The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [105]
“That policeman thinks there is.”
“Ayyid? What makes you think so?”
“He’s been round again, asking questions. Adrian…” She hesitated. “Adrian became agitated. It made a bad impression.”
“One can’t arrest a man because he became agitated,” Ramses said.
“He was so much better before we came here! I had found a new doctor; Adrian was improving. This business has set him back. I want to take him home, but the police won’t let us leave.”
“They can’t hold Adrian indefinitely, they’ll have to accuse him or let him go. Was that the reason you asked to talk to me?”
“I wanted to give you some background. I don’t know whether it will help clear Adrian, but perhaps knowing more about the persons involved will give you a clue. My father…” She paused to take a sip of brandy. “Pringle Petherick was a cold, uncaring father and a thoroughly selfish human being. His wealth and his interests were devoted solely to his collection. He married my mother for her money and spent it buying antiquities. She never had a penny for herself. She died, I have always believed, of indifference.”
Brutal as her assessment was, Ramses preferred this Harriet to the seductress. “He doesn’t sound like the sort of man who would fall in love with a woman like Countess Magda.”
“Love?” She pondered this for a moment, her eyes as cold as stone. “I don’t know what the word means, especially in this case. He was dazzled, intrigued, and for perhaps the first time in his life, manipulated. The real question is why she married him. He was not a bad-looking man, and in the eyes of the world a wealthy man. But she can’t have been after his money; she was one of the most successful authors of the time and she flaunted her diamonds and expensive gowns.
“Adrian was dazzled too. At first she made a great show of maternal affection. It was rather sickening, really, all that cooing and caressing and flattery, but he was too young to remember our mother and too much in need of love to be critical. His affection for her was genuine.”
She stopped speaking and drained her glass.
“Is that all?” Ramses asked.
“Does it help?” She leaned forward, hands tightly clasped. “There must be other suspects besides Adrian. Your mother has quite a reputation as a detective…”
“My mother. Yes.”
“Sooner or later they will find the person who killed her. It wasn’t Adrian. He loved her.”
A line of poetry slid into his mind. “For each man kills the thing he loves…” He didn’t repeat it aloud. It was only poetry, after all.
“I appreciate your confidence.” He got to his feet. “I had better be going.”
She went with him to the door, ruffles trailing. “Are you going to tell your wife you came here?”
“She’ll hear it anyhow,” Ramses said sourly. “My only hope is to confess before someone else tells her.”
“I’ve got you in trouble with her, haven’t I?”
“Probably.”
She was leaning against the door; he couldn’t reach for the handle without touching her. “If it’s any consolation,” she said, “you’ve had your revenge.”
“What do you mean?”
“You refused me, flatly and without hesitation. Do you have any idea what a devastating blow that is to a woman who is prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice?”
“I expect you’ll survive the blow.”
“It wouldn’t have been a sacrifice.”
“So you were good enough to say.” He reached past her for the doorknob. “Good night.”
He went straight out of the hotel without stopping and then stood by the door letting the night air dry the perspiration on his face. Harriet Petherick had enjoyed every moment of that awkward interview.
The terrace was full of tourists enjoying a late-night drink under the twinkling lights. One of them stood up and came toward him.
“How did it go?” inquired Anthony Bissinghurst, alias his uncle.
Ramses was glad to have a subject onto which he could focus his anger. “You followed me!”
Still in character, Sethos leaned languidly against the wall and folded his arms. “I’ve decided it’s time I took an active hand in this affair. You don