The serpent on the crown, p.1
The Serpent on the Crown, page 1
ELIZABETH PETERS was born and brought up in Illinois and earned her PhD in Egyptology from the University of Chicago’s famed Oriental Institute. She is a prolific and successful novelist with over fifty novels to her credit and is internationally renowned for her mystery stories, especially those featuring indomitable heroine Amelia Peabody. Mrs Peters lives in a historic farmhouse in Frederick, Maryland, with six cats and two dogs.
Praise for Elizabeth Peters’
Amelia Peabody novels
‘Dastardly deeds, whirlwind romances, curious mummies and all
the fun and intrigue of Egyptian excavations, with a heroine
who wields a sturdy parasol rather than a magnum.
Accomplished entertainment.’
Guardian
‘Between Amelia Peabody and Indiana Jones, it’s Amelia –
in wit and daring – by a landslide.’
New York Times Book Review
‘The doughtiest, smartest, most appealing female
protagonist in mystery fiction.’
Aaron Elkins, author of Make No Bones
‘If Indiana Jones were female, a wife and a mother who lived in
Victorian times, he would be Amelia Peabody Emerson.’
Publishers Weekly
‘Amelia Peabody Emerson, archaeologist extraordinaire, and
arguably the most potent female force to hit Egypt since
Cleopatra, is digging in again!’
Philadelphia Enquirer
‘Shines with charm and wit . . . and the winsome
personality of Amelia Peabody.’
Chicago Sun-Times
Titles in this series currently
available from Constable & Robinson Ltd
Crocodile on the Sandbank
First Amelia Peabody mystery
The Curse of the Pharaohs
Second Amelia Peabody mystery
The Mummy Case
Third Amelia Peabody mystery
Lion in the Valley
Fourth Amelia Peabody mystery
The Deeds of the Disturber
Fifth Amelia Peabody mystery
The Last Camel Died at Noon
Sixth Amelia Peabody mystery
The Snake, the Crocodile and the Dog
Seventh Amelia Peabody mystery
The Hippopotamus Pool
Eighth Amelia Peabody mystery
Seeing a Large Cat
Ninth Amelia Peabody mystery
The Ape Who Guards the Balance
Tenth Amelia Peabody mystery
The Falcon at the Portal
Eleventh Amelia Peabody mystery
Thunder in the Sky
Twelfth Amelia Peabody mystery
Lord of the Silent
Thirteenth Amelia Peabody mystery
The Golden One
Fourteenth Amelia Peabody mystery
Children of the Storm
Fifteenth Amelia Peabody mystery
Guardian of the Horizon
Sixteenth Amelia Peabody mystery
Tomb of the Golden Bird
Eighteenth Amelia Peabody mystery
THE SERPENT ON
THE CROWN
Elizabeth Peters
ROBINSON
London
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the USA by William Morrow,
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 2005
First UK edition published by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2005
Copyright © MPM Manor, Inc. 2005, 2006
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-1-84529-268-3
ISBN-10: 1-84529-268-5
eISBN: 978-1-78033-770-8
Printed and bound in the EU
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
To Salima Ikram
I have robbed their nostrils of the breath of life
and made the dread of you fill their hearts.
My serpent on your brow consumed them.
– The Poetical Stela of Thutmose III
Acknowledgements
I am indebted, as so often before, to my official and unofficial editors – Jennifer Brehl of Morrow, Kristen Whitbread of MPM Manor, Dennis Forbes of KMT, and George B. Johnson. It is impossible for mere mortals, even those as talented as the above-mentioned, to attain perfection; but thanks to them, I believe I’ve managed to eliminate the most egregious of the little lapses that marked the first draft. Any remaining goofs are my responsibility, not theirs. I can’t imagine what I would do without them.
Informed readers will spot various Egyptological jokes. Dennis Forbes is responsible for what I consider the most entertaining of these: the unexpected appearance of a certain golden statuette.
The translation of Thutmose III’s Poetical Stela is based on that of Miriam Lichtheim in her indispensable Ancient Egyptian Literature.
Chapter One
He woke from a feverish sleep to see something bending over him. It was a shape of black ice, a tall featureless outline that exuded freezing cold. He tried to move, to cry out. Every muscle was frozen. Cold air touched his face, sucking out breath, warmth, life.
We had gathered for tea on the veranda. It is a commodious apartment, stretching clear across the front of the house, and the screens covering the wide window apertures and outer door do not interfere with the splendid view. Looking out at the brilliant sunlight and golden sand, with the water of the Nile tinted by the sunset, it was hard to believe that elsewhere in the world snow covered the ground and icy winds blew. My state of mind was as benevolent as the gentle breeze. The delightful but exhausting Christmas festivities were over and a new year had begun – 1922, which, I did not doubt, would bring additional success to our excavations and additional laurels to the brow of my distinguished spouse, the greatest Egyptologist of this or any age.
Affectionately I contemplated his impressive form – the sapphire-blue eyes and ebon hair, the admirable musculature of chest and arms, half bared by his casual costume. Our son, Ramses, who had acquired that nickname because he had the colouring of an Egyptian and, in his youth, the dogmatism of a pharaoh, sat comfortably sprawled on the settee, next to his beautiful wife, our adopted daughter, Nefret. Faint cries of protest and distress drifted to our ears from the house the dear little children and their parents occupied; but even Nefret, the most devoted of mothers, paid them no heed. We were well accustomed to the complaints; such sounds always accompanied the efforts of Fatima and her assistants (it took several of them) to wash and change the children. It would be some time before the little dears joined us, and when a carriage drew up in front of the house I could not repress a mild murmur of protest at the disturbance of our peace.
Emerson protested more emphatically. ‘Damnation! Who the devil is that?’
‘Now, Emerson, don’t swear,’ I said, watching a woman descend from the carriage.
Asking Emerson not to use bad language is tantamount to King Canute’s ordering the tide not to surge in. His Egyptian sobriquet of ‘Father of Curses’ is well deserved.
‘Do you know her?’ Emerson demanded.
‘No.’
‘Then tell her to go away.’
‘She appears to be in some distress,’ Nefret said. Her physician’s gaze had noted the uncertain movements and hesitant steps. ‘Ramses, perhaps you had better see if she requires assistance.’
‘Assist her back into her carriage,’ Emerson said loudly.
Ramses looked from his wife to his father to me, his heavy black eyebrows tilting in inquiry. ‘Use your own judgement,’ I said, knowing what the result would be. Ramses was too well brought up (by me) to be rude to a woman, and this one appeared determined to proceed. As soon as he reached her she caught hold of his arm with both hands, swayed, and leaned against him. In a breathy, accented voice she said, ‘You are Dr Emerson, I believe? I must see you and your parents at once.’
Somewhat taken aback by the title, which he had earned but never used, Ramses looked down at the face she had raised in entreaty. I could not make out her features, since she was heavily veiled. The veils were unrelieved black, as was her frock. It fit (in my opinion) rather too tightly to a voluptuously rounded figure. Short of prying her hands off his arm, Ramses had no choice but to lead her to the veranda.
As soon as she was inside she adjusted the black chiffon veils, exposing a countenance whose semblance of youth owed more to art than to nature. Her eyes were framed with kohl and her full lips were skillfully tinted. Catching my eye, she lifted her chin in a practised gesture that smoothed out the slight sagging of her throat. ‘I apologize for the intrusion. The matter is of some urgency. My name is Magda Petherick. I am the widow of Pringle Petherick. My life is threatened and only you can save me.’
It was certainly the sort of introduction that captured one’s attention. I invited Mrs Petherick to take a chair and offered her a cup of tea. ‘Take your time,’ I said, for she was breathing quickly and her face was flushed. She carried a heavy reticule, which she placed at her feet before she accepted the cup from Ramses.
Leaning against the wall, his arms folded, Emerson studied her interestedly. Like myself, he had recognized the name.
‘Your husband was Pringle Petherick, the well-known collector?’ he inquired. ‘I believe he passed away recently.’
‘November of last year,’ she said. ‘A date that is engraved on my heart.’ She pressed her hand over that region of her person and launched, without further preamble, into the description I have already recorded. ‘He woke that morning from a feverish sleep . . .
‘This is what killed him,’ she finished. Reaching into the bag, she withdrew a rectangular box painted with crude Egyptian symbols. ‘He had purchased it only a few weeks earlier, unaware that the curse of the long-dead owner yet clung to it.’
A long pause ensued, while we all tried to think of an appropriate response. It had occurred to me, as I feel sure it has occurred to the Reader, that there was a certain literary air about her narrative, but even Emerson was not rude enough to inform a recently bereaved widow that she was either lying or demented.
‘If I may ask,’ Ramses said, after a while, ‘how is it that you were able to describe his death so – er – in such vivid detail? He was – that is to say – he was dead, wasn’t he?’
‘He lingered for a while,’ said Mrs Pringle Petherick composedly.
‘Oh,’ said Ramses.
Nefret, who had been staring fixedly at Mrs Petherick, said, ‘Forgive me, but your face is familiar. Aren’t you Magda, Countess von Ormond, the novelist?’
Aha, I thought. That explains the accent. According to her publicity releases, the countess came from a noble Hungarian family. She had fled that country during the upheaval of the War.
The lady’s mouth opened in a wide, pleased smile. ‘You have read my books? I will be happy to sign the ones you have with you.’
‘I didn’t bring any with me,’ said Nefret, her expression bland as cream. ‘I saw you several years ago at a literary luncheon in London. At that time, I believe, you were not married.’
‘My dear Pringle and I became one only a year before his dreadful death. And now,’ she continued, ‘the curse has fallen upon me. Twice I have beheld that grim black figure, and my intuition tells me that the third time will mean my death. Take it. I beg you!’
She thrust the box at Ramses. Eyeing it askance, he stepped back. I took it, and was about to lift the lid when Mrs Petherick let out a ladylike shriek.
‘Don’t open it! I never want to see that evil little face again!’
‘Am I to understand,’ I inquired, ‘that you are passing the – er – curse on to us?’
‘But you are experienced in dealing with such things,’ Mrs Petherick exclaimed, rolling her black-rimmed eyes. ‘You can do it safely. You have done it before. I have heard the stories.’
The stories to which she referred were lurid newspaper articles, many of them written by our journalist friend Kevin O’Connell. Although in every case the purported curse had been proved false, and the evils attributed to it had been found to be caused by a human criminal, many readers remembered the sensational theories and ignored the rational explanations. If the woman actually believed we could cancel curses and defeat evil spirits, she had to be acquitted of deliberate malice.
The children would soon be joining us, and I did not want their juvenile imaginations stirred up by such nonsense. I was about to suggest to Mrs Petherick that she tie a stone to the confounded thing and toss it in the Nile, when Emerson cleared his throat. His sapphirine eyes were bright and his handsomely tanned face bore an expression of amiable concern. Curse it, I thought.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You may leave it with us, madam. I will perform – er – I will take care of the matter.’
Mrs Petherick leaned back in her chair, ignoring Emerson’s hint. ‘What are you going to do? Return it to the tomb from which it was stolen?’
‘That might prove a trifle difficult,’ Ramses said, with a critical look at his father. ‘If, as I assume, it was purchased on the antiquities market, there is little hope of tracing the original thief and finding out where he obtained it.’
‘Hmph,’ said Emerson, giving his son an equally critical look. ‘You know my methods, Ramses. Rest assured, madam, that you need not give the matter another thought. Good day to you.’
This dismissal was too direct to ignore. Mrs Petherick rose to her feet, but made one more attempt to prolong the conversation. ‘It killed my dog, too,’ she offered. ‘My poor little Pug. He choked and twitched, and was gone, just like that.’
Fatima, seeing that we had a guest, had managed to detain the children, but I could hear them expostulating in their high-pitched voices. Emerson heard them too; he got Mrs Petherick to the door of the veranda, but not before she had told us where she was staying and had asked to be informed when the curse had been officially lifted. She added, with an air of complacency quite at variance from her initial distress, ‘Perhaps I should participate in the ceremony.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Emerson, shoving the lady into her carriage and motioning the driver to proceed.
‘Really, Emerson,’ I said. ‘What ceremony? You made no promise, but your failure to deny her suggestion was a tacit –’
‘Well, what else could I have done?’ Emerson demanded. ‘The woman was in considerable distress. Her mind will now be at ease.’
‘Oh, bah,’ I said. ‘Are you familiar with the literary (I use the word loosely) works of Countess von Ormond?’
‘Good Gad, no,’ said Emerson.
‘I’ve read some of them,’ Nefret said. ‘The Vampire’s Kiss was her first. All her novels are about vampires and curses and hauntings.’
‘Quite,’ I said. ‘I suspect that the vivacious account of her husband’s death was the first paragraph of her next novel. She means to use us and our questionable reputation with the newspapers in order to get publicity. I understand that her sales have been falling off.’
‘The later books aren’t nearly as entertaining as the first four or five,’ Nefret said critically. ‘They were really quite good. I had to leave the light on all night while I was reading Sons of the Werewolf.’
‘Good Gad,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘I had no idea you indulged in such trash, Nefret. Peabody, why did you let her –’
‘I do not believe in censoring the reading material of adult persons, Emerson.’
‘In fact it would be a question of the pot and the kettle,’ said Emerson. ‘Your penchant for sensational novels like those of Rider Haggard –’
‘Which you also read on the sly,’ I retorted. ‘Hypocrisy does not become you, Emerson. To return to the point, I do not intend to allow the woman to make use of us. I will return that object to her tomorrow, unopened, with a stiff note.’
‘Not unopened,’ said Emerson. ‘Aren’t you even a trifle curious about the accursed object?’
‘It is only a crude wooden box, Emerson, not even ancient.’
‘Ah,’ said Emerson. ‘But what is inside the box? Your analysis of the lady’s motives may be accurate, my dear, but it overlooks one interesting fact. Petherick was a wealthy, discriminating collector. She may have purchased the box in Cairo, but if the contents came from Petherick’s collection, they will be worth looking at.’
He took the box from me and was about to lift the lid when I exclaimed, ‘No, Emerson. Not now. Put it away.’
Seeing that our visitor had departed, Fatima opened the door to the house and the juvenile avalanche descended. There were only two of them, and they were only four years old, but they made enough noise for a dozen and moved so rapidly that they gave the impression of having been multiplied. As usual, they dashed at their grandfather, who tried to hide the painted box behind his back. He was not quick enough.
‘It is a present!’ Carla shouted. Her black eyes, so like those of her father, shone with anticipation. ‘Is it for me?’
Her brother, David John, who had his mother’s fair hair and blue eyes, shook his head. ‘The assumption is without foundation, Carla. Grandpapa would not have a present for only one of us.’
‘Quite right,’ said Emerson. ‘Er – this is a present for me.’
