The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [81]
“I’ll catch the bastard who killed her,” Emerson muttered. “Er—don’t repeat what I said to your mother. She’ll think me a sentimental fool.”
Ramses ventured to put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “She thinks you’re a great man. So do I.”
Emerson cleared his throat noisily. “I want to get that grid in the burial chamber today. See to it, my boy, will you?”
As the morning went on, more and more tourists arrived, and the majority of them stopped to watch, blocking the path and getting in everyone’s way. The news of Mrs. Petherick’s death had spread; several journalists were among the watchers, shouting questions and leaning over the parapet to point their cameras whenever anyone emerged from the tomb. Finally the inevitable happened; one of them leaned too far and toppled over the wall.
Emerson came running, took one look at the prostrate form, and began to swear. “Nefret!” he bellowed.
Ramses recognized the man as the same photographer who had been talking to Carla. He had fallen on his back, and his camera, by a strange piece of luck, appeared to be undamaged. Ramses stood by watching while Nefret examined the fellow.
“Nothing seems to be broken,” she announced. “Try to sit up, Mr.——?”
“Anderson. The Daily Yell. Professor, would you care to give me your theory—”
Emerson interrupted with a roar of fury. “One of Kevin O’Connell’s henchmen! I might have known. Is there no limit to what you people will do to get an interview?”
“Don’t you think I’m entitled to one?” Anderson remained recumbent. His smug smile reminded Ramses of O’Connell’s. “Your exorcism didn’t do the trick, did it? The black afrit has claimed another victim.”
For a moment Ramses was afraid he would have to restrain his father by main force. Emerson was only too accustomed to journalistic tricks, though. With an effort that left him shaking, he said, “No comment. Get up that ladder and make yourself scarce.”
Anderson lived up to the honored traditions of the profession; they had to pull him to his feet and shove him up the ladder into the grip of Hassan. His final shot was worthy of O’Connell himself. “I won’t sue, Professor, if you’ll give me ten minutes of your—ouch!”
“This is too bloody much,” Emerson declared. “From now on we work from six to nine in the morning and again in the late afternoon. Hassan, I want this pit roofed over. Now.”
“Are we going back to the house?” Nefret asked.
“May as well,” Emerson grumbled. “We’ll be followed by the horde if we go anywhere else. Ahmet, hop on over to the West Valley and tell Vandergelt Effendi I want to see him immediately.”
“Tell him we’d be delighted to have him come to the house for luncheon,” Nefret corrected.
“Oh. Yes,” said Emerson, rubbing his chin. “David, bring along that tray of odds and ends we found this morning. You can photograph and sketch them at the house.”
So far they hadn’t found much in the debris of the burial chamber, only a few beads and rotten scraps of wood, and a broken seal. A few of the spectators trailed them as far as the donkey park, but abandoned the chase when they mounted and urged the horses to a canter.
It was not long before Cyrus and his staff turned up. Emerson had been pacing up and down the veranda, hands behind his back, pausing every now and then to look out. He didn’t say so, but Ramses knew he was watching for his wife. The Petherick affair had touched his conscience and aroused his detectival instincts. He had been sincere when he swore he would find Mrs. Petherick’s killer.
“We met Ahmet at the entrance to the Valley,” Cyrus explained. “I was just about to send one of our fellows with a note. Seems there’s been a change in our plans.”
“Not at all,” said Emerson, accepting a cup of coffee from Fatima. “Er—somewhat. Too damned many people in the East Valley. A cursed journalist fell over the wall this morning.”
“Was he hurt?” Bertie asked.
“It was a stunt,” Emerson said disgustedly. “If he had really fallen he’d have landed on his head, not his backside. I can’t concentrate on work under those conditions.