The Ape Who Guards the Balance (53 page)
Read The Ape Who Guards the Balance Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Suspense, #General, #Mystery, #Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Detective and mystery stories, #Large Type Books, #Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective - Historical, #Women detectives, #Mystery & Detective - Series, #english, #Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Women archaeologists
“So, Inglizi,” he snarled. “You have killed five of my men. You will pay for that.”
“Kill me, then,” I replied. “Do not expect me to beg for mercy. That is not the way of the English.”
“An evil smile distorted his hideously scarred face.
“A quick death would be too good for you,” he sneered. “Bring him along.”
Emerson flung up his hands. “Stop! No more! Percy’s prose is as paralyzing as his profound ignorance but not as bad as his appalling conceit. May I pitch that copy onto the fire, Nefret?”
Nefret chuckled and clutched the imperilled volume to her breast. “No, sir, it’s mine and you cannot have it. I look forward to hearing what Ramses has to say about it.”
“What do you have against Percy, sir?” David inquired. “Perhaps I should not call him that—”
“Call him anything you like,” growled Emerson.
“Hasn’t Ramses told you about his encounters with Percy?” I asked. I felt sure he had; David was my son’s best friend and confidante.
“I saw several of them,” David reminded me. “When—er—Percy was in Egypt three years ago. I could tell Ramses was not—er—overly fond of his cousin, but he didn’t say much. You know how he is.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do. He keeps things too much to himself. He always has done. There has been bad blood between him and Percy since the summer Percy and his sister Violet spent several months with us. Percy was only ten years of age, but he was already a sneak and a liar, and ‘little Violet’ was not much better. They carried out a number of vicious tricks against Ramses, and they also blackmailed him. Even at that tender age, he was vulnerable to blackmail,” I admitted. “He was usually doing something he didn’t want his father and me to know about. His original sins were relatively harmless, however, compared with the things Percy did. A belief in the innocence of young children has never been one of my weaknesses, but I have never encountered a child as sly and unprincipled as Percy.”
“But that was years ago,” David said. “He was cordial enough when I met him.”
“He was busily sucking up to the rest of us,” Nefret corrected. “He was superciliously concescending to Ramses and barely civil to you, David. And he kept on proposing to me.”
That got Emerson’s complete attention. Rising from his chair, he flung his pen across the room. Ink speckled the marble countenance of Socrates—not the first time it had received such a baptism. “What?” he (Emerson, to be precise) bellowed. “Proposed marriage? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because you would have lost your temper and done something painful to Percy,” was the cool response.
I didn’t doubt Emerson could have and would have. My spouse’s magnificent physical endowments have not declined with the years, and his temper has not mellowed either.
“Now Emerson, calm yourself,” I said. “You can’t defenstrate every man who proposes to Nefret.”
“It would take too much of your time,” David said, laughing.
“They will do it, won’t they, Nefret?”
Nefret’s pretty lip curled. “I have a great deal of money and, thanks to the Professor, the power to dispose of it as I like. That is the explanation, I believe.”
It wasn’t the only explanation. She is a beautiful young woman, in the English style—cornflower blue eyes, golden hair with just a hint of copper, and skin as fair—well, it would be as fair as a lily if she would consent to wear a hat when out-of-doors.
Nefret tossed the book aside and rose. “I am going for a ride before luncheon. Will you come, David?”
“I’ll have a look at Percy’s book, if you have finished with it.”
“How lazy you are! Where is Ramses? Perhaps he’ll go with me.”
I am sure I need not say that I had not given my son that heathenish appellation. He had been named Walter, after his uncle, but no one ever called him that; when he was a young child his father had nicknamed him Ramses because he was as swarthy as an Egyptian and as arrogant as a pharaoh. Raising Ramses had put quite a strain on my nerves, but my arduous efforts had born fruit; he was not so reckless or so outspoken as he once had been, and his natural talent for languages had developed to such an extent that despite his comparative youth he was widely regarded as an expert on ancient Egyptian linguistics. As David informed Nefret, he was presently in his room, working on the texts for a forthcoming volume on the temples of Karnak. “He told me to leave him be,” David added emphatically. “You had better do the same.”
“Bah,” said Nefret. But she left the room by way of the window instead of going into the hall toward the stairs. David took up the book and settled himself in his chair. I returned to my lists and Emerson to his manuscript, but not for long. The next interruption came from our butler, Gargery, who entered to announce there was a person to see Emerson.
Emerson held out his hand. Gargery, rigid with disapproval, shook his head. “He did not have a card, sir. He wouldn’t give me his name or say what he wanted, neither, except that it was about some antiquity. I’d have sent him about his business, sir, only. . . .well, sir, he said you’d be sorry if you didn’t see him.”
“Sorry, eh?” Emerson’s heavy black brows drew together. There is nothing that rouses my husband’s formidable temper so much as a threat, explicit or veiled. “Where have you put him, Gargery? In the parlor?”
Gargery drew himself up to his full height and attempted to look superior. Since his height is only five and a half feet and a bit, and his snub-nosed face is not designed for sneering, the attempt was a failure. “I have stood him in the dining room, sir.”
Amusement replaced Emerson’s rising ire; his sapphire blue eyes sparkled. Being completely without social snobbery himself, he is much diverted by Gargery’s demonstrations thereof. “I suppose a ‘person’ without a calling card does not deserve to be offered a chair, but the dining room? Aren’t you afraid he will make off with the plates?”
“Bob is outside the dining room door, sir.”
“Good Gad. He must be a villainous looking ‘person.’ You have whetted my curiosity, Gargery. Show him—no, I had better go to him, since he seems anxious to keep his identity a secret.”
I went with Emerson, of course. He made a few feeble objections, which I brushed aside.
The dining room is not one of the most attractive apartments in the house. Low-ceilinged and limited as to windows, it has a somber air which is increased by the heavy, time-darkened Jacobean furniture and the mummy masks adorning the panelled walls. Hands clasped behind him, our visitor was examining one of these masks. Instead of the sinister individual Gargery had led me to expect, I saw a stooped, grayhaired man. His garments were shabby and his boots scuffed, but he looked respectable enough. And Emerson knew him.
“Renfrew! What the devil do you mean by this theatrical behavior? Why didn’t you—”
“Hushhhhh!” The fellow put his finger to his lips. “I have my reasons, which you will approve when you hear them. Get rid of your butler. Is this your wife? Don’t introduce me, I have no patience with such stuff. No use trying to get rid of her, I suppose, you’d tell her anyhow. That’s up to you. Sit down, Mrs. Emerson, if you like. I will stand. I will not take refreshment. There is a train at noon I mean to catch. I can’t waste any more time on this business. Wasted too much already. Wouldn’t have done it except as a courtesy to you. Now.”
The words came in short staccato bursts, with scarcely a pause for breath, and although he did not misplace his aitches or commit a grammatical error, there were traces of East London in his accent. His clothing and his boots were in need of brushing, and even his face looked as if it were covered with a thin film of dust. One expected to see cobwebs festooning his ears. But the pale gray eyes under his dark gray brows were as sharp as knife points. I could see why Gargery had mislabelled him, but I did not commit the same error. Emerson had told me about him. A self made, self-educated man, a misogynist and recluse, he collected Chinese and Egyptian antiquities, Persian miniatures and anything else that suited his eccentric fancy.
Emerson nodded. “Get to it, then. Some new purchase you want me to authenticate for you?”
Renfrew grinned. His teeth were the same grayish brown color as his skin. “That’s why I like you, Emerson. You don’t beat around the bush either. Here.”
Reaching into his pocket, he tossed an object carelessly onto the table, where it landed with a solid
thunk!
It was a scarab, one of the largest I had ever seen, formed of the greenish blue faience (a glassy paste) commonly used in ancient times. The back was rounded like the carapace of the beetle, with the stylized shapes of head and limbs.
The small scarabs were popular amulets, worn by the living and the dead to insure good luck. The larger varieties, like the famous “marriage scarab” of Amenhotep III, were often used to record important events. This was obviously of the second type; when Emerson picked it up and turned it over, I saw rows of raised hieroglyphs covering the flat base.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin, as was his habit when perplexed or pensive. “As near as I can make out, this is an account of the circumnavigation of Africa in year twelve of Senusert III.”
“What! This is a historical document of unique importance, Emerson.”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson. “Well, Renfrew?”
“Well, sir.” Renfrew showed his stained teeth again. “I am going to let you have it at the price I paid. There will be no additional charge for my silence.”
“Silence?” I repeated. There was something odd about his manner—and Emerson’s. Alarm burgeoned. “What is he talking about, Emerson?”
“It’s a fake,” Emerson said curtly. “He knows it. Obviously he didn’t know when he purchased it. Whom did you consult, Renfrew?”
From Renfrew’s parted lips came a dry, rustling sound—his version of a laugh, I surmised. “I thought you’d spot it, Emerson. You are right, I had no idea it was a fake; I wanted an accurate translation, so I sent a tracing of the inscription to Mr. Frank Griffith. Next to your brother and your son he is the foremost translator of ancient Egyptian. His opinion was the same as yours.”
“Ah.” Emerson tossed the scarab onto the table. “Then you didn’t need a second opinion.”
“A sensible man always gets a second opinion. Do you want the scarab or don’t you? I don’t intend to be out of pocket by it. I’ll sell it to someone else—without mentioning Griffith’s opinion—and sooner or later someone will find out it isn’t genuine, and they will trace it back to the seller as I did, and they will learn his name. I don’t think you would want that to happen, Professor Emerson. You think well of the boy, don’t you? I understand he is about to marry into your family. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, if he were caught forging antiquities.”
“You dastardly old—old villain,” I cried. “How dare you imply that David would do such a thing?”
“I am not implying anything, Mrs. Emerson. Go to the dealer from whom I got this, and ask him the name of the man who sold it to him.”
