The Serpent on the Crown (34 page)

“A somewhat sweeping generalization, Peabody,” said Emerson, rubbing his chin. “But I think you are on the right track.”

Up he got again. “It is an extensive area,” I pointed out. “Why not leave the search to Selim and our other fellows?”

“I can’t sit still and do nothing,” Emerson said forcibly.

“Wait,” said Selim the detective, raising a finger just as Sherlock Holmes might have done. “I have thought of something. It would help if we had a photograph of the man.”

“That is a very good thought, Selim,” Nefret said. “I can’t recall seeing a likeness of him in any of the films we have printed so far, but a number of the plates we took in the West Valley haven’t yet been developed.”

It was agreed that she and Selim should get at the job immediately, while the rest of us started the search. It was, in my opinion, a comparatively futile enterprise, but my dear Emerson was too perturbed to sit still. Obviously I could not let him go dashing off without me to protect him. I made sure I had all my accoutrements, including my parasol and my little pistol.

We were about to leave when Cyrus, Jumana, and Bertie rode up. “Where are you off to?” Cyrus asked. “Not planning to work today, are you?”

“No,” said Emerson.

“Me neither,” Cyrus admitted. “We were talking last night, after we left you folks, and Jumana came up with a real bright idea. Where could this fella go, she asked, that he wouldn’t be spotted right away? Assuming he stayed on this side of the river, that is.”

“We asked ourselves the same question,” I said. “I presume you reached the same conclusion—that he is likely to have found a hiding place in the cliffs? We were about to begin searching there.”

“It’s a large stretch of territory,” Cyrus said. “Suppose we take one section and you another. What about Selim and Daoud? And—er—”

“Anthony,” I said. I couldn’t blame Cyrus for forgetting the name; Sethos had so many of them. “He’s gone back to the railway station. We sent Daoud to Gurneh; his web of informants are on the lookout and will report to him if they discover anything. Selim is helping Nefret develop some photographs, in the hope that they may contain an image of Mr. Lidman.”

“It would sure help to have a picture of him,” Cyrus agreed. “So how shall we go about this? We need a plan.”

I had, of course, already given some thought to this. It was agreed that Emerson and I would begin at Deir el Bahri and work our way south toward Deir el Medina, while the other three covered the area of the Asasif and the long stretch of cliffs of Drah Abu’l Naga that ended at the road to the Valley of the Kings. Ours was the longest and most difficult path, but we were the more experienced.

I had observed Jumana’s disappointment when I anticipated her deductions, so as we rode side by side toward Deir el Bahri I took the opportunity for a cheering chat. “I am counting on you, Jumana, to guide the others. You know the area better than they.”

“Yes, Sitt Hakim!” Her face lit up. “You can count on me! I will miss nothing!”

I had a word with Bertie, too. “Don’t allow her to bully you, Bertie. Disagree with her. Sneer, if you like.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, I couldn’t do that. She’s so much more intelligent than I am.”

Ah, well, I thought, I have done my best. Some persons cannot be helped.

As usual the road to Deir el Bahri was encumbered with carriages and donkeys carrying tourists to that popular site. Emerson and I left our horses with Jamad, who had accompanied us and who was to ride with them to Deir el Medina, where we would eventually meet him. We were further delayed by the Metropolitan Museum people, who were working at the Eleventh Dynasty temple south of Hatshepsut’s monument, and who wanted us to stop and chat. Their men had informed them of Lidman’s flight.

“We heard he stole some of the papyri from Deir el Medina,” Mr. Winlock remarked. “The men don’t believe that story, you know.”

Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. I laughed merrily. “Naturally they wouldn’t. You, however, know that those scraps are valuable to the scholarly world.”

“Sure,” Winlock said. “We’ll keep an eye out for the fellow.”

“Funny, his taking something like that,” said George Barton. “I mean, the guy isn’t a philologist, is he?”

“One never knows what strange quirks may affect the human brain,” I explained. “Well, gentlemen, we must be off. I hope to see you all again soon.”

“I wouldn’t want to miss another exorcism,” Winlock said with a smile.

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Come along, Peabody, we have wasted enough time.”

The distance between Deir el Bahri and the workmen’s village is only a mile as the crow flies. On foot, over rough terrain, it seemed more like twenty. We followed the line of the cliffs, scrambling over heaps of fallen stone and exploring the innumerable small wadis that pierced the rocky ramparts. As we went on, under a baking sun, the futility of our search became more apparent—to me, at any rate. We could not possibly penetrate into every crevice and hole; all we could hope for was a sign that someone had recently passed that way. There was ample evidence of human and animal presence, from scraps of cloth to gnawed bones, but nothing one could specifically connect with a fleeing German.

By the time we reached Deir el Medina I was hot, dusty, and thirsty, and Emerson was out of sorts. The sight of Jamad, patiently waiting with the horses and the water bottles, was as welcome as a green oasis in the desert. Emerson was all for mounting and riding back immediately, but by feigning exhaustion (which was not entirely feigned) I made him agree to rest and refresh himself, while I did the same.

After a single sip of water he was on his feet again, prowling round the ruins of the ancient temples. “The anonymous digger has not been back,” he reported.

“And no sign of Mr. Lidman,” I added. “Do sit down, Emerson. I doubt he would have come this far.”

I had informed Nefret and Selim of the change in our strategy (or is it tactics?). We were all to meet at the Castle, so Emerson and I went directly there. I apologized to Katherine for our untidiness; she was gracious enough to reply that the search for Lidman took precedence, and showed me to one of the guest chambers, where I was able to freshen up before we enjoyed a late luncheon.

Cyrus’s group had had no more luck than we. Jumana was unusually silent; she was taking her failure too much to heart, which I pointed out to her.

“You cannot find something that isn’t there, Jumana. I am beginning to believe that Mr. Lidman managed to cross the river without being observed. It is much easier to hide among hordes of people than in a wilderness.”

“At least we now have a photograph,” Katherine said, trying to look on the bright side.

“Not a very good one,” Nefret murmured. “It shows him in profile, with his hat shading his face. But it was the best we could come up with.”

“Surely that is another suspicious thing,” Selim said. “That he would avoid having his picture taken.”

“You mean he’s been planning this ever since he came to work for me?” Cyrus demanded. “Maybe so, Selim, but we were photographing the tomb, not people. So what do we do now?”

I was unable to repress a sigh. Emerson focused on me, for the first time in an hour, and frowned. “Tired, are you, my dear? I am afraid I wore you out this morning.”

“Not at all,” I said briskly. “But I confess I am at a loss as to how to proceed. Perhaps we should wait to hear from Daoud and Seth—Anthony. Tomorrow may bring fresh inspiration.”

I declined Katherine’s invitation to return to dine, for to be truthful I was a trifle weary. After promising we would inform them immediately of any new information, we returned to the house and I managed time for a nice long soak in my tin bath before facing tea with the children. The little dears were even more boisterous than usual, sensing, as children do, the distraction of their elders. Even the advent of Sethos, looking as disgruntled as Emerson, did not keep Carla from demanding when Papa and Uncle David would come home.

“No messages as yet,” I reported, after sorting through the post basket. “I had rather hoped to hear something from them by now.”

“I would settle for hearing anything from anybody,” said my brother-in-law. “We seem to have drawn a blank everywhere. I went the rounds of the Luxor hotels again, between trains. Not a sign of him.”

“Something is sure to turn up,” I replied, repressing a yawn. “You can try again tomorrow, now that we have a photograph.”

“What a wonderful thought. I know every knothole and every splinter in that station platform, and every desk clerk in Luxor.”

However, troubles never come singly, as the saying goes. Bertie arrived next morning before breakfast, on a horse he had ridden hard. Jumana was gone.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

T
he desk clerk at the Mena House remembered the lady very well. “Magda von Ormond, yes. She is a very—er—forceful lady. We had no rooms available but she—er—prevailed upon me to make an exception.”

Ramses wondered how much it had cost Harriet in baksheesh, and how much money she had, and where she had got it. Not from her father, if her description of him had been accurate.

“She and the gentleman have been here for several days,” the clerk went on. “Her—er—secretary, she said he was.”

He rolled his eyes and smirked.

Either he didn’t read the newspapers or he had not connected the murdered Mrs. Petherick with her nom de plume. “Are they in their rooms?” Ramses asked.

“They went out early this morning for a ride around the pyramids. It is a favorite ride, as you know, out into the desert to the point from which one can see all nine of the—”

“Yes, I know. Who went with them?”

The answer was reassuring. Ahmed Ali was one of the most reliable and persistent dragomen at Giza. They wouldn’t have been able to elude him even if they had wanted to.

“Shall we hire horses and go after them?” David asked as they turned away from the desk.

Ramses thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Nefret said we must avoid doing anything that might agitate him. If he spots us heading directly for them he may interpret it as a threat. They’ll be back for luncheon. We will casually encounter them in the dining salon.”

“Oh, we get to eat?” David inquired with a grin. “Things are looking up.”

It wasn’t difficult to pass the time at Giza, where they had once excavated. They spent the morning wandering round the cemeteries of private tombs and examining the six minor pyramids. The three large pyramids were the chief attraction for tourists, and the interior passageways were usually too crowded for comfort.

“Reisner’s crew isn’t working,” David said, as they approached the site where the Boston Museum–Harvard University crew were excavating.

Ramses consulted his watch. “Stopped for lunch, I expect. We’d best go back to the hotel. Perhaps Father’s prestige can get us a table.”

Fame had its penalties as well as its privileges. They were intercepted by the desk clerk, who proudly announced that he had told Madame von Ormond and her—er—secretary a member of the distinguished Emerson family was looking for them.

Ramses and David stared at each other in consternation. “I suppose they have gone out again,” the former said, trying to keep his voice down.

“But surely they will return soon. They have not lunched, nor even changed their clothing.” A well-manicured brown hand lifted. Ramses handed over the expected baksheesh. It wasn’t the clerk’s fault. He hadn’t been told to keep their arrival secret.

“God damn it,” said David, who seldom used bad language.

“The fat is well and truly in the fire,” Ramses agreed. “Let’s find Ahmed Ali. There’s no hope of a casual encounter now.”

For years the normal methods of travel around the pyramid plateau had been by camel, donkey, or the so-called desert carriage, a diabolical conveyance that jolted the occupants’ insides to a jelly. Camels were selected by many tourists—what would a trip to Egypt be without a photograph of the traveler on that picturesque beast?—but they weren’t the carefully bred riding animals owned by aficionados of the breed. There was an old saying: “Everyone should ride a camel…once.”

Ahmed Ali had only recently introduced horses. He and his brother ran the operation, which had proved to be highly successful. They found him sitting in the shade of the shed he had erected, fahddling with some of the other dragomen and enjoying his lunch of bread, cheese, and onions. After the obligatory exchange of courtesies, which took some time, Ramses asked about his friends.

“Strange people,” Ahmed Ali said, shaking his head. As befitted a successful merchant, his turban was very large and very intricately wound. “Very strange. No sooner had they returned than they were back again, demanding fresh horses. They wanted to go alone, but I could not permit that, so I sent Ibrahim Mohammed with them.”

“Where did they go?” David asked.

“They said to Abu Roash. Now why would they want to go there, where there is nothing to see except El-Ka’ah, the most ruinous of all the pyramids hereabout? Even if I had not feared for my beautiful horses I could not have let ignorant foreigners go so far without a guide.”

They bargained for horses, which Ahmed Ali let go at a “price that will ruin me, but only because I trust you to be careful with them.” He didn’t insult them by offering a guide.

“He should have asked the Pethericks for payment in advance,” Ramses said, as they turned their horses’ heads north.

“You don’t think they’ve bolted, do you?” David demanded. “Where the devil would they go, on horseback and without luggage?”

Far out into the desert, where a fatal accident could be arranged. Or to the ruined pyramid of Abu Roash, whose superstructure had almost entirely disappeared, but which provided a handy pit and a dangerously steep slope down into the subterranean burial chamber. Few tourists went there; as Ahmed Ali had said, it wasn’t much of a pyramid compared with the giants of Giza, and there wasn’t even a rest house. Ibrahim Mohammed would have to be disposed of first; a substantial bribe might accomplish that. If it failed, there were other ways.

Ramses didn’t reply to David. He would have been the first to admit his fears were based on slight evidence, but there was a possible motive. If Adrian had murdered his stepmother, his sister must know he was guilty. She was the only person who could testify against him. Ramses didn’t believe she would, but a killer prefers not to take chances, and Adrian had already shown resentment of her care.

Their route took them through the desert, along the edge of the cultivated land, and then eastward, to the village of Kerdaseh, attractively situated in groves of palm trees. Up to that point they couldn’t be certain they were on the right track, but Ramses didn’t think the Pethericks would stray from the path they had announced while the dragoman was with them. In Kerdaseh they received the first news of the fugitives. Ibrahim Mohammed had tried to persuade them to stop at the local market, but to the annoyance of the merchants, and presumably that of Ibrahim Mohammed, who received a percentage of all sales, they had pressed on after purchasing only a basket of fruit.

“They do seem to be heading for Abu Roash,” David said. “And Ibrahim Mohammed is still with them.”

“All very innocent,” Ramses said. “Except that it’s late in the day to start on a trek like this. And why did they rush off after they learned we were here?”

“Pure panic,” David said promptly. “By the time we catch them up they’ll have had time to think it over.”

Half an hour’s ride brought them to the village of Abu Roash and another group of disappointed merchants. Their faked antiquities and colorful local handicrafts had been rejected. The travelers had headed west across the desert.

Ahead of them a rocky hillock rose against the sky. The sun was halfway down the west; the light shone straight into their eyes. Ramses shaded his with his hand.

“There they are,” he said. “Near the foot of the hill. They’ve stopped. I think they’ve seen us.”

“Ibrahim Mohammed won’t let them take the horses up that slope,” David said.

It was that simple, Ramses thought. The fool tourists could damn well make the ascent on foot and the dragoman would be content to remain with the horses. He urged his horse to a gallop.

The Pethericks were nowhere in sight when they came up to Ibrahim Mohammed, who was squatting on the ground smoking. “They have gone on,” he said in answer to Ramses’s question. “Up the path to the top. I saw you coming and told them they should wait for you, but they would not. Are they friends of yours?”

“Yes,” Ramses said. His heart was hammering.

It was a steep climb to the top of the rise where once the king’s pyramid had stood looking out across the fertile valley toward the tombs of his predecessors. Only a few courses of stone remained at the base of a natural mound that had formed the core of the pyramid. The ruins of the mortuary temple and other subsidiary structures littered the ground with obstacles ranging from pebbles to fallen blocks several feet high.

“Slow down,” David panted, vaulting one of the blocks and catching Ramses by the arm. “The fellow has a gun. God damn it, Ramses, wait. Nefret warned you not to go charging at him.”

“Right.” Ramses stood still, trying to catch his breath. In the silence he heard voices. They came from the north side of the pyramid mound, where the entrance was located. Harriet’s voice, sharpened from contralto to soprano by strong emotion, rose over that of her brother.

“Give it to me, Adrian. Please.”

The sound of scuffling feet and a sharp cry from Harriet propelled Ramses forward. He didn’t need David’s grasp on his arm to proceed slowly. The wrong move now could precipitate the very thing he feared.

Brother and sister were standing on a cleared space in front of the great pit that dropped at a steep angle toward the burial chamber. It gaped wide behind them, more than sixty feet deep. Harriet leaned against a fallen stone, her hand raised to her cheek. Her magnificent hair had been cut short and was now a dreadful shade of mahogany streaked with orange—henna, hastily and inexpertly applied. It altered her appearance dramatically. Adrian was several feet away, square in front of the shaft. He held a rifle, which was pointed at Ramses.

“Don’t come any closer,” he said coolly.

“Whatever you say.” Ramses stopped. “Why don’t you put that down and we’ll talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. This is the end.”

“It needn’t be,” Ramses said quietly. He could feel David beside and a little behind him, taut as a coiled spring. “We want to help you, Adrian, that’s why we’re here. Come with us.”

“To what, a madhouse? Or to the gallows? I killed her. I deserve to be punished, but I’ll choose my death, thank you. I wanted Harriet to come with me, but she wouldn’t, and then I got to thinking…Is she in love with you?”

The pathetic, childlike curiosity in his voice raised the hairs on Ramses’s neck. Harriet was crying. The tears ran down her face, over the marks of her brother’s fingers that reddened her cheek.

“She loves you,” Ramses said, praying he had found the right answer. “You can’t do this to her, Adrian. Not after all she’s done for you.”

“She means well,” Adrian conceded. “But she won’t leave me alone. That can get on a fellow’s nerves, you know.”

Adrian swung round toward Harriet, and the rifle swung with him. She held out her hands in appeal. “Forgive me, Adrian. From now on we’ll do everything your way. I promise.”

“Why are you crying?” Adrian asked curiously. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Harriet, you know that.”

Ramses never knew what pushed Adrian over the line—his own loud catch of breath, the movement of David’s arm hard against him, ready to push him aside, or Harriet’s step forward. The gun went off. Harriet dropped to the ground, her arms covering her head. She hadn’t been hit; the bullet had gone high. Adrian let the rifle fall to his side, his eyes wild, and Ramses jumped. He was in no mood to take chances. He hit Adrian hard and low, caught him by the collar, and dropped him onto the ground a safe distance from the open shaft. Harriet flung herself down beside the limp body and lifted her brother’s head onto her lap.

She raised wet eyes to meet those of Ramses. “He didn’t kill her. I did.”

“Not another mysterious disappearance!” Emerson raised eyes, fists, and voice to heaven. “Not another visit from the damned black afrit!”

Bertie had obviously dressed in some haste. He wore no hat, his shirt was only half buttoned, and his boots were laced askew.

“No,” he gasped, breathless with agitation. “She’s gone to the West Valley. She left a letter.”

He fished the crumpled paper from his trouser pocket and handed it to me. Jumana’s neat formal script set out her reasons for taking action, and I had to admit they made perfect sense. She had concluded that the West Valley was the most likely place for Lidman to have holed up. He knew the area and he had had plenty of opportunity to squirrel away supplies from the overflowing baskets Cyrus’s chef always provided. Her reason for going alone—that she would be better able to creep up on him than a crew of clumsy-footed men—also made sense—to someone who was indifferent to her safety.

“Cyrus sent me to bring you,” Bertie went on. “He’s gone on ahead.”

“Alone?” Emerson shouted. “Good Gad, he’s as defenseless as Jumana. We must go after them at once.”

“Now, now, Emerson, be calm,” I implored. “In my opinion—”

“Excuse me, Mrs. E.,” Bertie said, “but opinions don’t enter into this. Most likely Lidman is not there, but we can’t take the chance.”

He scarcely ever interrupted me, or anyone else, for that matter. Recognizing this as a sign of extreme perturbation, I nodded and said graciously, “You are correct, Bertie. I did not mean to suggest that we should refrain from taking action, only that—”

Emerson was already out the door, with Bertie treading on his heels.

“I had better go with them,” I said to Sethos, who was reading Jumana’s note. “And you?”

“Back to the confounded railroad station.” Sethos handed me the note. “We can’t risk missing him there, but I think the girl has made a convincing argument. She’s a clever little creature, isn’t she?”

“Too clever. I only hope it will not be the death of her one day.”

I paused only long enough to collect my accoutrements, waving aside Fatima’s attempts to make me wait while she packed a basket. When I reached the stable Jamad had finished saddling a horse for Emerson and another of our Arabians for Bertie. I had known it would take Jamad a while, he was not a hasty man. It took a while longer to put saddle and bridle onto my horse. I made them wait for me.

“They are at least an hour ahead of us,” I pointed out. “Haste will accomplish nothing.”

Despite this reasonable remark Emerson and Bertie soon forged ahead of me. I went on as fast as I dared, but I did not catch them up until I got to the West Valley. There, near the tomb of Amenhotep III, I found my husband and Bertie talking with Cyrus.