The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [135]
“He cannot be questioned,” I informed Ayyid, who had expressed his intention of doing so. “Nefret and I are of the opinion that he will probably pass on without ever regaining consciousness.”
“Can she do nothing to rouse him?” Ayyid demanded.
I wondered what he had in mind—smelling salts or a touch of torture? I said firmly, “You may rest assured that she will do whatever her physician’s oath permits. She is with him now, and I will sit by him tonight. You can count on me, I believe, to conduct a proper interrogation should that be possible.”
“Believe me,” said Sethos, “you can count on her. And,” he added, with a secretive little smile, “on Nefret.”
Ayyid had to accept that. I promised to inform him at once if there was any change in Lidman’s condition.
When I relieved Nefret after dinner, a single glance was enough to assure me that Lidman’s condition had worsened. His breathing was shallow and his face bloodless. Nefret looked exhausted, her blue eyes sunken. It was mental distress, not physical weariness that affected her; a doctor hates to lose a patient, even one as despicable and beyond help as Lidman. I sent her off to bed, promising to call her if there was a change.
My vigil was twice disturbed, once by Emerson, who took one look at Lidman, swore, and went away, and again by Sethos. The latter was disposed to linger. He selected the most comfortable of the armchairs in the guest chamber whither Lidman had been moved, and sat down.
“I received several telegrams this afternoon,” he said. “Would you like me to tell you about them?”
“That depends on what they contain.”
“One was in answer to my inquiries about Heinrich Lidman. He did work for the Germans at Amarna. When war broke out he joined up, like a loyal lad, and was declared missing in action in 1917.”
“Then his story was true.”
“In the confusion following the cessation of hostilities many men were lost sight of,” Sethos said. “And some records were never corrected.”
“It is irrelevant now.”
“Is it?” Before I could answer, he went on, “The second telegram was from one of my associates in London. Aslanian purchased the statue two years ago in Cairo, from Zahi Gabra.”
“Well done,” I said. “Another step along the trail.”
“The trail ends there, I am afraid. Gabra is dead. If he kept records, which is unlikely under the circumstances, they have been lost.”
“And the third telegram? You said there were several.”
“Margaret. She arrived in Cairo this morning and will be coming on to Luxor shortly.”
“How nice.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” He rose lightly to his feet. “I would offer to take your place, but you wouldn’t let me, so I will say good night.”
The night wore on. Sitting by the bed, notebook and pencil in hand, I beguiled the time by thinking over what Sethos had told me and making one of my little lists. It clarified my thoughts wonderfully and kept me from drowsiness. (So did the chair, a hard wooden object that did not permit slumping.) In the small hours after midnight the change I had hoped for occurred. It is at that time, according to old folk legendry, that the soul of the dying takes wing. Lidman’s eyes opened. He knew me.
“Are you in pain?” I asked softly, for the duty of a Christian woman demanded that I ask that question first.
“No.” The word was so faint I had to bend close to hear it.
“In that case, perhaps you have something you would like to tell me.”
“Am I dying?”
“Yes. By the mercy of Providence you have been given an opportunity to cleanse your conscience before you face His judgment.”
“I never meant you harm,” Lidman whispered. “I never meant harm to anyone. I only wanted what was mine.”
“Tell me,” I urged. “If you make a clean breast of it you will have my forgiveness to carry with you into—er—whatever hereafter awaits you. Where have you hidden the statue?”
If he heard me he did not answer. Slowly and with difficulty, his broken speech interrupted