The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [64]
“Several,” said Emerson grumpily. “Especially … Close your mouth, Peabody, and don’t swear. I told you, I do not suspect Sethos this time. I was thinking of that villain Riccetti.”
“He has been in prison since the hippopotamus affair,” I pointed out. “I believe we would have heard had he been released.”
“The prize that time was an unrobbed royal tomb, with all its contents,” Ramses said. “That sort of thing does inspire exaggerated activity on the part of criminals.”
Nefret’s eyes sparkled. “You don’t suppose …”
“We can’t count on having that sort of luck twice in a lifetime,” said Emerson. He sighed. “This is only a simple, vulgar case of fraud, I fear.”
“The word ‘vulgar’ is not entirely apropos, Father,” Ramses said.
“No,” Emerson agreed. “The forgeries aren’t the usual sort of thing at all. I cannot spare much sympathy for the buyers; it serves them right if they have been swindled. They have no business buying antiquities anyhow. I’d be tempted to let the fellow get away with this if it were not necessary to clear David.”
Leaning forward, his hands clasped, Ramses said with unusual heat, “Then it’s time we stopped being so tender of David’s feelings and reputation. Even if we could afford that luxury, which I don’t believe we can, it is bloody damned stupid.”
“Don’t—” I began.
“Swear,” said Ramses between his teeth. “I beg your pardon, Mother. Don’t you realize David is bound to hear about this sooner or later? The word will spread, it always does. Collectors communicate with one another, dealers approach valued customers. God knows how many other fakes there are in various antiquities shops; we were only able to locate a small percentage of them. I’m surprised one of our acquaintances hasn’t mentioned Abdullah’s ‘collection’ before this. Believe me, David won’t thank us for keeping him unaware. It’s a damned—excuse me, Mother—insult.”
The silence that followed his statement was tantamount to tacit agreement. It was obvious that he was not the only one to arrive at this depressing conclusion. It had certainly occurred to me.
“You write to David, don’t you?” I asked.
“Now and then. Not as often as Nefret writes Lia.”
“Men are wretched correspondents,” said Nefret with a sniff. “I’ve said nothing to Lia. You aren’t suggesting that we break the news to David in a letter, are you, Aunt Amelia? I don’t like that idea one bit.”
“I wasn’t suggesting it. I only wondered whether David had said anything that might indicate he had got wind of the business.”
“I’ve heard nothing from him to make me believe that,” Ramses said. “Nefret?”
“Lia would have told me,” Nefret said positively.
“Then what do you suggest we do?” Emerson demanded. “Confound it, Ramses, it’s all very well to say we must change our strategy, but unless you can come up with a useful idea—”
“I suggest we stop tiptoeing around the bush, if I may be permitted to mix a metaphor,” said Ramses. “We must take Daoud and Selim into our confidence. If we have not settled this business by the time David and Lia arrive, he will have to be told. We might also ask Mr. Vandergelt’s advice. He is in closer touch with the world of collectors and legitimate dealers than we, and surely not even Moth—surely no one could suspect him of dealing in forgeries.”
“That is quite all right, Ramses,” I said. “An imputation of realistic skepticism is not one I find offensive. It is, in my opinion, a useful idea. Katherine and Cyrus are above suspicion and we can count on their discretion. They are spending the Christmas season with us and will arrive shortly; we will tell Selim and Daoud at the same time, and have a council of war!”
Fatima came trotting in to announce dinner and we all rose from our chairs except for Nefret, who had to detach Horus