He put his handkerchief to his mouth and retched as they went into Dunwell’s office. The stench of carbolic and formaldehyde kicked at his stomach. And though he tried to avert his eyes, he just had to look at that ghastly head. It was magnetic and became more horrendous each time he saw it. One dark eyelid was permanently closed in a gruesome wink.
Once they were inside he turned his back on the thing. It was the pick of that chamber, where, facing him, were bottles of intestines coloured with an assortment of dyes. But at least they were featureless. Then there were legs, arms and hands. Ears and pickled eyes. Every part of the anatomy
“Well. How’s things going, Blake?” Dunwell asked breezily as they walked in. He offered them some coffee. Khan was glad to get his nose into his cup.
“So, so,” answered the inspector, sipping his drink. “We’re on the move, I think, Gus.”
Dunwell knew Hartley was onto something but didn’t press him. He’d tell all in his own good time. He took off his glasses and wiped them, saying casually, “I hear you were at the Institute of Middle Eastern Studies. What’s that place like? It looks like something straight out of ‘The Arabian Nights’ from the outside.”
“Aye. It’s certainly a Kubla Khan of a place,” said Hartley, going dreamy-eyed. “ ‘Twice five miles of fertile ground. With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree…’ ”
“All right. All right. Spare us the bard bit, “ said Dunwell. “What did you find there?”
“We found an exotic bit of the orient - including a fair Egyptian lady called Dr Misha. She was a colleague of Dr Manasas. Talking of whom, what have you got to tell us about him?”
The pathologist took them into the adjoining lab. At the far end was the morgue. Khan knew what they were in for and lagged behind. When they reached the refrigeration units, Dr Dunwell, opened the door of one and pulled out the corpse of Dr Manasas. He drew back the cover to reveal the head and torso. Just below the neck was what looked like a tattoo. Dunwell invited the detectives to look closer. Hartley leaned over examining the cadaver closely. Khan turned his back on it.
“A burn - branded on before he died? It looks fresh,” said Hartley.
“Right first time,” said Dunwell.
“The sign of a cobra,” said the inspector, looking closer still. “What d’you make of it, Khan?”
His sergeant had been looking studiously out of the window at the television aerials opposite. He gave it the merest glance and said, “There was a hooded cobra on the head-dress of the mummy, sir.”
“An afnet, a royal head-dress,” explained Hartley. “The hooded cobra is a sign of divinity. All the Pharaohs and their families wore it.” He examined the corpse closely again. “As well as driving home some point with this poor chap, I think someone was trying to tell us something as well,” he added quietly.
Gus Dunwell raised his thick eyebrows. “You certainly have been putting in some homework, Blake,” he said . “Tell me more.”
Dunwell slid the corpse back into its container.
“There isn’t all that much more to tell,” he said. “Except there was a curse on anyone who tried to mess about with the mummy. Certainly worked on him,” he added nodding at the refrigerator.”
“And who exactly is it wrapped up on display in Albert Park Museum?” asked the pathologist, walking back with the detectives to his office.
“She’s a lady. Right out of the top drawer,” said Hartley. “A princess called Hathor, after the Egyptian sky goddess. And this’ll surprise you, Gus. She was a daughter of the Pharaoh at the time of Moses.”
Dr Dunwell chortled. “By Jove, it really would be one for the book if we’d had old Moses’ foster mum lying around in Keighworth all these years!”
“A one in 59 chance,” said Hartley.
“Oh? How d’you work that out?” asked the pathologist.
“Ramesses II sired seventy-nine sons and fifty-nine daughters, according to the records,” said the inspector.
“Records!” echoed Dunwell. “I should think he damn well broke the lot!”
“Find owt else, Gus?” said Hartley as they entered his office.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Dunwell. “There were some dog hairs on his trouser legs. You might check out if Manasas owned one. A dog with white hairs. If he didn’t, then he’d been with somebody who did just before he died. They were very recent.”
Blake Hartley grunted. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Half Keighworth owned white dogs. But he found his haystack all right. And the needle when it bit him!
Chapter Six
Ingerworth was on the south side of town. The road to it from Keighworth climbed gradually, then more steeply to the moors beyond and on to Lancashire. To reach Ingerworth you had to pass through a clutter of mills and small workshops, which linked the suburb to the belly of the town. When Ingerworth had been built, it stood a good mile clear of Keighworth. Now it was part of the town, which spilled right up the Worth Valley. In the process a railway now connected with villages higher up on the Pennines.
Ingerworth clustered round its parish church and Whitcliff’s Mills. The Railway Tavern, Hartley’s local, stood in the shadow of the church. Pub and church had been delved from the same quarry, so the Revd Inspector, since his ordination, had had one foot firmly placed in the pulpit and the other in the pub.
One night, Blake was about to go to The Tavern after locking up the church, when there was a light tap at the vestry door. Blake Hartley was by himself. He’d been taking an evening Communion service and was looking forward to a pint across the road. He was putting the Communion vessels in the safe when the tap was repeated - urgently.
Hartley locked up, straightened up and pocketed the safe key. Then he ran his finger inside his clerical collar and said, “Come in!”
A grey-haired woman entered. He knew her vaguely and had noticed her at the service. She lived on the housing estate nearby, but she didn’t come often to church. He’d been surprised to see her at the evening service, which only a handful of parishioners attended.
“Mrs Adams, isn’t it?” said the inspector kindly. She was agitated and he drew forward a chair inviting her to sit on it, while he sat opposite. She bit her lip.
“Is there something wrong?” asked Hartley.
She looked up. “I don’t know how to put it, vicar,” she began. Then blurted out, “You see, it’s our Rosie. My youngest.”
She paused again.
“Is she in trouble?” asked the inspector.
“Well, sort of,” said the other. Then it all came out with a rush “I think she’s into drugs an’ if that’s not bad enough she’s got in wi’ some right weirdos as well.”
“Weirdos?” echoed Hartley.
“Black magic,” she said. “ They’ve some sort of hold over her, vicar. That’s why I came to see you.”
Shades of exorcism rose before Hartley. “They?” he said. “Who are they?”
“Madame Marie’s lot. That woman down Garlic Lane who tells fortunes. She’s into black magic as well. Our Rosie’s started mixing wi’ her lot. She’s out all hours. Sometimes all night, then comes home staring summat ’orrible. It’s the staring I can’t abide. I tell you, vicar, it scares me stiff. ”
Blake was dying for his pint but knew he was in for a long session when she said, “What can I do, vicar?” She looked up seeking reassurance. He could give comfort and advice but no more.
He asked if she’d any proof her daughter was on drugs. If she’d found any. If she’d seen her taking any. If she knew of anyone on the estate supplying drugs to her. She pulled out a pendant on a necklace. When he saw it, the inspector’s pint evaporated. It was lapis lazuli worked into the shape of a hooded cobra. Identical with the scar on Dr Manasas’ body. Identical with the snake painted on the afnet of the museum mummy.
He took it from her. “Where did you find this?” he asked
, turning it over.
“Our Rosie used to wear a cross on this necklace. I gave it her on her eighteenth birthday last year. I don’t knew where t’cross has gone, but this were in its place. She don’t know I’ve got it. I saw it on her dressing-table wi’ two black candles. She’s told me not to go into her room, but I’ve noticed this funny smell for some time and went in while she was out. It’s them candles. This were hung round t’neck of a little statue thing.”
“A statuette?” said Blake. He sketched the goddess Hathor he’d seen in the book he’d borrowed. “Is it like this?”
Mrs Adams examined the picture. “Aye,” she said, surprised. “Who is it?”
“An Egyptian goddess. And you say she got it from Madame Marie?”
“I wouldn’t swear to that, vicar. But it’s turned up since she started knocking about wi’ her.”
She looked hard at the sketch he’d drawn while he turned over the necklace and pendant. “There’s summat else I’m worried over,” she continued.
“Oh?”
“Our Rosie used to be pals wi’ a lass called Kathy Burton. They were like sisters. Never apart. Used to stop at our house when they’d been at discos, but I haven’t seen Kathy this past month. She suddenly stopped coming. When I asked Rosie why, all she said were Kathy’d gone to London looking for work I didn’t believe her, but said nowt. She snapped me head off when I brought it up again last night. I’m worried sick about ’em both, vicar. I thought you could help, if you see what I mean.”
“I can see what you mean all right, Mrs Adams,” said Hartley. And he could see a great deal more than he could tell her then. “Her friend’s family, her mother, have you been in contact with her?” he asked.
The woman opposite sniffed. “She’s not my sort. She couldn’t care less what happens to her daughter,” she replied. “Kathy moved out an’ got her own flat when her mam re-married two years ago. Apart from our Rosie she’d no friends. I felt right sorry for t’lass. That’s why I used to take her in.”
“And you say she’s been missing a month, Mrs Adams?”
“I didn’t say she were missing. I said she’d gone to London. An’ that’s why I’m so worried. Our Rosie could tell you where, I s’pose.”
Blake asked if there was anything else. Mrs Adams pulled out a dirty visiting-card. “I found this under one o’t’candles,” she said. “I once heard her and Kathy talking about the chap whose name’s on it. He’s part of that weirdo group. One o’t’leaders but she’s never mentioned him since Kathy stopped coming.”
The inspector looked at the greasy card and turned it over. The name on it rang a bell but he couldn’t think why. “Silas Blackwell. Taxidermist,” it said on the front, followed by an address. A farm up on the moors near Halifax. On the reverse side, written in pencil and barely legible was a telephone number. He made a note of it and promised Mrs Adams he’d look into the whole business.
He told her to replace the necklace and say nothing. To let him know when the next meeting of the black magic group took place. But especially she was to inform him if Kathy Burton turned up. He’d check out the missing girl’s flat with Sgt Khan the next day. As he handed it back, the hooded cobra amulet glinted in the lamplight. And he put Kathy Burton’s name on his prayer-list.
He wished Mrs Adams goodnight and escorted her to the church door. She made her way home down one path; he down the other through the graveyard to the pub. The church lowered black behind, surrounded by blacker gravestones. Before him the pub was ablaze with light and looked inviting, and as a steady drizzle had set in, he was glad to get inside.
The place was packed. The snick-snack of snooker balls and the thud of darts came from the games room. He was wished a cheery goodnight by the regulars as he passed through into the back parlour where it was quieter.
When Jock Swinford, the landlord and sidesman at church, had pulled him his pint, Blake asked about Silas Blackwell, handing over the card Elsie Adams had given him. “Does the name there register with you, Jock? You come from Halifax.”
The landlord stood with one hand on a beer-pump as he studied the card. “Aye. I remember him,” he said at length. “Wasn’t he in with that lot who were caught smuggling in protected species about five years ago? Making a right packet they were till they were caught.”
“I thought I knew the name,” said the inspector. “But he didn’t live on our patch then. Wonder why he’s drifted over here.”
“Give a dog a bad name and it sticks. He’s moved to where he’s not known. Out in the wilds. You wouldn’t get me living up there,” said Swinford.
“Just the sort of place to run a racket from,” observed the inspector. “Can I borrow your phone a minute, Jock?”
The landlord lifted the hatch and Hartley went behind the bar to phone. He took out Elsie Adam’s card and rang the number on the back. The phone rang for some time and he was about to ring off when someone answered. It was Jason Whitcliff!
It took Inspector Hartley by surprise. So he bluffed.
“Oh, I’m glad I caught you in, sir. Just a routine call after your visit the other day. I hope you didn’t pick up my cold?”
“Not at all,” said the other. Then added, rather sharply. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got guests, inspector. Is there anything particular you want to discuss? Anything further about the museum business?”
“That’s why I’m ringing, sir,” said Hartley. “You mentioned Dr Manasas had been trying to sell you some Egyptian curios.”
“Hardly curios, inspector,” said Whitcliff with his throaty chuckle. “They were expensive unguent jars and a dagger. A gold dagger. which he claimed had belonged to the Princess Hathor. It was missing from her tomb when it was opened. My great-grandfather always suspected one of the labourers filched it. Why do you ask?”
“Oh,” said Hartley, doodling on a telephone pad, “just routine. It helps if we have details. You never know, we might come across that golden dagger.” He returned Whitcliff’s chuckle, then said, “I shall be going along to where Dr Manasas worked to check out one or two things.”
“Going? I gather you’ve been there already, inspector. Find anything?” said Whitcliff. Then he checked himself, and there was something in his voice which sounded as if his curiosity had got the better of him.
“News travels fast, sir,” said Hartley, surprised. “May I ask who told you?”
There was a moment’s pause at the other end.
“Oh, - er - an acquaintance. I’m friendly with many of the staff there. We share the same interest in all things Egyptian, you understand,” said Whitcliff.
“Quite,” said Hartley.
“Well, inspector. I really must be getting back,” said Whitcliff, who sounded as if he wanted to get off the phone double quick.
Hartley apologised for disturbing him and wished him goodnight. He’d learned something. Jason Whitcliff was keeping tabs on him. And he’d wanted to get off the phone as quickly as possible once he’d let slip he knew Hartley had visited Manasas’ workplace. His phone-call also linked Whitcliff and Silas Blackwell.
Chapter Seven
When Blake Hartley went to the office the next day, he was in for another surprise. Sgt Khan showed him a fax from Interpol, from the Cairo police. It was addressed to Hartley as officer in charge of the case. He was glad Donaldson was away. He’d have had kittens if he’d read it and would have handed the case over immediately to the C.I.D. He liked to keep his patch neat and tidy. Like his desk. Under his control. Anything that looked too big for him was passed on double quick in case he made a gaff.
The fax came from Colonel Mordecai Waheeb. He thanked Hartley for letting him know about Dr Manasas. If it could be arranged, he’d like to come over personally and help. There were aspects of the case Inspector Hartley should know about and which he’d prefer to discuss with him privately.
Blake Hartley rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he read. It mentioned missing girls in Egypt and a sect which still carried out human sacr
ifice to the goddess it worshiped. He could hardly believe what he was reading. Yet Elsie Adams had told him some odd things. There was Kathy Burton’s disappearance, for instance. The candles and snake-image in Rosie Adams’ room. They flashed through his mind, but all he said to Khan was, “Looks as if there’s bigger fish in our pond than we thought.” He put the fax away carefully in his personal drawer. Not in the general filing-cabinet in case Donaldson looked in. He was always meddling about in there.
“We’ll have to let Superintendent Donaldson know, sir,” said Khan.
Inspector Hartley turned and snorted. “Like hell we will! Bring him back from London? With his head full of narcotic psychology? He’ll cock the whole case up straight away. Panic like mad once he hears Interpol’s involved. Pass the case straight to Met. level - and just when it’s getting interesting. Anyhow, there’s more to it than a body in the museum.”
Sgt Khan was curious, but the inspector said nothing. He locked his drawer and told the sergeant they were going to check out a flat - Kathy Burton’s. On the way he told him why. He was desperate to learn where the girl was. If she’d really gone to London. And the person he wanted to interview first was her mother.
She was called Mrs Franks and lived in a snotty row of terrace houses at the back-end of the town. Very back-endish. They should have been pulled down years before. They’d been tarted up by their landlord, but still looked slummy. The families living there had gone downhill with them. Some of the houses were boarded up and it was a race whether they fell down before the demolishers got to them. Few would have backed the demolition gang.
Edna Franks lived in the end house. It was propped up by huge beams. The chimney stack swung away from the gable at a dizzy angle and threatened to fall at any minute. The street was unadopted and still cobbled. Patches of dirty grass, struggled through the cobbles. A slimy puddle with a dead cat in it graced the bottom of the terrace on some open land where the housing had already gone. The whole street smelled foetid. The inspector and Khan knew it well.
1 The Museum Mystery Page 4
