The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [87]
“Thank you. I am grateful to all of you. Would you join us at the hotel for a little refreshment? I believe that is customary after a funeral.”
I assumed the invitation included me, though she had looked only at Emerson and Ramses. “We will be along shortly,” I said. “I think we ought to rescue Father Benedict.”
However, the good father did not want to be rescued. He was a jolly, sociable man who seldom found himself the center of such interested attention. We left him posing for photographs and comforting afflicted Dedicated Readers.
I instructed the driver of our hired carriage not to whip up the horses. We do not permit cruelty to animals. Besides, rapid motion raises a cloud of dust and I was wearing my second-best hat.
Emerson leaned back and took out his pipe. “I presume, Peabody, that this is not so much a visit of condolence as an inquisition.”
“That is not a nice way of putting it, Emerson.”
“It is an accurate way of putting it, I hope,” said Sethos. “Or I would not attend.”
“I thought you were concerned about Adrian,” I said critically.
“You do me too much credit, dear Amelia.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The boy held up well today.”
“He is in a state of shock.” Nefret’s smooth brow furrowed. “I am afraid that the reaction may be sudden and violent. I wish I knew how to help him.”
“Your specialty is surgery, not psychology,” I said. “Your good heart does you credit, my dear, but you must learn not to take on unnecessary burdens.”
“Like you?” Emerson inquired.
We had outstripped the reporters and the sensation seekers; the hotel guests who did not fall into the latter category had gone off to see the sights, so the lobby was relatively deserted. When I asked the clerk at the desk to inform the Pethericks we had arrived, he said we were to go straight up. “The lady is now in the rooms formerly occupied by Madam Petherick.”
Adrian answered the door. He had transferred his fickle affection from Sethos to Nefret; with scarcely a glance at the former, he took Nefret’s hands and spoke with febrile vivacity.
“So good! So kind of you to come. Please take a chair. Harriet! The Emersons are here.”
We were not the only callers. I had observed Sir Malcolm at the cemetery, looking on with a sneer and twirling his silver-headed cane. He must have left before the service was over in order to arrive before us.
“I was not aware that you were acquainted with Mrs. Petherick, Sir Malcolm,” I said, acknowledging his bow.
“I was well acquainted with her husband, Mrs. Emerson. I felt obliged to pay my respects.”
Harriet came out of the neighboring bedchamber with a hatbox in her hand. Tossing it onto the floor, she said, “Your hypocrisy will not deceive the Emersons any more than it did me, Sir Malcolm. They know quite well why you are here.”
“How much did you offer?” Emerson inquired bluntly.
“I hardly think, Professor, that that need concern you.”
“Five thousand pounds,” said Harriet Petherick. “Will you take tea or coffee, Mrs. Emerson?”
She indicated several trays of light refreshments on the table.
David let out a stifled exclamation. The lady did not miss much. Looking at him, she inquired, “Too little, you think? How would you know?”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I believe you have not met Mr. David Todros, our nephew by marriage. He is a well-known sculptor and painter, and an authority on Egyptian art.”
Harriet’s critical expression changed to one of interest. “I am familiar with your work, Mr. Todros. At what price would you value the statue?”
“The worth of such objects depends on the market,” David said cautiously. “But that price strikes me offhand as extremely low.”
“It is also irrelevant,” Emerson said. “Miss Petherick has not the right to sell the statuette.”
“Then who does?” Sir Malcolm demanded. “Mrs. Petherick is no more. She had no children. Her property passes to her husband’s children. I am offering—”
“You, sir, are no gentleman,” I interrupted.
Sir Malcolm’s pale face turned pink. “I beg your pardon, madam!”
“The poor lady is barely cold