The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery Read Free Page A

of Amenhotep III, were often used to record important events. This was obviously of the second type; when Emerson picked it up and turned it over, I saw rows of raised hieroglyphs covering the flat base.
"What does it say?" I asked.
    Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin, as was his habit when perplexed or pensive. "As near as I can make out, this is an account of the circumnavigation of Africa in Year Twelve of Senu-sert the Third."
"What! This is a historical document of unique importance, Emerson."
"Hmmm," said Emerson. "Well, Renfrew?"
"Well, sir." Renfrew showed his stained teeth again. "I am going to let you have it at the price I paid. There will be no additional charge for my silence."
"Silence?" I repeated. There was something odd about his manner—and Emerson's. Alarm burgeoned. "What is he talking about, Emerson?"
"It's a fake," Emerson said curtly. "He knows it. Obviously he didn't know when he purchased it. Whom did you consult, Renfrew?"
From Renfrew's parted lips came a dry, rustling sound—his version of a laugh, I surmised. "I thought you'd spot it, Emerson. You are right, I had no idea it was a fake; I wanted an accurate translation, so I sent a tracing of the inscription to Mr. Frank Griffith. Next to your brother and your son he is the foremost translator of ancient Egyptian. His opinion was the same as yours."
"Ah." Emerson tossed the scarab onto the table. "Then you didn't need a second opinion."
"A sensible man always gets a second opinion. Do you want the scarab or don't you? I don't intend to be out of pocket by it. I'll sell it to someone else—without mentioning Griffith's opinion—and sooner or later someone will find out it isn't genuine, and they will trace it back to the seller as I did, and they will learn his name. I don't think you would want that to happen, Professor Emerson. You think well of the boy, don't you? I understand he is about to marry into your family. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, if he were caught forging antiquities."
"You dastardly old—old villain," I cried. "How dare you imply that David would do such a thing?"
"I am not implying anything, Mrs. Emerson. Go to the dealer from whom I got this, and ask him the name of the man who sold it to him."
From Manuscript H
Ramses spun round in his chair, dropped his pen, and swore.
    "I did knock," David said, from the doorway. "You didn't hear?"
"I'm trying to finish this."
"It's almost teatime. You've been at it all day. And you haven't touched your luncheon tray."
"Don't you start, David. It's bad enough with Mother and Nefret badgering me all the time."
Frowning, he examined the meticulously traced hieroglyphic signs. The pen had slipped when David opened the door, turning an owl into a monster with a serpent's tail. He reached for a piece of blotting paper and decided he'd better wait until the ink had dried before trying to repair the damage.
"You were very ill." David came in and closed the door. "We were all worried."
"That was months ago. I'm perfectly fit now. I don't need to be reminded to eat my porridge and go early to bed, as if I were a child."
"Nefret is a medical doctor," David said mildly.
"She never finished her training." Ramses rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Her perseverance in pursuing her medical training under the restrictions that women suffer is admirable. I only wish she wouldn't practice on me!" He picked up a glass from the tray, took a sip, and made a face. "The milk's turned."
David came in and closed the door. "What about beer instead? I just now took them out of the ice chest."
The brown bottles were sweating with cold. Ramses's stiff shoulders relaxed and he gave his friend an appreciative nod. "That was a happy thought. David, I apologize for what I said this morning."
"Friends need not always agree. It is unimportant."
"It's not that I disagree with your views. I just don't think—"
"I know. It doesn't matter, I tell you."
He offered Ramses a