The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (8 page)

The children were late returning. I hoped for a private chat with them about their discoveries, but I was forced to wait, for dinner had already been announced, and a few whispered words from Ramses indicated they had a great deal to tell us. Fortunately our guests retired early, as they were accustomed to do. It was some minutes before eleven P.M. when Emerson and I crept out of our room and made our way to that of Ramses.

Though she had attained the dignified status of housekeeper, Rose still insisted on cleaning Ramses's room with her own hands. It was a hopeless task; ten minutes after she had left, all the flat surfaces were again strewn with cast-off articles of clothing, books and papers, and the various objects featured in Ramses's current research. I will give him credit; he had made some attempt to tidy up, and a cheery fire burned under the Adam mantelpiece.

Nefret was sitting cross-legged on the hearthrug, with Horus sprawled across her lap. Horus was the largest and least affable of our current crop of cats, and Nefret's fondness for him was unaccountable to me. He did seem to return it, in his surly fashion, but she was the only one whose caresses he accepted. He tolerated Emerson and me, disliked David, and detested Ramses, who returned the compliment.

"I feel like a cursed spy," Emerson grumbled, flinging himself into an armchair. "I am still of the opinion that we ought to take Selim, at least, into our confidence. He is a sharp young chap, and has had a long acquaintance with forgers."

"Hmmm," I said. "Nefret, that is a very pretty necklace. A new purchase, I presume?"

"Ramses bought it for me."

My son was also sitting on the floor, his back against a bookcase, and the kitten on his lap. It had taken to following him about like a puppy. I suspected its devotion was not entirely altruistic, for several of Ramses's coats had developed suspicious greasy stains inside the pockets, and all our cats are extremely fond of chicken. I raised no objection, for I was pleased to see Ramses develop an attachment to one of the cats; he had been devoted to our dear departed Bastet, the progenitrix of the tribe, and had steadfastly refused to replace her with another. Bastet had traveled back and forth with us to Egypt, as Horus did now; but Ramses had concluded that the kitten was still too young to go out this year.

Glancing at me and then at his father, he said, "The beads are genuine, but they have been restrung—probably not in the original order. I felt it advisable to purchase something, Father, in order to conceal—"

"Yes, yes," Emerson grunted. "Well?"

Ramses repeated the description he had winkled (his word) out of the dealer. Emerson groaned. "Curse it! I had hoped the resemblance wouldn't be so close."

"It was really quite vague, Father. Fine-looking young chap; not as dark-skinned as most Egyptians (I wonder how many Egyptians he's encountered?); about my height and build."

"The turban was a mistake," Nefret said. "David never wears one."

"People expect Egyptians to wear a turban or a fez," Ramses said, stroking the kitten. "It's part of the costume. And a turban can be used to conceal one's actual height."

"There is more, isn't there?" I asked. "Out with it, Ramses."

As the tale unfolded, I found it difficult to restrain my outrage. When Abdullah and I first met, he had viewed me with deep suspicion and a certain amount of resentment. Not only had I, a mere woman, dared to express my opinions aloud but I had come between him and the man he admired above all others. Our strange friendship had developed and deepened over the years, and even before his heroic death he had earned my sincere regard. Abdullah's professional standards had been as high as those of any European archaeologist—aye, and a good deal higher than most!

"He would never have done such a thing," I said. "Never. He would have considered it a betrayal of our friendship."

Sympathy for my wrath enabled Emerson to control his own. Taking my hand, he patted it and spoke in the soft purring voice evil doers fear more than his shouts.

"Our unknown opponent is a clever bastard, isn't he? Abdullah knew every dealer and every tomb robber in Egypt. If he had formed his own collection of antiquities, it would have been of superb quality. The mention of his name gave the spurious antiquities a believable provenance and undoubtedly raised the price. The swine couldn't have known we would be the ones to discover the fraud, but by Gad, I could almost believe he anticipated even that possibility! You see the position he has put us in, don't you? In order to protect David, all we need do is maintain the fiction. No one would question his right to dispose of his grandfather's collection, but if the objects are found to be counterfeit—"

"Someone will find out," I said. "Sooner or later."

"There's a good chance it will be later rather than sooner," Emerson said. "If at all. It isn't that easy to identify a well-made fake, you know; there are several presently on display in various museums, including our precious British Museum! Budge couldn't spot a forgery unless it had 'Made in Birmingham' stamped on the base."

None of us replied to this (slightly) exaggerated assessment. Emerson's detestation of the Keeper of Egyptian Antiquities was familiar to us all. In fairness to my husband I should add that it was an opinion shared by many Egyptologists, if not quite to the same degree. Even if Budge realized the ushebtis were fakes, he was not likely to admit he had been taken in by them; but it would have been dishonorable to support the fraud by our silence, no matter how great the peril to David.

For a time only the crackling of the flames and the sleepy squeaks of the kitten broke the silence.

"At least we now know what to look for," said Ramses, in his cool, unemotional voice. "Any object that purports to have been sold by David or to have belonged to Abdullah. The more of them we can locate, the better our chance of establishing a pattern that may give us a clue as to this individual's identity."

"Quite right," said Nefret. "But how do you propose to go about it? We can't ask the dealers straight out whether they have recently purchased antiquities from David; they will wonder why he hadn't told us himself."

"Good Gad, that is true," I exclaimed. "We dare not arouse the slightest suspicion that the transaction was not legitimate. Then how ..."

I did not complete the sentence. There was no need; we all knew the answer. My heart sank when I saw Emerson's face. His tight lips had relaxed, his eyes shone.

"By concealing our true identities," he said happily. "That is how. Disguised as a wealthy collector, I will say I have heard rumors about an outstanding group of antiquities that has recently come on the market—"

"No, Emerson," I said. "No, my dear. Not you."

"Why the devil not? I trust," said Emerson, glowering, "that you are not implying I cannot carry off a masquerade of that sort as competently as—as anyone."

He transferred the glare to Ramses.

Ramses's expertise at the dubious art of disguise was a source of irritation as well as pride to his father; not only had it been inspired by an individual for whom Emerson had a particular detestation, but it was a skill at which Emerson himself secretly yearned to excel. He has a fondness for theatrics and a positive passion for beards, possibly because I had deprived him of his, not once but twice! Unhappily it is a skill at which Emerson cannot succeed. His magnificent physique defies concealment, and his outrageous temper explodes under the slightest provocation.

Ramses remained prudently silent. I said, "I am not implying, Emerson, I am telling you straight out. There is no way of disguising the color of those sapphirine orbs or the strength of your chin and jaw, or your imposing height and impressive musculature."

The adjectives had a softening effect, but he was too set on the scheme to give in without an argument. "A beard," he began.

"No, Emerson. I know how much you like beards, but they are inadequate to the purpose."

"A beard
and
a Russian accent," Emerson suggested. "Nyet, tovarich!"

Ramses winced. Nefret's lips trembled. She was trying not to laugh.

"Oh, very well," I said. "I will go with you, also in disguise. Your wife? No, your mistress. French. A Titian wig and a great deal of paint and powder; champagne satin cut low over the— er—and copious quantities of jewelry. Topazes or perhaps citrines."

Emerson stared at me. I could tell from his expression that he was picturing me in the ensemble I had described. "Hmmm," he said.

"Father," Ramses exclaimed. "You can't mean to allow Mother to appear in public as a—a—"

Emerson burst out laughing. "Good Gad," he said, between chuckles, "what a prude you are, my boy. She didn't mean it, you know. At least I don't think ... Very well, Peabody, I give in. We'll leave it to Ramses, eh?"

"Thank you, Father."

"The French mistress is an excellent idea, though," Nefret said thoughtfully. "I won't even need the wig. A little henna will do the job."

From Letter Collection B

Dearest Lia,

I ought to add "and David," since I know perfectly well that in the first rapturous flush of matrimonial affection you will want to share everything with him. But I hope, dearest, that you won't share all
my
confidences with David. Do you know (but you must) that you are the first and only woman
friend /
have ever had? Aunt Amelia and I have become very close, but there are some things she wouldn't understand. So prepare yourself, dear Lia, for a spate of letters. Some may never reach you, traveling as you are, but the act of writing will serve as a substitute, however feeble, for those long talks we have when we are together.

You'll never guess whom Ramses and I ran into in London last week
—
Maude Reynolds and her brother Jack
—
you remember them
—
the Americans who were with Reisner last year. After the usual exchanges of "What a surprise!" and "How is it you are in London?" I introduced everyone properly.

Ramses immediately began to slouch, the way he does when he is trying to look inconspicuous and/or harmless. Absolutely futile, of course, at least with females. Maude began babbling and dimpling at him. He seemed to like it, for he actually smiled at her. Perhaps it's because he's usually so solemn that his smile has such an impact. If Maude hadn't been sitting down, she'd have staggered.

Jack is a nice-enough chap in his obtuse fashion. If only he wouldn't treat all women the way he does his bird-brained sister, with a mixture of affection and condescension! He explained that he and Maude had been "doing" a European tour before returning to Cairo for the winter season.

We
took tea with them at the Savoy, where they were staying. Maude was as adorable as only she can be, black curls bouncing, brown eyes wide, chubby cheeks pink. "Meow!" I can hear you say. Very well, I admit it
—
I've always envied girls who have that vivid autumnal coloring and ripe, rounded shape
—
it's not just Maude's cheeks that are plump! I'm too thin and I haven't any bosom, and I don't know how to be adorable.

They asked after you and David, of course.

Esdaile's revelations added a new complication to our search for the forger. Ramses continued to urge that we make the matter public, but even he was forced to admit that it would be cruel to allow David to hear of it from strangers—an eventuality that well might ensue once the word began to spread. Nefret, who had been of his opinion, was won over to ours by this argument, though it went against her nature.

Some preliminary inquiries were necessary; we could not personally call on every dealer and private collector in Europe. Emerson and I were still discussing how to go about these when Ramses suddenly disappeared from the house. When questioned, Nefret admitted she knew where he had gone, assured us he was not up to anything illegal or dangerous, and politely refused to answer any further questions.