The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [42]
“What do you want?”
She leaned back, the reins loose in her hands, and smiled a little. It was the first time he had seen her expression soften so much; it was unexpectedly attractive. “I see you share your father’s directness. I will be just as direct. I need your help.”
“We have no new information about your stepmother,” Ramses said.
She waved one hand impatiently. “Nor do we. That’s not what worries me. It’s Adrian. That damned policeman suspects him of breaking into your house. You must clear him.”
Ramses raised his eyebrows. “Must?”
“Damn.” She bit her lip and bent her head. She wore no hat; her black hair was gathered into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a very clever way of gaining your support. Ayyid said—no, not exactly. He implied you had recognized Adrian.”
“That’s a favored technique of interrogation,” Ramses said. “None of us recognized the intruder. We told Ayyid as much.”
“I see. But you think it was Adrian, don’t you?”
“Do you?”
“He was with me that night. We sat up late discussing…family matters.”
“You would say that in any case.”
“Of course.” The smile was fleeting this time. “Adrian is incapable of harming anyone,” she said earnestly. “He is hypersensitive about violence of any kind. It stems from—”
“I know. I am deeply sorry.”
“Ah.” She was no more anxious to discuss the subject than he. After a moment she said, “I got off on the wrong foot with you and your family. I regret that, and apologize. Can we start again?”
She held out her hand. It would have been churlish not to take it. Her grip was as firm as a man’s, her gaze direct and warm. It was amazing what a difference that smile made.
“We’ll help in any way we can,” Ramses said.
“Thank you. I won’t detain you any longer.” She set the horse to a trot and moved away. She did not look back. Ramses sat watching her for a while before he turned Risha toward the stables.
Fatima had served tea before Ramses appeared, wearing riding kit and looking windblown.
“We didn’t wait for you,” I said. It was an accusation, not an apology, and Ramses recognized it as such.
“I’m sorry to be late,” he said, over the shrieks of greeting and inquiry from his children. “No, Carla, Papa did not bring you anything. You must not expect a gift every time I go away for a short while.”
“Grandpapa always brings me a present,” Carla retorted. “When is he coming home?”
I professed ignorance, knowing she would lie in wait for him if she knew the approximate time, and Carla returned to the table and the biscuits. David John repeated the question that had gone unheard because his sister’s peremptory voice had drowned him out. “Have the Metropolitan Museum people found anything of interest at Deir el Bahri, Papa?”
“Not lately.” Ramses took a chair and addressed his comments to Nefret and me as well as to his son, who leaned against the arm of his chair listening intently. “They are clearing the front part of the Nebhepetre courtyard.”
“Never mind that,” I said, filling a cup. “Had they heard anything new about the—er—object? David John, give this to your papa, please.”
The little boy did so. “Are you speaking of the statuette, Grandmama? I hope you will not take it amiss if I remark that in my opinion I ought to have been given an opportunity to examine it, particularly in view of the fact that so many other—”
“I take your point, David John,” I cut in. Though normally a taciturn child, he could talk interminably about a subject that captured his interest. Egyptology was one of those subjects—a fact that delighted his grandfather and roused the direst of apprehensions in his grandmother. I had had to put up with one juvenile pedant and did not look forward to living with another. I did not bother asking how he had found out about the statuette. Those wide blue eyes and that innocent countenance could winkle information out of the wariest. “But I fail to see what you could contribute.”
“One never knows,” said David John.
“True. However, you will have