The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [76]
“We can’t seem to come to an agreement,” Sethos said. “But we are edging closer, I think. Perhaps you can help, Amelia. You are well known for your success in assisting romantic affairs. I expect Margaret will turn up before long, this story is becoming irresistible.”
“Oh, wonderful,” snarled Emerson. “That’s all we need, Margaret and perhaps her old rival Kevin O’Connell badgering us. I refuse to be distracted by this twaddle. Ramses, Peabody, Nefret, David, get your gear together.”
“Where are we going?” Nefret asked.
“Deir el Medina first. Selim said he’d run across something he wants to show me. Then the Valley of the Kings.”
Nefret and Ramses rose obediently. I reached for another piece of toast. It was rather leathery, but I spread marmalade on it anyhow.
Emerson began muttering. He hadn’t done that for a long time. “Expected this…hopeless cause…confounded female…”
“I presume,” I remarked, “that the final phrase applies not to me but to poor Mrs. Petherick. Such sentiments are unworthy of you, Emerson. I cannot so callously ignore the horrible murder of a fellow human being. That takes precedence over all other activities. However, if you are determined to—”
“You don’t know that it was murder,” Emerson said. “And if it was…Damnation! What are you going to do?”
“Examine the scene of the crime. Question witnesses. Offer my condolences to Miss and Mr. Petherick.” I took a bite of toast, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed. “After that, we shall see.”
Emerson threw up his hands, literally and figuratively. “What about you, Sethos?”
“Why, I share Amelia’s humanitarian views, of course” was the smooth reply. “Anyhow, her activities ought to be much more entertaining than yours.”
As Sethos and I walked down the road toward the river, we were amused to observe several Egyptians industriously digging in the ashes of the fire, looking for the remains of the statuette. I didn’t doubt that some of the tourists would have been doing the same if Wasim had let them by. With the aid of my parasol and Sethos’s stick we made our way through the hangers-on near the guardhouse. There were not so many of them that morning; some had abandoned the unproductive siege and others, I surmised, had been drawn to the scene of the crime. I hoped Ayyid had been able to keep it relatively uncontaminated, but I did not count on it.
It was a fine, clear morning, as are most mornings in Luxor. Sunlight sparkled on the water and the white sails of feluccas dipped and swung. I had sent word to Daoud’s son Sabir; when we reached the riverbank, his boat was waiting. The gangplank, which served as a makeshift oar when necessary, was at a challenging angle and quite narrow, but I disdained the hands stretched out to assist me. Long before it became acceptable for ladies to do so, I had given up cumbersome skirts in favor of trousers. Thus attired, I ascended quite nimbly, the various useful items attached to my belt of tools jingling.
“You seem to be carrying more odds and ends than ever,” said Sethos, settling himself onto the bench next to me. “Canteen, knife, flask of brandy, coil of rope, candle and matches—what’s in this box?”
“Medical supplies. Bandages, sticking plaster, and so on.”
“I shudder to think what ‘and so on’ might consist of.”
He was being frivolous, so I did not deign to reply. In fact I had fewer “odds and ends” on my belt than usual, since the numerous pockets in my coat and trousers provided an alternative. Emerson had always complained, not so much about the accoutrements as about the noise they made when I moved. Admittedly this made it more difficult for me to creep up on a suspect unheard, so I had