The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [143]
“That one pointed directly to Lidman-Daffinger,” I said. “Aside from the coincidence of his turning up when he did, his familiarity with Egyptology was of a highly suspect nature. He knew a great deal about matters that could have been learned from others—in person or from books—but he always found an excuse to avoid actual field excavation.”
“Whenever anyone asked him a question he couldn’t answer, he started lecturing,” Ramses said in some chagrin. “I ought to have spotted that.”
“It was far from conclusive,” I said. “There were other suspicious circumstances, though. His illness was feigned; Nefret was unable to find anything seriously wrong with him. It accomplished two purposes: getting him out of a job he couldn’t do, and admitting him to this house. He was in a perfect position to feed the dog a sleeping potion and make another attempt at searching for the statue.”
“It seems so obvious now,” Bertie said ingenuously.
It always does, afterward. I caught Ramses’s skeptical eye and smiled pleasantly at him. “We had better be getting home. Poor Mr. Anderson must be in quite a state by now.”
“Poor Mr. Anderson, bah,” said Emerson.
Hassan had taken his instructions seriously. Mr. Anderson was seated on a very hard chair, his eyes fixed on Hassan, who stood over him fingering his knife.
“Please,” Anderson gurgled. “Tell this man to back off. He threatened me!”
“Well done, Hassan,” said Emerson. “You can go now.”
Hassan did so, and Anderson let out a long breath of relief. He took off his hat, not so much as a token of courtesy but in order to push his damp hair back from his face. “That was intimidation,” he declared. “I could sue.”
“O’Connell would be proud of you,” Emerson said, taking a comfortable chair. “You are as resilient as he. But he ought to have mentioned that threats get you nowhere with us. You’re damned lucky to get away without a sound thrashing.”
“All I wanted—”
“Yes, yes. An exclusive story. Well, you’ve got it. I’m sure you can make a lurid tale of this morning’s events even without photographs.”
“Would you care for something to drink, Mr. Anderson?” I asked. “You look very warm.”
Anderson’s wary eyes moved from Emerson to me and back to Emerson. “What do I have to do?”
“Say ‘please,’ Mr. Anderson.”
Fatima was peeping out the door. At my gesture, she came out with a pitcher of lemonade and we each had a glass. Mr. Anderson had two.
“Now,” I said, taking a paper from my pocket, “a few questions before you go.”
This time my little list consisted of what I had labeled “Untoward Events.” “We have accounted for all but a few,” I explained. “I want to know which you are responsible for. The first attempt to break into the house?”
“I did that,” Anderson admitted. “But I only wanted—”
“Blowing up the guardhouse?”
“No! No, I never did that.”
“Luring Ramses out into the hills and attacking him?”
“What?” His consternation appeared to be genuine. “I never attacked anybody, Mrs. Emerson. That’s the God’s truth!”
“He’s too much of a coward,” Emerson declared. “Like his mentor.”
I went through the list, item by item, and then I said, “Very well, Mr. Anderson, I am satisfied. For the moment.”
“Then I can go?” He put down his empty glass and jumped up.
“One little reminder,” said Emerson, grinning broadly. “You have confessed, before witnesses, to breaking and entering.” Anderson’s lips parted, and Emerson amended his accusation. “Entering, then. I could have you arrested for that, and I will if you cause us any more trouble.”
Anderson was so glad to get away he didn’t even ask for the loan of a horse. As he ran down the road toward the landing I called, “Give my regards to Kevin, Mr. Anderson.”
“That takes care of that,” Emerson declared, rubbing his hands together. “Now we can get back to work.”
“I like the way you coolly dismiss murder, theft, and violent assaults,” Nefret said, perching on the arm of his chair and patting his hand. “Where do we go first, Father?”
“I have it all worked out,” Emerson said. “Deir el Medina tomorrow. I want to see what Selim has been