by Mike Ashley
It was only when he had gone that Harkhuf understood he had been warned about his blabbing mouth at Sut’s the previous night. But if the physician knew, then everyone at court knew. Including the killer of the old queen. Was that Metjen himself? After all, the physician had the tools with which to carry out the gruesome killing. And hadn’t he just threatened Harkhuf’s life?
It was that very night that he slipped the scrap of papyrus in the fresh linen bindings on the body. If his life was in danger, he would use it as a counter-threat. A hidden means of alerting anyone who handled the body that all was not as it seemed. But he would still need to find out who wanted him dead. So who could he confide in? As he didn’t wholly trust Shemai the vizier, he decided he would risk a talk with the temple priest, Wephopte. At least he could speak to him under the guise of arranging the new funerary rites for Ankh-Wadjet.
*
“I wouldn’t trust a priest, ancient or modern.”
“Really, Doll, that’s no way to talk about people who devote their lives to God.”
“You’ve changed yer tune. Remember wot yer said about bishops not four years ago over the trial of poor old Queen Caroline?”
Malinferno prevaricated.
“That was another matter. I was referring to the House of Lords as a whole.”
But Doll was right. The bishops had been the most vociferous critics of King George’s wife, Caroline, when Parliament had attempted to have her marriage to the King annulled. The fact that she had, as Bishop Petrie indelicately put it, “romped familiarly” with a number of naval officers, including Admiral Sir Sidney Smith, was irrelevant. Neither was the fact she had appointed one of Malinferno’s fellow countrymen, Bartolomeo Pergami, as her secretary. That merely showed good taste in Malinferno’s eyes. Pergami was an obscure Italian veteran of Napoleon’s Russian campaign. He had encouraged Caroline to buy a villa on the shores of Lake Como, where he became her constant companion. Further outraging the finer sensibilities of Bishop Petrie among others. But the attempt to divorce her had failed, and the establishment satisfied themselves with keeping Caroline away from George’s coronation in 1821. On coronation day, she rode to the Abbey, and tried to gain admittance at every door. She was turned away ostensibly because she did not have a ticket.
“A sad occurrence, Doll. But what does our unfortunate queen’s life have to do with Ankh-Wadjet?’ He waved a hand towards the blackened mummy incongruously laid out on the Countess’s finest rosewood dining table like some overcooked joint of beef.
“It was only two weeks after Caroline embarrassed the King, and that snooty Bishop, that she got a belly ache at the Drury Lane theatre. And only a week after taking to her bed that she died. Very convenient for all, wouldn’t you say, Joe Malinferno?”
“Are you suggesting the King had her done away with? That’s monstrous.”
Doll shrugged, and her breasts bounced voluptuously underneath her thin robe.
“I’m not saying Georgy-Porgy arranged it deliberate. But someone near to ‘im may have thought they was doing ‘im a favour, like. Don’t yer think?”
*
“You are distracted, my dear husband.”
Harkhuf suddenly realized that Nefre was in the room with him. She was standing over where he lay on the low couch that he had inherited from his father. It had been the old man’s prized possession, and he had especially loved the gracefully curved lotus-flower arms at either end. Harkhuf had become so used to it from a boy, that he hardly saw the beauty of it. Until this evening, when he thought of the possibility of imminent death. He stroked the carved arm, smooth from his own father’s caressing, and vowed to appreciate everything about this life. He wasn’t yet ready to travel to the next.
“Tell me what is worrying you.”
Nefre knelt at his feet, and smiled ingenuously. She was clad in a plain white shift that covered her slim body from breasts to ankle, but still managed to enhance her beauty somehow. She began to stroke her husband’s manly chin-tuft. Admiring her, Harkhuf wondered how he could burden her with his fears.
His visit to the priest, Wephopte, had been inconclusive. The man had been bathing for the third time that day as required by his priestly duties, and was lounging at the edge of the pool in the temple. He was shaving his body to protect himself from lice, and clearly stroking his every contour with obvious self-pleasure. Not for the first time Harkhuf thought the truculent priest had a most appropriate name. Wephopte meant “the God Wepwawe is satisfied”. And no one could exude more self-satisfaction than Wephopte. Harkhuf waited until the priest deigned to notice him.
“Ah, embalmer. You are here to arrange the new rituals for the queen?”
“That and another matter, High Priest.”
Wephopte stretched a languid arm, and reached for the long-sleeved, pleated robe that designated his eminent office. Only Shemai, and of course the King, wore anything more elaborate. Wephopte draped it on his body, then gathered up his distinctive leopard-skin, pinning it at his shoulder. This was a modern and, to some at court, an outrageous affectation. Priests traditionally wore linen robes and papyrus sandals to avoid wearing anything from a living animal. Harkhuf didn’t object – in fact, he rather envied the man the warrior aura the skin bestowed on him. It beat hands down the jackal’s head he had to wear at ritual ceremonies. That only scared the ladies away.
“Another matter, Harkhuf?”
Wephopte seemed unusually genial, and Harkhuf could only assume that he had not heard of his drunken revelations the previous night. He held out the papyrus on which he had scribed all the information he had culled to date, and who he suspected of the murder. He begged the priest to pass it to King Meryakare at the earliest opportunity.
“My life depends on it.”
“Oh, I am sure you exaggerate, Harkhuf. Maybe if you drank a little less, and attended to your duties and the gods a little more, you would not have these fancies.” He waved Harkhuf’s protests aside. “However, I will do as you say as soon as I have the time. Right now the King and I have a ceremony to perform. We must not keep the God Min waiting, or the harvest will be even worse than it threatens to be.’
Harkhuf had to be glad that the priest at least left still clutching the papyrus scroll. It would be sure to draw the murderer from cover.
“Where is the necklace I gave you on your birthday, husband?’
Harkhuf realized Nefre was no longer languidly draped over his legs. She had stiffened, and was facing him, her hands at his neck. And the fingers weren’t caressing him, but tightening on his throat. A cry of exasperation wrenched itself from Nefre.
“You have been gaming at Senet again.”
“No, I haven’t. I promise.”
“No. I suppose it was ‘Racing-for-home’ instead,’ said Nefre, naming another gambling game.
“Sort of,” mumbled Harkhuf, recalling the previous night, when he did race for home to save his life. Nefre pushed herself to her feet, her pale face a deepening red.
“Well, you can go and gamble away all our wealth, if you like. Only don’t expect me to live like a pauper as well.”
“If only you did live like a pauper, we might be able to live within our means.”
Nefre stormed out, leaving Harkhuf’s bitter riposte dying on his lips. Nor did she return that night, and Harkhuf spent it restlessly tossing on the low bed also inherited from his father. He would not have time tomorrow to chase his errant wife, who no doubt had gone to her parents for comfort. They had always criticized their daughter’s choice of a husband, and this rift would no doubt delight them. No, the papyrus he had despatched to the King, and the story it told, would be guaranteed to winkle the murderer out. The trap was set, and Harkhuf only had to wait, and pray that he was equal to the task when it was sprung.
*
“He says – ‘I have hidden the heart, which is the sole piece of evidence that the queen was murdered. The murderer will give himself away by trying to find and destroy the heart.’ ”
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br /> “Skip to the end, Doll. Tell me who it was killed Queen Ankh-Wadjet. This tale is more exciting than Mistress Shelley’s new book about that monster. And a deal more believable. Does he catch the malefactor? Who was it?”
Malinferno was aquiver with anticipation.
“There is no more. There is an end of it.”
Malinferno couldn’t believe it.
“Now, don’t tease me, Doll. I can read the hieroglyphs too. It takes me a while longer, is all. Finish it.”
“Look. The end of the papyrus is torn off. If Harkhuf found out who it was, or if he met his end, we will never know.”
Malinferno groaned, and looked down at the papyrus spread out before them. It was true – the edge had been deliberately torn. It was not as though it had crumbled over the four thousand years since it was written.
“Maybe the other piece is in the sarcophagus still.”
Malinferno clambered on to the bier again, and rifled wildly around the debris in the bottom of the stone tomb. There was no further shred of papyrus. He groaned in despair. It was unbearable to think that the end of the story, that had waited so long to be discovered, would not now be known to them.
Doll shivered.
“It’s cold in here. Let’s go find some grub, and something warming.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t noticed.” Which wasn’t exactly true, for Malinferno had watched with growing excitement as Doll’s nipples had stood further and further up as the room cooled down. “This damned steam pipe heating must have gone out. Let’s find the kitchen, and a good fire. It is the only consolation open to us now.”
“Maybe not, Joe Malinferno. Don’t give up so easy. We can always try and solve the mystery for ourselves.”
“How?”
Doll Pucket snuggled up against Malinferno’s warmth, and led him out of the freezing ballroom.
“I’ll tell you over a dish of hot chocolate.”
*
The ceremonial of reinterment for Queen Ankh-Wadjet began for Harkhuf with a ritual bath. This was a lonely process without the assistance of Nefre, but he concentrated his mind on what was to come. Several people would be present at the ceremony, all of them suspects in the murder of the old queen five years earlier. Whoever it was must have thought he had been safe from apprehension, from even any suspicion that the queen had expired any way other than naturally. It must have been a great shock when the tomb robbers had disturbed the remains, and raised the possibility of the crime being uncovered.
Of course the murderer might well be dead himself by now. Old King Meryathor had died three years ago, and it might have been he who killed his Great Wife of the time. His young concubine, Bener, had been promoted with great alacrity to the position of Great Wife after Ankh-Wadjet’s death. Some salacious individuals at court even said Bener had been the cause of Meryathor’s later demise. From too much exertion. One thing was certain, Meryakare, the present King, would not have killed his mother. Harkhuf knew from his sister, Sekhmet, that he had doted on her. That was why the embalmer had felt it safe to ask Wephopte to give the papyrus to King Meryakare.
Harkhuf dressed in his long white linen robe, then brushed a layer of sand off the Anubis mask he would wear for the ceremony. As he did so, he went through the list of possible murderers again in his head.
*
“Let me see,” opined Doll. “There’s King Meryathor himself.”
“Yes, but he was dead by the time Harkhuf discovered the murder. You’re not going to tell me it was his ka spirit Harkhuf set his trap for.”
“Hmm. What about Shemai the vizier? He could have done the old King’s bidding willingly. And got rid of the old queen to make way for a lustier proposition. Old family servant and all that.”
Malinferno stared into the sludgy, brown dregs at the bottom of his cup of chocolate. It reminded him of the turbid waters of the Thames dragging itself through London. Or perhaps the Nile banks after the floodwater receded.
“A bit like the House of Lords with Queen Caroline? Perhaps. Go on.”
“Then there’s Metjen the quack. He certainly had the tools to do the deed.”
“And opportunity. He just had to wait until the ailing queen called for his medical services. Who else?”
“Wephopte, the High Priest. I must say, from Harkhuf’s description, I don’t care for him.”
“Back to the House of Lords and bishops, again. I don’t know, Doll. I don’t think this is going to work. We don’t even know if Harkhuf solved the matter. Or even survived the day.”
Doll looked crestfallen, until a sudden thought occurred to her.
“We can find out.”
“How?”
Doll banged her dish down on the sturdy oak table, scarred witness to many a meal preparation, and bounced out of the kitchen. She threw her answer over her pretty, naked shoulder.
“Find the heart.”
Malinferno scurried after her, back up the echoing servants’ stairs and towards the vast ballroom. He grabbed her arm just before she pushed through the grand double doors.
“The heart? What will finding that tell us?”
Doll’s beautiful blue eyes blazed.
“If it’s still where Harkhuf hid it, then the murderer didn’t find it. If he didn’t find it, chances are that was because he was caught. It’s only if the heart is missing, can we reckon that Harkhuf failed, and was done in himself.”
“Very good. The only problem is, we don’t know where he hid the heart in the first place.”
Doll tweaked Malinferno’s long nose.
“Prophet of doom. Always looking on the gloomy side. Just think – if you were Harkhuf, where would you have put the heart to keep it safe?”
“I don’t know, Doll. The man is four thousand years dead. I can’t imagine what he would have done.’
“Then put yourself in the shoes . . . sandals . . . of the murderer. You’re rogue enough for that.” Malinferno gave Doll Pucket a hard look, but heard her out. “It’s the day of the ceremony to reinter the queen. Everyone is there, and you need to find the heart and destroy it. Where would you look?”
*
Predictably, as the day had dawned, Shemai was the first to arrive, dressed in a long white robe, clasped at the shoulders. As ever, he was shadowed by two dark-skinned Nubians, denizens of the night. They scared Harkhuf. Shemai had proceeded to fuss over the process of returning the queen to her ornate coffin. And had asked Harkhuf whether everything had gone smoothly.
“You did not have any . . . er, problems with the body?”
“Should I have, Vizier?” If Shemai now asked about the heart, or the condition of the body, Harkhuf would have him.
“No, no. I just wished to be reassured that the tomb robbers . . .” again he hawked, and spat in the sand. “. . . that they didn’t damage the queen in any way.”
Harkhuf was just about to draw Shemai out further, when both men received a surprise. Sekhmet-her-Sokar appeared in the doorway to the Pure Place. She was garbed in a long white linen robe that was cut to artfully reveal the swell of her bosoms, while still covering the rolls of fat on her hips and thighs. A long, black wig covered her head, from under which runnels of sweat were already dribbling down her chubby face. A multi-coloured necklace of faience beads swathed the folds of her double chin. She was even fatter than when Harkhuf had romped with her through the palace gardens. A sort of self-satisfied corpulence that brooked no comment. Harkhuf gulped, and hastily donned his jackal mask, as though it would protect him from discovery.
He needn’t have worried. Wephopte now appeared, and Sekhmet began making cow-eyes at him, ignoring Harkhuf completely. The priest for his part returned the sentiment, and positively drooled over the king’s sister. The next surprise was the arrival of Bener, the old king’s second Great Wife, and successor to Ankh-Wadjet. She was now a sort of redundant senior queen at the court, stepmother to Meryakare, but serving no proper purpose. Still only 22 years old, her relegation had not spoiled
her looks, however. Harkhuf’s heart beat faster at the sight of the yellowish-red tinge of the henna in her luxuriant, natural hair, and the dark pool of her eyes accented by the lines of kohl and red ochre. She swept in, and took Harkhuf’s hand in hers in silent obeisance. Close to, he could detect the faint scent of oil of fenugreek on her. It was used to smooth wrinkles, but Harkhuf could detect none. Obviously it worked.
“Overseer of the Mysteries, I am nothing more than a poor seamstress now.” She toyed with a pair of copper scissors that hung from her belt. “But I thought I may be allowed to attend the interment of the old Great Wife.”
Her voice was sultry, and the emphasis laid on the word “old” was not lost on Harkhuf. Nor could he help but notice that the long blades of the ornamental scissors were innocent of the scars of daily usage. But lethal nonetheless. And that the belt they hung from was inlaid with butterflies of turquoise and lapis lazuli. A very rich seamstress, if so she was. With the means of stabbing someone, and piercing them to the heart. Her name was of course that of the sweet date that was an Egyptian’s pleasure. And the connotation was not lost on those who met her. All men in her presence licked their lips with pleasurable anticipation.
She had obviously come to see her old rival safely entombed once again. But had Bener had anything to do with her murder? Harkhuf had no time to think on this new possibility. Wephopte began the ritual incantation, and the ceremony got under way.
“O Ankh-Wadjet,
Nut, your mother, spreads herself above you,
She conceals you from all evil,
Nut protects you from all evil,
You, the greatest of her children!”
Harkhuf, in his jackal-guise as Overseer of the Mysteries, led the procession into the Pure Place. Behind him paced God’s Seal-Bearer. This made him somewhat nervous, as the role was a physician’s, and Metjen was fulfilling it at present. The vulnerable space between Harkhuf’s shoulder-blades prickled. Wephopte was the next in line as Lector Priest. They made their way through to the inner room, where reposed the queen’s ornate coffin.
