The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [90]
Almost as interesting was the fact that the wardrobe I had seen was not as extensive as it ought to have been. Ladies of fashion travel with a wide variety of clothing and accoutrements. There had only been a few changes of underclothing, and they were patched and darned. She had brought at least one flamboyant garment with her—the crimson gown in which she had been buried. And surely she had owned more jewelry than the contents of that single rosewood casket.
Pondering these matters, I made my way along the corridor, exchanging absentminded compliments with the suffragis and waiters I encountered. I stopped at the desk to give instructions to the clerk about Mrs. Petherick’s things, and then said casually, “Who is the lady in room 354?”
If the fellow had said, “What lady?” my theory would have collapsed on the spot. Instead he replied readily, “A Mrs. Johnson, madam. She arrived a week ago.”
“Ah,” I said. “I think I may know her. Is she of middle age and medium height, with black hair and eyes?”
The young man was sorry to disappoint me. “The age and size are correct, Mrs. Emerson, but Mrs. Johnson has yellow hair. Bright yellow hair. Very bright.”
I was sorely tempted to take the final step that would prove my theory, but the spirit of fair play demanded that I admit Emerson to my confidence first. So I thanked the young man and turned away. My brisk stride (and my raised parasol) got me through the lobby and out of the hotel without being accosted, though the confounded journalist and his camera made an abortive attempt to stop me. “Mrs. Emerson!” he called. “My friend Kevin O’Connell—”
He was mistaken if he believed that name would gain him favor. Kevin was a friend but he was also a journalist, and at times, such as the present, the two were incompatible. I brushed the fellow aside and went on.
They were all waiting for me on the veranda, including the Vandergelts and Jumana. Katherine had decided they should not attend the obsequies, since they had not been acquainted with Mrs. Petherick, so they were understandably curious about what had gone on.
“You were wise to stay away,” I said, giving Katherine a kiss. “It was a disgusting spectacle.”
“So I have been told” was her reply. “And I gather that the brother and sister have been ordered not to leave Egypt. I cannot understand that, Amelia. There is no evidence against them, is there?”
“So far there is no evidence against anyone,” Emerson grunted. “Unless Peabody discovered something while she was examining the lady’s belongings?”
All eyes returned to me. Emerson’s sapphire blue orbs were narrowed.
“My dear, how can you impugn my motives?” I inquired, with a merry little laugh.
Lounging at ease, legs crossed, Sethos shook his head. “Don’t annoy him, Amelia. He is already in a vile humor.”
Emerson opened his mouth, closed it, drew a deep breath, and spoke in a soft, controlled voice. “I asked Cyrus and Bertie—and Jumana—to meet with us in order to determine our plans for excavation, not to gossip about matters that do not concern us.”
“So you are not interested in what I learned after you left?”
Emerson could not admit he was dying to hear. He said grumpily, “The sooner you get it out, the sooner we can dismiss the subject.”
I didn’t want to increase his aggravation for fear he would go back on his promise to hire additional staff and give the children more freedom to get on with their own work. So I explained my deductions about Mrs. Petherick’s wardrobe and jewelry, ignoring Emerson’s muttered comments (“Typical female…clothes…balderdash…”), and went on to describe my conversation with the desk clerk. At that point Emerson gave over muttering in favor of profanity.