Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) (10 page)

    While the rickshaws had led us up a steep, narrow path, Jacob’s route took us along a more gradual way. We rode in silence for some time; surrounded by orange stone, cut into a gorge by natural forces far more ancient and powerful than the kings of Egypt. 

   The sight was incredible. It seemed impossible that I was still on God’s earth. I was far, far away in a place that I had clearly imagined, yet seeing it in person, could not believe.

   Gently sauntering down the wide pathway, the canyon opened into a valley with many spider webs of patted-down walkways. At various points along the hills that climbed upward, tombs opened into the ground. Most were sealed, but one was quite busy.

   Jacob helped me off my donkey, and then Lucy. We began walking toward a flurry of activity, when a booming voice called out.

   The speaker was a thickset native, dressed in a dirty kaftan. I could not understand the man, but his voice sounded most hostile.

   Fluent enough, Jacob proceeded to converse with the man, and then quite obviously, the conversation escalated into an argument.

   Crestfallen, Jacob turned to Lucy and me and said, “I’m so sorry, but the foreman won’t let
ladies
into the tomb.”

    A familiar voice called out from the rocky hill above. Holding the top of my pith helmet as I swung my head upward, I saw our own foreman, Hat Tem, scrambling down toward us; a young Caucasian man followed on the native’s heels, although with less grace.

    Hat Tem gave Lucy and me a quick smile, and then quite obviously berated the fellow who would not let us peer inside the famous tomb.

   While these men held an exotic argument, Jacob glared at the fellow who had accompanied our foreman. Suddenly realizing his manners, Jacob gave a little jolt and said, “Mrs. Stayton, Lucy, this is Ernest Gibson.”

   The young man, with dull dark eyes and very regular features, showed little interest in us. With an English accent, he asked formally, but without care, “How do you do?”

   I merely nodded, while Lucy gave him a warm greeting that was ignored.

   Hat Tem’s voice rose to a thunderous pitch and then he spit on the ground before the other foreman.

   Jacob clapped his hands and said, “We had best push off. I think Hat Tem just cursed this gent’s bloodline for a thousand generations.”

   The fellow named Gibson gave us a nod and remained rooted in his spot. From the corner of my eye, I could see that he was watching us from the corner of his own eye as we walked on.

    Once we had gone a little distance from the argument, I asked, “What was Hat Tem doing with that fellow?”

    Jacob gave a snort. “He was trying to badger him into letting you two into the tomb.”

   “Yes, I realize that, Mr. Saunders. What I meant was, what was Hat Tem doing in the company of this Gibson fellow?”

   Jacob’s steps came to a sudden halt. “Despite the lack of any formal training, Gibson flatters himself and claims to be an Egyptologist. He worked for Alec a few years ago, but he was dismissed.” The man let out a heavy, and somewhat rehearsed, sigh, “I suppose that Hat Tem might have been asking him for work. After Kamose’s tomb is cleared and the season is over, there are no guarantees for next season. Of course, I would employ him … if I find a backer.”

   Despite being turned away from the Boy King’s tomb, Jacob led us on a marvelous trip through the East Valley. I must admit, riding on the donkey was my favorite part of the adventure. Xavier had always exhibited a childlike love of animals. How he would have adored riding a donkey into the Valley of the Kings, like a true adventurer.

   This thought caused me to reach for my snuff case from my purse as Lucy and I were escorted to a table in the hotel restaurant.

   The steward slowed his pace, as Lucy and I were both rather sore from our outing. I was robbed of any remaining strength when I saw the Smiths waving to us from the otherwise empty table that we were headed to. I forced a pleasant smile, and we sat down with the couple.

   Wilma’s beady eyes fixed on me, and she said, “You got some sun today.”

   I glanced at Lucy and envied her perfect sun-kissed skin, knowing that my face was blotched with freckles from our adventure with Jacob.

   Lucy took care of the tedious small talk, and I nodded appropriately from time to time. Jacob joined us just as drinks were being served, and an instant later the Kinkaids took their places.

   Martha, dressed in scarlet, was eyeing the extra seat at the table as her husband asked Jacob, in a tone that was a little less than friendly, “Where were you today?”

   Jacob chuckled and replied, “I took the ladies for a little tour of the East Valley.”

   Martha and Alec exchanged glances. Before anything could be said, Arthur appeared and took the last seat.

  The journalist’s appearance surprised everyone. Wilma couldn’t stop fussing with her napkin, and Dr. Smith scooted his chair an inch away from the lean fellow.

   Martha, bold as ever, commented, “Mr. Fox, so you do know where the dining room is.”

   Smiling awkwardly, Arthur replied, “Mrs. Stayton invited me.”

   After our orders were taken, Martha looked to me and asked, “So, Jacob dragged you around the tombs; did you enjoy yourselves?”

   “Oh, yes, it was all quite fascinating,” I replied.

   Lucy added, “We nearly saw inside the tomb of King Tut.”

   Jacob gave a snort and remarked, “That foreman of Howard’s wouldn’t let them in, damned fellow.” I noticed his eyes fix on Alec’s as he concluded, “I was surprised to see Hat Tem was loitering around there with Gibson.”

   Alec was about to respond, but his wife quite intentionally spoke first, “Sexists! Remember that business when the antiquities people tried to ban women from entering the tombs?”

   Wilma shook her pudgy head. “We have no business inside them anyway …”

  “Yes, I know, we are all grave robbers; pray for our souls, Mrs. Smith,” said Jacob as he lifted his glass in a mock toast.

   Martha gave a great sigh and remarked, “This country is really rather backward when it comes to how they treat women, but what can you expect? The king keeps his wife locked up at the palace, like some sort of harem woman. Imagine that, especially in this day and age, where, in America, women can now vote!”

   Lucy added, “They say Parliament is considering giving women the vote too.”

   Arthur spoke up, “Mrs. Stayton, you’re still an American citizen; have you voted?”

   I shrank a bit in my chair. “No, I have only been back to the States once since we were given the vote.”

   Arthur nodded agreeably, but there was something disapproving in his manner.

   Playing her part, Martha pulled her glass of wine from her lips and remarked, “What does one wear to vote?”

   The woman was rewarded with polite guffaws.

   While the professor brooded in silence, the others around the table shared snippets of gossip. Wilma captured Lucy’s attention and lectured her on the importance of avoiding sin. Arthur and I carried on a pleasant conversation on the topic of traveling and living away from the States. It seemed to me the writer was rather homesick.  

   After dinner was served, Jacob asked Lucy if she would enjoy a dance. To my surprise, she very politely declined. He took her hand and gave it a soft kiss, said a few words in French, and sauntered off.

   Both tired from our long day, Lucy and I retired for the evening. Once apart from the group, I remarked, “I haven’t had a moment alone with you all day. How was the rest of the evening with Jacob?”

   As we climbed the stairs with aching legs, Lucy smiled and said, “He’s quite dashing, and when he puts his mind to it, very charming.” She gave a sad little sigh. “It is a shame he is so transparent.”

   “Transparent?” I remarked, though, of course, I knew what she meant.

   “He thinks he is going to seduce me with his charm, and I will convince you to sponsor him next season on his own expedition,” responded my dear friend.

   I was very proud of Lucy’s rational intellect. She was pretty, quiet, and polite, which often left her intelligence overlooked. Still, she was not one to be underestimated.

   Lucy and I parted and went to our separate rooms. I had only just changed into my well-worn dressing gown when there was a sharp rap at my door.

   I was surprised to find Martha standing in the hall, so surprised that I stared at her blankly until she said, “May I speak to you for a moment?”

   Finding my voice, I halfheartedly welcomed her into my room. She looked about the tastefully appointed sitting room, and her eyes fell on a framed photograph of Xavier, sitting on the writing table.

   Martha gazed curiously at my husband’s image, and this, I did not care for. With a sharp tone, I said, “You wanted to speak to me?”

   Martha’s intelligent eyes fixed on mine, and her façade was missing when she said, “We must seem a rotten lot to you. Well, I guess we are. My dear Alec has become paranoid; the pressure of success, I suppose.

   “I’ll admit, he was hesitant to be financed by a woman. It made him uneasy; when your Mr. Farber sent Percy to us, and then you sent Arthur, that didn’t help matters.”

   The woman gave me an almost natural smile and shrugged before she said, “When you strolled in for tea,  decked out in that ridiculous costume, I thought Alec would realize you were just a harmless idiot. Instead, he raised his back to you, and just look at where that has gotten all of us.”

   With an icy tone, I asked, “You thought I was a harmless idiot?”

   Martha nodded her head. “I still do; that’s why I have come to set you straight. Whatever you think of us, you would be wise to fund Jacob next season—”

   My ill temper toward the woman got the better of me, and I cut her off to say, “Has Jacob taken Percy’s place as your current paramour?”

   Martha shot back, “No, the boy despises me. However, Alec says he has a bright future. I don’t want to see him outdone by Gibson.”

   I suspected this former assistant of the professor’s had also been one of Martha’s dalliances, but I made no mention of my suspicions. “Until Percy’s disappearance is explained and Kamose has been found, I am incapable of pondering a future investment.”

    Martha let out a long breath and said, “I understand” then started toward the door.

    I stopped her departure by asking, “The night of the party, when did you last see Percy?”

   The woman closed her eyes and thought about the events, slowly, she replied, “It was late, very late. He and William had some sort of spat; poor William had been drinking. I’m afraid he might have even confronted Percy about … the two of us. William is a dear thing like that.”

   “Percy left after this confrontation?”

   “I can’t say yes to that; however, I don’t recall seeing him afterward.” She started to turn back to the door.

   “Did you give Percy a note, asking him to meet you later that night?” I asked in an emotionless tone.

   Very slowly, Martha turned around and looked me in the eyes. “I was going to, but the night ran late. Alec was not himself, and Percy was … distracted. How did you know that I had written him a note?”

   I stepped over to the writing desk and took the folded sheet of stationery. Handing the note to Martha, I told her a little lie. “This was found in Percy’s room.”

   Arthur’s suggestion that Martha was in fact a chaste wife, only looking for attention, resonated as I watched her skin turn red as her eyes studied the note.

   Martha crushed the letter into a tight ball and held it to her bosom. “It couldn’t have been in his room. I never gave this to him … I threw it away.”

   In a soft tone, and free of the spite Martha so easily provoked, I suggested, “Perhaps this time you should burn the letter.”

   The woman nodded her head and slipped out of my room.

   Hazel Keeley had lied to me. Why implicate Martha as the last person to be in Percy’s company unless she had been jealous of her?

   I glanced to the two photographs of Xavier and envisioned a maid studying the images, then I imagined the same maid, Hazel’s spy, sifting through Martha’s trash basket, eager to find any little object that might interest her mistress.

   A cold chill ran down my spine. Suddenly, the hotel room seemed quite dirty, as if I had just witnessed a dark, shiny bug with many little legs run across the bedspread.    

Chapter Ten

Lucy and I ate our breakfast and watched as a group of local men, dressed in fine suits and fez caps, paid court to Hazel at her preferred table.

   I reflected on the stories of the current Egyptian queen and how her husband was said to keep her sequestered in their palace. Hazel seemed to live a similar life. Surrounded by opulence, every need met, a curiosity for the public, and bound in place.

   It seemed a sham to me, not a life at all. She existed, but she did not live. 

   Lucy was just asking me what I had in mind for the day when a pageboy appeared and told me that I was urgently requested at the front desk.

   Lucy and I tossed our linen napkins to the table, and off we went.

   We found Jacob Saunders standing at the front desk, holding a telegram. He and Lucy glanced at each other bashfully, and then he said, “Put your peepers on this, Mrs. Stayton.”

   For Lucy’s benefit, I read the message aloud,
“Saunders, stop. I thought you should know that I am in Rotterdam. Stop. Took a job here. Stop, I thought it would be easier for everyone else if I left. Stop. Share this with whom you like; it is of no matter to me. Stop.”

   Jacob smiled and said, “Mystery solved.”

   I waved the sheet of paper about and said, “Really, Mr. Saunders? I thought you of all people would know a fake when you saw it.”

   The man’s handsome smile contorted. He was having difficulty putting together a response. 

  There was quite a commotion at the nearby entrance. A voice cried my name, and I turned to look.

   “They found him; they found him!” called Martha Kinkaid.

   “Found whom?” asked Jacob.

   Martha barked at the fellow behind the front desk, “Call my husband, hurry! Tell him to get down here.”

   “
Oui, Madam
.”

    Jacob stared coldly at Martha, who yelled for the two porters at the door, “This way, come, come.” She looked to us. “Oh, do they understand a damned word I’m saying?”

    A moment later, a dull grey metal chest was lowered to the marble floor by two young Egyptians in railroad porter attire.

   Martha started to open her red leather handbag but then paused. “Jacob, tip the boys and then send them off.”

   Jacob gave a grunt, but followed the orders.

   Dr. Smith and his wife appeared from the hallway and quickened their pace when they saw us.

   Despite the long metal box on the floor, Dr. Smith pointed at the telegram in my hand and asked, “What is that?”

   Jacob replied, “The old cad bolted after all.”

   Handing the telegram to Dr. Smith, I asked Jacob, “Why would he send the message to you?”

   “Who else would he? Maybe Arthur? Certainly not Alec, and he wasn’t too fond of … the Smiths.”

   Both of the Smiths shot me a nervous smile. William read the message rather quickly and said, “Why, Wilma, you are right; he’s off to the Netherlands.”

   Breathless, Kinkaid flew down the grand staircase and joined us. He looked at the metal box with strange suspicion. “What is this about?”

   Martha beamed with delight. I noticed that her thick makeup had been put on in a rush. There was an uneven line of cosmetics along her chin, her drawn-on eyebrows were mismatched, and her eyeliner globed a bit beneath her left eye.

   “You were in the bath, and a message came from the railway.” Martha could hardly contain her excitement. “They found Kamose.”

   Jacob and Kinkaid nearly knocked their heads into each other as they dove for the metal box. The hinged lid was swung open, and we all looked inside.

   As anticipated, a mummy lay within the grey case. Wrapped from head to toe in dark linen, completely unadorned, the sight of the macabre object sent a chill down my spine.

   Everyone was silent, even those attempting to check in or out of the grand hotel were transfixed, witnessing our strange little group in the middle of the lobby gazing into the metal box.

   The hush was broken when Wilma clapped her pudgy hands together and said, “King Kamose, what a miracle that he has been found. You know, I have been praying for this.”

   I looked to Martha and noticed there was a nervous frown on her face, and she did not dare to look away from the mummy. Her husband stroked his beard, and kept his eyes averted from mine as well.

   It was Jacob who glanced at me, the only one brave enough to read the expression on my face. Finding his voice, he said rather sarcastically, “Keep praying, Mrs. Smith. This is not Kamose.”

   Kinkaid was slow to stand; he grimaced and rubbed his knees. “What a damned odd thing to happen …”

   Martha stood akimbo and flung her head back. “I don’t understand.”

   Lucy asked, “Who else lost a mummy on the railway?”

   “No one, my dear Lucy; do you remember Mother Stayton’s story about the fake mummy?”

   “It’s a forgery?” she responded in shock.

  “And not a very good one,” retorted Jacob. He kicked the metal case and added, “A damn shame whoever sent this didn’t forget to leave the price tag on it, so we could track ’em down and see who set this charade up.”

   Kinkaid shot Jacob an odd glance, and then he cleared his throat. “Martha, who did you speak to at the station?”

   Martha gave an angry shrug. “Oh,
love,
you know all of these people’s names sound alike to me, Akbar, Abdulla, just a bunch of names that start with an
a
followed by disjointed consonants …”

   Kinkaid snapped, “Martha!”

   “I don’t remember. I was too excited. The man said that a woman waiting for her train pointed out the case as abandoned in the middle of the night; they opened it up, and there was a mummy—he just assumed it was our mummy.” She waved her hands dramatically and shrugged. “Who could blame him?”

   Wilma stepped forward and took a look inside the case, and, obviously puzzled, she asked, “But how do you all know it isn’t Kamose?”

   Jacob pointed at the arms, crossed over the mummy’s chest. “Kamose’s arms were individually swaddled in linen and then positioned over his chest. This
creation
is just one lump of wrapping. Probably some dead vagabond, covered up in scraps of linen smeared with a bit of pitch and buried for a year or two in the desert. I’ve seen them for sale down in the bazars—what a sham.”

   Martha played with the cuticle of her ring finger and attempted to sound nonchalant as she said, “I shouldn’t have been so hasty in giving those railway boys the bum’s rush. Someone has lost their trinket and will be hounding the station manager.”

   I nodded my chin and said, “Yes, perhaps.”

   Dr. Smith made a quick change of the subject. “Alec, look here, a telegram from Huston.”

   Kinkaid took the message, and as he read it, I remarked, “I think that it is as genuine as the mummy.”

   With just a tinge of hostility, Jacob asked, “Really, Mrs. Stayton, why?”

   “When I found out from Mr. Farber that Percy went missing, I had my business manager suspend his salary. In this message, he gives no address for his final check to be sent, no mention at all about money. This seems odd to me, as many of you have told me that he was a spendthrift.”

   Almost defensively, Dr. Smith replied, “Percy doesn’t know you are here. Maybe he’s contacted your business manager in London?”

   “Mr. Jack has instructions to wire me, in the event that he hears from Percy,” I responded. “As yet, he hasn’t.”

   Jacob changed his tune and remarked, “It does seem a bit fishy. There’s nothing really personal about the message …”

    Nervously, the hotel manager appeared and asked, in a very pleasant manner, “May I be of service?”

   We were creating quite the odd spectacle at such an early hour of the morning.

   Martha, completely recovered, tapped the metal case with her red leather high-heeled shoe, causing the lid to fall down with a loud clang, and said, “Could you arrange to have that sent back to the railway stations? There has been a slight mix-up; it isn’t our mummy at all.”

   Dr. Smith snatched the telegram from Jacob’s hand, and I saw his eyes race over the words, then he frowned. At the same time, Wilma stifled a yawn as her beady dark eyes lingered on the metal case.

   Sandy met us in the hotel lobby as our little group dispersed. I noticed that both Jacob and the professor lingered, eager to hear what I was about to say to our
dragoman
. I called to them, “We will see you later in the day, at the tomb.”

   Both men gave me the same forced smile, but Jacob’s was different from Kinkaid’s, and then I noticed that his eyes were turned on Lucy. How right she had been about the man’s intentions.

   Stepping outside of the hotel, Sandy asked, “Righto; what was that all about?”

   “A bad bit of drama, nearly a comedy, in fact,” I retorted.

   The happy fellow gave a little shrug and then handed me an envelope. I quickly looked at the notes inside and then called for a young bellman coming up the steps. 

   “Could you put this in my room?” I asked, and the lad quickly complied.

   “You were right. I asked all your questions, and they stirred up some memories,” said our chipper
dragoman
.

   “Indeed,” I replied, nodding my chin.

    Sandy could see that I had set the subject aside, and he asked, “Where are we headed today, ladies?”

   “Where does one buy a fake mummy?” I replied.

  Before Sandy could respond, a swarm of ragamuffins flew up the arched staircase, sending many in their path running for cover, as the needy youths cried out, “Baksheesh, Lady!”

   One cannot always prepare herself for something so different, something so overwhelming as the bazaar that Sandy took us to. My mind attempted to equate the enormous open-air market to something familiar, some place that I understood the workings of. I thought of the farmer’s market back home, yet this bazaar and that orderly arcade were truly nothing alike.

   Back in Saint Louis, not far from the river, and very near my parents’ home, there is a large farmer’s market, with all types of food, small livestock, and all manner of wares to be had. Sometimes, as a young girl, I would venture off with our maid or cook and wander about the lively market. On one memorable occasion, I felt rather sorry for a beautiful, fancy chicken that I saw in a small cage. I sneaked back, all by myself, and bought the creature with money saved from my birthday.

  I set the bird free in the park across from our home; a naïve child, I thought this was for the best. Looking back, I doubt the poor animal’s prospects were much better in Lafayette Park than at the market.

   Arriving at the Egyptian bazaar, I was thrilled and repulsed in equal measure as we left the safety of the sedan and walked along the crowed, dusty way. Noise, deafening noise, surrounded us. Voices yelled, cried, and sang. The occasional motorcycle pushed through the throng, the sound ever so terrible. I thought perhaps one might grow accustomed to it, like the snoring of one’s husband, or the merciless waves crashing against an ocean liner. But no, this was a harsh sound, like three airplane engines, fierce and relentless.

   I held Lucy’s hand as we walked past a barber, shaving a man’s neck as they both yelled at each other.

   A snake charmer called to us,
“Sayyida, Baksheesh!”

   Sandy gave me a rather stern look, and we kept going. The dancing cobra’s beady eyes followed us, as if it knew my purse was full of coins.

   Under what had once been gaily striped awnings, ragged merchants held out various fruits; these strange shapes and colors puzzled me. Many items were thrust toward us, and Sandy politely said,
“la,”
which I took to mean
no
, and pushed us onward.

   Live goats were tethered together beside an angry man, who was fighting with another local. I suspected I had more than enough currency to buy these poor creatures up, but alas, I knew of no local park to take them and set them free.

   Beggars sat on the dirty walkway, ignored by their fellow man as they mumbled unheard pleas for alms. They seemed even more helpless than the goats.

   A large native grabbed Sandy by the elbow; he shouted something, and Sandy replied once more,
“La!”

  
The menacing fellow stared at Lucy and me as we hurried past him. “What did he want?” asked my friend.

   Sandy gave us his standard chuckle and said, “I think you ladies would rather not know.”

   The pungent smell of livestock, strange spices, cooking meat, and neglected flesh was having an effect on me. I pictured Mother Stayton with us, swooning, but this image was a fiction; she never would have left the safety of the sedan.