The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [23]
Glancing at me and then at his father, he said, “The beads are genuine, but they have been restrung—probably not in the original order. I felt it advisable to purchase something, Father, in order to conceal—”
“Yes, yes,” Emerson grunted. “Well?”
Ramses repeated the description he had winkled (his word) out of the dealer. Emerson groaned.
“Curse it! I had hoped the resemblance wouldn’t be so close.”
“It was really quite vague, Father. Fine-looking young chap; not as dark-skinned as most Egyptians (I wonder how many Egyptians he’s encountered?); about my height and build.”
“The turban was a mistake,” Nefret said. “David never wears one.”
“People expect Egyptians to wear a turban or a fez,” Ramses said, stroking the kitten. “It’s part of the costume. And a turban can be used to conceal one’s actual height.”
“There is more, isn’t there?” I asked. “Out with it, Ramses.”
As the tale unfolded, I found it difficult to restrain my outrage. When Abdullah and I first met, he had viewed me with deep suspicion and a certain amount of resentment. Not only had I, a mere woman, dared to express my opinions aloud but I had come between him and the man he admired above all others. Our strange friendship had developed and deepened over the years, and even before his heroic death he had earned my sincere regard. Abdullah’s professional standards had been as high as those of any European archaeologist—aye, and a good deal higher than most!
“He would never have done such a thing,” I said. “Never. He would have considered it a betrayal of our friendship.”
Sympathy for my wrath enabled Emerson to control his own. Taking my hand, he patted it and spoke in the soft purring voice evil doers fear more than his shouts.
“Our unknown opponent is a clever bastard, isn’t he? Abdullah knew every dealer and every tomb robber in Egypt. If he had formed his own collection of antiquities, it would have been of superb quality. The mention of his name gave the spurious antiquities a believable provenance and undoubtedly raised the price. The swine couldn’t have known we would be the ones to discover the fraud, but by Gad, I could almost believe he anticipated even that possibility! You see the position he has put us in, don’t you? In order to protect David, all we need do is maintain the fiction. No one would question his right to dispose of his grandfather’s collection, but if the objects are found to be counterfeit—”
“Someone will find out,” I said. “Sooner or later.”
“There’s a good chance it will be later rather than sooner,” Emerson said. “If at all. It isn’t that easy to identify a well-made fake, you know; there are several presently on display in various museums, including our precious British Museum! Budge couldn’t spot a forgery unless it had ’Made in Birmingham’ stamped on the base.”
None of us replied to this (slightly) exaggerated assessment. Emerson’s detestation of the Keeper of Egyptian Antiquities was familiar to us all. In fairness to my husband I should add that it was an opinion shared by many Egyptologists, if not quite to the same degree. Even if Budge realized the ushebtis were fakes, he was not likely to admit he had been taken in by them; but it would have been dishonorable to support the fraud by our silence, no matter how great the peril to David.
For a time only the crackling of the flames and the sleepy squeaks of the kitten broke the silence.
“At least we now know what to look for,” said Ramses, in his cool, unemotional voice. “Any object that purports to have been sold by David or to have belonged to Abdullah. The more of them we can locate, the better our chance of establishing a pattern that may give us a clue as to this individual’s identity.”
“Quite right,” said