The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [120]
“Then what do we need the police for?” Emerson demanded.
“Because,” said Sethos, slowly and patiently, “I do not have the authority to detain Lidman. I can identify him but only the police can hold him for questioning.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. He shifted uneasily in his chair. “Er—do we have to tell them he’s stolen a statuette worth a hundred thousand pounds? Good Gad, if that news gets out he’ll have a pack of vigilantes on his trail, baying for his blood.”
“You are mixing your metaphors, Emerson,” I said. “They won’t be after his blood, they will be after the statue, and not for the purpose of restoring it to its proper owner. However, I doubt they would be averse to spilling his blood if they had to. Supposing he is innocent after all? He could come to serious harm.”
“He is guilty as Cain,” Emerson growled. “And personally I wouldn’t care if he were torn limb from limb so long as I were the one doing it.”
He didn’t really mean it. Emerson is the mildest of men, unless provoked—though I must admit it is not difficult to provoke him. His honor and his pride had been sorely damaged, and he held himself personally responsible for the loss. A hundred thousand pounds would make quite a dent in our investments.
“I have it,” I cried. “We will accuse Mr. Lidman of making off with some of Ramses’s bits of papyrus. The police know we care about such things, but no one else does.”
“Well done, Peabody,” said Emerson. “Do you think Ayyid will take that loss seriously enough to stay on the hunt?”
“My dear,” I said, returning his smile, “I feel certain that if he is not inclined to do so, you can convince him.”
“Let’s go, then,” Emerson said. “You and I, eh, Peabody?”
“And I,” said Sethos.
Nefret wanted to come too, but I persuaded her to stay with the children, who had set up an outcry at the prospect of losing both grandparents and a particularly entertaining guest. “Console yourself with one cheering thought, my dear,” I told her. “If Lidman is our villain, which seems more than likely, Adrian Petherick is innocent. Ramses and David are in no danger.”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
* * *
“Another pair of trousers ruined,” Ramses said, inspecting the stained, ripped knees of that article of clothing.
“They can be mended.” David’s face was pale and his voice unsteady. “I’ll tell Aunt Amelia it was my fault.”
“It was your fault I didn’t fall flat on the road under the motorcar.”
He got to his feet. The onlookers who had gathered to offer assistance and advice dispersed. It was a common enough occurrence, and one that often ended more dramatically.
“Somebody shoved me,” Ramses said.
“I thought so. You aren’t that clumsy. You didn’t see who it was?”
“I was too busy trying to stay on my feet. And you—”
“I was too busy trying to keep you from falling forward.”
“People were jostling one another. It might have been an accident.” Ramses brushed grit and scraps of cabbage leaves off his palms. He had landed on hands and knees after David swung him back onto the pavement.
“Another accident?” David raised his eyebrows. “It looks as if you were right about Adrian Petherick and I was wrong. We know he’s in Cairo—”
“We don’t, not for certain.”
“How many people are there in the city who have it in for you?”
“Quite a few, I should think.”
“You did cut rather a wide swath during the War,” David admitted.
“So did you.”
“That was a long time ago. Most of them have got over their grudges by now. No, my brother, it looks more and more like Adrian.”
Ramses’s disheveled appearance raised a few eyebrows as they crossed Shepheard’s terrace, and one stylishly dressed woman was heard to say, “I’m surprised they allow riffraff like that in the hotel. And isn’t the other man…”
When they asked for their keys, the clerk handed them several messages. Ramses looked through them as the lift took them up to the second floor.
“Fancy that,” he said. “This is from M. Lacau, summoning us rather peremptorily to his office tomorrow morning. I hope he hasn’t changed his mind about allowing Father