The Serpent on the Crown (5 page)

They went on, exploring one side wadi after another, until they reached a cul-de-sac walled in by jagged cliffs. High above them, in a narrow cleft, was a tomb entrance—that of the great warrior pharaoh, Thutmose III.

“What’s Father doing?” Nefret asked.

Her mother-in-law opened her parasol. It was frequently used as an offensive weapon but, as she was fond of pointing out, it served a number of useful purposes, including that of sunshade.

“Looking for signs of unauthorized digging, I think. If anything of that sort has occurred, it would more likely be in this area, away from the main part of the Valley. But don’t ask me what he hopes to accomplish by this.”

This remote sepulchre had an atmosphere of majesty and mystery the main part of the Valley had lost when the Department of Antiquities smoothed its uneven paths and erected neat, modern retaining walls next to most of the tomb entrances. Here, far away from the hubbub and bustle, it wasn’t difficult to imagine the funeral cortege winding along the rocky ravine, the chanting of the white-robed priests and the wailing of the women, the gold-encrusted coffin catching the rays of the sun in a blinding glitter. Like all the other tombs, that of Thutmose III had been robbed millennia ago, but he had been one of Egypt’s richest and most powerful kings, with the wealth of Nubia and Syria in his hands; it boggled the mind to imagine the treasures that must have been buried with him.

Emerson’s bellow roused Ramses from his reverie, which was born partly of lack of sleep. He hastened to join his father, who was prowling around the piled-up rock chips and pebbles at the base of the cliff a little distance away. The debris was head-high here, left, if Ramses remembered correctly, from Davis’s excavation of the nearby tomb of Siptah.

“Didn’t Carter work in this area last year?” Ramses asked.

Emerson didn’t answer. Instead he began digging in one of the heaps, ignoring his wife’s shout of “Emerson, your gloves! Put on your gloves!” Ramses pitched in too, wondering what the devil he was supposed to be looking for. They found a number of pottery shards and the foot of a faience ushebti—Davis had never bothered to sift his fill. Finally Emerson let out a grunt of satisfaction and pulled out a torn, crumpled sheet of newspaper. “July of last year,” he announced.

“A tourist,” Ramses said.

“It’s in Arabic,” said Emerson. “
Al Ahram
. We had better start back now.” He folded the paper and tucked it carefully into his pocket.

They retraced their steps. As soon as they were out of sight of the place where they had been digging, Emerson stopped and began making violent gestures at the others. “Go on,” he hissed. “Keep talking.” He turned and ran back the way they had come, beckoning Ramses to follow.

Their approach was not silent, but Emerson could cover ground quite rapidly when he had to. They arrived on the scene in time to see several men fleeing in all directions. Emerson leaped on one of them and Ramses collared a second. Ramses knew him—Deib ibn Simsah. The nearby village of Gurneh housed many of the most skilled tomb robbers in Egypt. The ibn Simsahs had proudly assumed the sobriquet of an accomplished predecessor in the business; they were second only to the Abd er Rassul family when it came to finding and looting new tombs. After a halfhearted attempt to wriggle free of the grip on his arm, Deib subsided and gave Ramses an ingratiating smile.

“We were doing nothing wrong, Brother of Demons. You know me; you know my brother Aguil.”

“I know you only too well,” Ramses said, his eyes fixed on the figure of the third man, who was climbing with the agility of a goat. “But who is that?”

Deib shrugged and rolled his eyes. Emerson let out an inventive oath and started scrambling up the cliff face after the fugitive. Ramses caught hold of him. “No, Father! He’s got—”

The crack of a pistol shot made it unnecessary for him to finish the sentence.

E
merson’s abrupt volte-face took me by surprise, but only briefly. I hastened after them, with the others following. The sound of a shot lent wings to my heels. Arriving upon the scene, I found Emerson interrogating two of Gurneh’s most notorious citizens. He interrupted his shouted accusations and glared at me. “Curse it, Peabody, I told you to go on!”

“Nonsense,” I said. “Who fired that shot? And at whom? And why?”

Hands on hips, head thrown back, Ramses was staring up at the top of the cliff. “There was a third man. Father was about to go after him when I noticed the fellow had a weapon.”

“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “Emerson, my dear, are you injured?”

“No, no. He wasn’t trying to hit anyone, just give himself time to get away. Which,” Emerson added in vexation, “he has done. Who was it, Deib? Speak up!”

Deib and his brother had gone pale with terror. They knew the penalties for injuring a foreigner. Deib wrung his hands and burst into incoherent protestations. They had never seen the man before. They did not know he had a pistol. They were only looking for a scarab one of them had lost the day before. As the Father of Curses knew, they sold such things to tourists, but they had come by this one honestly, purchasing it from a fellow Gurnawi and hoping to make a small profit—

Emerson cut him short. “I don’t believe a word of it. You were watching us, and when you saw us digging here you decided to have a look for yourself.”

“And what is the harm in that?” Deib asked, contradicting himself without shame. “We would have told you, Father of Curses, if we had found a tomb.”

“Oh, bah,” said Emerson. “Describe this man whom you never saw before.”

It would have been hard to say whether the vagueness of the description was due to Deib’s inadequate powers of observation or to calculated caution—or to a sizable bribe. The man was dressed like a howadji (that is to say, he wore European clothing). He was neither tall nor short, thin nor fat. A hat hid his hair, tinted glasses his eyes, and a large beard covered the lower half of his face. They could not describe his voice, since he had not uttered a word, only stood watching.

Finally Emerson dismissed the brothers with a stern warning and they made a hasty departure. He had let them off more easily than they deserved, and his expression had a hint of complacency that made me wonder what he was up to. When I informed him we must return to the house, he went along without complaint—another highly suspicious sign.

We arrived at the Winter Palace in good time. Tourism was back to prewar levels, and the lobby was filled with people returning from their morning tours and waiting for luncheon. We were expected; no less a person than the manager, Mr. Salt, informed us that Mrs. Petherick had asked to be notified of our arrival, whereupon she would join us in the lobby.

Instead of taking the lift, she swept down the stairs, moving slowly. The staircase was a handsome structure, rising in a gentle curve, so that by the time Mrs. Petherick reached the bottom, all eyes were upon her. A mantilla-like scarf of black lace framed a face that irresistibly reminded me of the vampires in which the lady’s fiction specialized—eyes heavily outlined in black, lips bloodred against the (powdered) pallor of her face. She offered a black-gloved hand to Emerson. She intended him to kiss it, but, being Emerson, he seized it and shook it vigorously.

“It was good of you to come,” she enunciated. “I am in such need of reassurance. I saw him again last night. When, oh, when will you perform the ceremony that sets me free?”

As she intended, this remark was overheard by all those who stood nearby. A little buzz of excitement arose. I would not have given her the satisfaction of asking to whom the pronoun referred, for I knew what she was up to, but Emerson could not resist.

“Him? Who?” he demanded.

Her voice dropped to a thrilling but penetrating whisper. “He has no name. The faceless black shadow I saw drain the life from my darling husband. He has followed me here!”

His hat in his hand and his face studiously controlled, Ramses said, “The third time, was it not? I thought you said the third visit would be the last.”

“You misunderstood,” said Mrs. Petherick, lying like a veteran. “But he will come again, and the next time—”

I took her firmly by the arm.

“Let us go into the dining salon. Mr. Salt has reserved a table for us.”

Emerson was in no mood to be trifled with. As soon as we had ordered, he fixed Mrs. Petherick with a stern stare. “Let us hear no more of illusions, madam. Are you aware that your stepchildren invaded our home last night? That the young man threatened us with a pistol?”

“Poor Adrian,” the lady murmured. “He has suffered greatly, and he is deeply attached to me. You were in no danger from
him
.”

“But we are in danger from someone else?” I asked.

“Stop that,” Emerson said loudly. “You are encouraging her and I won’t have it. Mrs. Petherick, when you handed over the—er—object to us, were you aware of its value?”

“Oh, yes.” The lady sipped daintily at her soup. “Pringle said it was the most valuable object in his collection.”

Emerson removed the box from his capacious pocket and put it on the table. “You are, I assume, the legal owner?”

“Oh, yes.” She gazed, as if mesmerized, at the box.

“As you must have known, madam, my principles do not allow me to accept such a gift. I will return it or purchase it from you, whichever you prefer.”

Her manicured fingertips brushed the painted surface. With a sudden movement she raised the lid and lifted the statue out.

“I thought you never wanted to look on that evil little face again,” Ramses remarked.

“It was my dear Pringle’s pride and joy. He loved it so…” She held it up, high over her head.

“Damnation,” said Emerson. On this occasion I did not reproach him for bad language. I had never seen a more deliberate attempt to attract attention.

“Put it away, madam,” Emerson growled.

Mrs. Petherick rolled her eyes at him and showed her teeth. I hadn’t noticed before that the canines were longer than normal. A little buzz of interest ran round the room, and people at distant tables stood up in order to see better.

Emerson snatched the statue from her and replaced it in the box. “Well?” he demanded.

“Take it with you, Professor Emerson. I know that you will deal fairly with me. So long as I do not have it in my possession.”

She had accomplished her aim of courting public interest. Our questions elicited no information. She did not know the name of the dealer from whom her husband had purchased the statue. Someone in London, she thought…Yes, she might consider selling the rest of the collection, in due time. It was in the process of being valued by the court.

“What about the statuette?” Ramses asked. “Isn’t it part of the estate?”

Mrs. Petherick’s crimsoned lips stretched in a smile. “I took it away. It was my duty to my dear dead husband, to make certain its malevolent influence was ended.”

I looked at Emerson, whose shrug expressed my sentiments exactly. What she had done was probably illegal, but it was not our affair.

Mrs. Petherick made an excellent lunch. She was tucking into a rich strawberry tart, topped with cream, when a lady of a certain age, gray-haired and tightly corseted, sidled up to her. “Countess? I don’t want to intrude, but I am such a devoted admirer of your books…”

“You do want to intrude,” said Emerson loudly. “You have just done so.”

Mrs. Petherick—now in the role of Countess Magda—raised a bejeweled hand. “I am always delighted to meet my faithful readers. Would you like me to autograph a book?”

The lady hadn’t brought one to Egypt, but she eagerly accepted the countess’s signature on a piece of hotel stationery. Emboldened by her example, several other “devoted readers” followed suit. The author made quite a performance of it, scrawling her name in bold script, the gems on her fingers sparkling. I decided they were paste.

The trickle of admirers ended. Mrs. Petherick shoved the last bite of tart into her mouth and rose to go. When Emerson rose in response, she caught hold of his hand and squeezed it. “There will be a ceremony?” she asked. “An exorcism? I must be present.”

You and every journalist you can collect, I thought. The idea of the Countess Magda throwing herself about, black veils flapping, and possibly falling into a fit while Emerson stood helplessly by, was too awful to contemplate.

“I cannot permit any such thing,” I said firmly.

She paid me no heed. Clinging to Emerson’s hand, she demanded, “When?”

“Cursed if I know,” said Emerson, his patience at an end. He wrenched his fingers from the lady’s grasp. “Let it be clearly understood that I accept this object in the role of a custodian. Good afternoon, madam.”

At my suggestion, we took a brisk walk along the corniche so that Emerson could work off some of his temper. He was extremely put out and did not scruple to express his feelings.

“Now you see, Peabody, what comes of your ideas. We played right into the cursed woman’s hands. She made a spectacle of herself and of us, and if anyone in Luxor did not know about the statue and the curse, they know now.”

“I expect the story was already known,” Ramses said, in a vain attempt to pacify his father. “And we did obtain some useful information.”

“Oh, bah,” snarled Emerson. “You didn’t believe the woman, did you? She’ll say anything that comes into her head. It is possible that she is unaware of the name of the dealer from whom Petherick purchased the statue; she wouldn’t have taken any interest in that sort of thing. But until I learn the terms of his will from an independent source, I won’t trust her word.”

“How do you propose to do that?” I asked.

“I have my methods,” said Emerson. “Hurry up, Peabody, you have wasted half the afternoon.”

Ramses and Nefret went straight to their house, for they had a standing appointment with Selim and his family every Friday, and they were already a little late. When Emerson and I reached the veranda, we found that Jumana and Cyrus had dropped in and had been invited by Fatima to stay for tea. She loved feeding people, the more the better. Jumana embraced me and gravely shook hands with Emerson. She was a pretty little person—I almost wrote “unfortunately,” for as women learn, being pretty and/or little leads many men to treat them like toys instead of reasoning beings. Slim and fit as a boy, her big dark eyes sparkling, she burst into an emphatic apology. One could almost hear the exclamation points.

“It was very rude of me not to come last night, very rude not to tell you beforehand! I am so sorry! I was working, and I forgot, until Bertie came to fetch me, and I was not clean or dressed.” She went on, without drawing breath, “So I am punished because I missed the excitement! Can I see it now? Mr. Vandergelt has talked of nothing else!”

“Oh, very well,” said Emerson. He took the box from his pocket and handed it to me. “Do the honors, Peabody, and then return it to my desk. Excuse me. I have a number of things to do before I catch the evening train.”

“Where are you going?” Cyrus demanded in surprise.

“Cairo.” Emerson threw the word over his shoulder and vanished inside.

Fatima brought out the tea things, assisted by the unfortunate youth who was her latest candidate for the role of footman. I wondered how long this one would last. Fatima’s standards were exacting and her criticisms forceful.

Jumana exclaimed over the statuette, and after she had held it for a while, we passed it round. Its effect was increasingly hypnotic. The shimmer of the golden surface and the subtle curves of the body and face made one want to stroke it. Emerson returned, portmanteau in hand, in time to take it from Cyrus and return it to the box. He got a cup of tea for himself and drank it standing.

“So when are you going to talk to Mrs. P.?” Cyrus asked.

“We did so this afternoon,” I replied. “It was an extremely exasperating discussion. She still insists on the absurd notion of a curse, but when Emerson said he had no intention of accepting the statue as a gift I noticed a smug little smile on her face.”

“She knew she could trust the Professor to deal honorably with her,” Jumana said.

“Very smart of the lady,” said Cyrus. He added, with a grin, “I don’t know that I could have withstood the temptation. Is she willing to sell it, and does she have the right to do so?”

“She was deliberately ambiguous,” I said. “But I have the distinct feeling that she would be open to the right offer. As for the second question, she said her husband had left the collection to her.”

Emerson drained his cup. “I wouldn’t take her word if she swore on a stack of Bibles.”

“Aha,” said Cyrus. “Is that why you’re going to Cairo?”

“One of the reasons,” said Emerson.

“Well, while you’re there you ought to see Lacau.”

Emerson did not reply, but my forthright spouse is not very good at hiding his feelings and I have become expert in reading his countenance.

“Why should he see the director of the Antiquities Service?” I asked suspiciously. “We paid our courtesy call on him when we were in Cairo.”

“Well, I guess you didn’t get around to mentioning what we talked about at the end of last season,” said Cyrus. “We were gonna reconsider our plans, remember? The French Institute has expressed an interest in Deir el Medina. They’re prepared to make it a long-term project.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, trying to look as if this news came as a surprise to him.

“Why, Emerson,” I said in surprise. “Are you thinking of giving up Deir el Medina? You might at least have consulted the rest of us.”

“I have every intention of consulting you,” said Emerson loftily. “Vandergelt is obviously in favor of the idea. Getting bored with your little private tombs, are you, Cyrus?”

Cyrus did not answer directly, but his reply made his feelings plain. “I was up at Deir el Bahri the other day, where the Metropolitan Museum crew are working. They’ve found some darned fascinating things. That queen’s sarcophagus with the painted scenes inside, as fresh and bright as if they had been finished yesterday…” He sighed longingly.