Laughter of Dead Kings

“Too absorbed in your artistry?” John inquired. “I told you not to bring your sewing to work.”

“Hi, Alan,” I said.

“Vicky!” He sprang to his feet. “Do forgive me. John so dominates his surroundings, one fails to notice more attractive objects.”

Superficially he resembled John—fair hair, slim build, and that indefinable air of superiority produced by a public school education. At close range one couldn’t have mistaken one for the other. To put it as nicely as possible, Alan was a watered-down version of John, paler, slighter, less well defined, as if he was trying to imitate his boss and not doing it very successfully.

“What are you making?” I asked.

It was obviously a hat—large, broad-brimmed, with a white plume drooping dispiritedly over one side. Alan was polite enough to avoid making a sarcastic remark about my dumb question. He picked up the hat and pushed the plume up. It fell over again. “It’s for the reenactment,” he explained. “I’m a Cavalier.”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s the Roundheads and the Cavaliers this time? Cromwell and the head of King Charles?”

“Don’t show off,” John snapped. “Or encourage him. Of all the childish occupations in the world, reenacting old battles is the silliest.”

“I’d offer to help,” I said, as Alan pushed the plume up again and watched it slowly subside. “But I can’t sew either. May I suggest superglue?”

Alan pursed his lips. “It isn’t authentic, but it’s a very bright idea. Thanks.”

“I hate to interrupt,” John said, raising both eyebrows, “but might I venture to inquire whether anything of interest has transpired in my absence? Anything in the way of vulgar business, that is?”

“A couple of messages about the Egyptian piece. They’re on your computer.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.” John stalked into the office. Alan made a face at his back. “What’s new in dear old Munchen?”

“Not much.” I followed John into the office. He was already at the computer and into his e-mail.

“Anything from…him?” I asked.

“Mmmm,” said John, staring at the screen.

I leaned over his shoulder. Feisal had written a nice chatty letter, full of irrelevant gossip about what was going on in Luxor. It ended with fondest regards and the hope that we’d be able to pay him a visit in the not too distant future.

“So we can assume that everything is okay so far?” I asked.

“Mmmm,” said John.

“Do you want me to go away?”

“Mmmm.”

He shifted position so that I couldn’t read the screen. I took the hint. The bells over the door jangled as I entered the showroom. Alan looked up. “Would you mind demonstrating an inordinate interest in the amber necklace?” he hissed.

A woman of what is known as “a certain age” had sidled in. What I could see of her hair, under her enormous hat, was an odd shade of grayish blue. The hat was eye-catching: bright scarlet, with a floppy brim that drooped down over her brow, leaving only nose and mouth exposed. Seeing me, she stopped just inside the door.

“Oh,” she said.

Alan advanced, smiling winsomely. “Come to have another look at the necklace?” he asked. “I put it aside for you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come to a decision shortly. This lady is also interested.”

“Oh,” said the hat. “No. I, um…Thank you.”

The door closed after her. Alan shook his head. “One does meet the most peculiar people in this business.”

“What’s so exciting about the necklace?” I asked, leaning over the case of jewelry. “It’s just rough chunks of amber.”

“According to our esteemed chief, it came from a fifth-century Viking hoard. He’s got the papers to prove it.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Some people,” Alan rattled on, “buy not for the intrinsic value or the artistry of the piece concerned; they focus on specific periods or areas.”

I stopped listening, since he was telling me stuff I already knew or didn’t care about. “This is nice,” I said, moving along the length of the case.

“Which?” Alan leaned over the case. “Oh, that. I’d forgot you were an authority on antique jewelry. Would you like to have a closer look?”

He fished out a bunch of keys, unlocked the case, and placed the pendant carefully on my outstretched palm. It was silver filigree set with roughly cut turquoise, with loops at the top so that it could be hung on a chain or cord.

“Turkoman,” I said. “It’s not that old; late nineteenth century, probably.”

“Show-off,” Alan said agreeably. He replaced the piece and locked the case again. “Darling, since you and the boss are here, would you mind if I popped out for a coffee?”

“Not if you bring one back for me.”

He waved his way out. The office door remained uncompromisingly closed.

I amused myself by wandering around the showroom. Some of the objects on display had been there as long as I could remember: a study in black chalk of an elephant, purportedly by Rembrandt (I had my doubts), a stunning Entombment of Christ in walnut polished to satiny smoothness (fifteenth-century German), and a bronze Chinese ceremonial vessel of some sort (not my field). One new object occupied a pedestal in the center of the room. I was gaping at it when John emerged from the office.

“Where on earth did you get this?” I asked.

“Do I detect a note of accusation in your voice?” After a quick but comprehensive survey of the showroom, he came to stand beside me. “It’s been in the family for years. I am reduced, tragically, to selling off our treasures.”

It was a treasure—a small alabaster head, with the distinctive elongated cranium of an Amarna princess. Eighteenth Dynasty Egypt is not my period either, but artifacts of that quality are memorable; they don’t come on the market often. The lips were delicately tinted and the musculature of the face sketched in by an expert hand.

“How many years has it been in the family? Four?”

“Your skepticism cuts me to the quick. It was purchased in Egypt quite legitimately in 1892. I have the original bill of sale, and several dated documents describing it.”

I turned to meet his placid blue gaze. “So you do have family jewels.”

“A few. Where—”

“And they aren’t in the attic or your hankie drawer.”

“No. Do stop asking irrelevant questions. I want to talk to you before Alan comes back. Where is he, by the way?”

“Gone for coffee.”

“That usually takes quite a while. Still, I will be brief. Amid the plethora of trivia that constitutes my correspondence, there were a few interesting items.”

“From your former business associates?”

“One or two. Indicating, in the most tactful fashion, that they were presently at loose ends and would be pleased to act as middlemen in any transactions that might be pending.”

“Competitors of Bernardo? Or Monsignor Anonymous?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t try that icy stare on me. You didn’t go all the way to Rome to ask about thefts from a place like the Vatican, and you didn’t hand over that wad of money for information about relics. Why can’t you tell me the truth?”

“I paid you the compliment of assuming you would prefer to work it out for yourself.” He put a long arm round my shoulders and leaned toward me.