Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3)

by Robert Colton

  Martha beamed with delight. I noticed that her thick makeup had been put on in a rush. There was an uneven line of cosmetics along her chin, her drawn-on eyebrows were mismatched, and her eyeliner globed a bit beneath her left eye.

  “You were in the bath, and a message came from the railway.” Martha could hardly contain her excitement. “They found Kamose.”

  Jacob and Kinkaid nearly knocked their heads into each other as they dove for the metal box. The hinged lid was swung open, and we all looked inside.

  As anticipated, a mummy lay within the grey case. Wrapped from head to toe in dark linen, completely unadorned, the sight of the macabre object sent a chill down my spine.

  Everyone was silent, even those attempting to check in or out of the grand hotel were transfixed, witnessing our strange little group in the middle of the lobby gazing into the metal box.

  The hush was broken when Wilma clapped her pudgy hands together and said, “King Kamose, what a miracle that he has been found. You know, I have been praying for this.”

  I looked to Martha and noticed there was a nervous frown on her face, and she did not dare to look away from the mummy. Her husband stroked his beard, and kept his eyes averted from mine as well.

  It was Jacob who glanced at me, the only one brave enough to read the expression on my face. Finding his voice, he said rather sarcastically, “Keep praying, Mrs. Smith. This is not Kamose.”

  Kinkaid was slow to stand; he grimaced and rubbed his knees. “What a damned odd thing to happen …”

  Martha stood akimbo and flung her head back. “I don’t understand.”

  Lucy asked, “Who else lost a mummy on the railway?”

  “No one, my dear Lucy; do you remember Mother Stayton’s story about the fake mummy?”

  “It’s a forgery?” she responded in shock.

  “And not a very good one,” retorted Jacob. He kicked the metal case and added, “A damn shame whoever sent this didn’t forget to leave the price tag on it, so we could track ’em down and see who set this charade up.”

  Kinkaid shot Jacob an odd glance, and then he cleared his throat. “Martha, who did you speak to at the station?”

  Martha gave an angry shrug. “Oh, love, you know all of these people’s names sound alike to me, Akbar, Abdulla, just a bunch of names that start with an a followed by disjointed consonants …”

  Kinkaid snapped, “Martha!”

  “I don’t remember. I was too excited. The man said that a woman waiting for her train pointed out the case as abandoned in the middle of the night; they opened it up, and there was a mummy—he just assumed it was our mummy.” She waved her hands dramatically and shrugged. “Who could blame him?”

  Wilma stepped forward and took a look inside the case, and, obviously puzzled, she asked, “But how do you all know it isn’t Kamose?”

  Jacob pointed at the arms, crossed over the mummy’s chest. “Kamose’s arms were individually swaddled in linen and then positioned over his chest. This creation is just one lump of wrapping. Probably some dead vagabond, covered up in scraps of linen smeared with a bit of pitch and buried for a year or two in the desert. I’ve seen them for sale down in the bazars—what a sham.”

  Martha played with the cuticle of her ring finger and attempted to sound nonchalant as she said, “I shouldn’t have been so hasty in giving those railway boys the bum’s rush. Someone has lost their trinket and will be hounding the station manager.”

  I nodded my chin and said, “Yes, perhaps.”

  Dr. Smith made a quick change of the subject. “Alec, look here, a telegram from Huston.”

  Kinkaid took the message, and as he read it, I remarked, “I think that it is as genuine as the mummy.”

  With just a tinge of hostility, Jacob asked, “Really, Mrs. Stayton, why?”

  “When I found out from Mr. Farber that Percy went missing, I had my business manager suspend his salary. In this message, he gives no address for his final check to be sent, no mention at all about money. This seems odd to me, as many of you have told me that he was a spendthrift.”

  Almost defensively, Dr. Smith replied, “Percy doesn’t know you are here. Maybe he’s contacted your business manager in London?”

  “Mr. Jack has instructions to wire me, in the event that he hears from Percy,” I responded. “As yet, he hasn’t.”

  Jacob changed his tune and remarked, “It does seem a bit fishy. There’s nothing really personal about the message …”

  Nervously, the hotel manager appeared and asked, in a very pleasant manner, “May I be of service?”

  We were creating quite the odd spectacle at such an early hour of the morning.

  Martha, completely recovered, tapped the metal case with her red leather high-heeled shoe, causing the lid to fall down with a loud clang, and said, “Could you arrange to have that sent back to the railway stations? There has been a slight mix-up; it isn’t our mummy at all.”

  Dr. Smith snatched the telegram from Jacob’s hand, and I saw his eyes race over the words, then he frowned. At the same time, Wilma stifled a yawn as her beady dark eyes lingered on the metal case.

  Sandy met us in the hotel lobby as our little group dispersed. I noticed that both Jacob and the professor lingered, eager to hear what I was about to say to our dragoman. I called to them, “We will see you later in the day, at the tomb.”

  Both men gave me the same forced smile, but Jacob’s was different from Kinkaid’s, and then I noticed that his eyes were turned on Lucy. How right she had been about the man’s intentions.

  Stepping outside of the hotel, Sandy asked, “Righto; what was that all about?”

  “A bad bit of drama, nearly a comedy, in fact,” I retorted.

  The happy fellow gave a little shrug and then handed me an envelope. I quickly looked at the notes inside and then called for a young bellman coming up the steps.

  “Could you put this in my room?” I asked, and the lad quickly complied.

  “You were right. I asked all your questions, and they stirred up some memories,” said our chipper dragoman.

  “Indeed,” I replied, nodding my chin.

  Sandy could see that I had set the subject aside, and he asked, “Where are we headed today, ladies?”

  “Where does one buy a fake mummy?” I replied.

  Before Sandy could respond, a swarm of ragamuffins flew up the arched staircase, sending many in their path running for cover, as the needy youths cried out, “Baksheesh, Lady!”

  One cannot always prepare herself for something so different, something so overwhelming as the bazaar that Sandy took us to. My mind attempted to equate the enormous open-air market to something familiar, some place that I understood the workings of. I thought of the farmer’s market back home, yet this bazaar and that orderly arcade were truly nothing alike.

  Back in Saint Louis, not far from the river, and very near my parents’ home, there is a large farmer’s market, with all types of food, small livestock, and all manner of wares to be had. Sometimes, as a young girl, I would venture off with our maid or cook and wander about the lively market. On one memorable occasion, I felt rather sorry for a beautiful, fancy chicken that I saw in a small cage. I sneaked back, all by myself, and bought the creature with money saved from my birthday.

  I set the bird free in the park across from our home; a naïve child, I thought this was for the best. Looking back, I doubt the poor animal’s prospects were much better in Lafayette Park than at the market.

  Arriving at the Egyptian bazaar, I was thrilled and repulsed in equal measure as we left the safety of the sedan and walked along the crowed, dusty way. Noise, deafening noise, surrounded us. Voices yelled, cried, and sang. The occasional motorcycle pushed through the throng, the sound ever so terrible. I thought perhaps one might grow accustomed to it, like the snoring of one’s husband, or the merciless waves crashing against an ocean liner. But no, this was a harsh sound, like three airplane engines, fierce and relentless.

  I held Lucy’s hand
as we walked past a barber, shaving a man’s neck as they both yelled at each other.

  A snake charmer called to us, “Sayyida, Baksheesh!”

  Sandy gave me a rather stern look, and we kept going. The dancing cobra’s beady eyes followed us, as if it knew my purse was full of coins.

  Under what had once been gaily striped awnings, ragged merchants held out various fruits; these strange shapes and colors puzzled me. Many items were thrust toward us, and Sandy politely said, “la,” which I took to mean no, and pushed us onward.

  Live goats were tethered together beside an angry man, who was fighting with another local. I suspected I had more than enough currency to buy these poor creatures up, but alas, I knew of no local park to take them and set them free.

  Beggars sat on the dirty walkway, ignored by their fellow man as they mumbled unheard pleas for alms. They seemed even more helpless than the goats.

  A large native grabbed Sandy by the elbow; he shouted something, and Sandy replied once more, “La!”

  The menacing fellow stared at Lucy and me as we hurried past him. “What did he want?” asked my friend.

  Sandy gave us his standard chuckle and said, “I think you ladies would rather not know.”

  The pungent smell of livestock, strange spices, cooking meat, and neglected flesh was having an effect on me. I pictured Mother Stayton with us, swooning, but this image was a fiction; she never would have left the safety of the sedan.

  “Here we are,” called Sandy. “Antika.”

  Behind a stall selling rugs, Sandy led us into a dimly lit shop. Lanterns burned, casting flickering light on the golden and silver objects perched along shabby shelves.

  A thin chap, wearing an outdated businessman’s suit, bowed us a welcome.

  Sandy conversed with the fellow for a moment, and then said to us, “You’ll want to buy something, anything, but that’s how things are done here. I haven’t asked him about the … you-know-what yet, but I will once he has a spot of cash in his hands; of course, he’ll want more.”

  I nodded my chin and looked about the various items.

  “What do you think of this?” I asked Lucy.

  I pointed at a cat, carved from black stone. It was about the size of a standard dictionary. Tall and narrow, the cat sat quite upright. Ever so subtly, a vulture was carved into the feline’s chest.

  While many items in the cramped room were far flashier, this had the look of quality, even authenticity.

  The weedy man tottered over and smiled at us, taking the black cat from the shelf, causing the shelving to sway rather violently, and said, “Basset.”

  Sandy spoke up. “That’s its name, Basset, some sort of cat god.”

  I was not impressed with Sandy’s knowledge base. “Tell him I would like to buy it.”

  The two men first spoke in civilized tones, then they became more animated. At one point, I called out to Sandy, “I’ll pay the man what he wants.”

  Sandy called back to me, “He won’t respect us if we do that, Mrs. Stayton!”

  After a few more minutes of haggling, the trader threw his hands into the air, gave a jovial laugh, and then reached out with his lanky arms to hug Sandy, who cried out, “Pay him!”

  “How much?” asked Lucy as I fumbled to open my little coin purse, which had been tucked inside my pocketed vest.

  “Twenty-six Egyptian pounds.”

  Once I started counting out the foreign currency, Sandy was released. The fellow quickly found a little wooded cask and then began to wrap the item in old newspaper.

  “Well, are you going to ask him?” I said to Sandy.

  Our handsome guide pointed into the back room and said, “I don’t know that we even have to.”

  Leaning upright along the wall were two very simple figures, wrapped in old linen.

  “But I want to know who bought it,” I persisted.

  Sandy, with some trepidation, stepped very close to the proprietor, and in a hushed tone, he began to speak.

  The thin man looked over his shoulder and smiled. With a shrug, he responded, and then he watched Sandy reach for his wallet from the breast pocket of the well-fitted khaki jacket.

  This time, the haggling was far more subdued. As Sandy handed over the cash, the man gestured as he spoke. First he put out a flat palm at my eye level, he then indicated something rather round, finally, he squinted and held his mouth tightly together, this expression created the perfect illusion of a beady-eyed, prudish woman.

  Sandy looked over to me as he picked up the boxed artifact and asked, “Do you require a translation, Mrs. Stayton?”

  Before I could tell him otherwise, the lanky fellow blurted out, “Mrs. Stayton!” and grabbed the box back from Sandy and tore the lid from it. Once the black stone cat was sitting on his little work desk, he unfolded the paper and waved me over to see it.

  I was given quite a start to see my photograph on the crumbled page. The proprietor babbled on, excitedly.

  I beckoned Sandy nearer and asked, “Can you translate this headline?”

  Sandy frowned and then gave a great chuckle. “I think you’d rather know what that loathsome fellow asked me on our way here.”

  I tapped the paper with my little white-gloved finger. Sandy cleared his throat and read the caption, “Crazed American Millionairess causes havoc on board British Ocean Liner.”

  Perhaps Lucy thought my indignation might be staunched by the answer of her question, “Sandy, what did that leering brute ask you?”

  Sandy balled up the newspaper and tossed it aside. With a bashful smile, he replied, “The chap wanted to know if I was trying to sell you two.” He paused to chuckle. “If it is any consolation, he offered me a handsome price.”

  I felt my nostrils flare as I took the now repacked stone cat from the gleeful shop owner and suggested, “Sandy, might you go fetch our livery while we wait here?”

  Lucy and I entered the hotel, and at once, a porter rushed to us. “A message, Mrs. Stayton.”

  Only giving me a brief moment to read the note, Lucy asked, “Who is it from?”

  With little surprise, I replied, “Hazel Keeley has invited us to call on her.”

  Dashing up to our rooms, we changed and then made our way to our hostess’s room. Immediately after tapping on the door, a fresh-faced young maid greeted us.

  This young woman was a native, unlike the many English and French fellows that served as porters, bellhops, and waiters. I pictured her rooting through wastebaskets, rummaging about dresser drawers, and picking up my husband’s framed photographs.

  As the young woman smiled at me, my hostility towards her abated. I had just rubbed elbows with the reality of life in Luxor. The woman did what she could to earn her living, and then some. The poverty around her displaced the Western morals claimed by so many of the hotel’s guests, such as myself.

  We were escorted inside the room. Hazel sat, quite poised, on the center of a dark green divan, and the smiling maid ushered us to the two elegant chairs facing our hostess.

  “Good afternoon, it is so nice of you to join me,” said Hazel, perfunctorily. As we returned the greeting, she waved the maid to her side and mumbled something to the girl as she handed her a small box.

  Delighted, the maid gave Hazel a little bow and rushed off.

  A tea tray sat on the low table between us, and Hazel began pouring and then handed us both a fine china cup and saucer.

  My cursory glance about the suite did not go unnoticed, and Hazel remarked, “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  Larger than my room, the walls still seemed rather close for a three-year confinement. Opulently appointed, the sitting room felt more like a London residence than a hotel. Rather than cleaning solutions and fresh laundry, the air smelled of a woman’s boudoir, thick with cosmetics and perfumes.

  Nearby us were several sturdy easels, and each held a colorful painting. I recalled Sandy mentioning that our hostess fancied herself an art dealer; I wondered if these were her current wares, on disp
lay for potential buyers.

  “Yes …”

  Before I could say more, Hazel reached toward a container on the table. “You must try these.” She carefully untied a pink silk bow from the slim, long box.

  Lucy asked, in her sweet, curious voice, “What are they?”

  Slowly, carefully, Hazel lifted the top and gently placed it beside her. Almost methodically, she folded back the waxed paper inside, then, offering them to us, she said, “Chocolates, from Paris.”

  The box was covered in a heavy pink paper, the interior was lined in gold foil, and the waxed paper that had kept the chocolates from moving or touching the top of the box was the same quality as the stuffing in a fine hatbox.

  Timidly, Lucy and I both reached toward the open container and partook.

  Hazel batted her eyes and said, “They just melt in your mouth.” Our hostess took a little dark lump and placed it between her delicate lips.

  Hazel was indeed correct; the chocolate melted on my tongue. It was rich, delicious, and decadent.

  “Little more than a year ago, a delightful couple from Paris visited the hotel. They were captivated by my story. I was promised that when they arrived home they would send me a box of these, and they did. Every month, like clockwork, one arrives.”

  Lucy could only respond to this odd form of bragging by smiling and muttering, “What thoughtful people.”

  I nodded my chin, waiting for Hazel to explain her reason for inviting us to meet her.

  Our hostess said, “Please, have another.”

  Speaking for myself, I said, “Thank you.” But I did not take one, I only sipped at my tea.

  Lucy just smiled on, nervously.

  Hazel stretched out a hand and pointed to the four pieces of artwork on canvases, clustered together. “People are always hoping for an invitation to see my art. They are Monets, you know.”

  Just because I hailed from Saint Louis, Missouri, did not mean I lacked culture. “Really? I thought all of his work was quite large.”

  The artist, who had died little more than a year before, was well known for his huge paintings of outdoor scenery. A rebel of the art establishment in his youth, his work had become coveted during his old age.