The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [97]
“He has his moods.” She stopped and turned to face him. “I admit I haven’t confided fully in you and your parents. I doubt I can tell you anything that will throw light on my stepmother’s death, but perhaps I haven’t the right to hold anything back. May I speak to you in private, without anyone knowing? I will leave it to your discretion to decide what to tell the others.”
“Yes, of course. When?”
“Not today. Adrian is determined to see every tomb in the Valley of the Kings. I will send you a message.”
His parents returned from Luxor shortly after Nefret and he reached the house. Emerson immediately demanded a report on the morning’s work. Ramses was able to condense it into two sentences. “We’ve finished the burial chamber except for the far corner and the niche. Nothing.”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson. “Starting tomorrow—”
Perched on the arm of his chair, Nefret interrupted with a laugh and a playful hand across his lips. “Never mind about tomorrow; I want to know what you discovered this morning. To judge by your expression, Mother, you were right about the mysterious Mrs. Johnson.”
“It was not a difficult deduction,” his mother said. The words were modest, but her expression could only be described as smug. “Mrs. Petherick’s name was inscribed on certain of the linens, and the gowns—none of them black—were obviously hers. There was also a jewel case, with several valuable pieces of jewelry.”
“Did you find a wig?” Ramses asked.
His mother’s smile widened. “Well done, Ramses. No, we did not. She must have been wearing it the night she was murdered, which means the killer took it away with him. One can only speculate about his reasons for doing so, but—”
“Don’t speculate,” Emerson ordered.
“If you say so, my dear. We intended to inform the Pethericks of our discovery, and ask them to look over the contents of the room to see if anything is missing, but we were unable to locate them.”
“They were in the Valley of the Kings,” Nefret said. “Behaving like ordinary tourists.”
“Except,” Ramses added, “that they asked to see KV55.”
“You let them in?” Emerson demanded.
“Not into the burial chamber, obviously.”
“Oh. All right, then. Now, as I was saying…”
Ramses had become accustomed to his father’s abrupt changes of plan, but this one caught all the others by surprise—even his mother.
“Join Cyrus in the West Valley?” she exclaimed. “Why, for pity’s sake? I thought you wanted to finish in KV55.”
“I do. I will,” said Emerson, fumbling with his pipe. “I am only postponing it. Too bloody many tourists.”
There would be just as many tourists in a week’s time, or in two weeks’. Ramses was beginning to get an inkling of what his father was up to. He had a foothold in the Valley of the Kings, and he intended to hang on to it. The only question was why?
After luncheon, Emerson sent David to Deir el Medina to take photographs and confer with Selim. The rest of them headed for the West Valley, leaving Ramses with his papyri and Mikhail Katchenovsky. Ramses was becoming attached to the quiet Russian; he was so anxious to please and so efficient, and so good with the children. The twins gravitated to him at once when they all met for tea, and as he watched them Ramses wondered if the Russian had had children of his own. It would have been inappropriate to ask, of course; the man’s personal life was his own affair, and the subject might be a tender one.
Wasim came up to the house with the post while Katchenovsky was telling a story about an evil werewolf and a princess and the brave peasant boy who had rescued her. Ramses sorted through the messages as he listened.
“And there was this,” Wasim said, handing over a much-folded paper. “Delivered by hand for you.”
One glance told Ramses it was not the message from Harriet Petherick he had hoped to receive. The dirty paper was addressed in awkward Arabic writing to “The Brother of Demons.” After he had read it he folded it again and put it in his pocket.
“Who gave you this?” he asked.
“I do not know, Brother of Demons. I found it with the other letters. There