The Case of the Blind Beetle

by Holly Webb

  “It’s the truth, I promise you. The dung beetles roll balls of dung to their nests to lay their eggs in. And that reminded the Egyptians of the sun moving across the sky as a great fiery ball.”

  “They got all that from dung?” Maisie muttered.

  “Well, so we think,” Mr Travers agreed. “Ah, excuse me, my lord.” He bowed hastily to Lord Dacre, who had noticed that they weren’t listening and was glaring at them both. “I was trying to explain the background to Miss Hitchins. The importance of the god Khepri.”

  “And you found this precious scarab on your recent expedition?” Professor Tobin asked quickly.

  “Yes, it was a royal jewel.” Lord Dacre nodded sadly. “Part of a huge necklace, but designed for a man, not a woman. It was supposed to hang down on to his chest. I found it myself. We had unearthed the most amazing tomb complex, Scruffy. Buried under an enormous pyramid, half-collapsed now. We had to dig up the entrance, and it took us a year – so many false tunnels! Traps everywhere! The ancient kings guarded their secrets well.”

  “And yet you still went in? Wasn’t that a little unwise?” Professor Tobin looked surprised, and Maisie smiled to herself. On his own South American expedition, a few years before, the professor had almost been eaten by a huge snake! She didn’t think it was very fair of him to tell Lord Dacre off.

  “I couldn’t not, Scruffy. To see the finds in their original places, that is most important. Once they are removed from the tombs and displayed in museums –” Lord Dacre waved his hand around the gallery – “they lose some of their meaning. Though we must bring them back to study, of course. I had to brave the traps and the curses to see the great king’s last resting place. And when we opened the coffins – he had three of them, you know, one inside the other – the Golden Scarab was resting on his chest, above his heart.”

  “On his dead body!” Maisie squeaked, horrified.

  “His mummy.” Lord Dacre frowned at her. “Do you know nothing, child?”

  “We hadn’t reached the mummies, yet,” Professor Tobin explained. “They’re over there at the end of the room. The Egyptians preserved their dead very carefully, Maisie, then wrapped them in bandages, to keep them, er, well … not exactly fresh, but at least whole. Then they put them in these beautiful coffins. There are several mummies here in the museum.”

  “That’s horrible,” Maisie whispered. “Shouldn’t they be buried?”

  “Better here than sold in an Egyptian street market, young lady,” Lord Dacre snapped. “For foolish tourists to buy and then bring home and unwrap at parties!” Then he seemed to relent, and he patted her hand. “Perhaps it is rather shocking, Miss Hitchins. I forget that not everyone is as fascinated with these strange death rituals as I am.”

  “It is fascinating, sir,” Maisie gulped. “Did you say there was a curse as well?”

  “Hundreds of them.” Lord Dacre sighed. “Some people would probably say that the theft of the scarab was part of the curse. That it was the great king’s revenge on me for robbing his resting place.” He snorted. “Nonsense, of course. It was such a handsome tomb, absolutely every inch of the walls covered in paintings – and they were so lifelike, they almost seemed to move in the flickering light of our burning torches. And the furniture for the king in the afterlife – so beautifully made! There was even a carriage for him to ride in, but it was too fragile to move. I wanted everyone to see how great he was, it seemed sad that it was all hidden away. My last great work was to bring him back to life.”

  Maisie swallowed. She knew that Lord Dacre didn’t mean that the dead king would come to life in quite that way, but it was easy to imagine, with all the talk of dark tombs and flickering torchlight. And dead bodies… Were there really bandaged-up dead people at the other end of the gallery?

  “Your last great work?” Professor Tobin asked, looking at his old friend in surprise.

  “My doctor has said I should not go back, Scruffy,” Lord Dacre said sadly. “I have a weak heart. Too many years adventuring in the foreign sun. This was my last expedition. The scarab was my treasure. And it’s gone.”

  Maisie had been hoping to ask Lord Dacre about her pendant – surely such an expert on Egypt would be able to tell her what the strange lines meant. After looking at the Rosetta Stone, Maisie was beginning to think that deciphering the message all by herself was going to be too tricky.

  But she couldn’t ask Lord Dacre for help just now. He had his embroidered handkerchief out again, and he was blowing his nose with elephant trumpeting noises.

  Mr Travers was patting him sympathetically on the back. “The police are still working on the case, my lord,” he murmured. “You never know.”

  “I suppose so, Travers, I suppose so. Ah, well, at least there has been one pleasant part of the day, Scruffy. It has been far too long since we’ve met. And now that I’ve caught you, I’m not letting you go so easily! Won’t you come and have tea with me back at Dacre House, you and Miss – Miss Hitchins, is it?”

  Professor Tobin looked doubtfully at Maisie. “Would your grandmother mind?” he asked. “It’s quite late…”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Maisie said firmly, crossing her fingers behind her back. She thought that Gran probably would mind – she hadn’t been happy about Maisie leaving her chores to go off gallivanting with the professor in the first place. It was only Maisie reminding Gran that the museum would be educational that had persuaded her.

  Luckily, Gran could be a bit of a snob, too. She would like to hear about a real lord’s house, Maisie was sure. She could tell Gran that it would have been rude to refuse the invitation. Besides, she could see how eager the professor was to go and talk to his old friend, and she didn’t want to drag him away.

  Mr Travers hurried off to flag down a hackney large enough for four, and they all piled in. Maisie sat next to Mr Travers, with her back to the horses, so that Lord Dacre and the professor could gossip together on the journey to Chelsea.

  The carriage was cold, and Maisie sat on her hands to warm them up. Mr Travers looked at her worriedly. “Would you like to borrow my scarf, Miss Hitchins?”

  Maisie smiled at him. “I should think you need it more than me, being used to the hot sunshine in Egypt, sir.”

  “It is a shock to come back to London fog and cold,” he admitted, with a shiver. “Ah! We’re almost at the house.”

  Mr Travers sprang out of the carriage as it drew up, helping out Lord Dacre, the professor and Maisie, and then dashing up the tall stone steps to bang the knocker on the front door.

  Maisie wandered up the steps, staring admiringly at the rows and rows of glittering windows above her head. She couldn’t imagine how long it would take to clean all those – or the amount of vinegar and newspaper Lord Dacre’s staff would need.

  The balustrades on either side of the steps were topped by statues, very like those she’d seen at the museum, lion bodies with human heads. But these were shining white marble, all the features sharp and crisp, not like the age-softened ones they’d seen that afternoon.

  “Very smart sphinxes, Leggy,” the professor said, patting one on the head.

  Maisie could tell that he didn’t really like them that much, though. He wasn’t a very grand sort of person. Not like Lord Dacre, she realized, as the butler showed them into the hall. This was definitely the finest house she had ever seen. Even grander than the home of her friend Alice. There were statues and gold-painted furniture everywhere – it was like being at the museum all over again.

  “Fincham, get one of the maids to fetch us some tea, please,” Lord Dacre said, as he ushered them into the library – an enormous room at the back of the house. The books were impressive enough by themselves – walls full of rich, dark leather covers, the titles glinting in gold. But displayed throughout the room were Lord Dacre’s most precious finds – painted stone statues that seemed to follow Maisie with their eyes, pieces of papyrus carefully laid out under glass and even a suit of armour that Maisie was almost sure was
made out of crocodile skin. It looked quite like the crocodile handbag that belonged to Miss Lane, the actress who lived on the third floor of 31 Albion Street.

  The worst thing was that in the very middle of the room, there was a mummy. Lord Dacre waved them over to a little sofa, so Maisie was sitting with her back to it, and it was making her feel most uncomfortable. Mr Travers beamed at her encouragingly and handed her some tea, in the most delicate bone-china cup she’d ever seen.

  “Papa!” There was a tapping of footsteps on the marble floor of the hallway, and someone called out in a high, girlish voice. A finely dressed young woman appeared at the door, followed by a man just taking off the most absurdly tall top hat.

  “Ah! Dear one. Scruffy, this is my daughter, the Honourable Isis Dacre. And my young cousin, Mr Max Dacre, who is staying with us. Isis knows a great deal about Egyptian history herself – she has been studying manuscripts since she was tiny.” Lord Dacre beamed at his daughter proudly. Then he sighed. “Of course, Isis is just as devastated about the theft as I am.”

  Isis Dacre didn’t look at all devastated, Maisie thought. In fact, as Lord Dacre turned away to introduce Max to the professor, she quite definitely rolled her eyes at her father’s cousin. And Max Dacre was smiling, just a little. A slight quirk of the lips.

  They didn’t realize that she was watching, Maisie thought to herself, deciding that she didn’t like either of them very much. As she’d entered the room Isis Dacre’s eyes had skimmed over Maisie, and noted her faded purple dress. Maisie had watched her change of expression, as she decided that this shabby little girl was of no importance.

  Max Dacre didn’t even seem to notice that Maisie was there at all. He really was very silly-looking, Maisie decided. He had sleeked-down black hair, and a teensy-tiny little black beard that almost looked painted on to his chin.

  Maybe Isis wasn’t worried because she just didn’t like Egyptian history as much as her father thought she did. Maisie had a feeling that Lord Dacre might be rather hard to live with. From what she had seen of him at the museum, she suspected that he never talked about anything else, and he wasn’t as good at making his stories interesting as Professor Tobin was. Maisie didn’t mind when the professor talked at her while she was dusting his stuffed animals. She certainly knew more about South America than any other ten-year-old, and she was sure it would come in useful one of these days. But endless lectures about the great god Ra at the breakfast table probably wouldn’t be much fun. In a house stuffed with all these ancient objects, Isis Dacre couldn’t have avoided being an Egyptian scholar if she had wanted to.

  “Did Mr Canning have any useful information, Papa? Have there been any other thefts?”

  “No.” Lord Dacre sighed. “Only my beautiful scarab. Canning has promised to keep a careful watch on the sale rooms, though, as I shall myself, of course.”

  Miss Dacre nodded and gave Max another strange sideways smile. Perhaps she admired him, Maisie thought, with a little shudder. Max Dacre reminded her of a snake, but Isis obviously liked him. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, and she was hardly listening to her father telling her about his visit to Mr Canning.

  It seemed odd that someone who had been brought up in Lord Dacre’s house, and apparently knew all about Egyptian treasures, didn’t care at all that the scarab had disappeared. Even if Miss Dacre was bored with Egypt, shouldn’t she be more worried about the theft itself? Someone might have broken into the house, despite what the police had said. Maisie shivered, remembering the night 31 Albion Street had been broken into, and the thief had knocked her down the stairs. She had been terrified, even as she was chasing after the thief with a frying pan. But Isis Dacre didn’t seem worried about this burglary at all. She seemed much more interested in making eyes at Lord Dacre’s ridiculous cousin. It really was very puzzling…

  “Answer that, please, Maisie. I’m up to my elbows in dough.” Gran sighed. “It’s probably one of Miss Lane’s admirers. Don’t they know she’s at the theatre getting ready by now?”

  Maisie ran up the stairs to open the door, muttering to herself. She had been running around like a headless chicken, catching up on her work, ever since she’d got back from Lord Dacre’s house. She was all set to tell the caller to go to the stage door, but the man standing outside didn’t look like he’d come to call on Miss Lane, after all. He was short and barrel-shaped, and there were tattoos all over his hands. A sailor – he had to be.

  Maisie stared at him, and he stared back. Maisie asked him who he’d come to see, noting that one of his eyes was very odd. It didn’t move. And it was a completely different colour to the other eye.

  “It’s glass, Missy,” the man said kindly. “I could see you was wondering,” he added. “I lost the other to a swinging rope end, in a storm off the Cape of Good Hope. Twenty years ago, that was.”

  “Oh…” Maisie nodded politely. “Er, did you say who it was you’d come to visit?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Maisie couldn’t think what to say. It was that eye, it seemed to keep looking at her.

  “I’ve come to ask for a room. Card in the window says to enquire within. So here I am. Enquiring.” He smiled at her, with a mouth full of blackened teeth.

  “Oh! Oh, I see. Won’t you step into the parlour, sir, and I’ll fetch my gran from the kitchen. It’s her house.”

  The sailor stomped into the hallway as she stood back, but he didn’t go into the parlour when she held the door open. He made for the kitchen stairs instead, so that Maisie had to dash in front of him.

  “I’m not much of a one for parlours,” he said, grinning. “I’ll go down and see your gran.”

  “But she’s making bread,” Maisie gasped. “And she doesn’t like lodgers in the kitchen.” How could such a plump little man wriggle his way round her so easily? He was already heading down the stairs, with Maisie somehow behind him again. Then it was too late, and he was in the kitchen, smiling his black-toothed smile at Gran and Sally.

  “Good evening, Mrs Hitchins.”

  Maisie blinked at him – something was wrong here, she just couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “Good evening,” Gran said slowly. “Maisie, you know you should show visitors into the parlour!”

  “I tried!” Maisie wailed. “He wouldn’t go. The gentleman says he doesn’t like parlours. He wants a room.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any rooms available,” Gran said briskly. “Maisie will show you back upstairs.”

  “Ah, now that isn’t true, Mrs Hitchins. The card is in your window. You’re just looking at me and not liking what you see. You see a villainous old sailor, not an honest man who’s come home, tired of the nautical life.”

  Gran sniffed but Maisie leaned forward, staring into the seaman’s wrinkled red face. She had worked it out. “I didn’t tell you that she was Mrs Hitchins. I never said her name at all. How did you know?”

  “Your father told me you were bright, Miss Maisie. He said he could tell from your letters.”

  Gran sat down suddenly with a squeak, and Sally ran to pour her a cup of water.

  “You know Daniel,” she murmured. “My Daniel.” She turned to look over at the shawl her son had given her, which was hanging up on a hook by the door. She had told Maisie that she knew she should put it away somewhere safe, to keep it clean and fresh, but she wanted to be able to look at it for a little while first. “How is he? I’ve not seen him in six years. Maisie was a tiny little thing when he left.”

  “She looks like him.” He nodded to Maisie. “You can tell Daniel Hitchins a mile off, with that flaming red hair.”

  “Sally, put the kettle on,” Gran waved feebly at the stove. “Make tea. Excuse us, Mr – er?”

  “Smith, Mrs Hitchins. Noah Smith. A good name for a sailor, my father said. I was ship’s cook aboard the Lily Belle these last ten years, but now I’ve given up the seafaring life and come home to London. So, Mrs Hitchins, might you have a room for me after all?”


  Mr Smith was a decidedly odd lodger, Maisie thought, as she went out into the yard to empty her dustpan. She scurried back to the kitchen, rubbing her arms – it was freezing out there. Mr Smith didn’t seem to like his rooms very much, for a start. He was hardly ever in them. He would go wandering off on great long walks around the city, and then he’d come back home and sneak down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, instead of having it properly in his own sitting room. But Gran didn’t mind, for once. Mr Smith didn’t seem out of place in the kitchen. Within a couple of days, she had him peeling the potatoes for dinner. Although she did come very close to sending him back upstairs when he dared to suggest a different way of seasoning her beef stew.

  In fact, Mr Smith was sitting at the kitchen table right now, surrounded by newspaper. He was blacking everyone’s boots, while Gran peeled vegetables for soup. Eddie was sitting on Mr Smith’s feet, hoping to catch some vegetable scraps. The little dog wasn’t all that keen on vegetables, but he wasn’t fussy, and he’d already worked out that the old sailor was a soft touch.

  The food at 31 Albion Street had definitely improved – not just because Mr Smith was helping, but because he’d paid his first month’s rent as soon as he arrived without so much as a squeak. The worried look on Gran’s face had eased a little, and there was a lot more meat and a lot less potato in the stew. Gran had never kept the lodgers short of food, but she and Maisie and Sally had been filling up on bread and not very much butter for a while.

  The bell rang, and as Maisie hurried back into the kitchen, Mr Smith nodded at it jingling away on the wall.

  “That’s the professor, ain’t it?” he asked, as Maisie rinsed her dirty hands. “Probably wanting tea for his smart company. Hope he’s covered up that bird of his. Parrots – you never know what they might say.”