The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [142]
Again I found myself side by side with Ramses. “Another suspect,” he remarked.
“I hardly think so,” I replied.
“Daffinger’s confession doesn’t explain everything, Mother.”
I gave him an affectionate smile, thinking with some complacency how well he had turned out. Except for his father, there was not a finer-looking man in Egypt—or anywhere else. He sat his horse with the ease of an athlete, and his features were as finely shaped as those of a Greek statue (except for his nose, which was a trifle large, and in my opinion all the better for it). I did not doubt that Harriet Petherick had been motivated by more than concern for her brother when she made that clumsy attempt to win Ramses over.
“Well?” Ramses demanded. My intent regard had made him self-conscious.
“My, but you are persistent. We will discuss it later.”
“Vandergelt has asked us to stop at the Castle for a spot of luncheon.” Emerson turned to address me. “I presume that is agreeable to you, Peabody.”
“Yes, Katherine will be anxious to know that we have found the statue.”
Emerson’s smile was particularly smug.
“You agreed to the delay because you want to keep Mr. Anderson sweating awhile longer,” I said accusingly.
“How can you think that of me, Peabody? We need to discuss our future plans. Our work has come to a complete standstill these past days.”
“Murder takes precedence over excavation,” I said. “You needn’t pretend, Emerson, I know you too well. Your strong sense of duty demanded that you avenge Mrs. Petherick and now you have done so.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, and urged his horse ahead.
When we unwrapped the statuette we found that a few more bits of the inlaid collar had fallen out. Thanks to our care, they had been preserved and could be replaced.
“It’s a pity about the uraeus serpent,” Cyrus said.
Daoud rumbled in agreement. “We should try to find it,” he declared.
“I’m afraid that’s a lost cause, Daoud,” Ramses said. “We can’t sift every tomb in Egypt.”
With the statuette as a centerpiece, we sat down to a sumptuous meal, served by Cyrus’s aging but devoted majordomo, Albert. At Cyrus’s direction he opened several bottles of champagne, and we toasted our success and, as Cyrus put it, the triumphant conclusion of another investigation.
“I don’t know how you do it, Amelia,” he declared.
“She had Daffinger’s confession,” said Emerson.
“It sounds to me,” said Ramses, toying with his glass, “as if he confessed to everything except sinking the Titanic. Mother, are you sure you didn’t—I don’t quite know how to say this—”
“Put words in the mouth of a dying man?” I finished the sentence with perfect good humor.
“Unconsciously, of course,” Ramses said quickly.
Emerson twitched. He had become somewhat sensitive to any mention of the unconscious.
“He was not as coherent as my account suggested,” I admitted. “Especially toward the end. However, I already had reason to suspect him.”
I took a folded paper from my pocket. Emerson groaned, Cyrus chuckled, Sethos grinned broadly, and Daoud put his fork down, prepared to give me his full attention.
“Another of your little lists?” Sethos inquired.
“Clues,” I said. “There are three of them. The Clue of the White Petals, the Clue of Generosity, and the Clue of Excessive Erudition.”
“I get the first one,” Cyrus said eagerly. “The flower petals meant that she was killed by someone who knew her well—who cared for her, even.”
I nodded approvingly.
“Generosity,” Ramses said thoughtfully. “I presume that refers to Mrs. Petherick’s handing the statue over to us.”
“Precisely,” I said. “We assumed her motive was to involve us in the publicity she was courting, but she could accomplish that without actually giving it into our hands. I asked myself whether her real motive was fear. A potential thief would transfer his attentions to us and leave her alone.”
“I say,” Bertie exclaimed. “This is as good as a Sherlock Holmes story. But so far all you’ve proved is that she was afraid of someone. What