The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [19]
Ramses’s face twitched in a frantic attempt to control his amusement. “It’s the beard,” he got out.
“I think that’s done the job,” Emerson said. He peeled the thing off and gave Nefret a cheerful smile.
“Hold it over the basin, Emerson,” I said, as water streamed from the bedraggled object onto the carpet.
“What? Oh.” Chagrin wrinkled his brow, and he attempted to wring the water out of the beard. “Hope I haven’t spoiled it, my boy. I would have asked you for the loan of it, but you see, the idea came to me after you left, and I had to act at once.”
“That’s quite all right, sir,” said Ramses. “Might one ask . . .”
“Certainly, certainly. I will tell you all about it. Make yourselves comfortable.”
It was evident that he planned to revel in every detail, so the children followed his suggestion, settling themselves on the sofa side by side and listening with interest. Neither of them interrupted until Emerson, with great gusto, told of my pulling out the sword.
“Good God, Mother!” Ramses exclaimed. “How many times have I told you—”
“She didn’t know me, you see,” Emerson said, beaming. “She won’t admit it, but she didn’t.”
“I did not recognize you immediately,” I admitted. “But the room was dark and Aslimi was shrieking in alarm, and I didn’t expect you would come that way. Nefret, my dear, are you laughing?”
“I’m sorry. I was picturing the two of you scuffling in Aslimi’s back room. Neither of you was hurt?”
“No,” I said, while Emerson grinned in a particularly annoying fashion. “It may take Aslimi a while to recover, though.”
“He admitted that his original description was false in every particular,” Emerson said smugly. “The seller was bearded, of course—most Egyptians are—but he was young, slender, and of medium height.”
Ramses could not come up with a name to match the new description either. “Someone new to the business,” he said thoughtfully.
“Someone who has been in Luxor recently,” Emerson added. “Assuming, that is, that the artifacts did come from the tomb of the princesses. He must have got them direct from one of the robbers, who had withheld them from the rest of the loot. Those scoundrels cheat even one another.”
“I suppose you are now even more on fire to go on to Luxor and track down the thieves,” Nefret said, tucking her feet under her and leaning against Ramses.
“You would like a few more days at the hospital, wouldn’t you?” Emerson asked.
“Well, yes; but I wouldn’t want you to change your plans on my account.”
I must give my dear Emerson credit; he was too forthright to pretend he was doing it on her account. “The tomb has already been robbed and the loot dispersed,” he explained. “And I expect everyone knows the identity of the thieves—the Abd er Rassuls, or one of the other Gurneh families who specialize in such activities. It is strange, though, to have some of the objects turn up in Cairo. The local boys usually work with Mohassib or another of the Luxor dealers. Ramses, are you certain that ointment vessel is Eighteenth Dynasty?”
“No, of course not,” Ramses said, somewhat defensively. “I’m not an expert on hard stone vessels. The same forms and materials were used over a long period of time. If you think it’s important, we might pay a visit to the Museum and see what examples they have.”
“If we can find them,” Emerson muttered. “The way that place is arranged is a damned disgrace.”
Emerson always complained about the Museum and about almost everything else that was not under his direct supervision. I pointed out that Mr. Quibell, the director, was doing the best he could under difficult circumstances. Emerson nodded grudgingly.
“No doubt. I suppose we ought to call on him. Or we might have one of your little archaeological dinner parties, Peabody. The Quibells, and Daressy, and anyone else you can collect.”
My dinner parties, celebrating our return to Egypt, had been very popular. For the past few years I had been loath to hold them; it was too painful to see the diminished company and reflect on the fates of those who were no longer with us: our