, and the collapse of the Russian. Falling on his knees beside his mother, he pressed his hands against the bloodstain spreading across her blouse.

Her eyes opened. A smile of triumph curved her white lips.

“I suspected him…from the first!” she whispered.

S
he would consider that a fitting epitaph,” Emerson said hoarsely.

Ramses sat with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He couldn’t stop shaking.

They were waiting on the bench outside Nefret’s clinic, all in a row like worshipers in a church pew—Ramses and his father, David, Sethos, and Selim. There wasn’t room on the bench for Daoud; he stood next to them, monolithically calm. Overhead the feathery fronds of a tamarisk rustled lightly. Sunlight filtered through the leaves like a rain of gold.

A hand clasped his shoulder. “She’ll be all right,” Emerson repeated, for the fourth or fifth time. “Nefret said so.”

“I thought she was dying,” Ramses said, through his fingers. “There was so much blood.”

“Some of it was yours,” said his wife, standing in the open door of the clinic. “Come in and let me have a look at you.”

“It’s nothing.” He didn’t want to move.

“Go on, my boy.” Emerson’s hand tightened. “She’s all right now. Isn’t she, Nefret?”

“Inshallah,” Daoud intoned.

“Inshallah,” Nefret echoed. She looked like a weary angel, Ramses thought, with sunlight stroking her hair and her blue eyes warm. “She’ll be waking soon. I think she will want to see you and Father.”

I had never beheld Abdullah in such a rage. He shook his fist at me. “What did I tell you? Why did you not heed me?”

There was no pain here. I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. “Did I die?” I asked.

“No,” Abdullah said grudgingly. “Not this time. You have as many lives as a cat, Sitt, but you have used most of them.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I demanded. “Stand by and let him kill my son?”

Abdullah’s scowl softened. “You love him best, next to Emerson.”

“Love cannot be measured, Abdullah. ‘The more I give, the more I have to give.’” I couldn’t remember the rest of it, so I paraphrased. “For love is infinite as the sea.”

“Poetry?” Abdullah asked suspiciously.

I laughed and threw my arms wide, embracing the day. All in all, I was glad to hear that my life was not over. I had a good many things left to do.

“Stop scolding and tell me you are happy to see me,” I coaxed.

“Hmph,” said Abdullah. He stroked his black beard and covered his smile with his hand.

“I have remembered the clue you gave me.”

“Is it so?”

“Will I still remember it when I wake up?”

“Only the god knows,” said Abdullah, no longer hiding his smile.

W
aking was not a pleasant process. Hot air smelling of antiseptic replaced the morning breeze and I had a feeling that deep down under the cottony comfort of morphine, something was hurting. There was a lump on my feet, heavy and warm. And there was Emerson’s face, hovering over me and his strong hand holding mine. Anxiety had carved deep lines in his face, which was set in a scowl.