The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (29 page)

The fact that several of the guests were among my suspects did not mar the gesture in the slightest. Nor did I have much of an ulterior motive when I kept the wineglasses filled. The first toast was offered by Howard—to me—and as I nodded a gracious acknowledgment I did sincerely hope he would prove to be innocent.

After the usual healths had been drunk—to the ladies, to absent friends, to His Majesty, to President Taft—the young men vied with one another in proposing amusing or touching toasts. We drank to Mr. Petrie's stitches and the Carnarvon Tablets and to Horus, who had been shut in Nefret's room and was howling like a banshee. We never followed the archaic custom of having the ladies withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars, so when the meal was concluded I led the company to the courtyard. I had done my best to adorn it in festive fashion with masses of poinsettias in seried ranks, and colored lanterns hanging from the arches. There were still a few berries left on Nefret's mistletoe.

Most of the guests were known to one another and everyone seemed to be having a merry time, so I felt I could neglect my duties as hostess for a bit and indulge in a spot of detectival introspection. Withdrawing to a shadowy corner, I was somewhat taken aback to find it already occupied. I coughed loudly, and the two forms drew apart.

"Give Miss Maude a cup of tea, Ramses," I said. "Unless she would prefer coffee."

"Yes, Mother."

She shot me a distinctly unfriendly look as he led her toward the tea table, but I thought there had been a note of relief in his voice. At least I hoped there was. Not that I had anything against the girl, but she did not measure up to
my
standards as a daughter-in-law. Egypt did not seem to agree with her. I had observed at dinner that she was not looking her usual self, and she had only picked at her food. Perhaps she had not liked the gift Nefret had selected for her—a pretty scarf from Damascus, woven with silver and gold threads. Perhaps she had hoped for something more personal.

It was not the first time Ramses had got himself involved with a young woman, and it would certainly not be the last. I do not believe it was always
entirely
his fault. He had not given the girl any encouragement that I could see. Of course I had no way of knowing what he did behind my back.

I told myself, as I had done so often before, that the romantic affairs of the children were not my business, and turned my thoughts to more important issues.

The news the children had got from Mr. Wardani had not really changed the situation. I believed him, not because I had much faith in his truthfulness (for I have learned that noble causes have a deplorable effect on the morals of the persons who espouse them), but because his statement confirmed every other clue we had found.

It made the situation even more baffling. We had always believed that the culprit must be someone we knew—a colleague or an acquaintance, if not a friend. We were no nearer to discovering his identity, and yet he must think we were, or he would not have paid us so many interesting attentions. I did not believe the collapse of the mastaba wall was an accident. In light of that incident and the earlier attack on me, Emerson's seeming accident, our first day at the site, took on alarming significance. The interesting potsherd could have been put in position to divert his descent toward a particular section, and one of the stones insidiously undermined.

The burglary at Amarna House before we left England was of a different nature. No harm to any of us had been intended. The sole aim had been the retrieval of the spurious scarab. Two questions arose from that occurrence: how had the villain learned we had the thing in our possession, and why was he so bent on getting it back? The only possible answer to the last question was that we might have found on it some clue to the identity of the forger.

Perhaps, I mused, we had not given enough attention to that incident. Ramses was the one who had inspected the scarab most closely. In fact... Yes, he must have translated it, for he had been quite specific about the sources. If I knew Ramses, and I believe I may claim that I did—through the painful experience only a mother can acquire—he had written it down or at least made copious notes. We must have a look at that translation. I would never claim that my knowledge of the hieroglyphs is that of an expert, but one never knows when and to whom a sudden burst of inspiration may occur. They often occur to me.

Detectival fever had gripped me. New ideas burgeoned; new avenues of investigation were opening up. I had quite lost sight of my duties as a hostess when I was reminded of them by a shout from Emerson.

"Peabody! Where have you got to? What. .. Ah!" Questing round like a hunting dog, he had made out my form. Advancing, he demanded, "What are you doing lurking in the shadows? Are you alone?"

"Of course I am. What do you want?"

"Only your company, my dear." Emerson looked a little sheepish. His profound attachment makes him unreasonably suspicious—not of me, for he never doubts my fidelity, but of the hordes of male persons whom he suspects of having amorous designs on me. Taking my hand, he raised me to my feet and gave me a quick but hearty kiss by way of apology before leading me out of my quiet corner.

I was unable to concentrate on serious matters thereafter, for everyone was having a jolly time and I felt obliged to romp a bit with the young people. Champagne has a way of loosening people's reserve; it had a surprising effect on Clarence Fisher, Mr. Reisner's second-in-command, who had always seemed to me a particularly straitlaced, humorless individual. Eyeglasses askew and hair standing up in tufts, he joined in a game of musical chairs and bumped Nefret out of the last empty one with remarkable joie de vivre. Even Karl forgot his Teutonic solemnity and allowed himself to be blindfolded and spun about for blindman's bluff. I allowed him to catch me, since he would have fallen into the fountain if I had not got in his way, and then I caught Emerson—he had put himself deliberately in my path—and he caught Nefret, who pulled him under the mistletoe and kissed him soundly. I had to put a stop to the kissing after a while.

Nefret had brought David's drawings for Sinuhe down from my study. Howard was not the only one who expressed his admiration; several of the others crowded round as he looked through them, handling them with an artist's careful touch.

"Amusing," said little Mr. Lawrence, rising onto his toes in order to see. "What's the tale about, then? I don't know it."

I thought he sounded a bit patronizing, so I told him.

"Pharaoh was assassinated while his son, the Crown Prince Senusert, was fighting in Libya. There was a plot by some of the other royal sons to seize the throne from Senusert; but a spy got word to the prince and he set off for the palace as fast as he could go. 'The falcon flew, with his attendants,' as David has shown him here, quite beautifully, in my opinion—the stalwart young soldier-prince who was the embodiment of Horus, with the god in shadowy falcon form flying overhead. The next drawing shows our friend Sinuhe lurking near the tent where he overheard the conspirators talking of the plot. Sinuhe then hid in the bushes ..." I turned the page, and Howard burst out laughing.

"He's got the old boy's expression very nicely. Never saw a guiltier look."

"That is one of the questions scholars have debated," I explained, passing rather quickly over succeeding sketches, since Emerson was beginning to look surly. He does not like me to tell my little Egyptian stories. "Sinuhe was certainly guilty of something, for he fled from Egypt and almost died of thirst in the desert before he was rescued by a tribe of Asiatics, as he calls them. He became rich and successful in the service of the Asiatic prince. I am particularly fond of this drawing, which shows him with his wife, the prince's eldest daughter, and their innumerable children. Doesn't he look like a smug Victorian papa in fancy dress?"

Emerson cleared his throat. I went on quickly, "But as old age approached, he yearned for home. He sent a pitiful message to pharaoh, who told him all was forgiven and summoned him back from exile. He was clothed in fine linen and anointed with fine oil; a house and garden were given to him, and a tomb was built for him, and he lived happily until the day of his death."

"What happened to his Asiatic wife and children?" Katherine asked.

"He abandoned them," said Ramses. "He was a cad and a bounder and a dreadful snob."

"It wasn't very nice of him," Nefret agreed. She was looking at the last delicately tinted drawing, which showed the old man sitting in the shade of green trees beside a blue pool where lotus blossoms floated. In the distance one could just make out the shape of the king's pyramid, near which Sinuhe's tomb had been built. The wrinkled face had a look of peace that was very touching.

"But in a way one can understand how he felt," she went on. "No matter how much success and happiness he had attained, he was still an exile. He wanted to come home."

"He was a cad, all the same," Ramses said.

Nefret laughed, and Mr. Lawrence eyed Ramses askance. I believe he noticed the tone of irony in the words—in one word especially.

We finished the celebration with carol singing, as was our custom. Sentiment had succeeded merriment, and several of our guests choked a bit over the familiar and beloved songs. Karl broke down while attempting to render "Stille Nacht"; Jack Reynolds wrapped a sympathetic arm round his shoulders, proffered his own handkerchief, and took up the words in quite respectably accented German. I was pleased to see that the kindliness of the day had softened the American toward a man to whom he had scarcely spoken before; but I also made note of the fact that Jack could talk German. I hope I am as sentimental as the next person, but sentiment should not be allowed to interfere with the ratiocinative processes.

Emerson sang louder than anyone else but the rest of us managed to drown him out. He enjoyed himself a great deal.

The older guests began to drift away. Nefret remained at the piano, playing bits of melody and humming softly to herself. I went with Karl to the door and asked Mr. Fisher, who was leaving at the same time, if he would see Karl safely home. Karl kept assuring me of his profound admiration and trying to kiss my hand. "If at any time you wish me to die for you, Frau Emerson, you have only to say the word," he remarked. "You have been a
friend to a lonely man and forgiven a sinner for a crime he will never forgive himself. Your magnanim     "

However, he got tangled up in the syllables and could not stop, so I pushed him gently into Mr. Fisher's grasp and said good night to both. They went off arm in arm, singing. Mr. Fisher was rendering "The Holly and the Ivy" and Karl "Vom Himmel Hoch." Both were off key.

When I returned to the sitting room, Nefret was trying to persuade Ramses to sing with her. He has rather a pleasant voice and they sound well together, but he hardly ever consented to perform in front of strangers. I supposed he considered it beneath his dignity. Geoffrey offered to take his place, so we had a nice little concert, with all the old favorites and some of the newest songs from the music halls and theaters. "When I was Twenty-One and You Were Sweet Sixteen" was popular that year; in the mellow lamplight, with the curls clustering round his brow, Geoffrey looked no more than sixteen himself, but he had a surprisingly robust baritone. I remember he rendered one of Harry Lauder's Scottish songs with surprising panache and an exaggerated accent that made us all chuckle. I had never seen him enjoy himself so much.

From Letter Collection B

Dear Lia,

I am peppering you with letters, aren't I? I had to respond at once to your last, for it seemed to hold a certain note of reproach. My darling Lia, no one will ever replace you as my confidante; certainly not Maude Reynolds! If I have mentioned her often, it is only because the confounded girl is
always here!
So it feels, at any rate. I've told you why. She and I could never be friends; we have nothing in common; but I feel so sorry for her I can't bring myself to keep her entirely at arm's length. She's head over heels, Lia; it's one of the worst cases I've ever seen. She has sense enough to know he prefers women with intelligence and spunk, but her desperate efforts to impress him are so pitifully inept! I told you about the time she followed us down into the pyramid; it took a lot of courage, because she was absolutely petrified with fear, and of course it backfired the way such gestures often do. When she saw Ramses on Risha she insisted on trying to ride, and made a perfect fool of herself bouncing up and down in that stiff style. It's impossible to fall off Risha unless he wants you off, but she came close.

Ramses is handling it well
—
he's had plenty of practice!
—
but he's hating the whole business. You know, he's really very sensitive under that stony exterior. It's that quality that really attracts women, isn't it? Especially when the man in question is also tall and strong and handsome.

But I meant to tell you about our Christmas. You were sadly missed, my dears. Aunt Amelia and I did our best, but our decorative skills couldn't begin to match David's. Your parcel arrived in good time, somewhat battered, but intact
—
you shouldn't have taken the trouble, darling, but I loved the Greek earrings ... [Several paragraphs of miscellaneous gossip omitted.]

The only other news of mild interest is that I have had two proposals of marriage
—
that makes three this season, including