The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (5 page)

"Why are you in such a scolding mood, Peabody?" Emerson inquired. "Not having one of your famous premonitions, I hope. If you are, I don't want to hear about it."

His use of that name suggested that despite his mild complaint he was in an affable mood. When first we met, he had addressed me by my surname as he would have addressed a professional equal—a man, in other words—and over the years it had become a term of affection and approbation. I never employed his given name of Radcliffe, since he does not like it.

"Not at all, my dear," I said with a smile. "My concerns this evening are those of an affectionate friend and hostess. I do want everything to go well! I am not too worried about Selim, he has been in England before and fancies himself quite a man of the world, but this is Daoud's first trip abroad, and Fatima was for most of her life a conventional Moslem wife, veiled, illiterate, and subservient. I fear she will be completely overcome by the variety of new experiences she must face. And how will she get on with Rose?"

"I cannot imagine," said Emerson, "why Rose's opinion carries such weight with you. Curse it, Peabody, you are inventing
difficulties where none exist. Fatima had the courage to come to you and ask for a position as housekeeper after her husband died; she had sufficient intelligence and initiative to learn to read and write, and to speak English. I'll wager she has relished every moment of the trip."

"Oh, very well, Emerson, I admit it! I am on edge. I don't like Nefret driving that vehicle at night, in rain and fog; I am worried about our friends' catching a chill—they aren't accustomed to our miserable damp weather. I worry about the wedding. What if they aren't happy?"

Emerson's face cleared. "Ah, so that's it. Women always get into this state before a wedding," he explained to Ramses. "Don't know why, they are frightfully keen on people getting married, but once the matter is settled they begin stewing and worrying. Why shouldn't Lia and David be happy?"

"They face so many problems, Emerson! They will be snubbed and insulted by ignorant Europeans who don't know any better, and if David is suspected of forging antiquities—"

A stifled exclamation from Ramses stopped me. "Oh, dear," I said. "I ought not to have said that."

"Why the devil not?" Emerson demanded. "You know perfectly well we had no intention of keeping this a secret from Ramses. We have been waiting for a suitable opportunity, that's all. Stop glowering, my boy."

Ramses's eyebrows, which are as heavy and black as his father's, slipped back into place. "Is this a suitable opportunity, sir?"

"It would appear so," Emerson admitted. "David is the one who must be kept in the dark, at least for the present. Peabody, may I impose on you to fetch the—er—object from my desk while I tell Ramses about it?"

"Don't trouble yourself, Mother," said Ramses. "This is the object in question, I expect."

He took the scarab from the pocket the kitten had not occupied.

"Damnation," said Emerson. "There is no hope of privacy in this house! I suppose you happened to run across it while you were looking for an envelope or a stamp?"

"A pen," said Ramses, bland as butter. "The drawer was not locked, Father. Since you intended to consult me anyhow..."

While Emerson told the story, the kitten climbed up Ramses's trouser leg, leaving a trail of snagged threads. It perched on his knee and began washing its face energetically but ineptly.

"Have you spoken with the dealer?" Ramses asked.

"There hasn't been time." Emerson took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. "We've got to go about this carefully, my boy. If the scarab is known to be a forgery, David is the first person who will be suspected. Everyone knows his history. When we first encountered him he was an apprentice of Abd el Hamed, one of the finest forgers of antiquities Luxor has ever produced. Since then he has become a qualified Egyptologist, with a thorough knowledge of the language, and he has made something of a name for himself as a sculptor. That scarab is not your usual clumsy fake; it was produced by a man who knew the language and the ancient manufacturing techniques. What the devil, I would suspect David myself if I didn't know his character so well."

"Father," Ramses began.

"Thanks to your quick thinking, we can keep the matter quiet for a time," I mused. "You purchased Mr. Renfrew's silence with the scarab. Presumably the dealer who sold it to him does not doubt it is genuine, and Griffith has not seen it, only a copy of the inscription. I suppose it really is a forgery?"

"Are you questioning my expertise, Peabody?" Emerson grinned at me. "I would be the first to admit I am not an authority on the language, but I have developed a certain instinct. The damned thing just didn't feel right! Besides, you will never convince me that the Egyptians of that period had the ships or the seamanship for such a voyage."

"Sir," Ramses said, rather loudly.

"You have translated the inscription, of course?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well? Don't be so cursed formal."

"It is a compilation from several different sources, including the Punt inscriptions of Hatshepsut and a rather obscure Greek text of the second century B.C. There are certain anomalies—"

"Never mind the details," I said, starting from my chair and hastening to the window. There was no sign of the motorcar; the sound I had heard must have been made by a gust of wind. "The conclusion seems irrefutable. What are we going to do about this?"

"Someone must talk to the dealer," said Emerson. "Inquiries will have to be indirect, since we don't want to arouse his suspicions. We should also attempt to trace the other forgeries."

"Others?" I had a good many things on my mind or I would have arrived at this conclusion myself. "Good heavens, yes! We must assume there are others, mustn't we?

Emerson chewed thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe. "Forging antiquities is a profitable business, and a craftsman as skilled as this chap won't stop with a single example. But if the others are as good as the scarab they won't be easily detected."

"Then they won't be easy for us to identify either," I said. "How on earth are we to go about locating them? We certainly don't want people to suspect that a new, extremely skilled forger is at work."

Ramses rose to his feet, removing the kitten from his knee to his shoulder. "May I say a word?" he inquired.

"You can try," said Emerson, with a critical look at me.

"Then, with all respect," said Ramses, "are we not taking too much on ourselves? I doubt David would thank you—us, I mean—for keeping this from him. He's not a child, and it is his reputation that is being threatened."

"Not only his reputation," said Emerson, fingering the cleft in his chin. "You remember the case of young Bouriant. He ended up in prison for selling faked antiquities. It would be even more serious for David. He is an Egyptian, and he will be judged as such."

It was a sobering thought, but I soon rallied. "The cases are not parallel, Emerson; David is innocent, and we will prove it! Of course he will have to be told sooner or later, but just now he's in a frightful state of nerves; he deserves to enjoy his wedding and—er—and so on, without additional distractions. Surely we can clear this little matter up in a few weeks."

"How?" Ramses demanded with unusual heat. "How can we locate other forgeries unless we admit that that's what we're looking for? Would you care to estimate how many Egyptian antiquities have appeared on the market recently? We don't even know how long this has been going on! If the other forgeries (and yes, we must assume there are others) are as good as this, they'd never be suspected."

"The scarab is a bit too much," Emerson remarked.

Ramses nodded. "It's a superb piece of work, but the text is so intrinsically preposterous, one can't help wondering if hemeant it as a private joke or a kind of arrogant challenge. The others may not be so easily detectable."

He had been pacing up and down. Now he stopped by the fireplace and stood looking at an object over the mantelpiece, shielded from heat and smoke by a recessed frame. The little alabaster head of Nefret was one of the first sculptures David had produced after he joined our family. Crude though it was compared with the work he had done since, it was an unnerving reminder of David's unique talent.

The firelight warmed Ramses's thin, impassive brown face. It also illumined the bloodstains on his shirt, the rents left in trousers and coat by the kitten's claws, and the curling locks that fell untidily over his forehead. His hair always curled when it was wet, and the kitten had been busily trying to dry it.

"For pity's sake, go and change, Ramses," I said. "And put the cat back where you got it."

Emerson jumped up. "No time. Here they are. We'll talk about this later. Not a word to anyone at present, is that agreed?"

A beam of light crossed the window and a series of triumphant hoots signaled the safe arrival of the motorcar and its occupants. Emerson started toward the door. Ramses returned the kitten to his pocket.

"Give me the scarab," I said quickly. "I'll put it back in your father's desk."

As I hastened from the room I heard the front door open, the sound of laughter and cheerful voices and, rising over them all, Emerson's hearty shout of greeting: "Salaam aleikhum! Marhaba!"

      Oriental man is keen about the white woman. If he marries her, his standards are such that he soon degrades her; and of course we are not going to allow our wives and sisters and sweethearts to have anything to do with them.

 “T
hank goodness that is over!"

I did not utter the words aloud. The ceremony was not over, and a reverent silence filled the ancient chapel of Chalfont Castle. But the fateful challenge had passed without a response, and they were husband and wife in the eyes of God.

I am not a sentimental person. My best lace-trimmed handkerchief was quite dry, but when the strains of the recessional burst out and David started down the aisle with his wife on his arm, the sight of their faces brought just a touch of moisture to my eyes. Lia carried a simple spray of ferns and white roses, and wore her grandmother's veil; the priceless old Brussels lace lay like snowflakes on her fair hair. They passed in a flutter of white and a sweet fragrance and David turned his head to smile directly at me.

They were followed by Ramses and Nefret, who were the only attendants. Nefret looked like the personification of spring, her white throat and coronet of golden-red hair rising out of the soft green fabric of her gown like a flower on a stem. I assumed it was she who had managed to keep Ramses from tugging at his cravat, mussing his hair, or smudging his linen; I had been too busy with other arrangements to watch him. With pardonable maternal pride, I concluded that he did both of us credit. In my opinion Ramses's appearance will never be as impressive as that of his father, but he carried his slender height well and his features were not unpleasing. Like David, he glanced at me as he passed. Ramses seldom smiled, but the solemnity of his countenance lightened a trifle as his eyes met mine.

Those glances acknowledged that without my support and intervention the match might never have taken place. In the beginning Lia's parents had been strongly opposed. As I pointed out to them, their opposition was based solely on the unconscious and unjust prejudices of their caste. My arguments prevailed, as they usually do. Was that why I had felt such strange uneasiness in recent days—why I had actually held my breath in suspense when the fatal question was asked? Had I really expected someone would rise up and "show cause" why those two should not be wed? Ridiculous! There was no legal or moral impediment to the marriage, and the views of narrow-minded bigots carried no weight with me. Yet if they were not happy together, or if tragedy ensued, the ultimate responsibility would be mine.

Emerson, who
is
very sentimental, though he does not admit it, had turned his head away and was fumbling in his pocket. I was not surprised when he failed to locate his handkerchief. He never can locate his handkerchiefs. I slipped mine into his hand. Face still averted, he blew his nose loudly.

"Thank goodness that's over," he declared.

I started. "Why do you say that?"