by Jess Faraday
My prey was agile and quick on his feet. He darted deftly through the main gallery, dodging chaotic groups of frightened visitors. I caught up with him outside the front door, just as he was about to disappear into a group of passersby, who had apparently been attracted by the noise. At the bottom of the front steps, the man ventured a glance over his shoulder. That slowed him down just enough for me to leap from the landing.
We went down hard onto the cobblestones, rolling into the street. There was the sudden clatter of hoofbeats above my head. Then a scream. And then the man I had just tackled was rolling us both out of the way, as a heavily laden lorry thundered past, pulling to a hasty stop a bit beyond where we’d been lying.
The driver cursed down at us from his platform. I jumped up. Keeping one foot on my prisoner, I pulled my warrant card from my breast pocket and brandished it in his direction. The driver paled. “Begging your pardon, Constable.”
I looked down at the man beneath my foot. He had saved me, even as I’d been apprehending him. But my gratitude had its limits. I put my warrant card away and brushed off my jacket. It had been new, that jacket, and now I'd have to spend part of the evening mending a nasty tear. Muttering under my breath, I glared at the driver until he pulled his vehicle to the side and continued along his way. Then I pulled the man to his feet.
“I did not cause that explosion,” my prisoner said in a lilting accent.
“Then why did you run? You could have killed us both.”
He had no answer for that, which was fine. At that moment, I was in no mood to hear one. By this time, a pair of fellow constables had arrived, and were standing on the front steps of the museum. I marched my prisoner toward them and thrust him into their waiting hands.
“Don’t let him leave,” I instructed one of them. “Or anyone else, for that matter.” Then I turned to the other. “And you; send for at least eight more constables
“Yes, sir,” the officers said in unison.
They’d no reason to ‘sir’ me. I certainly didn’t outrank them. But the arrest of Chief Inspector MacKay had proved to be a relief for many of the officers under his command. And I’d had a hand in it. Add to the fact that some of them seemed to be genuinely awed to be in the presence of an officer from Scotland Yard, and I’d enjoy the respect as long as it was offered.
“We’re going to have to interview everyone who was inside this morning, and when we do, I want him first.” I jabbed a finger at the prisoner, whose face filled with a fear that, I found—shamefully—gratifying.
Bruises were already starting to form on my shoulders and back as I stalked up the stairs. My left cheekbone throbbed where it had hit the pavement, and the skin of my cheek stung when the wind passed over it. No doubt I’d be feeling my injuries to the bone in the morning.
A number of patrons had fled the building by the time I made my way back inside. Those who remained were unhappy that they wouldn’t be allowed to go home quite yet. But too many potential witnesses had fled the scene, not to mention possible accomplices. I had no sympathy for their inconvenience.
Back in the exhibition gallery, Malcom blooming Findlay was wearing some sort of bandage around his head, but had recovered enough to play nurse as Cal attended the other casualties. Cuts and bruises, from what I could see. I hoped it was no worse than that. I waved, trying to catch their attention. Findlay looked over, laid a hand on Cal's elbow, then pointed. Cal met my eyes then quickly looked away.
Was that the way he wanted it? Fine by me. I surveyed the room. Drummond had managed to confine the remaining patrons to one flank of the room, and had drawn a velvet rope across the doorway. Now he and Hamish were examining the gold coffin, which had slid out of the sarcophagus when the latter had fallen from its stand.
Hearing my approach, Drummond looked up from the coffin.
“How old did you say this mummy was?” he asked.
“At least three thousand years. Why?”
It was at that moment that I noticed the bandage-wrapped arm sticking out from the coffin. It did not appear as desiccated as one might expect from some millennia-old artifact. In fact, beneath the bandages, the arm looked rather plump.
“Well, to this copper’s eyes, this poor sod can’t be more than a day or so dead.”
I knelt down beside the coffin, and gestured for Drummond to help me. Together, we lifted off the gold coffin lid and set it to one side. It wasn’t just the arm. The entire mummy looked to be, well, fresh. I glanced at Drummond. He nodded sharply. The surrounding patrons gasped as I began to unroll the remarkably clean and new bandages from around the head of the corpse. Progress halted for a moment as the bandage stuck. Gently, I eased it away from the back of the head, where it had held fast. I touched the spot and drew my hand back quickly, suppressing a shudder.
The back of the man’s skull was caved in. His hair was matted with a tacky substance that stuck to my fingers.
That substance was not blood.
“Who is it, d’ya reckon?” Drummond asked.
“No clue.”
A prickle ran up my neck. My policeman’s sixth sense made me look up to see who was standing behind me.
“That,” Cal said, avoiding my eyes, “is the curator.”
A short time after that, the police surgeon arrived to collect the unfortunate curator, a man by the name of Dr. Robert Selkirk, and Drummond and I began the grueling process of interviewing everyone who hadn’t managed to slip away. Findlay, feeling much better, now, it seemed, had kindly made up an interrogation room in a cloakroom off the main gallery, and a second in a utility corridor behind the exhibition gallery. To his credit, he’d even brought us paper and pens, and was keeping the kettle running as well. I sent one of the newly arrived constables back to the section house to fetch my uniform. Witnesses would respond better to questioning from someone who looked the part. Besides, the state of my new jacket was depressing me.
I kept an eye out for Callum but he was avoiding me. After a while, I stopped looking.
As I’d requested, my first interview was the foreign gentleman with whom I’d struggled in the street in front of the museum. He was indeed from Egypt, and he was a scholar of ancient history and linguistics. His name was Dr. Salim Al-Mahdi. He wasn’t looking so dapper, now, though. His dark suit was rumpled. and bits of dust and wood splinters decorated one sleeve. There was a spot of dried mud on one shoulder. I had since exchanged my unfortunate jacket for my constable’s uniform, but beneath it, I probably looked similarly rough.
“Hello again,” I said, as he took the chair across from mine. My hand went, unbidden, to the bruise on my cheekbone, which had swollen and become tender.
“I apologize for our earlier scuffle, Constable,” Al-Mahdi said. He sat stiffly, as if he, too, were feeling the results of our brawl. It must have been worse for him. He was at least fifteen years older than me.
“It’s part of the job,” I replied. “But thank you for rolling us both out of the way of that lorry.”
“So you see, I am not a murderer. And I didn’t murder Dr. Selkirk.”
I frowned. It struck me as suspicious that he should know the name of the victim. On the other hand, word had to have traveled among the people being detained in the main gallery.
“In fact,” he added. “I will offer a reward to the one who finds the filthy swine who did kill him.”
“A friend of his, were you?” I asked.
“Yes. I mean, I knew him. We corresponded. He was a very good man. Very intelligent and principled. I was so looking forward to meeting him in person. That’s why I came here today.” Dr. Al-Mahdi’s command of English was impressive. Fluent, despite a thick accent. It couldn’t have been easy. I’d been trying to teach myself to read French, and it was giving me fits. Al-Mahdi continued. “We museum curators are a small, select group. I represent the Cairo Museum of Egyptology.”
That would definitely explain his eloquence and academically inspired attire. Al-Mahdi was a handsome man, with thick bla
ck hair flecked with silver. He now wore a pair of wire rimmed spectacles that gave him an even more professorial air. His dark skin had a warm glow that told me he hadn’t been in Britain for any great length of time. Close up, I couldn’t help but notice that he had a fastidious, almost delicate demeanor, and that muted, floral notes danced beneath the more everyday smells of mud and perspiration.
“Can you prove that?” I asked.
“But of course.” He reached into the side pocket of his tweed jacket and produced a letter written in Arabic and English. “It’s a letter of introduction from the president of the League of Egyptian Scholars. You’ll find that it corroborates both my profession and my identity.”
The document was written on letterhead bearing the name of that organization, as well as what I assumed to be its symbol. And the English translation, typewritten below neatly handwritten paragraphs in Arabic, said what he had claimed. However, I’d no way of knowing if the document was authentic. On the other hand, typewriting machines were extremely expensive, and, I imagined, difficult to come by in Egypt. If anyone would have access to such a device, it would probably be a government or academic office.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of that museum, or that organization,” I said, handing the letter back.
“We are very small and rather new. I am, I’m afraid, the museum’s only employee.”
“I see.” I frowned again. “I understand that some scholars in Egypt are unhappy about what they consider to be the theft of their history by European invaders.”
Surprise lit Al-Mahdi’s face, and he regarded me with a new interest. “You are aware of the controversy, then?”
“There was an article in The Scotsman about the prince and his companion. They mentioned it. Have you come to protest the exhibit, Dr. Al-Mahdi?”
He paused thoughtfully, perhaps considering his words. “Yes and no. I followed Sethotep and Nefer-mery from Cairo to London. I had hoped to remonstrate with Dr. Hartford, who is in charge of Egyptian antiquities at the British Museum, but he refused to meet with me. I had greater hopes for the curator of the Edinburgh Museum. Dr. Selkirk actually answered my letters—in Arabic, no less. And he agreed with my evaluation of the important role that Nefer-mery had played in the prince’s household. He’d also agreed to meet with me to discuss returning the pair to Egypt, where they belong. We were to dine together this evening, after the exhibit opened. Here. You can see for yourself.”
He produced a small stack of correspondence bound by a ribbon. I flipped through the pages, but since they were all in Arabic, save for the addresses on half the envelopes, the letters were of little use. The calligraphy was exquisite, though. Even I could tell that many of them had been written by a careful hand, using a fine instrument.
“I don’t read Arabic,” I said. “But I’ll hold on to these, if you don’t mind. Perhaps one of the museum staff can translate them.”
“By all means, Constable. Only when you’re finished, I should very much like to have them back. They carry great sentimental value for me.” He swallowed, as if around a lump in his throat. It struck me as odd that he should feel so strongly for someone he’d never met. It also made me wonder exactly what was in those letters. But perhaps Egyptians were a sentimental people.
“Of course,” I replied.
Dr. Al-Mahdi was saying all the right things. And if those things were true, then he had nothing to gain from Selkirk’s death. Nothing to gain, and quite a bit to lose. At the same time, isn’t that exactly the impression a murderer would wish to convey?
At that moment, Malcom Findlay knocked on the doorjamb. Did I require anything at this time? I handed him the letters, and asked if he would find someone to translate them. He assured me it wouldn’t be a problem, then slipped away. I looked back at Al-Mahdi. He seemed a pleasant man, if intense. I found myself hoping circumstances would exonerate him.
But one thing still bothered me.
“You did know about the explosion, though,” I said. “I saw you step back from the dais just before it happened.”
He frowned. For a moment he seemed genuinely flummoxed. Then a nervous smile flitted across his lips. “Of course. I understand how that must have appeared. The fact is, I was distracted by the woman.”
“Which woman?”
“She was standing at the back of the room, half hidden by a curtain. She wasn’t a spectator. She wasn’t dressed for it. And she had no escort. In Cairo, there are no female museum employees, and women do not walk about the city by themselves. I would assume the situation is similar here.”
“But you stepped back just before the explosion,” I pressed.
Dr. Al-Mahdi gave a self-deprecating smile. “Yes, well, I’m long-sighted, you see.” He removed his spectacles and handed them to me. I held the lenses in front of my own eyes and found that they were, indeed, a prescription for a profoundly long-sighted person. “When the woman moved, I stepped back to have a better look. I could have sworn she was staring at me.”
I nodded and handed the spectacles back.
“It’s all very convincing, Dr. Al-Mahdi,” I said. “But if you had nothing to do with the explosion, why did you run?”
He gave a short, resigned sigh. “I don’t suppose, Constable, you have ever found yourself treated with suspicion, simply because of who you are.” It was a fraught question for me, and not one I wished to contemplate at that moment. “I suppose you could say I panicked.”
“I see.” I laid down my pen and straightened the stack of paper in front of me. I could have held him on general principle. However, his remark about unfair suspicion had found its way under my skin. I’d probably wish to speak to him again, but at present there wasn’t a compelling reason to detain him further.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Al-Mahdi. You’re free to go, though I may wish to interview you again.”
“You will find the person who killed him, won’t you, Constable?”
“You can count on it,” I said. As he stood to leave, I said, “By the way, where are you staying in Edinburgh?”
He gave me the address of a rooming house near Cowgate. It wasn’t an area where most academics would have felt at ease. On the other hand, more respectable establishments might have preferred to leave a room empty, even in winter, over letting it to a foreigner.
“Right,” I said. “I’ll not keep you longer. However, I must insist you not leave the city until this matter is settled.”
He looked unhappy at the prospect, but nodded his agreement. As he left, I relieved a bored-looking constable of his crowd control duties and told him to follow Al-Mahdi, and make sure he stayed true to his word.
The interminable parade of interviews marched across the afternoon and well into the evening. You can’t imagine how tedious it is, piecing together an event from a hundred other people’s bits of recollection. By the time night had pulled its cloak across the Edinburgh sky, Drummond and I had amassed tall stacks of notes, but precious little information. My shoulders and neck had stiffened up, my hand was beginning to cramp, and my tongue was numb from asking the same questions over and over.
On the other side of the museum, Jimmy Drummond and Hamish were conducting similar interviews from their little desk in the corridor. And somewhere, out there in the city, having left hours before, was Cal. What had I done to provoke such a reaction from him? To cause him to push me away with such vehemence, then to deny me so much as a word or a glance? I went over the time before the explosion again and again in my mind. The only thing I could imagine was that he’d somehow sensed my jealousy. I’d known it was irrational, so I’d tried to hide it. Not carefully enough, it seemed.
This was all so new to me—keeping company with a man, rather than trading money for mere physical relief. What were the rules? Could a person be blamed for his thoughts, even if he didn’t act on them? And were my thoughts really that unforgivable? I hoped I hadn’t driven him away altogether. A small cruel voice in the back of my mind said it was a won
der I hadn’t done so already.
A knock on the doorjamb brought me back to the problem at hand. I looked up to find Malcom Findlay in the doorway, looking almost as ragged as I felt.
“Constable Drummond is interviewing the last of the museum patrons,” he informed me. “There are only two more statements left to take—mine, and that of Miss Wallace, Dr. Selkirk’s typist.”
I sighed and ran a hand over my face. “Thank God. Let’s finish this.”
•••
When Miss Henrietta Wallace took her seat on the other side of the table, I could see why she had captured Dr. Al-Mahdi’s attention. She was striking—as thin as bone china, and as pale as a watercolor painting. Her eyes were a startling deep blue. But what was truly arresting was the contrast between her appearance and her choice in clothing. She looked to be around twenty-three years of age, yet she wore a frumpy, shapeless dress more suited to a maiden aunt. Its drab color added years and weight, and did not match, in either design or tone, the frivolous, brightly colored silk scarf around her neck.
“I understand you were Dr. Selkirk’s typist,” I said, as she settled into her chair.
“That’s correct.”
“How long have you held the position?”
“A little over a year.”
“And before that, you studied at Girton College. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Girton was the ladies college at Cambridge. According to Findlay’s notes, Miss Wallace had received a degree in Classics with distinction. To hear Findlay tell it, everything she’d done since then had been accomplished with distinction. Miss Wallace’s accent wasn’t quite the glass-cutting variety of the upper classes, but it was close. She could have married well and had a much easier life, but she’d chosen differently—and had possessed the resources to do so.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss, it seems strange that someone with a first class degree from Cambridge who is fluent in six languages should take a position that requires little more than finger dexterity and the ability to use a typing machine.”
