The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery by Elizabeth Peters

guests and completing the preparations for departure. At least that was their excuse. They knew how Nefret would react to an accusation against her friend. So did Ramses. He decided it would be better to get her away from the house when he told her, in case she started shouting, so he suggested they take two of the horses out.
It was a gray, blustery day, and the wind whipped color into Nefret's cheeks. They turned an even brighter shade as she listened to what he had to say.
    The explosion was less intemperate than he had expected, though she employed several expletives she had learned from Emerson and a few more Ramses hadn't realized she knew. Then her eyes narrowed in a look he had learned to dread even more than her fits of temper. "Have you spoken with the bloody damned dealer?"
    "There hasn't been time. I thought I'd run up to London tomorrow."
    "Not tomorrow. I promised to take Fatima to the shops."
    "But—"
"You're not going to London without me, Ramses. We'll go the day after tomorrow."
It was late morning before they got off. Nefret didn't complain once about how slowly he was driving. That was a bad sign, and so were her furrowed brow and tightly clasped hands. She was off on one of her crusades, and when she got the bit in her teeth she could be as passionately illogical and unreasonable as his mother. They were in the city and across the bridge, heading for Bond Street, when Ramses felt obliged to remind her of something he knew she wouldn't like.
    "You did promise you'd let me do most of the talking."
"I did." A flash of blue eyes. "But I wish to go on record as remarking that I do not agree with the method you have decided to follow."
"You've already gone on record," Ramses said. "Several times and at length. Look here, Nefret, I don't agree with it either. I tried to convince Mother and Father that we ought to tell David at once, and failing that, confront Esdaile with the truth. But you know how they are."
"Still trying to protect us and David." She sighed. "It is so dear of them, and so infuriating!"
    "They aren't as bad as they once were."
"No. Once they wouldn't have told you about the scarab. All right, we'll try it their way, but I'm damned if I know how you are going to extract any useful information without admitting it wasn't David who sold him the thing."
    "We'll see."
    The shop was pretentious and the merchandise was overpriced, and the proprietor fawned on them like Uriah Heep at his most unctuous. Having members of the "distinguished family of Egyptologists" patronize his establishment was an honor he had never dared expect. It was well known that "the Professor" disapproved of dealers. Of course he was not like other dealers. The firm's reputation for integrity had never been questioned ...
    Extracting the information they wanted without giving away their real purpose was a delicate and prolonged business. While examining practically every object in the shop, Ramses managed to extract a description of the man from whom Esdaile had purchased the scarab. It was vague in the extreme, since Ramses didn't dare inquire about such details as height and hair color; as a close friend of Mr. Todros, he might reasonably be expected to know them already. Finally Esdaile offered them a sizable reduction on a string of amethyst and gold beads Nefret had admired— "as a token of goodwill, my dear young friends"—and Ramses felt it would be expedient to buy it.
"Have you found a customer for Mr. Todros's scarab?" he asked, counting out banknotes.
"And the other antiquities." Esdaile smirked and rubbed his hands. "They were unusually fine, as you know."
Nefret's mouth opened. Ramses jabbed his elbow into her ribs. "The others, yes," he murmured, realizing he ought to have anticipated this. "I hope they went to collectors who would appreciate them."
"Yes, indeed." Esdaile hesitated, but only for a moment. "Professional etiquette prevents me from mentioning names, of course. He is, however, an old acquaintance