The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [86]
I had been acquainted with a number of those who were interred there—friends from Luxor, victims of the various criminals I had brought to justice, and one or two of the criminals themselves. In a remote corner of the cemetery, under a stone I had caused to be raised, lay the remains of one of my deadliest adversaries—Bertha, Sethos’s former lover and the mother of Maryam. Sethos avoided looking in that direction. He had refused to come at first, fearing I would insist on his paying his respects to the woman who was, after all, the mother of his child. To be sure, she had tried several times to kill him (and me), but the beautiful precepts of our faith tell us to forgive even the worst of sinners. My lecture on this subject had had no discernible effect on my brother-in-law, so I did not persist.
Emerson had not wanted to come either. Stamping along at my side, he said loudly, “Who are all these overdressed people? I thought you said no one would attend.”
“I had forgotten Mrs. Petherick’s literary reputation,” I admitted. “Some of the ladies may be Devoted Readers.”
Emerson glared at a youngish man who was holding a camera. “There’s that confounded journalist again. If you point that camera at me, sir, I will knock it out of your hand.”
We were among the few who were allowed to pass the constables and join the Pethericks and Father Benedict at the grave site. Harriet Petherick thanked us rather perfunctorily for coming and then addressed the priest. “We may as well get on with it, Father.”
I kept a close eye on Adrian as the service proceeded. He appeared to be in one of his stuporous states, standing close to his sister and staring dreamily at the cloudless blue sky overhead. I could have wished that some of the spectators behaved as well. Several of the ladies wept loudly throughout, and when Father Benedict had finished, one of them—the stout, heavily corseted woman who had been the first to ask Mrs. Petherick for her autograph—fainted onto a constable, knocking him flat. The photographer whom Emerson had threatened earlier got an excellent picture of her and the constable inadvertently entwined.
“Disgusting,” said Emerson loudly. “Let’s get out of this.”
I resisted his attempt to pull me away. The spectacle held a certain unholy fascination. I had not supposed that Dedicated Readers were capable of such vulgar behavior. The flowers they flung toward the grave fell short, pelting priest and onlookers. Someone started to sing a hymn and other wavering voices joined in. It was an inappropriate melody, given Mrs. Petherick’s religious affiliation; most of the singers could not carry a tune and some did not know the words. I caught only a few—something about being deep-dyed in sin. Harriet Petherick’s composure finally broke. Tight-lipped and pale, she looked about as if seeking assistance. I was not the only one to observe her distress, and a thrill of maternal pride ran through me when Ramses approached her and offered his arm. She clung tightly to it as he led her past the constables.
Nefret and David had taken charge of Adrian, who went with them unresisting and oblivious. I hastened to precede the group, with exclamations of “Shame! Shame!” I was forced to swat the more importunate Readers away with my parasol, and Emerson knocked down two journalists. When we had got the Pethericks into their waiting carriage, Emerson, in a much better humor, actually remembered to take off his hat when he addressed Harriet Petherick.
“Confounded ghouls! Er—that is to say, Miss Petherick, I regret you should have been