The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [136]
At daybreak the last breath rattled out of Lidman’s laboring lungs. I said a little prayer, folded his hands over his breast, and closed his staring eyes.
You missed Mr. Lidman’s funeral,” I announced. “But the case is solved. I have his confession.”
“That makes three confessions,” David said.
He and Ramses had arrived shortly after midnight, unannounced and unexpected. Jamad’s shout of welcome roused the household; we all tumbled out of bed and, attired in a variety of hastily assumed garments, rushed to the veranda. I had ordered them to sit down and Fatima hurried off to make tea. Ramses’s eyes were shadowed with dark stains of exhaustion. I knew what had caused them; neither he nor David had suffered physical injury, but mental distress affects my son almost as painfully. Nefret sat next to him on the settee, holding his hand in hers.
“Both the Pethericks confessed?” I exclaimed. “Nonsense. Tell me what happened.”
After one glance at Ramses, Emerson had gone back into the house. He came out with a glass in his hand.
“Here,” he said gruffly. “This may prove more therapeutic than tea.”
Ramses took the whiskey but did not speak.
“It is quickly told,” David said, watching his friend. “We had some difficulty finding them, since they registered under Mrs. Petherick’s nom de plume. Unluckily the desk clerk at the Mena House informed them we were there, and they set off into the desert before we could speak to them. We followed; they rode to Abu Roash, and when we came up with them Adrian was holding a rifle. He was in a state of considerable agitation, and actually fired the rifle before Ramses tackled him. No one was hurt.”
It was a bald and boring narrative, but I did not insist on elaboration at that time. “What did you do with him?” I asked.
“We escorted them back to Cairo, and late last night managed to get Adrian admitted to the Presbyterian Hospital. He had relapsed into a state of stupor and did not resist. Harriet stayed with him, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “And you say he confessed to murdering Mrs. Petherick?”
Nefret had managed to get Ramses to drink some of the whiskey. He looked up and spoke for the first time. “His confession doesn’t count. Neither does hers; she was trying to take the blame for him, as she has always done.”
“It must have been distressing,” I said, for my sympathetic imagination had filled in some of the gaps in the narrative. “Thank you, Fatima, but I don’t believe either of them is hungry, or in a proper state of mind for prolonged discussion. Sleep is what they need. We will have a little council of war tomorrow, after we have all rested. Cyrus will wish to be present, I am sure. Now off to bed with you, boys.”
In fact I was not sorry to postpone my account. It may come as a surprise to my Readers to learn that I myself have, on occasion, a weakness for the theatrical. I had deliberately held back from Emerson some of the information I had learned from Lidman, and certain of the conclusions I had drawn from it, and I was looking forward to addressing a larger and more appreciative audience.
After a late breakfast Fatima assisted me in arranging chairs and tables in the sitting room. As our friends arrived, I directed them to their seats.
“Is this to be a lecture?” Emerson inquired, taking in the rows of chairs and the desk behind which I had seated myself.
“A discussion, my dear,” I corrected. “Will you take this chair at my right? Thank you. Katherine, you there—and Jumana—Daoud and Selim—”
It took a while to get everyone settled, since Ramses exclaimed over Jumana’s spectacular bruises and David asked about Bertie’s arm. I was forced to exert my authority and make everyone sit down and be quiet. I took my place behind the desk and arranged my papers. First I invited David and Ramses to give their account, since some of the others had not heard it. Ramses, who was looking better, gave a more detailed version of their adventures. It inspired quite