The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [94]
It was not the first time Ramses had got himself involved with a young woman, and it would certainly not be the last. I do not believe it was always entirely his fault. He had not given the girl any encouragement that I could see. Of course I had no way of knowing what he did behind my back.
I told myself, as I had done so often before, that the romantic affairs of the children were not my business, and turned my thoughts to more important issues.
The news the children had got from Mr. Wardani had not really changed the situation. I believed him, not because I had much faith in his truthfulness (for I have learned that noble causes have a deplorable effect on the morals of the persons who espouse them), but because his statement confirmed every other clue we had found.
It made the situation even more baffling. We had always believed that the culprit must be someone we knew—a colleague or an acquaintance, if not a friend. We were no nearer to discovering his identity, and yet he must think we were, or he would not have paid us so many interesting attentions. I did not believe the collapse of the mastaba wall was an accident. In light of that incident and the earlier attack on me, Emerson’s seeming accident, our first day at the site, took on alarming significance. The interesting potsherd could have been put in position to divert his descent toward a particular section, and one of the stones insidiously undermined.
The burglary at Amarna House before we left England was of a different nature. No harm to any of us had been intended. The sole aim had been the retrieval of the spurious scarab. Two questions arose from that occurrence: how had the villain learned we had the thing in our possession, and why was he so bent on getting it back? The only possible answer to the last question was that we might have found on it some clue to the identity of the forger.
Perhaps, I mused, we had not given enough attention to that incident. Ramses was the one who had inspected the scarab most closely. In fact … Yes, he must have translated it, for he had been quite specific about the sources. If I knew Ramses, and I believe I may claim that I did—through the painful experience only a mother can acquire—he had written it down or at least made copious notes. We must have a look at that translation. I would never claim that my knowledge of the hieroglyphs is that of an expert, but one never knows when and to whom a sudden burst of inspiration may occur. They often occur to me.
Detectival fever had gripped me. New ideas burgeoned; new avenues of investigation were opening up. I had quite lost sight of my duties as a hostess when I was reminded of them by a shout from Emerson.
“Peabody! Where have you got to? What … Ah!” Questing round like a hunting dog, he had made out my form. Advancing, he demanded, “What are you doing lurking in the shadows? Are you alone?”
“Of course I am. What do you want?”
“Only your company, my dear.” Emerson looked a little sheepish. His profound attachment makes him unreasonably suspicious—not of me, for he never doubts my fidelity, but of the hordes of male persons whom he suspects of having amorous designs on me. Taking my hand, he raised me to my feet and gave me a quick but hearty kiss by way of apology before leading me out of my quiet corner.
I was unable to concentrate on serious matters thereafter, for everyone was having a jolly time and I felt obliged to romp a bit with the young people. Champagne has a way of loosening people’s reserve; it had a surprising effect on Clarence Fisher, Mr. Reisner’s second-in-command, who had always seemed to me a particularly straitlaced, humorless individual. Eyeglasses askew and hair standing up in tufts, he joined in a game of musical chairs and bumped Nefret out of the last empty one with remarkable joie de vivre. Even Karl forgot his Teutonic solemnity and allowed himself