The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [14]
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