The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [10]
“By the Almighty,” Cyrus exclaimed. “Well, but Sethos is now a reformed character and a friend. All we have to do is ask him—”
“Whether he took the statue,” Nefret cut in. “A man is innocent until proven guilty, isn’t he?”
She had always had a weakness for Sethos. Most women did. Ramses shook his head. He did not have a weakness for his uncle. Most men did not.
“When it comes to Sethos’s past history, the reverse is true. He usually was guilty. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He is still working undercover for the War Office.”
“I can’t see that it matters,” Nefret declared. “Mr. Petherick was the legal owner.”
“It does matter, though,” Ramses said. “If Sethos denies taking this from KV55—and if we believe him—we must look elsewhere for the origin of the statue.”
“Hmph.” Emerson tossed his napkin onto the table and stood up. “Let’s get to work.”
I knew what he meant to do, and understood his reasons, but I felt obliged to protest. “Emerson, it is very late, and we have guests.”
“We aren’t guests,” Cyrus said, rising in his turn. “I reckon we’re of the same mind, Emerson. It’s a pity David isn’t here. He’s the best artist in the family.”
“We may be able to hang on to the statuette until he arrives next week,” Emerson said. “But if we are forced to return it we will at least have a record—photographs, scale drawings, perhaps a plaster cast.”
“It will take all night,” I protested.
“What does that matter?” Emerson demanded.
It did take most of the night, for Emerson was not satisfied until the object had been photographed from every angle and detailed notes taken. Under close examination, certain minor flaws were apparent in what had seemed a perfect work of art. One of the small fingers had been broken off. The long embroidered sash and the wide collar had once been inlaid with tiny bits of glass or precious stone; almost all of them were missing. There was a hole on the Blue Crown, in the center of the brow. Here the uraeus serpent, the symbol of kingship, had reared its lordly head. It must have been a separate piece, inserted into the crown, and it had fallen out.
“Poor little king,” I said whimsically. “Without the guardian serpent on his brow he was helpless to prevent the humiliation of being passed from hand to greedy hand, and exposed to the gaze of the curious.”
The only person who responded to this poetic statement was Emerson. “Stop talking nonsense, Peabody.”
After the Vandergelts had left and Ramses and Nefret had gone to their house, Emerson dropped off to sleep immediately. I never allow fatigue to keep me from my nightly routine, so I sat before my dressing table giving my hair its customary one hundred strokes. Candles on either side of the mirror lent a ghostly softness to my reflected face, and the soothing effect of the repeated strokes allowed my mind to wander.
The astonishing events of the evening had postponed a serious discussion about our future plans. In previous years Cyrus had shared with us the site of the workmen’s village at Deir el Medina; while we excavated in the village itself, Cyrus and Bertie investigated the tombs on the hillside. We were shorthanded this year, and it had become increasingly evident to me, though not to my stubborn and self-centered spouse, that we were on the verge of momentous changes.
Hitherto we had depended on friends and kin to assist us in our archaeological labors. Selim, the son and successor of our dear reis Abdullah, could be depended upon for many more years, and the younger members of his family were filling the positions left vacant by death and retirement. It was a different matter with David, Abdullah’s grandson, whom we had freed from his cruel master when he was still