“Actually, that label is a bit misleading, since Perneb’s burial chamber remains in Egypt. What the Met bought from the Egyptiangovernment in 1913 was simply some of the aboveground chambers of his tomb. This section, which took three years to put back together again here, contains the rooms that his family would have entered to pay him homage after he died.” Lauren walked inside, and he followed her.
Suddenly, they were no longer in New York City on Christmas Eve, 1925. They were in ancient Egypt, more than two thousand five hundred years before Christ had even been born. Lauren described how Perneb’s family would have used this space, and their beliefs about his spirit exiting through a false door and re-entering the land of the living.
“But the really wonderful thing for us and for those who view this tomb,” she went on, “is that they didn’t finish decorating it in time. Perneb must have died early, and they used it the way it was.”
Joe must have missed something. “How is that wonderful?”
“Because we get to see the process they used. Look here.” She pointed to the vignettes carved into the wall and painted. They were life-sized portrayals of Egyptians shopping at the market, carving meat at a butcher’s stall, bringing platters of food and vegetables toward that mysterious false door.
“Now come back to the vestibule.” Again, she led the way, confidence in her stride. “See? All we have here are etchings, the outlines the painters would have filled in. Look at this. Do you see these horizontal lines?” She pointed to four faint bars that had been drawn across the wall.
“The finished product was not the creation of one artist, or even one group of artists who worked on these relief murals from start to finish. The first group of workers came in and simply drew lines like these across the walls. They are at waist, knee, elbow, and shoulder levels. Ancient Egyptians loved uniformity.”
“That’s all that first group did?”
“Yes, then the second group came in with chisels and hammers and carved away the background, so the figures would stand out in relief.”
“And the third group would come in and paint,” he guessed. “Right?”
“Exactly. By the end, those lines drawn by the first group were either carved away or painted over. We’ve known this was their process for some time, but now we have proof of it.”
Joe saw the connection to the forgery cases at once. “One person is great at carving. Another paints with flawless precision. Another can sculpt. But they all work together. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I could be wrong, but to me, this makes more sense than finding one single super artist.”
Joe brought out his notebook and started scribbling. He ended by writing Daniel Bradford’s name again and circling it. “Daniel Bradford was involved in the sale of Mr. Sanderson’s fake canopic jars, and if he’s sold forgeries to one person, chances are he’s sold more. If there’s a forgery ring, it would not surprise me to learn that he’s involved.”
Lauren glanced at her watch. “It’s past closing time. Security will want us to leave soon.”
He could tell the idea disheartened her. As soon as they stepped out of the tomb, she had to face the fact that she was about to spend Christmas alone.
At least as far as she knew.
Joe accompanied her to her office.
“I’ll just be a moment.” She squeezed his arm before stepping to her desk and shuffling papers and mail around. Then she stopped so abruptly that he came alongside her.
“What’s wrong?”
She passed him the note she’d been reading. In blocky black letters, it readMINDYOUROWNBUSINESS. It was unsigned.
Joe laid a hand on the small of her back. “Where did this come from? Is there an envelope?”
She passed one to him. There was no stamp or return address on it. The only text was Lauren’s name, without even an address beneath it. Someone had gotten into the building and either tucked it into her mailbox or put it on her desk.
Joe asked himself who would want her to stop hunting forgeries. Newell St. John hadn’t liked it, but his concerns had been addressed more than a month ago. But Ray Moretti still held on to a forged papyrus. “Did you keep the invitation to the Morettis’ Christmas party?” He’d like to compare the handwriting.
“He wouldn’t have sent this. The Morettis picked me up in their car and drove me to their house, basically insisting that Inotmind my own business, remember?”
“Humor me.”
Lauren bent over her desk, riffling through a stack of old mail until she handed him a card. The envelope was engraved with her work address. The invitation inside, however, included a handwritten note.
Dr. Westlake, it would be an honor to have you and a guest in my home.Beneath it, Ray Moretti had signed his name.
It was a lucky break to have a handwriting sample. But it didn’t match Lauren’s four-word note.
She had the grace not to say she’d told him so as she returned it to the desk.
