The Serpent on the Crown (11 page)

I beguiled the rest of the morning watching the activity around the guard post and making one of my little lists. Ramses was probably right in saying that we stood a better chance of tracing the statuette through its recent purchasers, but I saw no harm in speculating a bit. There was a limited number of places from which the object could have originated. I wrote them down in neat order.

1. The tomb of Akhenaton at Amarna. It had been looted and despoiled thousands of years ago. No such artifact—portable and very valuable—would have been overlooked by the original thieves, or by those who transferred the king’s funerary equipment to Thebes, supposing this had been done.

2. A private house at Amarna. This seemed to me most unlikely. Not even the wealthiest of courtiers would honor his king with an object so valuable, and if he had, he would have taken it with him when he left the city.

3. The tomb of Akhenaton at Thebes. No such tomb was known, and it was generally agreed (by everyone except Howard Carter) that the East Valley contained no more royal tombs. The West Valley had also been investigated, though not so thoroughly. There was a far-out chance that an unknown royal tomb remained to be discovered, but it could not have survived intact. All the royal tombs had been robbed in antiquity. Once again, no such valuable artifact would have been missed by the original thieves.

4. Tomb 55, the mysterious sepulchre located by Mr. Theodore Davis’s workers in 1907. In my opinion this was the most likely theory. As Emerson had pointed out, the objects in the tomb were a miscellaneous mixture belonging to various members of the Amarna royal family. Supervision of the excavation had been extremely lax. Fifteen years had elapsed since the discovery of KV55. It takes a while to market such unique objects, and the negotiations are often secret. Had Mr. Petherick not died, the statuette might not have surfaced for another fifteen or twenty years—after “the heat was off,” to employ a slang phrase.

Having arrived at this depressing conclusion, which pointed the finger of blame at one for whom I had come to feel a certain esteem, I put my list aside and returned to my contemplation of the scene. Before long the proceedings were enlivened by Ramses, who came into sight around the corner of the house propelling before him an individual in riding kit and an oversized pith helmet, whom I identified as the same journalist who had tried to bribe Hassan. Ramses had him by the collar. Upon reaching the road, he gave the fellow a shove that sent him staggering away, and then came onto the veranda.

“Caught him sneaking round the back of our house,” he explained. “Peering in the windows.”

“What effrontery!” I exclaimed. “I hope he did not frighten the children.”

“Quite the contrary,” Ramses said grimly. “He and Carla were having quite a nice chat. She explained, rather indignantly, that she saw no harm in talking with him, since she had not accepted any of the sweets he offered her.”

“Thank goodness we seem to have driven that point home. And that the windows are barred.”

“Insufficient, I fear. I’m going to turn the dog loose.”

“Won’t it run away?”

“Not a chance. It keeps trying to sneak into the house. The Great Cat of Re has made it clear that the house is his domain. It’s given him a new interest in life. He stands guard at the door.”

“What are we going to do about this?” I demanded, indicating the guardhouse. Most of the tourists had departed as midday approached, but there were still a few people hanging about. “I refuse to be beleaguered in my own house.”

“Be patient for another day,” Ramses pleaded. “Father will be here tomorrow morning and presumably he will have more information. There’s nothing you can do just now except provide copy for the newspapers.”

I had to acknowledge the justice of this, but I was relieved and delighted to see a familiar form approaching. Two of them, to be precise—Cyrus Vandergelt mounted on his placid mare.

“I had hoped to see you before this,” I said, greeting him at the door.

“We’ve been besieged,” Cyrus explained, as Jamad led the horse to the stables. “The town is full of journalists. Apparently the darned women spread the story of the accursed statue before she left England, and some newspapers sent reporters to Egypt after her.”

“You will stay for luncheon, won’t you?” I asked.

“I was hoping you’d ask. Cat sends her best; she refused to run the gauntlet. I left Bertie to guard the gates. A couple of the rascals tried to climb over them.”

We had a pleasant luncheon of cold meats and salads, while Cyrus told us the latest news. He had also been visited by Inspector Ayyid.

“Asked me a lot of questions,” Cyrus said. “I got to feeling like a suspect.”

“He doesn’t suspect you,” Ramses said slowly. “He’s fixed on Adrian Petherick. The questions he asked us today made that clear.”

“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I believe you are right. The man who tried to enter the house wore European clothing, and young Mr. Petherick has demonstrated a certain degree of mental instability.”

“He’s not responsible,” Ramses said heatedly. He caught my inquiring eye and went on, less vehemently. “He had a horrible experience during the War. He’s never completely recovered.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” said Cyrus. “But it seems to me that’s another point against him. Does Ayyid suspect him of abducting his stepmother too?”

“Or of murdering her?” I breathed, remembering Abdullah’s “every year another dead body.”

Ramses gave me a hard look. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Mother. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle in her rooms. She arranged her own disappearance, she must have done. She’ll turn up in a few days with some cock-and-bull story, and get the headlines she wants—and the statue.”

“Emerson didn’t take it with him, did he?” Cyrus asked.

“No,” I said. “It is here, in the house.”

Cyrus looked expectantly at me. I laughed and shook my head. “It is better for you, Cyrus, if you don’t know its exact location. I am the only one who does, and I assure you it is well hidden.”

“You don’t suppose I’d tell anyone, do you?” Cyrus demanded indignantly.

“Not willingly.”

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “Come on, now, Amelia, that’s a little farfetched. You don’t really think someone is going to capture and torture me, do you?”

“No,” said my son, giving me an even harder look. “She’s saving that little treat for herself.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Ramses wondered how many other people had been informed that his mother was the only one who knew the statuette’s hiding place. It would be just like her to put the story about as a means of protecting the rest of them from what could only be one of her melodramatic fantasies. What’s more, the story wasn’t true. He knew where Emerson had hidden the statuette, and he’d be willing to wager that every servant in the house also knew. All the same, he decided he had better spread a rumor of his own.

After Cyrus had taken his departure and his mother had gone off to her study, he took Nefret aside.

“I’m going out for a while.”

“Where?”

“Around and about,” Ramses said. “I’ll be back in time for tea. Keep an eye on Mother. She mustn’t leave the house. Hit her over the head if you have to.”

“I can see myself doing that,” his wife said wryly. “All right, I’ll try. But tell me where you’re going.”

She didn’t add “just in case.” She didn’t have to. It was a family rule, one learned from painful experience.

“Deir el Bahri,” Ramses said. “I want to have a chat with Winlock and Lansing and Barton, see if they know anything we don’t.”

“Be careful.”

“I always am.” He gave her a quick kiss, and then a longer one.

He went round the back way to the stables, saddled Risha, and headed across the desert toward the place where the Metropolitan Museum crew were working. After finishing their excavations in the small bay south of Hatshepsut’s beautiful temple, they had just moved to the remains of the Eleventh Dynasty temple next to her later monument.

The object of excavation was, in principle, the furtherance of knowledge. However, the brutal truth was that museums wanted objects they could display. Funding for excavation depended to some extent on how many such objects turned up; they were, as a rule, divided between the Cairo Museum and the excavator. As Cyrus had said, the Met concession had been lucky at finding “good stuff”—several queens’ tombs, the unrobbed tomb of a high official, and a group of charming little models that preserved for all eternity the workshops and outbuildings of an official’s estate.

The great natural amphitheater, enclosed by the tawny cliffs of the high desert, had a natural grandeur of its own when it wasn’t infested with tourists and archaeologists. That morning, dust rose from the area where the Metropolitan group was working, and the chanting of the workmen vied with the chatter of tourists and dragomen approaching Hatshepsut’s temple.

Ramses was greeted with flattering enthusiasm, first by George Barton, with whom he had shared a somewhat unusual experience a few years earlier, and then by others of the staff. He had a feeling he knew why they were so glad to see him. Barton, a cheerfully ingenuous man, went straight to the point.

“So what’s the latest? I hear the lady has disappeared. Hope she didn’t take the statuette with her.”

His superior, Winlock, shook his head disapprovingly and offered Ramses his hand. “Good to have you folks back. Pay no attention to George, his manners leave a lot to be desired.”

“Admit it, the rest of us are just as curious,” Lansing said with a grin. “George’s description of the statuette made our mouths water. Any idea as to where it came from originally?”

“I was hoping you’d have some theories about that,” Ramses said. “We are, as the saying goes, baffled.”

“We’ll take a break,” Winlock decreed. He called out instructions to his reis, and led the way to a patch of shadow under the cliff, where he offered Ramses a camp stool. “Anything we can do to help, of course. Oh—” He glanced over his shoulder at a man who was slowly approaching them. “Do you know Mikhail Katchenovsky? He’s offered to translate some of the graffiti we found last year. Mikhail, this is Ramses Emerson.”

The Russian’s shabby clothes hung loosely on him, and his face was a study in downward curves—a long untrimmed mustache, a hooked nose, and a drooping mouth. The mouth twitched in a tentative smile.

“I am of course familiar with Mr. Emerson’s work in the field of linguistics. I am pleased to meet you, sir.”

Ramses offered his hand. “Didn’t you publish several articles on the demotic ostraca and papyri in the Turin Museum?”

The long, sad face lit up. “I am honored that you remember. It was some years ago. Before the War.”

“I was impressed by your translations,” Ramses said pleasantly. The poor devil seemed to be in need of encouragement. “Especially the one from the fellow complaining about his neighbor’s wife.”

“Ah, but my understanding of the verb forms was mistaken,” Katchenovsky exclaimed. “Your most recent publication pointed out—”

“Here now,” Lansing interrupted with a laugh. “Don’t you two go off into demotic. We want to hear about gold and treasure.”

They passed an entertaining quarter of an hour discussing theories, most of which the Emersons had already considered. Ramses noticed that the usual noise had diminished considerably; he didn’t doubt that every one of the workmen was straining his ears to overhear. He waited until the reis had edged up to them, ostensibly to ask Winlock for further orders, before he remarked, in a carrying voice, “Father has the statuette tucked away in a safe place. I’m the only other one who knows where he hid it. He wouldn’t even tell Mother.”

The others exchanged meaningful glances and Barton tried not to smile. “I hope he wasn’t annoyed with her for showing it to us the other day.”

“Not at all. He just doesn’t want unauthorized persons seeing it. We had another attempted break-in the other night.”

They had learned of it, naturally. “No idea who it might have been?” Lansing asked.

Ramses shook his head, and Winlock glanced at his watch. “Best get back to work. Come and have a look, Ramses. We’re clearing the southern half of the courtyard. No tombs yet, but the changes in plan are interesting.”

Ramses declined the invitation, explaining that he had promised to be home early. “I’d like to come round another day, after things have settled down. At the moment we’re surrounded by journalists and curiosity seekers.”

“The Professor will take care of them,” Lansing said, looking hopeful. Emerson’s rages were a source of entertainment to the whole region.

R
amses had almost arrived at the house when he saw another rider approaching. It took a moment for him to recognize her. She was dressed like a man, in breeches and boots and coat, and she rode like one, straight-backed and at ease in the saddle. Realizing she could cut him off before he reached the stables, he stopped and waited for her.

Her greeting was characteristically unconventional. “What a magnificent horse. Arabian?”

“Yes. I assume this meeting is not fortuitous?”

“I’ve been watching the stables all afternoon in the hope that one of you would venture forth” was the cool response. “I took it for granted you were no more inclined to confront that pack of vultures in front of the house than I was.”

“What do you want?”

She leaned back, the reins loose in her hands, and smiled a little. It was the first time he had seen her expression soften so much; it was unexpectedly attractive. “I see you share your father’s directness. I will be just as direct. I need your help.”

“We have no new information about your stepmother,” Ramses said.

She waved one hand impatiently. “Nor do we. That’s not what worries me. It’s Adrian. That damned policeman suspects him of breaking into your house. You must clear him.”

Ramses raised his eyebrows. “Must?”

“Damn.” She bit her lip and bent her head. She wore no hat; her black hair was gathered into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a very clever way of gaining your support. Ayyid said—no, not exactly. He
implied
you had recognized Adrian.”