Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [57]
‘May we join you?’ Mary asked.
Schmidt leaped to his feet and held a chair for her. I sucked on the damned cigarette, womanfully suppressing a cough. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘A pleasure,’ said John.
I didn’t doubt it.
‘We were talking about Tetisheri,’ Schmidt explained. ‘Vicky did not want to hear about her mummy.’
‘Mary dotes on dead bodies,’ said John.
‘Oh, darling, don’t tease!’ Mary’s pretty mouth quirked with distaste.
Over the past days her skin had darkened from cream to pale gold, without so much as a hint of homely sunburn. She wore a white silk shirt with a scarf of burgundy and gold knotted loosely around her throat. The Greek earrings would have suited the ensemble better than the diamonds she was wearing – a carat and a half each, if I was any judge (and I am). At that they were smaller than the stone in the ring on her third finger. It overwhelmed the simple gold band next to it.
Schmidt was beginning to catch on to the idea that very few people enjoy talking about mummies. ‘You prefer the charming little statuette of the lady that is in the British Museum?’ he said with a twinkle and a chuckle.
Mary glanced shyly at John. ‘I’m afraid I don’t – ’
‘There is no need to apologize,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘A lovely young woman should not trouble her head with antiquities.’
‘Thanks, Schmidt,’ I said.
‘In your case it is different,’ Schmidt said calmly.
I decided not to pursue that point, but I admit it was partly pique that inspired my next comment. ‘I’ve always loved that little statue. I was crushed when they decided it was . . . it was . . .’
‘A forgery.’ Schmidt, oblivious to undercurrents, finished the sentence.
I tore my eyes away from John’s face. He had raised one eyebrow, a trick of his I particularly dislike, and a faint smile curved his lips.
‘What does it matter, if it is beautiful?’ he asked. ‘A respected authority on Egyptian art said it was the most appealing and charming of the sculptures of that period. Has it lost artistic merit?’
‘Ah, but you miss the point; my friend,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘The authenticity of the work . . .’
I was only too familiar with the arguments pro and con, including John’s arguments. I’d heard them before, when I was about to blow the whistle on him and his scheme for substituting forgeries for valuable antique jewellery. They had been superb copies, almost indistinguishable from the originals. But one example of the counter-argument had dangled from Mary’s dainty earlobes the night before. I lusted after those Greek earrings, and I wouldn’t have felt the same about copies, however accurate.
Mary reached for John’s hand. The movement stretched the silk of her blouse across her arm; the fabric was so thin I could see the golden tan of her skin through it. I could see the dark spots too. There were several of them, spaced regularly. Not the sort of bruise you’d get from bumping into a piece of furniture or a door. More like the marks of fingers.
II
Schmidt had taken a fancy to Mary, and vice versa. Who could blame her? He is awfully sweet, especially when he puts himself out to be gallant. John didn’t want to leave us either. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. General aggravation, maybe. It certainly aggravated me when he turned Schmidt’s attention from antiquities to country music. One question was enough. Schmidt was delighted to expand on the subject
‘Yes, yes, it is a most interesting type. I am indebted to Vicky for introducing me to it. I am thinking of taking up the guitar.’
‘It would be better than listening to you sing,’ I said rudely.
Schmidt had become impervious to my insults. He thinks I’m just teasing. (And maybe he’s right.) ‘You sing, then. The one about the pillow that is dying.’
‘A moribund pillow?’ John’s eyes were as blue and innocent as forget-me-nots. ‘I must hear that one.’
We ended up in the lounge, gathered cosily around the piano. Schmidt plays a little, enough to pick out tunes. He gave us all three verses of ‘The Sinner’s Death,’ including the dying pillow. (‘A slight error in