The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [97]
I’m not going to make fun of Geoffrey even to you. He didn’t so much propose as tell me he knew I wouldn’t accept him; nor should I, he wasn’t nearly good enough for me, no one was… You know the sort of thing. I’ve heard it before. There was something oddly impressive about him, though—his quiet, well-bred voice and pale, controlled face. “I only want you to know,” he said, “that if you ever need me, for any reason, at any time, it would be the greatest honor and pleasure to serve you.” I was so moved I let him kiss me—not on the cheek. It was very sweet.
We had a nice long gossip with Howard next day. He was very proud of the new house he had built near the entrance to the Valley of the Kings, and showed me innumerable pictures of it—a pleasant little domicile with a domed central hall. This indicated to me that he meant to go on working in the Theban area, and he admitted, when I inquired, that he and Carnarvon had not given up hope of getting the firman for the Valley of the Kings one day. Mr. Davis had lost some of his enthusiasm; he felt that the Valley was exhausted.
“Not true,” said Emerson.
“Are you considering a return to Thebes?” Howard asked.
Emerson shook his head. “Not while Weigall is Inspector there. Can’t stand the fellow.”
“He hasn’t been particularly cordial to me either,” Howard said. “But what is one to do?”
Having no answer to this, Emerson relapsed into moody silence and allowed me to turn the conversation in the direction I desired.
“I understand that Mr. Weigall has been making a fuss about the sale of antiquities,” I said cunningly.
Howard’s long face lengthened even farther. “He accused me of negligence, if you can believe such a thing! The fellow sneers at everyone, even Maspero, who has been so kind to him.”
“I find myself in sympathy with certain of his views, however,” I continued. “It is a pity to see fine objects sold to private collectors.”
This touched a tender spot, for Howard had become skilled at acquiring valuable antiquities for wealthy collectors—one of whom was his current employer. He looked a little chagrined, but defended himself spiritedly. “That’s all very well, Mrs. E., and I agree in principle, but there’s not the manpower for proper supervision, and Weigall knows it. As many priceless pieces have slipped through his hands as was the case when I was Inspector for Upper Egypt.”
Howard mopped his perspiring brow, smiled apologetically at me, and dropped his bombshell. “Speaking of antiquities, what’s this I hear about Abdullah’s collection?”
I spilled my tea, Emerson swore, and Ramses said, “What have you heard, Mr. Carter?”
“That it was being sold through various European dealers.” His eyes moved from my face to that of Ramses, found nothing in that enigmatic countenance to assist him, and went on to that of Emerson, which expressed his emotions as clear as print. “I see I’ve spoken out of turn. Was it supposed to be a secret? Don’t see how it can be, though.”
Ramses did not say “I told you so,” though he must have been sorely tempted. Glancing at his father, he said, “We have been meaning to take you into our confidence, Mr. Carter.”
“Curse it, we may as well,” Emerson grumbled. “It’s going to come out anyhow. Abdullah had no collection, Carter. The objects purporting to have belonged to him are forgeries. The man who sold them gave David’s name, but it was not David.”
This statement was typical of Emerson—the bare facts, without elaboration or explanation. They had the same effect as a series of blows from a hammer. I therefore took it upon myself to add a few words, describing how we became involved with the business and what we had done to investigate it.
Emerson, of course, cut me off before I had half done.
“Enough, Amelia. Well, Carter, you may now express your skepticism and ask the usual idiotic questions. Are we sure the objects are fraudulent? How do we know the seller was not David? Have we—”
“No, sir,” Howard said firmly. “If you say they are fakes, then I take your word. D’you know, I couldn’t