Hartley read it slowly then handed it back.
“Congratulations, sir,” he said. “I wonder who else will be there. The Chief Constable perhaps?”
“Of course,” he snapped back.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking sir,” Hartley said , “ but are the Chief Constable and Sir Jeremy what’s-his-name in the same Lodge?”
Donaldson pocketed the card. “Casting pearls before swine again,” he thought, but only said, “ You’re being cynical, Hartley. You always have to bring that subject up, don’t you?”
Hartley shrugged his shoulders. “Just wondered, sir. I can’t recall either you or the Chief Constable having much interest in Middle Eastern studies. As a matter of fact, sir, you’ve always given me the impression you were rather averse to gentlemen from that part of the world.”
“Watch it!” barked Donaldson, going up on his toes and wagging his finger. “That borders on the impertinent! The fact that the Chief Constable and myself belong to the same Lodge has nothing to do with being invited to the Institute. In case you’ve forgotten, I happen to be very much in charge of the museum murder case And that has a great deal to do with the Middle East.”
Inspector Hartley looked sufficiently tail-between-leggish for the Super to cool off. He adjusted his tie which always came adrift when he was angry. Then he said more calmly, “As a matter of fact, though I don’t know why I’m telling you this, the Chief Constable and Sir Jeremy were at Cambridge with me. We went to the same college. Does that answer your question?” Hartley nodded, then Donaldson added, “And Sir Jeremy Listerton has long been interested in Middle Eastern affairs. It’s his speciality.”
He had other specialities, too, according to Kathy Burton’s book. But Hartley had to give the Super full marks for doing his homework on Listerton. It was another name he could drop.
Hartley offered nothing on the minister. The less Donaldson really knew about him, the better. That way no one would be alerted if Donaldson started bleating. And with a bit of luck, the Super might inadvertently pick up a bit of useful information at the Institute jamboree. Inspector Hartley would make a point of quietly milking him later. Arthur Donaldson was a great one for telling what had gone on and what people had said to him at events like these.
So Hartley buttered him up. He made a point of saying the Super would enjoy himself. The architecture there was stupendous. Worth a visit any day for anyone with an intelligent interest in architecture. Donaldson smiled. Said he was looking forward to the treat. Hartley also smiled. He knew the Super’s interests didn’t stretch much beyond Lodge nights and his weekly twitter at the Royal Ridings Golf Club. He’d be breaking new ground at the Institute.
He left Donaldson in good humour, gazing at the card which he left in a prominent place on his desk. Blake Hartley told Khan of the invitation as they drove through town to pick up Colonel Waheeb, who’d rented a cottage on the Pennines, about four miles from Keighworth. It wasn’t that far from Pithom Hall, and Hartley went to visit him while it was relatively quiet, for they’d arranged to visit the quarry to locate the old mineshaft.
It was a warmish day. One of the few days in winter when the sun managed to put in an appearance in Keighworth. At that time of year, the centre of Keighworth became clogged with smells of many kinds: mill weft, acrid foundry stench, and a whole mixture of spicy smells coming from the tandoori eating-houses and fish and chip shops.
They all drifted into the inspector’s car as they drove towards Ingerworth and then up the Worth Valley. Either side of them small engineering workshops and mills packed the streets. And beyond them the inevitable rows of terraces where the workers lived. A mile out of town, they passed the church Hartley served. Not far away, looming up the other side of the valley, was Whitcliff’s house.
As they approached it they had to stop. A laden lorry was backing out and held up the traffic.
“Hello, what’s going on here?” said Hartley, peering through the windscreen. “First time I’ve ever seen the gates open. And a lorry coming out!”
The big Libyan minder was waving it out impatiently, shouting something Hartley couldn’t hear. His guard-dog sat just inside the gates. As soon as the lorry was clear, the Libyan went inside and locked the gates. The detectives hung back, then began to tail the lorry.
“Got his number, Khan?” asked Hartley.
“Yes, sir. And the name on the cover.”
“I missed that. Where’s he from?” asked the inspector.
“Some firm called the Western Armaments Company.”
The inspector could hardly believe his ears. He pulled out slightly to get a look-see.
“Something the matter, sir?” asked his sergeant.
“I’d like to bet that lorry is heading for the same place as us,” said Hartley. “We’ll tag on behind it and pick up Colonel Waheeb later. He won’t mind us being late when we tell him why.”
They followed the truck all the way up the valley, till it turned off at Crossgates, climbing to the moors in the direction of the Hall. But instead of turning into the Hall driveway, as Hartley had expected, it swung into the very quarry they themselves had intended to search.
Hartley drove on, his eyes glued to the mirror. There was no sign of the truck. It had parked in the old quarry. Not far down the road was a lay-by. The inspector pulled into it and the two detectives climbed the track leading from it back to the top of the quarry face.
It was tough going. The area was littered with abandoned rock and delph-holes. The track snaked its way through them to the crest. Wild moorland had overgrown old workings and they had to watch their footing every inch of the way. One false step and it would have meant a ricked ankle, if not worse.
They were sweating freely as they reached the crest, where they crouched, hidden among the heather, and began to crawl forward. Once they’d reached the top, they peered over.
There was a newly-built lean-to hut, flush with the rock-face. Hartley had noticed it the last time he’d been there and wondered what it was for. The truck was backed right up to it and two men were working like crazy unloading crates. Someone inside was taking the crates from them. When they came outside Hartley recognised Blackwell and Roxley, the security guards who’d surprised him and Waheeb at the Mausoleum.
They moved fast and the lorry was soon empty. All the while, two other men from the truck stood guard at the quarry entrance. They’d put out cones to stop anyone entering to make it look official. They were also wearing council workmen’s jackets.
“Clever,” murmured Hartley. “They’ve done this run before. Got it timed to the last second.”
When the truck was empty, its driver shouted to the two guards. They picked up the cones and stacked them in the lean-to. It was all well rehearsed. The whole business took only minutes from start to finish, and once done, they drove off.
When they’d gone, Roxley came out of the hut with his dog. He walked round the quarry checking. Satisfied all was well, he went back into the hut and they heard him locking it from the inside.
Khan was all for going down at once but Hartley said they’d go and pick up Waheeb. Give Roxley and Blackwell time to get back to the Hall through the tunnel. They probably had to move the cases to the Hall and to start mooching around too soon might alert them.
Mordecai Waheeb was on the point of phoning the station when they arrived. They explained why they were late and he climbed into the car to return to the quarry with them. This time they drove straight in and casually began looking round, in case anyone was still inside the hut.
There was a window in the lean-to and peering in, they saw the original door set into the quarry face. It was secured by a large lock like the door of the hut. Khan asked how they could get in without breaking the lock.
“Excuse me,” said Colonel Waheeb. And Khan made way.
He took out a bunch of skeleton keys and began fiddling with the lock. There was a click and it opened. Mordecai Waheeb smiled quietly to himself. He did the
same with the lock inside and they found themselves in the tunnel Tom Driscoll had described.
At intervals, scratches and marks where the cases had gouged chunks from the walls indicated frequent usage. Although a steady stream of air drifted through it, the tunnel smelled foisty. Sheets of brackish water ran down the walls from the peat bog above. In one place an ominous crack ran right across the ceiling and down one wall. The tunnel was shored there. The sound of water dripping into a pool some way down the tunnel came up to meet them eerily. Colonel Waheeb produced a torch and they made their way cautiously down the tunnel.
It didn’t take them long to reach the end. Driscoll was right. It had been used for storing wine years before when the Hall was still lived in. Some shelving at the far end of the tunnel still contained old bottles. At the other end the door was unlocked. It led into the cellars of Pithom Hall.
They opened it cautiously. They were at a T-junction. To their left, the tunnel ran back to the Hall. To their right to the Mausoleum. They took the right turning. To their left came the sound of men working, repairing brickwork.
“I wonder why they’ve decided to repair the place after it’s been let go all these years,” whispered Khan.
“My guess is Whitcliff’s come into some money. If he’s helping ship arms to the El Tuban Group, he’ll be making a packet. They’ve got millions salted away in banks all over the Middle East and Europe. Drugs, arms, extortion - you name it. And all to promote their mad idea of restoring the religion of Ancient Egypt. I can tell you, they’ve supplied their gods with a steady supply of souls over the centuries!” said Waheeb.
As they entered the Mausoleum, the air turned cold and close. As if they had a hand at their throats. About them were ranged the coffins of the Whitcliffs, each entombed in a lead-lined box with a glass top. The pale light from a solitary lancet window lit up the faces of the dead staring back embalmed. Their eyes open like the painted faces on the sarcophagus of the Ancient Egyptian royal families. All were dressed in the vestments of the priesthood of Hathor. The same Jason Whitcliff had worn on the initiation night.
Old Sir Joshua’s coffin was separate from the rest. It stood on a dais directly below the altar in the room above. In death as in life his features were arrogant and evil. His face had a cruel cast. Set and grim. As if some sculptor had chiselled it from granite. The aura of evil from him permeated the whole place. It silenced the detectives and for some time they found it difficult to speak. As if they were having to adjust to some preternatural force.
Inspector Hartley was the first to break the oppressive silence. “ ‘They have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death’, ” he said quietly to himself.
Khan glanced across.
“Just a line from a writer who dabbled in the occult like the Whitcliffs,” he muttered.
A thick layer of dust covered everything and they trod carefully as they passed the semi-circle of coffins ranged round Sir Joshua, the family arch-priest. Recent sets of footprints were visible in the light from the torch. They led directly to the wall at the other end of the vault, then ended abruptly. The three detectives followed them, puzzled by their sudden disappearance.
“Looks like they’ve walked straight through the wall!” exclaimed Khan.
Colonel Waheeb who’d been inspecting the length of the wall suddenly stopped. “That’s exactly what they’ve done,” he murmured. “Somewhere along here there’ll be a device to open it into another chamber. An old trick in the Pharaoh burial chambers to cheat grave robbers.”
He was right. Running his hands delicately along the surface of the wall, he came across a loose brick. He pulled it out. In the recess was a switch and when he depressed it, the entire wall swung back. Before them was another vault, filled with crates.
They hurried forward to examine them. Some contained artefacts ready for return to the museum in Cairo. The ones they’d seen being unloaded from the lorry held arms. Among the former was one larger than the rest. It held a sarcophagus, in which was the coffin of a mummy. Colonel Waheeb flashed his torch over the mummy inside.
“Odd,” he said to himself. “The paint’s new!”
Hartley and Khan joined him. The hieroglyphics stood out clear and fresh; very different from the faded colours of the artefacts around it. The colonel leaned over the coffin and clicked open the lid. They gasped.
Inside was the mummified body of a young girl! A very recently mummified body, freshly bound and painted like the coffin outside. Over the head and shoulders was a death-mask gilded and studded with lapis lazuli. On the brow was the familiar raised cobra. Her arms were crossed and in her hands she held the ceremonial crook and flail, symbols of divine power.
Leaning over the body Colonel Waheeb read the pictographs. Then he stood up.
“It’s identical with the body in Keighworth Museum,” he said. “The same hymn of praise to the Princess Hathor.”
“What’s it say?” asked Hartley.
Mordecai Waheeb bent over the body again and read, “Hathor, great Mistress of the Stars. Goddess of the heavens.”
Mordecai Waheeb closed the lid carefully. “We’ll have to act quickly,” he said, “before they transfer this lot back to Egypt. If we move before they do, we’ll catch them red-handed.”
They hurried back the way they’d come once Colonel Waheeb had the wall in place, but when they arrived at the station, they reckoned without Superintendent Donaldson. He went sour on them.
Whitcliff wouldn’t be storing those arms unless he had permission, he said. Sir Jeremy Listerton would have made sure of that. It must be all above board. Both Listerton and Whitcliff were respectable men with positions and reputations to maintain. He couldn’t see for one moment they’d be doing anything illegal. After all, storing those things under the Mausolem before they were exported was commonsense. They were as safe as houses there.
No, he didn’t want anything blowing up in their faces just before the opening of the Institute. That was just the sort of things the tabloids would have a field-day with. If Hartley thought there was anything in it, he would hand it over immediately to the anti-terrorist squad. Let them get egg on their faces. It would be best leaving it to the CID, leaving it to anyone but themselves. He wouldn’t carry anybody else’s can! He didn’t want to be made to look a fool because Hartley had blundered.
Blake Hartley saw he was getting nowhere fast. But the more Donaldson wriggled to get clear, the more Hartley hung on. Murder had been committed on his patch and it was his responsibility - his mission - to bring the perpetrators to book. It always had been.
Finally, he played the vanity card with his boss. If he could bring back “positive data”, evidence beyond doubt, they’d have Whitcliff and his gun-runners in the bag. Donaldson was bound to be promoted. He might even be in the honours list. That did it. Donaldson wandered to the window. When he returned he was dreamy-eyed. Divisional Superintendent Donaldson O.B.E. had peered back at him through the gleaming panes.
He agreed to go along with his inspector, but only if every move were reported back to him. There must be no bog up. If there were…He left his sentence unfinished. The consequences of anything going wrong were best left unsaid.
Two days later, when Hartley confirmed the weapons should be in recognised bonded warehousing, the three returned to the vaults beneath the Mausoleum to take photos of the illegal crates. With that evidence, Donaldson would apply for search warrants. But when the wall swung back, the second chamber was empty. The birds had already flown! The weapons had gone. So had the mummy.
Chapter Nineteen
The detectives were gob-smacked! They retired to the Railway Tavern with their tails between their legs. They’d have to tell Donaldson and when he heard he’d get cold feet. They could see that a mile off. Even if they knew where the stuff had gone he wouldn’t let them follow. He’d hand over at once to the Anti-Terrorist Squad.
However, by the time their drinks arrived Mordecai Waheeb looked more ha
ppy. “Could be a blessing in disguise,” he said.
They took their drinks to a cubby-hole the other end of the bar.
“What d’you mean by that?” asked Hartley. “It’s almost as if they knew we’d been there and cleared off.”
“At least we know they don’t hang about. If we see another load going in from the quarry, we’ve got to act pronto,” said Khan.
“If?” said Hartley. “There won’t be another if. We only lit on that last load by chance.”
The Colonel topped his ale, before saying, “You’re forgetting we’ve two aces still up our sleeves. Dr Misha and DWC Anwar. If they’ve kept their eyes and ears open we should know how they move their stuff to Cairo. And if you can’t get the El Tubans this end, we can intercept them at the other.”
“I want this load at our end,” said Hartley doggedly. “I want that coffin and the girl who’s in it. The weapons are yours. She’s mine…and whoever killed her.”
Waheeb nodded. “Point taken, my friend. I’ll let you know as soon as I learn where they’re warehousing those crates before they clear customs. Listerton will have to get clearance from customs before they are shipped out, that’s for sure.”
Puzzled, Sergeant Khan said, “Why should they want to take that coffin with the murdered girl in it - if it is her - all the way to Egypt? I mean, if she’s been sacrificed, she’s part and parcel of their set-up here.”
Mordecai Waheeb wiped his moustache with his handkerchief. Then cleared his throat. “The rites…the obscenities these people carry out are bound up with their belief that their goddess is reincarnated every time they kill. She can’t continue living her human life unless she is offered the body of a young girl. At the end of time, all her reincarnations will be restored to life as her daughters. They hold a special place in the after-life of her followers. That’s why they’re taking the girl’s body back to Egypt. To join the others.”
Khan looked shocked. “Are you saying there have been others, right from the time of the Pharaohs, like the mummy in the coffin?”
1 The Museum Mystery Page 14
