The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [16]
Instead of taking the lift, she swept down the stairs, moving slowly. The staircase was a handsome structure, rising in a gentle curve, so that by the time Mrs. Petherick reached the bottom, all eyes were upon her. A mantilla-like scarf of black lace framed a face that irresistibly reminded me of the vampires in which the lady’s fiction specialized—eyes heavily outlined in black, lips bloodred against the (powdered) pallor of her face. She offered a black-gloved hand to Emerson. She intended him to kiss it, but, being Emerson, he seized it and shook it vigorously.
“It was good of you to come,” she enunciated. “I am in such need of reassurance. I saw him again last night. When, oh, when will you perform the ceremony that sets me free?”
As she intended, this remark was overheard by all those who stood nearby. A little buzz of excitement arose. I would not have given her the satisfaction of asking to whom the pronoun referred, for I knew what she was up to, but Emerson could not resist.
“Him? Who?” he demanded.
Her voice dropped to a thrilling but penetrating whisper. “He has no name. The faceless black shadow I saw drain the life from my darling husband. He has followed me here!”
His hat in his hand and his face studiously controlled, Ramses said, “The third time, was it not? I thought you said the third visit would be the last.”
“You misunderstood,” said Mrs. Petherick, lying like a veteran. “But he will come again, and the next time—”
I took her firmly by the arm.
“Let us go into the dining salon. Mr. Salt has reserved a table for us.”
Emerson was in no mood to be trifled with. As soon as we had ordered, he fixed Mrs. Petherick with a stern stare. “Let us hear no more of illusions, madam. Are you aware that your stepchildren invaded our home last night? That the young man threatened us with a pistol?”
“Poor Adrian,” the lady murmured. “He has suffered greatly, and he is deeply attached to me. You were in no danger from him.”
“But we are in danger from someone else?” I asked.
“Stop that,” Emerson said loudly. “You are encouraging her and I won’t have it. Mrs. Petherick, when you handed over the—er—object to us, were you aware of its value?”
“Oh, yes.” The lady sipped daintily at her soup. “Pringle said it was the most valuable object in his collection.”
Emerson removed the box from his capacious pocket and put it on the table. “You are, I assume, the legal owner?”
“Oh, yes.” She gazed, as if mesmerized, at the box.
“As you must have known, madam, my principles do not allow me to accept such a gift. I will return it or purchase it from you, whichever you prefer.”
Her manicured fingertips brushed the painted surface. With a sudden movement she raised the lid and lifted the statue out.
“I thought you never wanted to look on that evil little face again,” Ramses remarked.
“It was my dear Pringle’s pride and joy. He loved it so…” She held it up, high over her head.
“Damnation,” said Emerson. On this occasion I did not reproach him for bad language. I had never seen a more deliberate attempt to attract attention.
“Put it away, madam,” Emerson growled.
Mrs. Petherick rolled her eyes at him and showed her teeth. I hadn’t noticed before that the canines were longer than normal. A little buzz of interest ran round the room, and people at distant tables stood up in order to see better.
Emerson snatched the statue from her and replaced it in the box. “Well?” he demanded.
“Take it with you, Professor Emerson. I know that you will deal fairly with me. So long as I do not have it in my possession.”
She had accomplished her aim of courting public interest. Our questions elicited no information. She did not know the name of the dealer from whom her husband had purchased the statue. Someone in London, she thought…Yes, she might consider selling the rest of the collection, in due time. It was in the process of being valued by the