The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog

Book 7: Amelia Peabody

by Elizabeth Peters

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Amelia hopes to rekindle some of the old fire with Emerson in a return journey to Amarna, Egypt where they met 13 years before. But her plan is foiled when Emerson emerges from a night-time ambush typically furious and with absolutely no memory of who Amelia is!

Release date: March 1, 2010

Publisher: Recorded Books

Print pages: 340

Sample

“Clever… plenty of interesting Egyptian and archeological lore, lots of danger.”


—New York Times Book Review

“High adventure, narrated in Amelia’s witty, inimitably resplendent style. Peabody fans will rejoice.”

—Library Journal

“It’s a tongue-in-cheek tightrope walk between parody and homage, brought off flawlessly.… Amelia is rather like Indiana Jones,
Sherlock Holmes, and Miss Marple all rolled into one…. A juicy new extract… to curl with.”


—Washington Post Book World

“Amelia’s back, and she has laid in a new supply of attack parasols. Seems as if there’s no rest for Elizabeth Peters’ feisty,
turn-of-the-century Egyptologist detective, who has a propensity for peril and a prediction for pantaloons…. High spirits
and lucid repartee.”


—Christian Science Monitor

“Surefire entertainment.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Enemies old and new abound … but there’s still fun to be had for Amelia’s fans and lovers of Egyptology.”

—Kirkus Reviews


“Another chapter in the stirring history of one of fiction’s first families…. THE SNAKE, THE CROCODILE AND THE DOG is particularly
rich in Egyptology, reflecting the author’s recent travels as well as a lifetime of scholarship. It is also rich in lore about
the Emersons and their history… Personally, I hope that they, and the author, live forever.”


—Mystery News

“Few readers will solve all the puzzles before the final chapter. Peters must have enjoyed writing this novel as much as loyal
readers will relish following its twists and turns.”


—Booklist

“High adventure at its finest. Wild animals, evil natives, spies, master criminals, and ancient artifacts all combine to make
it impossible to put down.”


—Rock Hill Herald (NC)

“It’s always fun to go on safari with this crew, and THE SNAKE, THE CROCODILE AND THE DOG is prime fare.”


—Anniston Star


“This book manages to be funny and scary, sharp and lush, quick and detailed in the way only a writer both at home in her
genre and secure in her fans can.… It’s the most fun yet.”


—Rockland Courier-Gazette (ME)

“A rousing adventure where both of these Egyptologists draw their reader to the exciting finish.”

—Rainbo Electronic Reviews

“Clever plot twists and turns… page-turning action.”

—Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt

“A resounding triumph.”

—San Gabriel Valley Tribune Daily News

“A romp. ”

—Detroit Free Press

“The surprising conclusion proves once again that Amelia Peabody Emerson is more than a match for the most devious criminal
minds.”


—Magill Book Reviews




“Some concessions to temperament are necessary if the marital state is to flourish.”

I believe I may truthfully claim that I have never been daunted by danger or drudgery. Of the two I much prefer the former.
As the only unmarried offspring of my widowed and extremely absentminded father, I was held responsible for the management
of the household—which, as every woman knows, is the most difficult, unappreciated, and lowest paid (i.e., not paid) of all
occupations. Thanks to the above-mentioned absentmindedness of my paternal parent I managed to avoid boredom by pursuing such
unwomanly studies as history and languages, for Papa never minded what I did so long as his meals were on time, his clothing
was clean and pressed, and he was not disturbed by anyone for any reason whatever.


At least I thought I was not bored. The truth is, I had nothing with which to compare that life, and no hope of a better one.
In those declining years of the nineteenth century, marriage was not an alternative that appealed to me; it would
have been to exchange comfortable serfdom for absolute slavery—or so I believed. (And I am still of that opinion as regards
the majority of women.) My case was to be the exception that proves the rule, and had I but known what unimagined and unimaginable
delights awaited me, the bonds that chafed me would have been unendurable. Those bonds were not broken until the death of
my poor papa left me the possessor of a modest fortune and I set out to see the ancient sites I knew only from books and photographs.
In the antique land of Egypt I learned at last what I had been missing—adventure, excitement, danger, a life’s work that employed
all my considerable intellectual powers, and the companionship of that remarkable man who was destined for me as I was for
him. What mad pursuits! What struggles to escape! What wild ecstasy!




I am informed, by a certain person of the publishing persuasion, that I have not set about this in the right way. She maintains
that if an author wishes to capture the attention of her readers she must begin with a scene of violence and/or passion.


“I mentioned—er—’wild ecstasy,’ “ I said.

The person gave me a kindly smile. “Poetry, I believe? We do not allow poetry, Mrs. Emerson. It slows the narrative and confuses
the Average Reader.” (This apocryphal individual is always referred to by persons of the publishing persuasion with a blend
of condescension and superstitious awe; hence my capital letters.)


“What we want is blood,” she continued, with mounting enthusiasm. “And a lot of it! That should be easy for you, Mrs. Emerson.
I believe you have encountered a good many murderers.”


This was not the first time I had considered editing my
journals for eventual publication, but never before had I gone so far as to confer with an editor, as these individuals are
called. I was forced to explain that if her views were characteristic of the publishing industry today, that industry would
have to muddle along without Amelia P. Emerson. How I scorn the shoddy tricks of sensationalism which characterize modern
literary productions! To what a state has the noble art of literature fallen in recent years! No longer is a reasoned, leisurely
exposition admired; instead the reader is to be bludgeoned into attention by devices that appeal to the lowest and most degraded
of human instincts.


The publishing person went away shaking her head and mumbling about murder. I was sorry to disappoint her, for she was a pleasant
enough individual—for an American. I trust that remark will not leave me open to an accusation of chauvinism; Americans have
many admirable characteristics, but literary taste is rare among them. If I consider this procedure again, I will consult
a British publisher.




I suppose I might have pointed out to the naive publishing person that there are worse things than murder. Dead bodies I have
learned to take in my stride, so to speak; but some of the worst moments of my life occurred last winter when I crawled on
all fours through indescribable refuse toward the place where I hoped, and feared, to find the individual dearer to me than
life itself. He had been missing for almost a week. I could not believe any prison could hold a man of his intelligence and
strength so long unless… The hideous possibilities were too painful to contemplate; mental anguish overwhelmed the physical
pain of bruised knees and scratched palms, and rendered inconsequential the fear of enemies on every hand. Already the swollen
orb of day hung low in the west. The shadows of the coarse weeds stretched gray across
the grass, touching the walls of the structure that was our goal. It was a small low building of stained mud-brick that seemed
to squat sullenly in its patch of refuse-strewn dirt. The two walls visible to me had neither windows nor doors. A sadistic
owner might keep a dog in such a kennel…


Swallowing hard, I turned to my faithful reis Abdullah, who was close at my heels. He shook his head warningly and placed
a finger on his lips. A gesture conveyed his message: the roof was our goal. He gave me a hand up and then followed.


A crumbling parapet shielded us from sight, and Abdullah let out his breath in a gasp. He was an old man; the strain of suspense
and effort had taken their toll. I had no sympathy to give him then, nor would he have wanted it. Scarcely pausing, he crawled
toward the middle of the roof, where there was an opening little more than a foot square. A grille of rusted metal covered
it, resting on a ledge or lip just below the surface of the roof. The bars were thick and close together.


Were the long days of suspense at an end? Was he within? Those final seconds before I reached the aperture seemed to stretch
on interminably. But they were not the worst. That was yet to come.


The only other light in the foul den below came from a slit over the door. In the gloom of the opposite corner I saw a motionless
form. I knew that form; I would have recognized it in darkest night, though I could not make out his features. My senses swam.
Then a shaft of dying sunlight struck through the narrow opening and fell upon him. It was he! My prayers had been answered!
But—oh, Heaven—had we come too late? Stiff and unmoving, he lay stretched out upon the filthy cot. The features might have
been those of a waxer death mask, yellow and rigid. My straining eyes sought some sign of life, of breath… and found none.


But that was not the worst. It was yet to come.

Yes, indeed, if I were to resort to contemptible devices of
the sort the young person suggested, I could a tale unfold… I refuse to insult the intelligence of my (as yet) hypothetical
reader by doing so, however. I now resume my ordered narrative.




As I was saying: “What mad pursuits! What struggles to escape! What wild ecstasy!” Keats was speaking in quite another context,
of course. However, I have been often pursued (sometimes madly) and struggled (successfully) to escape on more than one occasion.
The last phrase is also appropriate, though I would not have put it quite that way myself.


Pursuits, struggles and the other sentiment referred to began in Egypt, where I encountered for the first time the ancient
civilization that was to inspire my life’s work, and the remarkable man who was to share it. Egyptology and Radcliffe Emerson!
The two are inseparable, not only in my heart but in the estimation of the scholarly world. It may be said—in fact, I have
often said it—that Emerson is Egyptology, the finest scholar of this or any other era. At the time of which I write we stood
on the threshold of a new century, and I did not doubt that Emerson would dominate the twentieth as he had the nineteenth.
When I add that Emerson’s physical attributes include sapphire-blue eyes, thick raven locks, and a form that is the epitome
of manly strength and grace, I believe the sensitive reader will understand why our union had proved so thoroughly satisfactory.


Emerson dislikes his first name, for reasons which I have never entirely understood. I have never inquired into them because
I myself prefer to address him by the appellation that indicates comradeship and equality, and that recalls fond memories
of the days of our earliest acquaintance. Emerson also dislikes titles; his reasons for this prejudice stem from
his radical social views, for he judges a man (and a woman, I hardly need add) by ability rather than worldly position. Unlike
most archaeologists he refuses to respond to the fawning titles used by the fellahin toward foreigners; his admiring Egyptian
workmen had honored him with the appellation of “Father of Curses,” and I must say no man deserved it more.


My union with this admirable individual had resulted in a life particularly suited to my tastes. Emerson accepted me as a
full partner professionally as well as matrimonially, and we spent the winter seasons excavating at various sites in Egypt.
I may add that I was the only woman engaged in that activity—a sad commentary on the restricted condition of females in the
late-nineteenth century of our era—and that I could never have done it without the wholehearted cooperation of my remarkable
spouse. Emerson did not so much insist upon my participation as take it for granted. (I took it for granted too, which may
have contributed to Emerson’s attitude.)


For some reason I have never been able to explain, our excavations were often interrupted by activities of a criminous nature.
Murderers, animated mummies, and Master Criminals had interfered with us; we seemed to attract tomb-robbers and homicidally
inclined individuals. All in all it had been a delightful existence, marred by only one minor flaw. That flaw was our son,
Walter Peabody Emerson, known to friends and foes alike by his sobriquet of “Ramses.”


All young boys are savages; this is an admitted fact. Ramses, whose nickname derived from a pharaoh as single-minded and arrogant
as himself, had all the failings of his gender and age: an incredible attraction to dirt and dead, smelly objects, a superb
disregard for his own survival, and utter contempt for the rules of civilized behavior. Certain characteristics unique to
Ramses made him even more difficult to deal with. His intelligence was (not surprisingly) of a high order, but it exhibited
itself in rather disconcerting ways. His Arabic was of appalling fluency (how he kept coming up
with words like those I cannot imagine; he certainly never heard them from me); his knowledge of hieroglyphic Egyptian was
as great as that of many adult scholars; and he had an almost uncanny ability to communicate with animals of all species (except
the human). He… But to describe the eccentricities of Ramses would tax even my literary skill.


In the year preceding the present narrative, Ramses had shown signs of improvement. He no longer rushed headlong into danger,
and his atrocious loquacity had diminished somewhat. A certain resemblance to his handsome sire was beginning to emerge, though
his coloring more resembled that of an ancient Egyptian than a young English lad. (I cannot account for this any more than
I can account for our constant encounters with the criminal element. Some things are beyond the comprehension of our limited
senses, and probably that is just as well.)


A recent development had had a profound though as yet undetermined effect on my son. Our latest and perhaps most remarkable
adventure had occurred the previous winter, when an appeal for help from an old friend of Emerson’s had led us into the western
deserts of Nubia to a remote oasis where the dying remnants of the ancient Meroitic civilization yet lingered.

*

We encountered the usual catastrophes—near death by thirst after the demise of our last camel, attempted kidnapping and violent
assaults—nothing out of the ordinary; and when we reached our destination we found that those whom we had come to save were
no more. The unfortunate couple had left a child, however—a young girl whom, with the aid of her chivalrous and princely foster
brother, we were able to save from the hideous fate that threatened her. Her deceased father had called her “Nefret,” most
appropriately, for the ancient Egyptian word means “beautiful.” The first sight of her struck Ramses dumb—a condition I never
expected
to see—and he had remained in that condition ever since.


I could only regard this with the direst of forebodings. Ramses was ten years old, Nefret was thirteen; but the difference
in their ages would be inconsequential when they reached adulthood, and I knew my son too well to dismiss his sentiments as
juvenile romanticism. His emotions were intense, his character (to put it mildly) determined. Once he got an idea into his
head, it was fixed in cement. He had been raised among Egyptians, who mature earlier, physically and emotionally, than the
cold English; some of his friends had fathered children by the time they reached their teens. Add to this the dramatic circumstances
under which he first set eyes on the girl…


We had not even known such an individual existed until we entered the barren, lamplit chamber where she awaited us. To see
her there in all her radiant youth, with her red-gold hair streaming down over her filmy white robes; to behold the brave
smile that defied the dangers that surrounded her… Well. Even I had been deeply affected.


We had brought the girl back to England with us and taken her into our home. This was Emerson’s idea. I must admit we had
very little choice; her grandfather, her only surviving relative, was a man so steeped in vice as to be an unfit guardian
for a cat, much less an innocent young girl. How Emerson persuaded Lord Blacktower to relinquish her I did not inquire. I
doubt that “persuaded” is an appropriate word. Blacktower was dying (indeed, he completed the process a few months later),
or even Emerson’s considerable powers of eloquence might not have prevailed. Nefret clung to us—figuratively speaking, for
she was not a demonstrative child— as the only familiar objects in a world as alien to her as Martian society (assuming such
exists) would be to me. All she knew of the modern world she had learned from us and from her father’s books, and in that
world she was not High
Priestess of Isis, the incarnation of the goddess, but something less—not even a woman, which Heaven knows was low enough,
but a girl-child, a little higher than a pet and considerably lower than a male of any age. As Emerson did not need to point
out (though he did so in wearying detail), we were peculiarly equipped to deal with a young person raised in such extraordinary
circumstances.


Emerson is a remarkable man, but he is a man. I need say no more, I believe. Having made his decision and persuaded me to
accept it, he admitted to no forebodings. Emerson never admits to having forebodings, and he becomes incensed when I mention
mine. In this case I had a good number of them.


One subject of considerable concern was how we were to explain where Nefret had been for the past thirteen years. At least
it concerned me. Emerson tried to dismiss the subject as he does other difficulties. “Why should we explain anything? If anyone
has the impertinence to ask, tell them to go to the devil.”


Fortunately Emerson is more sensible than he often sounds, and even before we left Egypt he was forced to admit that we had
to concoct a story of some kind. Our reappearance out of the desert with a young girl of obviously English parentage would
have attracted the curiosity of the dullest; her real identity had to be admitted if she was to claim her rightful position
as heiress to her grandfather’s fortune. The story contained all the features journalists dote on—youthful beauty, mystery,
aristocracy, and great amounts of money—and, as I pointed out to Emerson, our own activities had not infrequently attracted
the attentions of the jackals of the press, as he was pleased to call them.


I prefer to tell the truth whenever possible. Not only is honesty enjoined upon us by the superior moral code of our society,
but it is much easier to stick to the facts than remain consistent in falsehood. In this case the truth was not possible.
Upon leaving the Lost Oasis (or the City of the Holy Mountain,
as its citizens called it), we had sworn to keep not only its location but its very existence a secret. The people of that
dying civilization were few in number and unacquainted with firearms; they would have been easy prey for adventurers and treasure
hunters, not to mention unscrupulous archaeologists. There was also the less imperative but nonetheless important question
of Nefret’s reputation to be considered. If it were known that she had been reared among so-called primitive peoples, where
she had been the high priestess of a pagan goddess, the rude speculation and unseemly jests such ideas inspire in the ignorant
would have made her life unbearable. No; the true facts could not be made public. It was necessary to invent a convincing
lie, and when forced to depart from my usual standards of candor, I can invent as good a lie as anyone.


Luckily the historical events then ensuing provided us with a reasonable rationale. The Mahdist rebellion in the Sudan, which
began in 1881 and had kept that unhappy country in a state of turmoil for over a decade, was ending. Egyptian troops (led,
of course, by British officers) had reconquered most of the lost territory, and some persons who had been given up for lost
had miraculously reappeared. The escape of Slatin Pasha, formerly Slatin Bey, was perhaps the most astonishing example of
well-nigh miraculous survival, but there were others, including that of Father Ohrwalder and two of the nuns of his mission,
who had endured seven years of slavery and torture before making good their escape.


It was this last case that gave me the idea of inventing a family of kindly missionaries as foster parents for Nefret, both
of whose real parents (I explained) had perished of disease and hardship shortly after their arrival. Protected by their loyal
converts, the kindly religious persons had escaped the ravages of the dervishes but had not dared leave the security of their
remote and humble village while the country was so disturbed.



Emerson remarked that in his experience loyal converts were usually the first to pop their spiritual leaders into the cook
pot, but I thought it a most convincing fabrication and so, to judge by the results, did the press. I had stuck to the truth
whenever I could—a paramount rule when one concocts a fictional fabrication—and there was no need to falsify the details of
the desert journey itself. Stranded in the empty waste, abandoned by our servants, our camels dead or dying … It was a dramatic
story, and, I believe, distracted the press to such an extent that they did not question other more important details. I threw
in a sandstorm and an attack by wandering Bedouin for good measure.


The one journalist I feared most we managed to elude. Kevin O’Connell, the brash young star reporter of the Daily Yell, was on his way to the Sudan even as we left it, for the campaign was proceeding apace and the recapture of Khartoum was expected
at any time. I was fond of Kevin (Emerson was not), but when his journalistic instincts were in the ascendancy I would not
have trusted him any farther than I could have thrown him.


So that was all right. The biggest difficulty was Nefret herself.

I would be the first to admit that I am not a maternal woman. I venture to remark, however, that the Divine Mother herself
might have found her maternal instincts weakened by prolonged exposure to my son. Ten years of Ramses had convinced me that
my inability to have more children was not, as I had first viewed it, a sad disappointment, but rather a kindly disposition
of all-knowing Providence. One Ramses was enough. Two or more would have finished me.


(I understand that there has been a certain amount of impertinent speculation regarding the fact that Ramses is an only child.
I will only say that his birth resulted in certain complications which I will not describe in detail, since they are no one’s
business but my own.)



Now I found myself with another child on my hands, not a malleable infant but a girl on the threshold of womanhood, and one
whose background was even more unusual than that of my catastrophically precocious son. What on earth was I to do with her?
How could I teach her the social graces, and complete the enormous gaps in her education that would be necessary if she was
to find happiness in her new life?


Most women, I daresay, would have sent her off to school. But I hope I know my duty when it is forced upon me. It would have
been cruelty of the most exquisite variety to consign Nefret to the narrow female world of a boarding school. I was better
equipped to deal with her than any teacher, because I understood the world from which she had come and because I shared her
contempt for the absurd standards the so-called civilized world imposes on the female sex. And … I rather liked the girl.


If I were not an honest woman, I would say I loved her. No doubt that is how I ought to have felt. She had qualities any woman
would wish in a daughter—sweetness of character, intelligence, honesty, and, of course, extraordinary beauty. This quality,
which many in society would rank first, does not count so high with me, but I appreciated it. Hers was the style of looks
I had always envied. It is so unlike my own. My hair is black and coarse. Hers flowed like a river of gold. Her skin was creamy
fair, her eyes cornflower-blue. Mine … are not. Her slim little figure would probably never develop the protuberances that
mark my own. Emerson had always insisted these characteristics of mine pleased him, but I noted how appreciatively his eyes
followed Nefret’s dainty form.


We had returned to England in April and settled down at Amarna House, our home in Kent, as usual. Not quite as usual, though;
normally we would have set to work immediately on our annual excavation reports, for Emerson prided himself on publishing
them as soon as possible. This year we
would have less to write about than usual, for our expedition into the desert had occupied most of the winter season. However,
after our return to Nubia we had put in several productive weeks in the pyramid fields of Napata. (In which activity, I must
add, Nefret had been a great help. She showed a considerable aptitude for archaeology.)


I was unable to assist Emerson as I usually did. I am sure I need not explain why I was distracted. This placed a considerable
burden on Emerson, but for once he did not complain, waving aside my apologies with (ominous) good nature. “It is quite all
right, Peabody; the child’s needs come first. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”


This uncharacteristic affability, and the use of my maiden name—which Emerson employs when he is feeling particularly affectionate
or when he wishes to persuade me into some course of action to which I am opposed—aroused the direst of suspicions.


“There is nothing you can do,” I retorted. “What do men know of women’s affairs?”

“Hmmm,” said Emerson, retreating in haste to the library.

I confess that I enjoyed fitting the girl out with a proper wardrobe. When we arrived in London she had hardly a stitch of
clothing to her name, except for the brightly colored robes worn by Nubian women, and a few cheap ready-made garments I had
purchased for her in Cairo. An interest in fashion, I believe, is not incompatible with intellectual ability equaling or exceeding
that of any man; so I wallowed (the word, I hardly need say, is Emerson’s) in tucked nightgowns and lace-trimmed petticoats,
frilly unmentionables and ruffled blouses; in gloves and hats and pocket handkerchiefs, bathing costumes and cycling bloomers,
wrappers and buttoned boots, and a rainbow assortment of satin sashes with matching ribbons.


I indulged in a few purchases for myself, since a winter in Egypt always has a deplorable effect on my wardrobe. The
styles in vogue that year were less ridiculous than in the past; bustles were gone, the balloon sleeves of the past had shrunk
to a reasonable size, and skirts were soft and trailing instead of bunched up over layers of petticoats. They were particularly
suited to persons who did not require “artificial additions” to assist in delineating certain areas of the body.


At least I thought the styles were less ridiculous until I heard Nefret’s comments on them. The very idea of a bathing costume
struck her as hilarious. “What is the point of putting on clothes that will get soaking wet?” she inquired (with some reason,
I had to admit). “Do women here wear washing costumes when they take a bath?” As for her remarks on the subject of underdrawers…