The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [1]
Somewhat taken aback by the title, which he had earned but never used, Ramses looked down at the face she had raised in entreaty. I could not make out her features, since she was heavily veiled. The veils were unrelieved black, as was her frock. It fit (in my opinion) rather too tightly to a voluptuously rounded figure. Short of prying her hands off his arm, Ramses had no choice but to lead her to the veranda.
As soon as she was inside she adjusted the black chiffon veils, exposing a countenance whose semblance of youth owed more to art than to nature. Her eyes were framed with kohl and her full lips were skillfully tinted. Catching my eye, she lifted her chin in a practiced gesture that smoothed out the slight sagging of her throat. “I apologize for the intrusion. The matter is of some urgency. My name is Magda Petherick. I am the widow of Pringle Petherick. My life is threatened and only you can save me.”
It was certainly the sort of introduction that captured one’s attention. I invited Mrs. Petherick to take a chair and offered her a cup of tea. “Take your time,” I said, for she was breathing quickly and her face was flushed. She carried a heavy reticule, which she placed at her feet before she accepted the cup from Ramses.
Leaning against the wall, his arms folded, Emerson studied her interestedly. Like myself, he had recognized the name.
“Your husband was Pringle Petherick, the well-known collector?” he inquired. “I believe he passed away recently.”
“November of last year,” she said. “A date that is engraved on my heart.” She pressed her hand over that region of her person and launched, without further preamble, into the description I have already recorded. “He woke that morning from a feverish sleep…
“This is what killed him,” she finished. Reaching into the bag, she withdrew a rectangular box painted with crude Egyptian symbols. “He had purchased it only a few weeks earlier, unaware that the curse of the long-dead owner yet clung to it.”
A long pause ensued, while we all tried to think of an appropriate response. It had occurred to me, as I feel sure it has occurred to the Reader, that there was a certain literary air about her narrative, but even Emerson was not rude enough to inform a recently bereaved widow that she was either lying or demented.
“If I may ask,” Ramses said, after a while, “how is it that you were able to describe his death so—er—in such vivid detail? He was—that is to say—he was dead, wasn’t he?”
“He lingered for a while,” said Mrs. Pringle Petherick composedly.
“Oh,” said Ramses.
Nefret, who had been staring fixedly at Mrs. Petherick, said, “Forgive me, but your face is familiar. Aren’t you Magda, Countess von Ormond, the novelist?”
Aha, I thought. That explains the accent. According to her publicity releases, the countess came from a noble Hungarian family. She had fled that country during the upheaval of the world war.
The lady’s mouth opened in a wide, pleased smile. “You have read my books? I will be happy to sign the ones you have with you.”
“I didn’t bring any with me,” said Nefret, her expression bland as cream. “I saw you several years ago at a literary luncheon in London. At that time, I believe, you were not married.”
“My dear Pringle and I became one only a year before his dreadful death. And now,” she continued, “the curse has fallen upon me. Twice I have beheld that grim black figure, and my intuition tells me that the third time will mean my death. Take it. I beg you!”
She thrust the box at Ramses. Eyeing it askance, he stepped back. I took it, and was about to lift the lid when Mrs. Petherick let out a ladylike shriek.
“Don’t open it! I never want to see that evil little face again!”
“Am I to understand,” I inquired, “that you are passing the—er—curse on to us?”
“But you are experienced in dealing with such things,” Mrs. Petherick exclaimed, rolling her black-rimmed eyes. “You can do it safely. You have done it before. I have heard the stories.”
The stories to which she referred were lurid newspaper articles, many of them written by our