The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [2]
The children would soon be joining us, and I did not want their juvenile imaginations stirred up by such nonsense. I was about to suggest to Mrs. Petherick that she tie a stone to the confounded thing and toss it in the Nile, when Emerson cleared his throat. His sapphirine eyes were bright and his handsomely tanned face bore an expression of amiable concern. Curse it, I thought.
“Very well,” he said. “You may leave it with us, madam. I will perform—er—I will take care of the matter.”
Mrs. Petherick leaned back in her chair, ignoring Emerson’s hint. “What are you going to do? Return it to the tomb from which it was stolen?”
“That might prove a trifle difficult,” Ramses said, with a critical look at his father. “If, as I assume, it was purchased on the antiquities market, there is little hope of tracing the original thief and finding out where he obtained it.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, giving his son an equally critical look. “You know my methods, Ramses. Rest assured, madam, that you need not give the matter another thought. Good day to you.”
This dismissal was too direct to ignore. Mrs. Petherick rose to her feet, but made one more attempt to prolong the conversation. “It killed my dog, too,” she offered. “My poor little Pug. He choked and twitched, and was gone, just like that.”
Fatima, seeing that we had a guest, had managed to detain the children, but I could hear them expostulating in their high-pitched voices. Emerson heard them too; he got Mrs. Petherick to the door of the veranda, but not before she had told us where she was staying and had asked to be informed when the curse had been officially lifted. She added, with an air of complacency quite at variance from her initial distress, “Perhaps I should participate in the ceremony.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Emerson, shoving the lady into her carriage and motioning the driver to proceed.
“Really, Emerson,” I said. “What ceremony? You made no promise, but your failure to deny her suggestion was a tacit—”
“Well, what else could I have done?” Emerson demanded. “The woman was in considerable distress. Her mind will now be at ease.”
“Oh, bah,” I said. “Are you familiar with the literary (I use the word loosely) works of Countess von Ormond?”
“Good Gad, no,” said Emerson.
“I’ve read some of them,” Nefret said. “The Vampire’s Kiss was her first. All her novels are about vampires and curses and hauntings.”
“Quite,” I said. “I suspect that the vivacious account of her husband’s death was the first paragraph of her next novel. She means to use us and our questionable reputation with the newspapers in order to get publicity. I understand that her sales have been falling off.”
“The later books aren’t nearly as entertaining as the first four or five,” Nefret said critically. “They were really quite good. I had to leave the light on all night while I was reading Sons of the Werewolf.”
“Good Gad,” Emerson exclaimed. “I had no idea you indulged in such trash, Nefret. Peabody, why did you let her—”
“I do not believe in censoring the reading material of adult persons, Emerson.”
“In fact it would be a question of the pot and the kettle,” said Emerson. “Your penchant for sensational novels like those of Rider Haggard—”
“Which you also read on the sly,” I retorted. “Hypocrisy does not become you, Emerson. To return to the point, I do not intend to allow the woman to make use of us. I will return that object to her tomorrow, unopened, with a stiff note.”
“Not unopened,” said Emerson. “Aren’t you even a trifle curious about the accursed object?”
“It is only a crude wooden box, Emerson, not even ancient.”
“Ah,” said Emerson. “But what is inside the box? Your analysis of the lady