He put down the phone and said he was going next door. No, Miss Pickles couldn’t come with him. It wouldn’t be safe. She was to stay in her own flat and keep the door firmly closed. Then he went out and quietly tried the door of Kathy’s flat. It was open, so he let himself in. The dog heard him and began snarling, but there was a heavy walking-stick just inside the door and Hartley picked it up.
“Call your dog off else I’ll brain it,” said the inspector, brandishing the stick. Blackwell shut it up. It was the white Alsatian he’d seen at the hall.
Those there were all dropped on and Madame Marie began making excuses. They’d come to the flat looking for stuff she loaned the girl.
“What stuff?” asked Hartley.
“Sort of religious stuff,” said the other.
“Like the cobra and the black candles…” he said.
She looked quickly at the others. “It’s what we believe in,” she stammered. “Nothing wrong in that, is there? Kathy Burton was a follower of Hathor like the rest of us.”
“Was?” asked the inspector.
“Well, we haven’t seen her for some time,” said Madame Marie hesitantly. She did all the talking while the others stood by silent. “She had some of our sacred emblems, if you see what I mean”
“I see what you mean all right,” said Hartley, indignantly “You’re dabbling in black magic and conning young lasses to join you. What you’re doing to them is your business. What you’re doing with them is mine.”
“You have your religion, we have ours,” snarled Blackwell. “It’s a free country. We’ve only come to collect what belongs to us.”
“I’ll take that,” said Hartley, holding out his hand for the key Blackwell held. “You’ll take nothing from here, till I tell you. You’re all trespassing and I could have the lot of you for breaking and entering.”
He saw the panic on Madame Marie’s face. “We were only coming to collect what’s ours,” she whined.
“Where’s Kathy Burton?” asked Hartley.
“No idea,” said Blackwell. “If we did we wouldn’t be here, would we? Any road, there’s nowt here. We may as well push off…if you don’t mind, inspector,” he added insolently.
Hartley stood by to let them pass. They’d reached the door, when he said, “Oh, by the way. I’ve got summat of yours, Rosie.”
The young girl turned. He held up Kathy’s pocket-book. Rosie looked shocked. “Where did you find that? I’ve been looking everywhere for it!” she gasped.
“Oh, that would be telling. You ought to be more careful where you leave things. Makes very interesting reading. Perhaps you’ll let your great high priest know I have it the next time you see him.” Then he added grimly, “ And if owt’s happened to that lass, you’re in it up to your necks. All of you.”
He saw Madame Marie look hard at Blackwell a moment, but he shook his head motioning her to keep quiet. Then they left. When they’d gone Inspector Hartley looked round the flat. Nothing appeared to have been taken. He guessed they’d brought the dog to sniff out something. Drugs? Or something more sinister?
He locked up and was preparing to leave when Miss Pickles collared him. She’d seen the others leave and was out like a flash. She was worried they’d return, but he reassured her they would not. He had the keys and had ordered them to stay clear but if they came back, he wanted to know at once. When the police had investigated the place thoroughly, new tenants would rent it. Meanwhile no one would be allowed in. Not even Mr Ali.
She looked relieved. “I couldn’t bear to think of that Madame Marie calling up the dead next door,” she said. “Once you start that game, you don’t know who you’re bringing back.”
“You don’t, indeed,” agreed the inspector. “Best let the dead rest in peace.”
“Take my late lamented boy-friend,” she began. “I wouldn’t want him bringing back - not for world after what he did to me”
Inspector Hartley could see he was in for a long session on her late-lamented boyfriend if he wasn’t careful. He tried the door he’d just locked, pocketed the key, raised his trilby to Miss Pickles and took his leave.
He walked briskly across the town, humming happily to himself. He’d got Kathy Burton’s notebook in his pocket and that was a big breakthrough. The names in the book should produce something at least.
When he got to his office there was a note on his desk. The Super wanted to see him immediately. He’d had Jason Whitcliff on the phone raising Cain about Hartley and Waheeb snooping round his family’s tomb. So, taking a deep breath, Inspector Hartley went up to see his boss.
“What’s this all about, Hartley?” he yelled, almost before the inspector had closed the door. “I’ve had to listen to him blowing his top without the least idea what he was talking about. And Waheeb? What was he doing there? Mr Whitcliff is threatening to take it to the Chief Constable.”
He paused to let his words sink in, fiddling with the masonic paperweight on his desk. Blake Hartley scratched his chin. If he waited long enough, Donaldson would yelp again. He couldn’t keep quiet long.
“Well?” said the Super. “Just why were you and Colonel Waheeb poking around the Whitcliff Mausoleum yesterday?”
“It’s like this, sir,” Hartley began. “Colonel Waheeb, being an Egyptian and all that, was interested in the building. It’s modelled on ancient Egyptian architecture, sir. But then you’ll know all about that, having visited Egypt. You don’t get many tombs in this part of the world looking as if they’d come out of the Valley of Kings. And there are other factors, sir, linking it to the murder case we’re on.”
“Oh? What?” said Donaldson surprised.
“The murdered man was Egyptian, you remember, sir. So Colonel Waheeb was onto the Mausoleum like a flash. Oh, and by the way, sir, I told them his name is Mr Fahid. It’s his cover for the time being. On business over here, if you see what I mean, sir. I told them he was very interested in the architecture and background of Mr Whitcliff’s family.”
Donaldson sucked his teeth. Then bit his lip. He was out of his depth. “I only hope you know what you’re doing, you two,” he said dolefully. Then added, “I don’t like that fellow Whitcliff no more than you do, Hartley. There’s too much of the Levantine about him. And all this mumbo-jumbo nonsense he’s wrapped up in. Unhealthy. Downright unhealthy. I’ve no time for cults. But at the end of the day he has clout.”
Inspector Hartley was tempted to echo Professor Edwards’ remarks on freemasonry, but for once Donaldson had agreed with him and he let it pass.
“Will that be all then, sir?” he asked.
Donaldson frowned as if he’d forgotten something. They didn’t usually part so pleasantly. In the end he said, “For the time being. But if you must go nosing round Whitcliff’s place again, make sure you go through the proper channels.”
“Of course, sir,” said Hartley. “I always try to.”
Donaldson opened his mouth to say something, but by then the inspector was through the door. Whitcliff’s telephone call had convinced him there was more in that tomb than dead bodies. Or was there one more dead body than usual? He was determined to get into it. He felt sure it held the key to Kathy Burton’s disappearance - and Dr Manasas’ murder.
He’d agreed to dine with Dr Dunwell for lunch at the Railway Tavern. When he arrived, the pathologist was already there, and looked mightily pleased with himself. As soon as Blake Hartley came through the door, Gus Dunwell ordered him a nip of his favourite malt.
The inspector picked up his glass. “Slainte,” he said and took a healthy sip, then sighed. He felt better already.
Dr Dunwell raised his own glass, then smiled broadly. “I’ve got some news for you, my boy. Some good news. Something you’ll enjoy.”
“Oh?”
“That last sample of dog hairs you sent us.”
The inspector paused in the middle of another sip. “Don’t tell me they match the hairs you found on Manasas’ body?”
Dr Dunwell took off his glasses a
nd wiped them thoroughly, keeping the inspector in suspense. “Right first time,” he said when he’d put them back on.
“Which means he must have been at Whitcliff’s place on the moors when that hell hound got at him.”
“Correct,” said Dunwell. “Which accounts for the bite marks on his leg. And we found something more. Traces of black candle-wax on the uppers of his shoes.”
“And I know where he picked that up. But how? Unless…unless…” stammered Hartley, whose face had changed. Horror registered on it.
“What’s up, Blake?” asked the other.
“He could only have picked up that candle-wax in the Mausoleum or from the altar in that sacrificial room upstairs…”
“Where he was sacrificed to the gods,” said Dunwell, coming on net. “Ceremonially garrotted, as he lay on the altar with his hands and feet bound. Then taken to the museum to the mummy. My God, Blake! You’re into something deep here. Too deep for me. Religion ain’t my scene at the best of times. But this…”
“It’s obscene! Human sacrifice! Hardly believable in this day and age!” said the inspector, then fell quiet.
They started their bar lunch in silence, while the truth of what Dunwell had said sank in. At length, Inspector Hartley mentioned the missing girl.
“You think she’s a goner?” asked Gus Dunwell bluntly.
The inspector nodded grimly. “Girls in her game don’t just disappear - unless they’ve been murdered. And even then they turn up somewhere.”
“Occupational hazard, I suppose,” said the pathologist.
“Not in this case,” said Hartley. Dr Dunwell waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. The inspector seemed lost in thought and Dunwell didn’t disturb him, tucking in to the last of his bar-lunch.
“I wonder if the hall and its Mausoleum are connected?” he said at length, more to himself than his friend. “The whole area round there is riddled with tunnels from the quarries. When Blackwell and that guard surprised us, they popped up from nowhere. I’d like to bet they took a short cut. Blackwell said he’d spotted us from the hall, but he didn’t come from there. We’d have seen him the minute he and the other guy left it.”
“You’ll never prove it unless you get in there. And you heard what Donaldson said. It’s a no-go unless Whitcliff lets you in,” said Dr Dunwell.
Blake Hartley smiled. “I know a man who can help us,” he said. Something clicked that Tom Driscoll, the tramp, had said. “He’d seen that bunch of weirdos coming from the Mausoleum into the altar room when he’d been dossing. Said he thought they’d come up from the cellars, but I’d like to bet they’d come through a connecting tunnel. Tom knows the lay-out of the place. Kipped there for years before they started renovating the place. And that’s another thing. Why would they suddenly want to begin tarting it up?”
Gus Dunwell shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll cost Whitcliff a bomb doing up the old hall. Like you said, it’s strange. Especially as he’s living at High Royd House now. Can’t believe he’s going into bed and breakfasting.”
They finished their lunch and went their separate ways: Dunwell to the path lab, Hartley to The Squeaking Rat. He knew where he’d find the dosser. His day went like clockwork. Once he’d left the night-shelter, he’d start his rounds of the town. Feeding the pigeons in Town Hall Square, standing in the bus station till mid-day when he’d cadge a meal in the market hall. Then at two o’clock sharp into The Squeaking Rat, where Hartley spoke to him.
A glass of Old Peculiar made him very sociable. Yes, he knew the lay-out of the old hall like the back of his hand. He surprised Hartley by telling him he’d been in service there as a boy, but had been dismissed and joined the army. The place shut down just after the war and he’d never gone back. Only to kip.
He confirmed Hartley’s hunch about the tunnel. It was there all right. Linking the Mausoleum to the cellars of the hall. Sir Joshua had built it at the same time as the temple dedicated to Hathor. All sorts of goings-on had happened there in the past. The staff were never allowed near the Mausoleum nor the tunnel. All except Blackwell and other trusted servants, including some Egyptians the old man had brought back with him. But they’d either gone back to Egypt or were buried in the family vaults, so he’d heard. He thought all that argy-bargy had stopped; but what he’d witnessed the night the procession came up from the cellars showed they were still at it.
Another pint of Old Peculiar loosened his tongue more. There’d been a girl, he said. A housemaid he’d fallen in love with. They’d wanted to marry but Whitcliff’s father had stepped in and forbidden it. She was into the Hathor business and they wouldn’t let her cop out. Once in, never out he said. That’s why Blackwell was still there. Into it up to his neck, said Tom. The girl had left suddenly and he got the push and never saw her again. He tried hard to find where she’d gone but drew a blank. Then he’d joined the army but he never forgot her. Never would.
“How old was she when she disappeared?” asked Hartley.
“Let me see,” said the old man. “She were four years younger than meself. She’d be about twenty.” He took a deep pull at his pint. She obviously still meant much to him, and he said quietly, “I allus felt close to her whenever I kipped in the old hall. Now yer can’t get near it.”
The way things were turning out, Inspector Hartley suspected his girl-friend might have been a great deal closer to Tom than he thought when he’d kipped at Pithom Hall. He replenished Tom’s glass. The tramp was in the mood for talking.
“There’s another tunnel,” he said, when he’d topped his pint. “It connects wi’ that tunnel coming from t’ Mausoleum.”
“Oh?”
“It also connects direct wi’ that quarry on t’ main road. Before t’ hall were built they used to mine there for flagstones for roofing. Like what they’ve got here,” said Tom, raising his eyes to the ceiling. All the old buildings in Keighworth were roofed with flagstone.
“T’ old mineshaft’s still there. They used it for storage at t’ hall an’ had a wine cellar there, too, at one time. The butler used to get as pissed as a fart down there. So did me dad. Like I said, it connects wi’ that tunnel old Sir Joshua had built to t’ Mausoleum.”
It was the quarry Hartley had left his car in on that fateful visit. He’d noticed a locked door near the old quarry face and asked if they could access the tunnel through that.
“Aye,” said Tom. “It’s still in use.”
It surprised the inspector. He thought it had been sealed off permanently. Most of those disused tunnels were unsafe and he asked what they used it for.
“Don’t know,” Tom replied, “but I’ve seen a lorry back up to it reg’lar an’ they take stuff from it into t’ tunnel.”
The tramp didn’t know who they were; but the driver was foreign. He’d seen them from the top of the quarry one afternoon when he’d ben dozing there. The lorry had woken him up and he’d peered over the edge. No doubt at all they’d unloaded stuff from the back of the lorry into wooden crates, but he couldn’t see what. The driver spoke broken English and switched into a foreign lingo when he spoke to his mate.
“You didn’t notice any number plates?”
“No, boss. I kept me head down an’ t’ lorry were backed right up to t’ tunnel. It cleared off as soon as they’d unloaded. Moved like the clappers! As soon as it had gone they locked t’ door from t’ inside. I’ve no idea who they were or what they were up to.”
It was Colonel Waheeb who later explained who they were and what they’d unloaded into the tunnel.
Chapter Seventeen
DWC Sally Anwar continued visiting Madame Marie, closely watched by Sgt Khan. She carried a mobile, and across the road Ibrahim Khan monitored what was happening. If she was in danger she’d alert him and he’d go in at once.
The ghostly boyfriend was waiting for Sally each visit conjured by Madame Marie out of the ether. Each time, the medium assured her he was being looked after by Hathor. He’d joined the elect and was awaiting her
arrival. If Sally joined their sect, she’d be able to contact him herself. That was the privilege given her followers once they been inducted. It gave Sally the shivers. She’d no wish to join their elect under any circumstances.
“It all takes time,” said the Madame softly, looking deep into Sally’s eyes. “Contacting the dead takes time, my dear. You have to learn to bring into play your psycho-dimension. The ancients exercised it regularly and could enter the spirit world at will. Modern man, alas, is no longer a spiritual creature. He is arrogant. Believes he is supreme. But judgement will come, be sure. The gods will wreak vengeance when the time is right. We who follow Hathor know our destiny is to become one with the gods - in this life as well as the next.”
Rosie Adams began to sit in at the seances. Often standing silent in the background watching Sally intently. It was her job to dim the lights and cense the room as well as make the tea, but each time she visited, Sally thought the girl looked more drugged.
Eventually, Sally was invited into the kitchen for tea after the seances. It was there she met Riad and Mukhtar, who were frequent visitors. They, too, were followers of Hathor and had come to Britain on a mission. They spent most of the time letting their eyes wander over her, but as long as Madame Marie was present she felt safe.
And it was at Madame Marie’s she met Jason Whitcliff for the first time. He too sized her up - in a different way. He oozed charm. Poured it out like treacle. After the third meeting he invited her to High Royd House, for he said she was ready to be initiated.
“You’ll be a novice at first,” he explained. “There will be a short ceremony, which will be the first step to becoming one of us, a devoted follower of Hathor, our divine mother.” He took out a diary. “Let me see,” he said, “our next service is Monday, the night of the new moon. Madame Marie will arrange for Rosie to pick you up and be your sponsor.”
The following Monday, Rosie collected her. She reeked of crack.
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