The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [20]
“Don’t be so theatrical.” He took her by the shoulders. She flinched, and he let go. “What is it?”
“I’ll have bruises,” Nefret said with grim satisfaction. “Did you have to be so rough?”
“Oh, God, Nefret, I’m sorry!”
“Maybe you did have to.” With one of her bewitching, bewildering changes of mood, she moved closer, taking hold of his lapels and smiling up into his remorseful face. “You were a bit angry yourself. Admit it.”
“Perhaps I was. But most people wouldn’t think any the worse of Abdullah for collecting antiquities. Everyone does it—everyone except Father, that is. The Cairo Museum buys from dealers, most of whose stock is derived from illegal excavation, Budge buys from the tomb robbers themselves—“
“No wonder Budge was so pleased.” Nefret ground her teeth.
“Yes. Father has criticized him privately and publicly for doing precisely what Budge assumes Abdullah must have done. Good Lord, half the tomb robbers in Luxor are relations of Abdullah’s, and the other half were old acquaintances. And if Abdullah had done it behind his back, Father would be hurt and furious.”
She bowed her head and did not reply. She’s taking it badly, he thought, and reached for her hand. “Let’s go home, dear. We’ve found out what we wanted to know.”
“Mmmm.” After a moment she looked up, slipped her arm through his, and said calmly, “We missed lunch. Let’s stop somewhere for tea before we start back.”
“All right.”
“It’s a good thing Aunt Amelia wasn’t with us,” Nefret said, as they walked to the motorcar. “You know how she feels about Abdullah. She will explode when she hears this!”
“I’m afraid you’re right. She was devoted to the dear old fellow.”
“She dreams about him, you know.”
“I didn’t know.” He opened the door for her.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. She hates being thought sentimental.”
“I won’t say anything. It’s rather touching, really. Have you ever wondered …” He went round to the driver’s side and got in. “Have you ever wondered what he whispered to her in those last moments before he died?”
Nefret burst into one of her delightful gurgling laughs. “Why, Ramses, I didn’t know men were curious about such things! Of course I’ve wondered. She’s never said, and I don’t believe she ever will. We all miss him, but there was something very special between them.”
“Yes. Well, where do you want to go for tea?”
Her choice of the Savoy surprised him—she usually preferred a less pretentious ambience—but he didn’t become suspicious when she excused herself as soon as the waiter had seated them. She was back sooner than he had expected and even his uncritical masculine eye told him she had not been painting her face or smoothing her windblown hair.
“What are you up to now?” he inquired, helping her into her chair and resuming his own.
Nefret stripped off her gloves. “I happened to remember they were to be in town this week. You haven’t met them.”
“Who?”
“There they are.” She stood up and waved.
There were two of them, male and female; young, well-dressed, obviously American. Both were strangers to him, but when Nefret introduced them he recognized the names. Jack Reynolds had been at Giza with Reisner the year before. He bore a certain amusing resemblance to his mentor, and an even stronger one to the former American President Theodore Roosevelt, for he had the same stocky frame and bushy mustache and rather prominent teeth. Only the eyeglasses were missing, but he might come to that yet; he was still in his twenties.
The girl was his sister, dark-haired, pink-cheeked, pleasantly plump and breezily informal. She gave Ramses her hand and shook her head, dimpling, when he addressed her as Miss Reynolds.
“Say, now, we’re already on first-name terms with Nefret, and she’s talked about you so much I feel as if we’re well acquainted. My name’s Maude. Can I call you Ramses? I think it’s just the cutest name.”
“Shut up and sit down, Maude,” her brother said, with an amiable grin. “You’ll have to excuse her, folks, she’s