Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [82]
“Mother,” said Nefret. I realized the charm of that image had made me lose track of the conversation. Sir Malcolm had addressed a remark to me.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“Let me put it more directly,” said Sir Malcolm, mistaking my momentary abstraction for surprise. “I believe we can be of use to one another, Mrs. Emerson. Your distinguished husband would still like to get his hands on that tomb. I can help him to do so.”
“Impossible,” I said.
“Not at all. Carnarvon’s folly in entering the tomb illegally puts him in a dubious position. If M. Lacau were convinced he and Carter had removed valuable artifacts, the Department of Antiquities would have grounds to cancel the concession.”
Nefret let out a stifled exclamation, but she left it to me to reply. Pondering the outrageous suggestion, I remained silent and Sir Malcolm went on, with mounting passion. “The rumors are spreading, but so far they are no more than that. If you—those of you who were witnesses that night—and I were to go to Lacau and corroborate one another’s testimony, he could not ignore it. If he were tempted to do so, a threat of public exposure would do the job. You have friends in the newspaper world; one of them was another witness to Carnarvon’s actions. He would be delighted to publish the story.”
“I see you have thought it out carefully,” I said.
“The Professor’s evidence is crucial,” Sir Malcolm said. “His reputation is unimpeachable. And no one could believe he and I are—er—”
“In cahoots,” I murmured. “Very true. His dislike of you is well known. I presume that should this scheme come to fruition you would expect something in return.”
Sir Malcolm’s pale cheeks took on a feverish glow. “You have seen the contents of that tomb. Any one of the objects would be the prize of a collection.”
Nefret could contain herself no longer. She burst out, “How dare you suggest—”
“Now, now,” I said. “Without wishing to be rude, Sir Malcolm, I think you had better go, before my daughter loses her temper. She is a person of integrity, you see.”
The subtle insult was lost on Sir Malcolm. He was a true collector, a fanatic whose principles, assuming he had any, would always yield to the lust for possession. He was a clever-enough strategist to know better than to pursue the argument, however. Rising to his feet, he beckoned his attendant, who hastened to his side and handed him his stick.
“Think it over, Mrs. Emerson, and consult your husband. I hope to hear from you in due course.”
He snapped his fingers. His servant opened a parasol; canopied like a potentate, Sir Malcolm stalked off.
“Mother,” said Nefret in ominous tones. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”
The waiter presented me with a platter of chicken and rice. “That looks very good,” I said. “Eat, Nefret. You need to keep up your strength. Naturally I have no intention of collaborating in such a reprehensible scheme.”
“It’s an ingenious idea, though,” Sethos murmured. “It might even work.”
“Emerson would howl at the very suggestion,” I informed him. “So don’t you get any ideas of your own. I allowed Sir Malcolm to think we might yet be persuaded, because I believe in keeping all avenues of information open. He is determined to obtain some of the objects from that tomb. He will stop at nothing. If this scheme does not work, he will try something else, up to and including murder. We owe it to Lord Carnarvon to watch Sir Malcolm closely.”
“Surely you exaggerate,” Nefret protested. “He is an unscrupulous man, but murder—”
“You don’t understand the collector’s mania, Nefret. The artifacts in Tutankhamon’s tomb would drive many a man to mayhem.”
“She’s right,” Sethos said, nodding at Nefret. “That painted chest, for example—”
“Ask the man who knows,” I said, with a hard look at my brother-in-law.
I had hoped Mr. Callender would drop in for tea,