“Your descriptions are rather graphic, sir,” said the sergeant, who continued to keep his distance.
By this time Hartley was kneeling by the body. He nodded at the half bottle of whisky. “That’s a plant for starters,” he said. “He never drank whisky. Only ale. And as far as I know he never went near the river. He always dossed in town.” Then he pointed to the dead man’s boots and shoulders. “Clay on his boots and peat on his coat. I bet I know where he picked that up.”
“I was wondering about that,” said Dunwell. “Where did they come from?”
“Where the killers of Manasas hang out. Pithom Hall.”
Dr Dunwell took off his glasses. He looked vulnerable without them. Schoolboyish. He breathed on them and gave them a wipe before replacing them. Something he was always doing.
“First Manasas, then whoever’s inside that mummy - the girl you think - and now him. By the way, you haven’t told me his name. You evidently know him. One of your many wayside friends eh?”
“He’s Tom Driscoll. Known him years. He was a dosser but one of the best. Kept me in the picture about what was going on in Keighworth,” said Hartley.
“An informant?” said Dunwell.
“No. A friend. Tom wouldn’t grass if you paid him a fortune,” Hartley replied, tersely. “He kipped all round the area. Used Pithom Hall before they started tarting it up. It had been his home as a lad. He’d been in service there.”
“Ah!” said the pathologist, scraping the mud from the dead man’s boots and the peat from his shoulders. “That explains a lot.”
“The clay’s from the old quarry near the hall. My guess is Tom was up there and stumbled onto something and got nobbled for his pains. Smothered, you say?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Then dumped in the river miles away to make it look like drowning,” said Hartley. “Go over his clothes with a fine tooth comb, Gus. I want to nail his killers - badly. I’ll get them if it’s the last thing I do!”
Dr Dunwell had packed his bag and was strolling with the two detectives back to their cars. “For God’s sake, watch yourself, Blake,” he said quietly. “Else it may well be the last thing you will do. And the last thing I want to do is poke around your guts looking for clues.”
When they arrived back at the station, Inspector Hartley told Khan to make out the report on Tom Driscoll and inform Donaldson. When he’d dropped off his sergeant, he drove up to the quarry near Pithom Hall. He’d a hunch he’d find something there. Something belonging to Tom Driscoll. He was right.
Hidden behind an abandoned block of stone near the old workings, he found Driscoll’s bike and mac. Behind them was a rock fissure, barely large enough for Hartley to enter, but easy enough for anyone Tom Driscoll’s size. It was the entrance to another abandoned tunnel. The hillside was honeycombed with them. It ran parallel to the larger one he, Waheeb and Khan had gone down.
It wasn’t high enough for him to walk upright and he had to crouch most of the way. He continued down until he felt a flow of fresh air hit his face. He also heard voices, far away at the other end of the tunnel. And a dog barked.
He didn’t want to suffer the same fate as Driscoll, so he withdrew. He’d seen enough. This smaller tunnel ran direct to the Mausoleum. The old tramp had been going in there and must have blundered into something which had cost him his life. But what?
Inspector Hartley found the answer at The Squeaking Rat where he called to drop off Tom Driscoll’s bike and mac.
The pub was the tramp’s base. The nearest he had to a home. When Tom was on the road, the landlord kept his bits and pieces in an old shed behind the pub till he returned. The tramp had left a message for Hartley with the landlord two days before, but the inspector had called too late.
“Poor do about Tom,” said the landlord, as he pulled Hartley his pint. “Must have had a right skinful to fall into the river.”
“He certainly fell in the river. That’s for sure,” he said. He took the top off his pint before asking, “Don’t suppose he left owt here? Owt I could go on?”
“Funny you should ask that,” the landlord replied. “As a matter of fact he specially asked me to give you a bag he’d left in the back place. Said he was off on his travels again. Heading for Halifax.” The landlord gave a wink. “He had a lady friend there, I think. I’ll get you the bag now.”
The landlord brought back an old gas-mask container. The sort they issued in the war. In it were two plastic bags. One contained bluish crystals. The other sweet-smelling dried herbs. Neither Hartley nor the landlord could identify them. The crystals looked like washing soda.
Hartley replaced them in the bag and finished his drink quickly. Something had registered when he smelled the herbs. He wanted to know just what Tom had picked up, for he was certain the tramp had found them at Pithom Hall.
He wished the landlord good-day and drove immediately to forensic. Dunwell was out, but an assistant said he’d run tests on both the herbs and crystals. He’d let Dr Dunwell know as soon as they’d got the results. Hartley was meeting him at his masonic club that night as a guest. They should be ready for him then.
Now Hartley never really felt comfortable going to the masonic club. Like many priests, he’d reservations about freemasonry, but as many of his friends were freemasons he couldn’t cop out when they invited him there socially. Dunwell often signed him in, much to Donaldson’s disgust, and Donaldson was there, that night. So was Sir Jeremy Listerton.
They arrived shortly after Gus Dunwell and Blake Hartley, who’d taken their drinks to a corner where they could speak in private. Inspector Hartley hadn’t been there for some time, and the lodge had been newly decorated. As he glanced round the walls, hung with the symbols and the paraphernalia of freemasonry, he was reminded of the temple of Hathor at Pithom Hall. The eyes and the set-squares and the compasses, the raised hands and all the rest, which added to his discomfort. So did the appearance of Donaldson and Listerton.
“Well,” he said to Dunwell, when they’d settled themselves. “What did forensic make of the stuff I brought in this afternoon?”
“Odd mixture the old boy picked up. Not the usual stuff gentlemen of the road carry around with them. The crystals were sodium carbonate…”
“Is that the same as natron?” asked Hartley.
“Yes. Why do you ask?” said Dunwell surprised.
“Go on. I’ll tell you in a minute,” said the inspector. “What was the sweet-smelling stuff he had?”
“A mixture. Cassia and myrrh,” said Dunwell. “And I’d like to know what your friend was doing with that. He wasn’t smoking the stuff, was he?”
Inspector Hartley smiled grimly. “It’s where he got it from that’s more to the point. It probably cost him his life. He left it for me at The Squeaking Rat.”
They took the tops off their drinks and the pathologist asked, “I’m curious. Just how do natron, cassia and myrrh fit into your untidy scheme of things, Blake? I know you’re onto something. They’ve something to do with this Egyptian business, haven’t they?”
“Aye. Very much so,” said the inspector. “Natron was used by the Egyptian embalmers to dry out a body before they began the process of mummification. The corpse was laid on a bed of natron for at least forty days.”
“Where did you learn that?” asked Dunwell.
“Genesis. Chapter fifty,” said Hartley.
“Come off it! What’s the Bible got to do with it?” said Dunwell.
Blake Hartley’s smile broadened. “My little pagan pathologist, if you read the good book more often, you’d pick up quite a few tips for your line of business. Tell me, if you can remember that far back, who was sold as a slave into Egypt by his brothers?”
“Joseph,” Dunwell replied.
“Full marks!” said Hartley. “You’re not quite the unlettered philistine you make yourself out to be.”
“And you’re not the dim copper you pretend to be. Where on earth did you learn about those tit-bits of mu
mmification?” said Dunwell.
“Oh, I read a bit here, looked up a bit there. Keep my eyes open all the time like any copper worth his salt,” said Hartley.
Dr Dunwell’s curiosity was aroused. He wanted to know how the myrrh and cassia were used in preserving bodies.
“They were stuffed into the abdominal cavity after the body was eviscerated,” said Hartley. He took a long swig of his beer. “So wherever Tom Driscoll got that stuff from, I’d say there was a body being mummified nearby. No prize for guessing where.”
“The Hall!” exclaimed Dunwell.
“Right first time,” said the inspector. “Tom Driscoll knew the place like the back of his hand. He’d been brought up there. As a lad it fascinated him. All those tunnels. The Mausoleum. The old quarry. Just the sort of place every lad worth his salt would explore. He returned there often when the Whitcliffs left, especially these last few years when he was on the road. He knew he could always kip there.” Inspector Hartley looked more serious, grim. “But I wish I’d never told him I was interested in what was going on there. He went back to find out something for me. I discovered his bike near the entrance to one of the old tunnels. He’d been nabbed when he’d gone inside. Pity I didn’t call in at The Rat earlier and pick up his message. He might still have been alive.”
“Now don’t start blaming yourself for that, old friend. There’s nothing you could have done,” said Gus Dunwell quietly and went to the bar to re-charge their glasses.
It was there he met Superintendent Donaldson and Listerton. Donaldson looked very full of himself, basking in the light of his distinguished guest. But his face fell when Gus Dunwell nodded in the direction of Blake Hartley.
Donaldson got through introducing Sir Jeremy to those nearby, including the Grand Master, and while they were chatting he drew Dr Dunwell to one side. The pathologist and the Super hated each other’s guts; right from the start, when Donaldson had come to Keighworth and joined the lodge. Masonic brotherhood ran very thin with them inside the Lodge. Outside, it dried up completely.
When he’d seen the inspector, Donaldson panicked. The look on his face didn’t escape Blake Hartley and he waved affably in reply to Donaldson’s curt nod. The Super was trapped. Hartley had to be kept away from Sir Jeremy at all costs. There was no telling what either of them would say after their last meeting.
When they were out of earshot, Donaldson said, “I don’t want to go over old ground, Dunwell, but I’d take it as a great favour if you’d keep Hartley well away from Sir Jeremy. They didn’t exactly hit it off the last time they met. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Dunwell sweetly, “ but I don’t see how it can be avoided now.”
He nodded again in Hartley’s direction. Donaldson turned. Blake Hartley was already walking across to join them and he began to panic.
“Good evening, sir,” he said smiling. Donaldson mumbled a greeting then rejoined his guest. He tried extricating him from the Grand Master to get him into another room. But he failed for Sir Jeremy had already recognised Hartley and spoke first.
“Inspector Hartley. How nice to see you again,” he said with his false practised smile. As he extended his hand, his middle finger curled back in the masonic handshake. Hartley seized it in an iron grip and shook it vigorously. Listerton winced.
“Good evening, sir,” he said with a broad grin. “Nice to see you again.”
Donaldson held his breath. The air was electric. When the storm broke, as he knew it would, he’d get a soaking.
“You’re one of the brethren?” asked Listerton, coaxing some life back into his hand.
“No, sir. A guest,” said Hartley.
“Oh, really?” said the other, and looked at Donaldson for an explanation.
“He’s the guest of Dr Dunwell. Our forensic pathologist,” said the superintendent hurriedly.
He introduced Dunwell with the air of a man walking to the gallows, then shuddered as Hartley said straight out, “And what brings you to this neck of the woods, sir?”
“Business,” Listerton replied, tight-lipped.
“I suppose it will be with Mr Whitcliff,” Hartley went on. And though he grinned in his gormless way, he watched the other like a hawk. “He told me he does quite a bit of business with the Middle East. In the arms trade. I noticed you and him having a good old chin-wag the other day.” A pause, then “ I enjoyed myself at the Institute. Learned a great deal, too,” said Hartley pointedly.
Sir Jeremy looked at him sharply. His reaction was palpable. The air positively sparked between them. “Really?” he said. But there was a hint of apprehension in his voice when he added as casually as he could, “What sort of things did you learn?”
“Oh,” said the inspector rubbing his chin. “Lots about Ancient Egypt. Y’know, I’m a bit of an historian in my own way. I’ve always been interested in Egypt. Got quite wrapped up in it since I was put on the Manasas case.”
The look on Donaldson’s face said everything. He was wishing he’d never let Hartley anywhere near the case. He attempted to turn the conversation. “I gather you’re a supporter of Leeds United, Sir Jeremy,” he said weakly.
“Rather,” said the other. “Followed them for years. We lived near Leeds when I was a boy.”
“They’ve a good rugby league team an’ all,” said Hartley, after a good pull at his beer. “That’s my game. Rugby league, not soccer. Played a lot of it when I was younger.”
“Really?” said Listerton, coldly. “Can’t say I know much about the game. You’ve got to live up here to know something about it, eh? Not played down south.”
“I suppose so, sir,” said Hartley. “Though Dr Dunwell here follows it - and he comes from down south.”
The “down south” was said with a contemptuous glance at Donaldson, an out and out southerner if ever there was. The Super looked as if he was going to reply in defence of the south, but Jason Whitcliff came in. Listerton saw him and ended their conversation.
“Well, if you don’t mind, inspector, I’ve some business to do,” he said. “So glad we’ve met up again.”
Hartley wished him good night and went back with Dunwell to their table. Whitcliff cut him dead as they passed, but through a mirror opposite, he could see him and Listerton speaking earnestly. Donaldson had been given the push and was drinking alone chatting to the steward.
The same steward later told him that Listerton was staying overnight at High Royd House. A dinner party was being thrown there for him. Being a Member of Parliament and an arms dealer did have its perks. Even in Keighworth.
Chapter Twenty Two
Not long after the reception at the Institute, DWC Sally Anwar visited Madame Marie. The clairvoyant summoned her to regular meetings now she’d been initiated into the El Tuban sect. But the more Sally visited the old woman, the more she realised she was a charlatan. Madame Marie no more believed in the goddess than she believed she’d fly up to Hathor’s heaven and join her there. Like her palm-reading and fortune–telling, she was in it for the money..
Jason Whitcliff might be crazy. Of that she’d no doubt. But he was also well loaded and in him Bessie Lanshaw saw an easy touch. So did Rosie Adams but she had a more pressing need. She was a heroin addict.
But though they attended sessions at High Royd House and Pithom Hall, neither was privy to the inner workings of the sect. And neither genuinely knew what had happened to Kathy Burton. They thought she was in London as the live-in dolly-bird of some wealthy client. She’d plenty of names in her book - high-class names - and they assumed she’d shacked up with one of them. If she had, she’d no need of Keighworth.
Even before her disappearance she’d hinted at quitting Keighworth. Her letters to Rosie from London said she was moving in high places and wasn’t coming back. But in time, her letters stopped. Rosie was hurt, but she shrugged it off. It had happened before. When you went down south and picked up an easy living there, why did you need Keighworth folk? But Kathy Burton did return – and unexpe
ctedly. And Madame Marie and Rosie were landed in it when she came back.
Before she left, Kathy had said she would take Rosie to London and Rosie badly wanted to get away from mum, who knew nothing of her drug problem. Rosie moved in with Madame Marie and the cut she got from helping her helped pay for her drugs.
Then things started to go badly wrong. Kathy Burton turned up unexpectedly. She was ill, high on drugs, but she’d plenty of ready cash so they hid her at Madame Marie’s. Then to make matters worse Riad and Mukhtar began leaning on them. The day Sally Anwar came they ordered Bessie to use some special joss-sticks they’d brought. Once Sally was in the house and the incense lit, Madame Marie and Rosie were to leave.
Sally suspected nothing. As usual the lights were dimmed and soft exotic music flowed into the room. The only difference was the joss-sticks. They smelled different. Madame Marie lit them as ordered, then excused herself. When Rosie left, Sally sensed something was wrong.
She began to feel drowsy and the room began to swim. She got up and tried to reach the door for she desperately needed air. She never reached the door, for Mukhtar and Riad burst in, their mouths and noses covered with handkerchiefs. She clutched at Riad scratching his wrist and breaking his cuff-link as she fell unconscious to the floor. Then they dragged her into the kitchen till they checked the coast was clear.
All the while, Madame Marie and Rosie looked on wide-eyed. They were told to stay put and keep their mouths closed or they’d be shut for good. “You’ve seen nothing!” Riad snarled. “And you say nothing. Understand?” The two women nodded dumbly too terrified to speak. Blackwell was waiting with a car outside and when the coast was clear they bundled Sally into it.
After they’d gone, Rosie asked what it was all about. Bessie Lanshaw was shaking like a leaf and looked frightened to death. She’d got herself into something deeper than she thought, for they both knew Riad and Mukhtar would carry out their threat. They were as good as dead if they said a word.
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