“I wonder if they found whatever they were looking for, sir,” said Khan, beginning to sift through a heap of papers on the floor.
Hartley walked to the window to look for any signs of break-in. There were none. “Whoever it was came in through the door. And that means they had a key to this place. But why go to the trouble of making such a mess? My guess is whatever was being looked for is still here,” he said, coming back slowly and glancing all around.
“D’you reckon they came here before or after he was killed, sir?” asked Khan.
“Good question, Khan. Could be he was killed first. If they’d got out of him what they wanted before he died, they wouldn’t have made such a mess. On the other hand…” he left his statement unfinished. The marks on Manasas’s body told their own tale. He’d been tortured before he’d died.
They continued poking round the strewn books and contents of the drawers, but they found nothing. Not until Khan saw the desk. It was next to the filing cabinet which had lurched over, hiding it. Khan righted the cabinet and looked closer at the desk.
It must have been Dr Manasas’ private property, for it was unlike the rest of the office furniture. The small writing desk was more for decoration than use. An antique. A Regency escritoire in the Egyptian style. There appeared to be no drawers in it. Khan stood examining it for some moments, quite still.
“What’s up, Khan?” his boss asked. “Seen summat?”
Ibrahim Khan spoke more to himself than Hartley.
“Thomas Hope,” he said quietly.
“Eh?” said Hartley. “Thomas Hope? Who’s he when he’s at home?”
Khan smiled. “A well-known maker of furniture. As famous as Chippendale or Hepplewhite in his day, sir. He was influenced by Egyptian furniture-makers. That’s probably why Manasas bought it. Or he may have used it for something else,” he said.
Inspector Hartley was impressed. “You’re in the wrong trade, Kahn. You ought to have been in antiques.”
“Too risky, sir. Looked what happened to Manasas.” Then he walked over to the writing table and began running his fingers under the ledge.
“Looking for chewing-gum, sergeant?” asked his boss.
The escritoire had a dropped frontal which appeared to be merely ornamental. But there was a small drawer behind it. Whoever had broken in had missed it. The sergeant’s slim fingers stopped suddenly and his hand tightened. There was a click.
“That’s it,” he said triumphantly as the drawer slid open. So fine were the joints between the drawer and the rest of the desk, you couldn’t have got a razor blade between them. They looked as one.
Inspector Hartley stared in surprise. “You’re a right old Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Khan? Who taught you that trick?”
The sergeant smiled. “My wife,” he said. “I’ve trailed around enough antique fairs with her to learn a thing or two.” He nodded at the open drawer. “Folks had the same trouble as us when this was made. Burglars. So they hid their money and valuables in drawers like this.”
He pulled out the drawer to its fullest extent.
“This is what they were looking for, sir,” he said. Nestling in the drawer were a notebook and some faxes. Underneath them was an automatic pistol with a box of ammo! Khan picked up the faxes carefully. They were in Arabic. Hartley glanced over his shoulder trying to read them.
“What’s all that about?” he asked.
“You’re not going to believe this, sir, “ he began, turning to his boss, “but Manasas was working undercover for the Egyptian police. He’s referred to as Major Manasas here. He seems to have been sent here on surveillance.” He put down the fax he was holding. “What are we going to do, sir?” he asked.
Inspector Hartley picked up the faxes and put them in his pocket. He told his sergeant to take the gun and the rest of the stuff in the drawer. Then he slammed it closed.
“First come, first served,” he said. “If they come again, they’ll find nowt. And what’s more, we’re going to say nowt, Khan. We’ll take these back for a closer look-see. I want to know a bit more about the rest of ’em working here before we go public on this stuff. And say absolutely nothing to our Arthur. The less he knows, the better. Whoever turned this room over was an insider with a key. And he didn’t get that from Dr Ahmad Manasas, or whoever he was, when he left home to work here.”
Satisfied with what they’d found, they returned to Professor Edwards’ office, where Hartley asked about his colleagues, especially those who’d worked with Manasas. They were all Egyptians, employed as a new research team by the Institute.
“They were recommended highly by one of our sponsors,” began the professor. Then paused.
“But not your first choice?” queried Hartley, noting the other’s hesitancy.
Edwards smiled. “Inspector Hartley, you’re a man of the world. Money has pull…even in academic circles.”
“Aye, brass allus has the last say,” observed Hartley. “So your hand was forced, so to speak?”
“So to speak,” replied the other. Then added quickly, “But in fairness, I ought to say all my staff are highly qualified and efficient. I wouldn’t take anyone on who I didn’t think suitable.”
“Including Dr Manasas?”
“He had the highest credentials. I employed him before I had to take on the others.”
“Had to? And who put their names forward?” asked the inspector.
There was another pause. The professor bit his lip and adjusted his tie. “That I’m not allowed to say,” was all he’d offer. “I can’t mention our sponsors. They asked us not to.”
Inspector Hartley shrugged his shoulders. “Modesty, eh?”
The professor smiled wryly. “Hardly. But they fund us well.”
“How many are there in your research team?” asked Sergeant Khan.
“Four…three, now,” said Edwards tersely. He opened a drawer and handed the photographs and profiles of Manasas’s colleagues to the detectives. Hartley cast his eye over them before passing them to Khan.
“Dr Gamal Riad, Dr Hamal Mukhtar and Dr Saniyya Misha,” he said. “She’s a striking young woman,” he couldn’t help observing. The professor smiled.
“She has more than beauty,” he said. “She’s highly intelligent. One of the best. A real asset to the department.”
“I bet she is,” said Khan, looking at her photo.
“She’s still in her twenties. A very bright girl,” said the professor. “In fact, already the expert in her own field.”
“What’s that?” asked the sergeant.
The dynasty of Ramesses II - if that means anything to you,” the professor replied, rather patronisingly.
“Better known as the Pharaoh who changed his mind,” said Hartley. He’d just read about him in the book from the museum, but he didn’t let on. Khan, like the professor, was impressed.
“How do you mean?” asked Khan.
“Went after the Israelites once they’d taken off, didn’t he? ‘Pharaoh’s chariots and his host hath God cast in the sea.’ Exodus,” said the inspector.
“You clearly know your bible,” said the professor.
“I should,” said Hartley, smiling. “I’m a priest.”
Edwards seemed even more surprised and Inspector Hartley thought he’d better explain.
“I’m an Anglican non-stipendiary.”
“A policeman priest?”
“Right first time, sir,” said Hartley, then changed the subject. “You said the other members of the research team had been here only a short while, sir.”
“Their funding came through only three months ago. It was all rather rushed. They’re still in the process of unpacking. You see, along with other Middle Eastern institutions, we work closely with the Egyptian museum service. It’s part of the agreement with our sponsors.” He fiddled with his tie again. He didn’t seem happy with that agreement, but didn’t elaborate.
“And Dr Manasas? How did he fit into the team?” asked Hartley.
&
nbsp; “He was a brilliant semanticist. An expert in the hieroglyphics of the Ramesses II era. There’s much research still to be done on that period. It was a very volatile period of Egyptian history.”
“Oh? How?” said Blake Hartley, genuinely curious.
“Threw up all sorts of extremists.. Egypt had been ruled by invaders for five centuries. The Hyksos people from the north, and the Egyptians didn’t like it at all, no more than any other occupied nation. Ramesses II kicked them out, then enslaved the Israelites, who’d supported the Hyksos, when they’d migrated into Egypt. It was one of Ramesses’ daughters who adopted Moses. An Egyptian, not an Israelite name, incidentally.”
His mentioning Pharaoh’s daughter jogged Hartley’s memory. He’d read about her in the book he’d borrowed from the museum. Whitcliff had said the mummy in Keighworth Museum was that of a daughter of Ramesses II.
“I’m told that the mummy in Keighworth Museum was a daughter of Ramesses II,” said Hartley.
“We thought it might be. We were investigating it, and Dr Manasas was checking the hieroglyphics on the wrappings. He let me have his report only the day before he was found dead; but I haven’t had time to read it yet.” The professor went to a cabinet and pulled out Manasas’s report. It was only a page long. He frowned as he read.
“Something wrong?” asked the inspector.
“Not exactly. Only Manasas says he’s unhappy about the mummy. The hieroglyphics are new…very new. What’s more they’re inaccurate. They’re a fake. He says the original mummy has disappeared!”
Chapter Five
Blake Hartley couldn’t get back fast enough to pick up his book and drive to Albert Park Museum. There, he and Sergeant Khan compared the illustration in the book with the hieroglyphics on the mummy.
At first glance they looked alike. Only when you got down to the nitty-gritty details did the differences become obvious. Some details were missing altogether. Even the paint looked new.
“The murk in this case gets murkier,” said Hartley. “If this isn’t the original, what…or who’s in there?”
They had the book open at a photo of the mummy and its display case when it had been brought to the museum years before Though the photo was faded, the details were clear enough.
“Not only has the original mummy gone, sir, but also its case,” said Kahn. “Look. The one in the book has a heavier frame. It’s solid. This one looks like a bit of chipboard.”
They returned to the curator’s office and Hartley asked if the mummy had been put in a new display box at all.
Maurice Bottomley said not. “No need to change those original display cases. They’ll outlast the museum itself,” he said. “In any case, that display unit was specially sealed by Sir Joshua when he brought it back. We check it constantly. If any air got in, the mummy wouldn’t last two minutes in Keighworth’s atmosphere.”
“She’s not the only one. It takes most folks in Keighworth all their time to reach three score and ten,” commented the inspector drily.
The curator was curious. “Why do you ask about the case?” he said.
“Just wondered how you kept the mummy preserved so well,” said Hartley. “Makes sense not touching it much if it’s going to fall apart so easily.”
“Humidity and sunlight. We have to watch them all the time,” said Bottomley. “Old Whitcliff had the mummy sealed in before it left Egypt.”
They went into the small library beyond the office to replace the book. To reach it, they had to pass through a store-room in which was a collection of traditional Dales furniture, left to the museum by the family of a local farmer who’d died recently. Blake was interested. He knew him well. He was pleased to learn the curator was setting up a replica of the living room of the old farmhouse. The farmhouse had been sold and its new owners were tarting it up. “All bow-windows and brass lanterns,” said Bottomley. “You’d hardly recognise the place now.”
There was a map on the wall showing where the farm was located. The inspector strolled across to it. “They gave their farms some strange names up there,” he remarked. Zion, Jerusalem, Bethlehem.”
“Early Methodists,” explained the curator. “Their holdings were built when Wesleyism was in full stride.”
Hartley looked at an adjacent cluster of farm names. “And these?” he asked.
“They were built by the Whitcliff family,” said Bottomley. “They still own all the land up there. Sir Joshua built the family mansion at Pithom Hall, in the middle of the estate. The old house at Ingerworth became too hemmed in with new buildings. He needed space.”
“Funny name - Pithom,” observed the inspector.
“It’s named after the place in Egypt where he did much of his excavating,” said the curator.
“Ah! I remember,” exclaimed Hartley. “Pithom and Ramesses - the treasure cities of the Pharaohs. Built by Israelite slaves.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But aren’t all those farms derelict now?”
“They were bought by the water-board when they built the reservoir at Peckmill in the 1930s. Yes, they’re all in ruin now. The Whitcliffs left their family mansion about the same time and returned to Ingerworth, letting Pithom Hall go to ruin,” said the curator.
“I’m not surprised,” said Hartley. “It must have cost a bob or two keeping up that place on the moors. The weather takes most things apart up there given time.” The curator opened a cabinet. It contained old photographs.
“I’ve some shots of the place in its heyday. Here’s one of the Whitcliff family, too,” he said.
He passed over a collection of faded photographs to the inspector to mull through. One of them showed Sir Joshua and his Egyptian wife. His large family was ranged around him. Over a dozen members. The old patriarch sat in the middle in grand style wearing a fez, carrying a fly-whisk and what looked like a short shepherd’s crook. Behind him stood his sons, including Jason Whitcliff’s grandfather. At his feet sat a gaggle of grandchildren and their mothers.
“What’s those things he’s holding?” asked Ibrahim Khan.
The curator gave a short laugh. “The old man fancied himself as some sort of Pharaoh. Always claimed he’d married into the Egyptian royal house…the ancient royal house, descended from the Pharaohs. What he’s holding are the symbols of Pharaonic power. You see them in Egypt carried by statues representing the Pharaohs and painted on their mummies.”
“And out of all that lot there’s only Jason Whitcliff left,” commented Blake Hartley, handing back the photographs..
The curator replaced them. “There was supposed to be some sort of curse on those who entered the burial chambers, unless…” he paused.
“Unless what?” asked Hartley.
“Unless they became followers of the Princess Hathor.”
“The mummy downstairs? She cursed them?” asked Khan, incredulous.
“Yes,” replied Bottomley. Then added, “I don’t want to sound superstitious, but it certainly worked in their case. Of all those in that family photograph only one survived, Mr Whitcliff’s grandfather. Most of old Joshua’s grandsons died of illnesses in childhood. Two were killed in the First World War. Rumour had it he became a follower of Hathor to avoid the curse. Like his father and grandfather he also married an Egyptian wife.”
The curator drew out more old photographs. This time of the hall. It was a strange building with a marked Egyptian look. To one side of the old hall stood a large Mausoleum in an acre of land. Around the perimeter was a screen of pines, partially hiding it from the highway that ran about half a mile off.
“Interesting,” said the inspector. “I’ve passed there many a time but never seen that before. You’d never guess it was there from the road.”
“All the Whitcliffs are buried there,” said the curator. “They even brought back the bodies of the sons killed in the war.”
“I wouldn’t mind looking over that some time,” said Hartley. “I’ve got a yen for old burial places.”
The curator said the Whitcli
ffs had never let anyone get near their family tomb. It was still guarded jealously. They’d got a thing about it. He’d tried in the past to look over the place. Wanted to record it for the local archives, but hadn’t succeeded.
“It’s a no-go area as far as the present Mr Whitcliff is concerned. He has the place guarded day and night by a security firm, got the whole place electronically sealed off.”
Hartley said they ought to be getting back and thanked him for all his help. As they passed the mummy, Maurice Bottomley asked if they’d got any further with the case.
“Ask the lady in there,” he said, nodding in the direction of the mummy. “As ever, the Princess holds all the secrets. Even in death.”
Sergeant Khan glanced again at the still figure in the box. “I shouldn’t get too close, Khan,” said Hartley. “You might fall under her curse!”
There was a message waiting for them at the station. Dr Dunwell had found something on the body of Manasas and wanted them to go immediately to his lab. There was also a note from Superintendent Donaldson in London saying how much he was enjoying his course. How they’d all benefit from it when he returned.
Inspector Hartley grimaced and passed the note to his sergeant as he reached for his raincoat and battered trilby. “Our Arthur’s laying on a talk for us when he gets back. On the psychology of narcotics.”
“Surprise, surprise,” said Khan, glancing at the note. “What shall I do with his letter, sir?”
“The polite answer to that is file it, Khan, ” said Hartley. “In the waste-bin!”
Ibrahim Khan hated pathology labs. He was squeamish. and the very sight of blood made him feel sick. Then all that white tiling and the pervading stench of disinfectant. And worst of all another smell which he guessed came from the bodies the pathologist hacked about. Yes, Ibrahim Khan hated the place. But his boss revelled in it like Dunwell. They were two of a kind. Born scientists.
Dunwell’s laboratory was stiff with bits of preserved bodies. Facing you as you entered his place was a pickled head. He used it in lectures to demonstrate how repeated blows by a hammer to the face and cranium depressed the bone structure and caused lesions. Aspiring forensic scientists relished it. Khan did not.
1 The Museum Mystery Page 3
