The Serpent on the Crown, page 18
There certainly were too many people for the courtyard. Half the West Bank seemed to be there – men, women, children and babes in arms, forming a dark and squirming mass approximately twenty feet from the door of the veranda. In front of them and a little to one side was a smaller group, taking the choicer position with the arrogance of their class – tourists, ‘white’ residents of Luxor and a few of the inevitable journalists, pens poised. I recognized some of the faces, but not the one I had rather hoped to see.
The lamps on the veranda had not been lighted. As I took the seat of honour (the settee, moved to a position facing the crowd), curiosity had overcome my vexation. I had seen a number of Emerson’s exorcisms, the most memorable being the one in which he had seemingly produced the cat Bastet from an ancient feline mummy case. The cat Bastet had not liked it at all, but the effect had been very fine. I hoped Emerson had no designs on the Great Cat of Re.
A tongue of flame shot up from the wood piled before the door. It rose to a column of shimmering fire that dazzled the eyes – and conveniently left the audience just outside the radius of the light. A voice beside me said, ‘Shift over a bit, will you, Peabody?’
To the audience outside, it must have seemed that he emerged from the fire. The flames licking at the tail of his robe added to the illusion and indicated, to his wife, that he had gone a little too close to the fire. Cursing under his breath, Emerson beat the flames out. I think his costume was intended to be that of an ancient sem priest – long white skirts and full sleeves, and an imitation leopard skin draped over one shoulder. He stood still, his arms raised. In the awed silence that followed I heard a snicker from Mr Lansing.
Having got everyone’s attention, Emerson began to speak. He has no trouble at all making himself heard at a distance and the audience hung on his every word.
The black afrit had had the audacity to challenge him, the Father of Curses. Now the time had come to make an end of the wretched being. ‘No one defeats the Father of Curses!’ Emerson bellowed, and a roar of agreement rose from the crowd. Emerson’s voice rose to an even louder pitch. ‘Come forth, evil one, and face your master!’
‘Excuse me, Mother,’ said Ramses. He was almost invisible in the darkness, enveloped in a long black robe. While Emerson, pointing and gesticulating, directed the audience’s attention towards the area behind it, Ramses slipped out the door and made his entrance, letting out a piercing shriek. The crowd screamed in unison, including the babies. Emerson whirled. He flung himself at Ramses, who fell to the ground, kicking and struggling. They rolled back and forth, edging ever closer to the shadows at the edge of the firelight. Since I was one of the few people watching for it, I saw an occasional black-clad leg (Ramses’ best evening trousers, I supposed, since he had no others of that shade) and glimpses of a black face with grotesquely flattened features (one of Nefret’s black silk stockings?).
With a mighty effort Emerson flung his opponent into outer darkness and staggered back into the light carrying the limp black garment over his arms. He moved so fast no one could have got a good look at the object before he hurled it into the heart of the flames.
Shrieks of delight and approval arose from the crowd. I saw a slim black form slither snakelike farther into the darkness. All other eyes were fixed on the mighty form of Emerson. (I was sorry to see he was smouldering again.)
‘And now in conclusion,’ Emerson shouted, ‘I return the object of the curse to the fires of Gehenna!’ From the breast of his robe he drew out a shape that glowed gold-red in the firelight, and pitched it into the flames.
Sethos was laughing uncontrollably. ‘In conclusion!’ he sputtered. Cyrus sprang to his feet with a cry of anguish, and would have rushed out the door had I not got in his way.
‘No, Cyrus. Stop and think before you act.’
The performance ended rather abruptly when Emerson extinguished the fire with a conveniently placed bucket of water. A column of smoke replaced the flames. Coughing, the crowd retreated, and Emerson came to the door.
‘Not so bad, eh?’ he inquired. ‘Curse it, I can’t see a thing. Light the lamps, someone.’
He entered, tossing off his robe (one of my best sheets).
‘How many garments did you destroy?’ I inquired, having recognized the ‘leopard skin’ as the remnants of a woollen jumper.
‘Was that, by chance, one of my evening cloaks?’ Nefret asked in a carefully controlled voice.
‘I’ll get you another,’ Emerson said. ‘Good Gad, is that all you can think about? I expected commendation, if not riotous applause.’
The applause broke out, mingled with laughter and comments. Emerson was pouring the whisky when Ramses came in through the house. They were his best trousers. Or had been.
‘Here you are, my boy,’ said Emerson, handing him a glass. ‘And well deserved. I hope I didn’t bruise you too badly.’
‘No, sir. Thank you.’ Ramses flattened his tumbled hair. ‘How did it go, do you think?’
‘It wasn’t bad,’ Sethos said judiciously. ‘Not bad at all. Though if you had let me take a hand –’
I gave him a little kick on the shin to remind him that Anthony Bissinghurst was a harmless archaeological amateur, not a Master of Disguise.
‘We saw it from behind the scenes, so to speak,’ Lansing said. He was still chuckling. ‘From the point of view of the spectators, it must have been extremely effective. Winlock will be sick at having missed it.’
‘The audience was not uncritical,’ I pointed out. ‘How many of them were actually convinced is difficult to say.’
‘It does not matter,’ said Selim. ‘What matters is that they enjoyed it.’
‘Just tell me,’ Cyrus pleaded, ‘that you didn’t throw the statue into the fire.’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Emerson said rudely. ‘It would require a hotter flame than that to melt solid gold. What went into the fire was made from the mould we cast the other night. Plaster of paris. I spent an hour painting it gold.’
After our guests had left, Emerson went off to bathe, for he was quite smutty. I was brushing my hair when he returned, a little singed around the calves, but extremely pleased with himself.
‘That should settle the black afrit,’ he declared, embracing me. ‘What about a reward for the magician, eh?’
I put down the brush and gave him his reward. ‘It was well done,’ I said, between kisses. ‘But I had hoped Mrs Petherick would be unable to resist attending. I didn’t see her in the audience.’
‘Neither did I. Ah well, she’ll turn up eventually.’
She did turn up, early the following morning. She had not been as lucky as Heinrich Lidman.
We were officially informed of the discovery by Inspector Ayyid. We were finishing breakfast when he was announced. Looking around at our grave faces, Ayyid said, ‘I see you have heard the news. I suppose it was Daoud who told you. Perhaps he would consider working for me; he seems to get information before my men do.’
‘Our informants are assiduous but not always accurate,’ I said, waving him to a chair. ‘We would appreciate hearing the facts. You will join us for breakfast, I hope?’
‘Coffee, if you will be so good.’ Ayyid’s eyes fixed on Sethos. ‘I do not believe I have met this gentleman.’
Napkin in hand, Sethos rose and made an elegant bow. ‘Anthony Bissinghurst, at your service. I am honoured to meet an individual of whom I have heard so much.’
His excessive courtesy made no impression on Ayyid. ‘I regret that I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before this, sir. Have you just arrived in Luxor?’
I could tell by the glint in Sethos’ eyes that he was tempted to spin the inspector a preposterous story; knowing I would instantly contradict it, he restrained himself. ‘I arrived the day before yesterday with Professor Emerson. I trust that constitutes a sufficient alibi?’
‘Don’t be a tease,’ I said, giving my brother-in-law a sharp look.
‘You had no connection with the dead lady?’ Ayyid inquired.
‘None whatsoever,’ I said. ‘Where was she found and how did she die?’
The body had been found early that morning by one of the workmen who tended the flower beds in the Winter Palace’s famous gardens. It had been laid out neatly and reverently, the hands folded across the breast, under a flowering shrub. So much we had already heard from Daoud, who had hurried to inform us as soon as he got the news from his network of informants in Luxor. He had added a poetic touch: the petals of the flowers lay scattered like snowflakes upon the poor lady’s quiet form.
Inspector Ayyid did not mention the petals. ‘We do not yet know how she died. There were no marks of violence upon the body. An autopsy will be necessary.’ He added, with a flash of quickly controlled temper, ‘I am awaiting permission from the British authorities.’
Like most Egyptians, Ayyid fiercely resented the refusal of Britain to give Egypt complete independence. That it must come no one except the extreme imperialists in the British government doubted, but the latter group was stridently opposed to seeing Britain yield authority. Even the moderates, led by Allenby, envisaged British troops remaining in Egypt, and England retaining control over Egypt’s ‘national security’. As the partisans of independence pointed out, so long as foreign troops remain in a country, it cannot be said to be fully sovereign.
‘Would they be more likely to agree if I were to perform the autopsy?’ Nefret asked.
It was a bitter pill for Ayyid to swallow; only his respectful admiration for Nefret enabled him to do so. ‘I do not like to ask a lady to take on such a disagreeable task, madam.’
‘I’ve done it before,’ Nefret said, smiling at him.
Ayyid nodded. ‘I took the liberty of mentioning that possibility to the high commissioner, subject, of course, to your decision. If the lady’s children agree –’
‘I don’t see why their permission is required in a case of suspected murder,’ I said. ‘But if it proves necessary, I will speak to them. I have no doubt my arguments will prevail. You have no suspects at the present time?’
Ayyid rose. He was obviously unwilling to discuss the progress of the case – or the lack of progress. ‘Until the cause of death is determined, we have no reason to search for suspects. She may have died of natural causes.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘After vanishing for a week she returned to the hotel, lay down under a bougainvillea or rosebush, folded her hands, and passed away?’
Ayyid could think of no reply to this – nor could anyone have done so. He bowed himself out, after telling Nefret he would let her know whether her services would be required.
Emerson fixed me with a terrible look. ‘If you say “I told you so,” Peabody –’
‘As you know, Emerson, I deplore the use of that phrase, especially between married persons.’
‘Ha,’ said Emerson. ‘I have lost count of the number of times you –’
‘An unjust and unjustified accusation, Emerson. Anyhow, I did not contradict your – as it has proved – incorrect assumption in so many words. I only –’
‘Looked contradictory,’ Emerson shouted.
‘Now, now,’ said Sethos, trying to control the quiver of his lips. ‘Do not allow disharmony to mar the spectacle of marital accord, I beg. You wouldn’t want to set me a bad example.’
‘Are you and Margaret about to be married at long last, then?’ I asked interestedly. I had thoroughly disliked Margaret Minton when I first met her, in her role as a determined lady journalist, but I had learned to admire her talents and her strong character. She and Sethos had been . . . well acquainted . . . for some years, but she had refused his offers of marriage – for good reason, I should say. Passionate devotion to a man should not blind a woman to his flaws, and Sethos had a good many of them, including his hazardous occupation as a secret service agent and his chequered past.
‘We can’t seem to come to an agreement,’ Sethos said. ‘But we are edging closer, I think. Perhaps you can help, Amelia. You are well known for your success in assisting romantic affairs. I expect Margaret will turn up before long, this story is becoming irresistible.’
‘Oh, wonderful,’ snarled Emerson. ‘That’s all we need, Margaret and perhaps her old rival Kevin O’Connell badgering us. I refuse to be distracted by this twaddle. Ramses, Peabody, Nefret, David, get your gear together.’
‘Where are we going?’ Nefret asked.
‘Deir el Medina first. Selim said he’d run across something he wants to show me. Then the Valley of the Kings.’
Nefret and Ramses rose obediently. I reached for another piece of toast. It was rather leathery, but I spread marmalade on it anyhow.
Emerson began muttering. He hadn’t done that for a long time. ‘Expected this . . . hopeless cause . . . confounded female . . .’
‘I presume,’ I remarked, ‘that the final phrase applies not to me but to poor Mrs Petherick. Such sentiments are unworthy of you, Emerson. I cannot so callously ignore the horrible murder of a fellow human being. That takes precedence over all other activities. However, if you are determined to –’
‘You don’t know that it was murder,’ Emerson said. ‘And if it was . . . Damnation! What are you going to do?’
‘Examine the scene of the crime. Question witnesses. Offer my condolences to Miss and Mr Petherick.’ I took a bite of toast, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed. ‘After that, we shall see.’
Emerson threw up his hands, literally and figuratively. ‘What about you, Sethos?’
‘Why, I share Amelia’s humanitarian views, of course,’ was the smooth reply. ‘Anyhow, her activities ought to be much more entertaining than yours.’
As Sethos and I walked down the road towards the river, we were amused to observe several Egyptians industriously digging in the ashes of the fire, looking for the remains of the statuette. I didn’t doubt that some of the tourists would have been doing the same if Wasim had let them by. With the aid of my parasol and Sethos’ stick we made our way through the hangers-on near the guardhouse. There were not so many of them that morning; some had abandoned the unproductive siege and others, I surmised, had been drawn to the scene of the crime. I hoped Ayyid had been able to keep it relatively uncontaminated, but I did not count on it.
It was a fine, clear morning, as are most mornings in Luxor. Sunlight sparkled on the water and the white sails of feluccas dipped and swung. I had sent word to Daoud’s son Sabir; when we reached the riverbank, his boat was waiting. The gangplank, which served as a makeshift oar when necessary, was at a challenging angle and quite narrow, but I disdained the hands stretched out to assist me. Long before it became acceptable for ladies to do so, I had given up cumbersome skirts in favour of trousers. Thus attired, I ascended quite nimbly, the various useful items attached to my belt of tools jingling.
‘You seem to be carrying more odds and ends than ever,’ said Sethos, settling himself on to the bench next to me. ‘Canteen, knife, flask of brandy, coil of rope, candle and matches – what’s in this box?’
‘Medical supplies. Bandages, sticking plaster, and so on.’
‘I shudder to think what “and so on” might consist of.’
He was being frivolous, so I did not deign to reply. In fact I had fewer ‘odds and ends’ on my belt than usual, since the numerous pockets in my coat and trousers provided an alternative. Emerson had always complained, not so much about the accoutrements as about the noise they made when I moved. Admittedly this made it more difficult for me to creep up on a suspect unheard, so I had made a few adjustments.
I always enjoy the trip across the river; it is like watching a motion picture unreel, as the structures on the East Bank seem to move ever nearer and clearer. On this occasion, however, impatience tempered pleasure. As soon as we docked I disembarked, instructing Sabir to wait for us.
The gardens behind the Winter Palace are normally a scene of peace and beauty. Paths wind through close-clipped greensward and beds of bright blossom in the shade of exotic trees. Such was not the case that morning. It was as I had feared. Ayyid had left two constables on guard, but they had been bribed or intimidated into turning a blind eye to the depredations of ghoulish sightseers. Cameras clicked and one lady was sawing at a flowery spray with a pair of nail scissors.
My loud but ladylike expostulations dispersed most of the ghouls. The others simply backed off and began photographing ME. I took my own little Kodak from the pocket of my coat, wishing I had insisted on Nefret accompanying me. I have always had a bit of trouble with cameras.
The spot where Mrs Petherick’s body had rested was not under a rosebush or bougainvillea, although both grew nearby. At the base of a splendid specimen of dom palm lay a mass of twining vines which had enveloped the lower four feet of the trunk and climbed farther up it. The plant, I believe, was not indigenous to Egypt, but it flourished here, forming a tapestry of green and vivid pink, the flowers being small but profuse. Part of the plant had been rudely torn away. The broken boughs were already withering. The area they had once covered was bare ground, without so much as an indentation or outline to show the location of the body. The only visible marks were those of shod feet – the ghouls’, I presumed. Kneeling, I focused my camera and took several photographs of the spot, hoping the lens would bring out more detail than was visible to the naked eye. I was photographing the wider area when a hail from one of the constables caused me to turn. Coming towards me was Inspector Ayyid.
‘You need not bother taking photographs, Mrs Emerson,’ he said. ‘I did so this morning before and after the body was moved.’
‘Was there any sign of a struggle?’ I added, in some vexation, ‘The area has been so disturbed that even I cannot tell what damage was done by whom, and when.’
‘It was necessary to cut away the vines before we could examine the body.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, making a mental note of the fact that he had not really answered my question. ‘What is the name of this pretty pink vine?’
Ayyid looked blank. ‘I do not know, Mrs Emerson.’
