Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) (9 page)

   A startled voice called out, “Yes, yes, what is it?”

  “Mr. Fox, it is Mrs. Stayton; might I have a word with you?”

  “Can you wait, just a moment,” called back the nasal, New Englander’s voice.

   “Yes, of course.”

   A minute passed before the door opened, and the man ushered me in. “Do give me a second longer.”

   He pointed to the blotches of shaving cream on his face. “I couldn’t find a dry towel.”

   He slipped back to the bathroom, and then, a moment later, he reappeared, his little gaunt oval face all clean, and his wet hair parted down the middle of his scalp.

   “So sorry about that.” Arthur tugged at the sash of his brown bathrobe. “I feel a little underdressed,” he said with a nervous laugh as he looked me up and down in my velvet gown.

  “I apologize for intruding at this hour. I had hoped to see you at dinner,” I replied.

  “Think nothing of it, I apologize for my absence. On this side of the Nile, I try to avoid the scorpions.” He ended his comment with a forced chuckle, in an attempt to lessen the sting.  

   “The Smiths are pleasant. I’m not sure what to make of Mr. Saunders.”

   “Yes, he runs hot and cold. Can’t say that I blame him; the Kinkaids are the problem. They stir up everyone in turn.”

   I nodded my chin. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

   “About Percy, and about what happened to him? I’ll tell you this, he didn’t go off to Netherlands.” He pointed to the door of the adjoining room. “The day he went missing, all of his things were still in there. It wasn’t until after dinner that the place was emptied out.”

   The journalist had assumed the wrong question, but all the same, I followed up, “What do you believe happened to Percy?”

   Arthur smiled as he said, “I don’t write fiction, Mrs. Stayton. I keep to the facts.”

   “Yes, but you also assemble the facts to create rational conjecture. The piece you wrote two years ago on Queen Hatshepsut, you very nearly told the story of her life, all from just carvings left in stone, and yet I feel as if I know her.”

   Arthur dropped to a chair, as if his soul had floated out of his body. “I went a little wild with that article. It was polarizing; some loved it, others thought it was tripe.”

   Without being offered, I sat down in the plush chair beside Arthur. “I am among those who loved it, Mr. Fox.”

  “Please, call me Arthur.”

   I asked him to call me by my Christian name, but he snorted out an odd laugh and said, “Oh no, to me, you are
Mrs. X.
I’ve kept up with your exploits in the papers. I must say, you are quite the character.”

   I nodded my chin. “Well, not all journalists keep to the facts.”

   He didn’t seem to hear my retort; instead, his magnified eyes grew wide, and he said, “I suppose when you get to the business of what happened to Percy and the mummy, I might very well write an article on you, off of your clock that is.”

   As I had been drawn to Arthur’s style of writing, the thought of his suggestion did appeal to me. “Well, any speculation would be of service.”

   “I’ll tell you what happened to the mummy; just like everything else they found in that tomb, it was second-rate. Not much to look at back in that London museum of yours, but missing, now there is a story for you. Tutankhamun, well, that lad has his curse, and how do you one up that? I’ll tell you how, you go missing. Kamose, lost—or lurking around the corner—now that’s a story.”

   I wasn’t sure if I should take him seriously. “You believe that Professor Kinkaid arranged the disappearance?”

   “No, I think Saunders did, to make a name for himself. Kinkaid is done; he’s washed up. I heard about his outburst with you—well, it isn’t just you. He put up a big stink with inspectors from the government, always challenging them. I rather think he’s cracked in the head.

   “Jacob, on the other hand, has his entire career ahead of him; notoriety will serve him better than some moldy old king who had little better than a pair of beaded sandals and some broken pottery to his name.”

   “And what part did Percy play?” I inquired.

   “Percy, oh, he wasn’t mixed up in that, no. One of the Kinkaids killed him. Forgive me for being so bold, but he
was
dallying with Martha. Either Alec finally went off his rocker and did him in, or Martha knocked him off in one of her fits of rage.”

   “Their affair seems rather public,” I said.

   “I liked Percy, I’ll admit it. I admired him in a way; he did what he damn well pleased. It was Martha who flaunted her lovers. Percy wasn’t the first; there was another chap, a member of a dig down the valley. And there are stories about a well-placed guest or two of the hotel … ah, but this is what you must understand, these were striking fancies of hers. She never … did
anything
with them, if you take my meaning. She talks bold, but it’s all a blusterous act. Percy confided in me that she allowed him to hold her hand, take a sniff of the perfume on her neck, but it was all just talk of romance and love, nothing … indecent. Well, it was all
indecent
for a married lady, but you take my meaning.”

   “Indeed,” I responded, quite surprised by this information.

   “She is a lonely woman. Her husband keeps his head stuck in the ground; he only pays attention when she is causing a ruckus,” he gave a little snort and concluded, “so she causes them.”

   “You dislike her, but feel sorry for her?” I asked.

   “Yes, a little conflicted, ah?”

   Hesitantly, I asked, “Did she ever offer you a sniff of her perfume?”

   Arthur blushed, then he pushed his round glasses to the top of his nose and replied, “Oh no, when we met, Martha gave me a single disappointed glance and knew I wasn’t her type. She prefers the rugged, handsome sort. She would not agree that the pen is mightier than the sword.” He paused for a moment and continued, “I’ll spare you from asking the question. I wasn’t jealous. She isn’t the type of lady to strike my fancy. She’s all makeup and dye jobs, bright clothing and cheap jewelry. Vain women are just that, vain; there’s little more to them.”

   I nodded my chin and waited just a moment before putting to him the question I had first wanted to ask. “This is rather off topic, but do you have any advice for an aspiring author?”

   Arthur gave me a great grin and said, “Well, yes. Stay on topic; don’t wander around the point of your story. Everything you write should move your reader to the conclusion.”

  “Yes, for nonfiction, I suppose that is correct; however, I write mysteries. I think it is my duty to confuse the readers, even misdirect them a little. For instance, on page ninety-nine, I can’t have them know that Martha Kinkaid killed her lover. In fact, they need to think quite the opposite of that.”

   Arthur started to bite one of his fingernails, and noticing that it was already chewed to the quick, he pulled his hand away from his small mouth. “How right you are. Well, scratch what I’ve told you; heck, you need to invent a lot of characters, don’t you, just to throw your reader off the scent?”

   “Well, yes. For instance, if I turned this puzzle into a book, I have a
dragoman
, the hotel celebrity here on a bet, even the curator of the museum in London, to create distraction, and it may be that they have very little to do with Percy’s disappearance,” I explained.

   “Yes, yes, well, play them up. Also, give vivid descriptions that people will relate to. For instance, describe the brilliant sun, the endless desert, the murky Nile, all the bits people expect to hear about Egypt.”

   He was quite right. “Yes, thank you, Arthur.”

   The journalist shrank a little, and he asked, almost timidly, “You aren’t the sort of writer who tacks on a love story to your mystery, are you?”

   “Oh no, romance and I have had our time together, and parted ways. Without my dear Xavier, it is suspects and culprits who occupy my mind now.”

   Arthur’s cheeks flushed, and he stuffed a finger into his mouth. This nail too, was already bitten to the quick.

   I reached into my purse and pulled out the little silver snuff box. I plucked out a clove and said, “You can break that habit by chewing these.”

   As Arthur took the clove from me, he inspected my manicured fingernails. “Chewing these? Is that how you stopped biting your nails?”

   I shook my head. “Oh no, when you pay a woman five shillings a week to paint your nails, at your mother-in-law’s insistence, you learn to appreciate the hard work.” I paused, and reluctantly said, “My husband’s governess broke him of biting his nails this way. His breath always had the scent of clove …”

   I stood from the chair, feeling as if I had shared too much information with this person who I really only knew from the tone and content of well-written articles.

   Arthur stood as well. With a gentle tone he told me, “Mrs. Stayton, I think you are wrong about romance. I believe that, with you, it isn’t something you have parted from, but carry with you for eternity.”  

Chapter Nine

Lucy tapped at my door just as I was positioning Xavier’s pith helmet atop my combed-back amber hair. I was curious about what mood she would be in. The night before, I had eavesdropped on her and Jacob as they stood outside her door. As our rooms were adjoining, I had left the door open so that I would know when she safely returned. My intentions were only honorable, of course.

   At the sound of the hallway door opening, I leapt from my bed to greet my dear friend, but hearing the sound of Jacob’s voice, I froze in my tracks.

   He was parlaying for an invitation inside Lucy’s room. I knew my modest friend would not allow this, but I was curious how she would handle the attempt.

   Politely, she thanked him for the moonlit garden stroll. He then made witty banter. She indicated the lateness of the hour, and he played mock surprise by saying how quickly the evening had gone by. She spoke of an early morning, and he suggested that he help plan out an adventurous day.

   It seemed to me she had little left to do but become forceful or indignant, which sadly, would have ruined what I believed had been a pleasant evening. Instead, Lucy surprised me.

   With studied tact, my friend said, “Jacob, this is when you take my hand in yours, tell me that you’ve had a smashing good time with me, gently kiss my hand, and depart, the perfect gentleman.” As I tip-toed my way through the adjoining door, the young Egyptologist  did just that.

   Greeting Lucy, she gave me her typical morning smile. Some people are morning people, others come into their own after luncheon, and a great many people blossom after the sun has set and the orchestra plays on. Lucy flourished at all times of day.

   “I slept so well last night, did you?” I asked as we started toward the grand staircase.

   “I don’t remember my head hitting the pillow,” she admitted. “I walked the terrace gardens with Jacob, and then a quartet started up in the lobby, and we danced again. What a hoot we had. He didn’t walk me up until nearly eleven o’clock.”

   Well, I knew that, but made no comment. “Was he well-mannered? I don’t mean—well, you know what I mean.”

   “His little outbursts, no, he did not have any. He was quite charming, but you know why, of course …”

   Sandy called out to us from the lobby as we rounded the last flight of the staircase.

   “Mrs. Stayton, Ms. Wallace, good morning.”

   We returned the greeting, and our
dragoman
said, “Righto. My housekeeper took ill, and I thought I might join you for breakfast, if you don’t mind?”

   “Not at all,” I told him, secretly disappointed that Lucy’s comments on Jacob Saunders would be stifled.

   Once through the wide open threshold of the cheery restaurant, a French-speaking waiter ushered us to a table.

   I glanced over to Hazel Keeley’s preferred table and saw that it sat empty, waiting for its occupant. The waiter was speaking, and I ignored him, unsure of his words until he said
café,
and I murmured something that was agreeable in any
langue
.

   Once settled, Jacob asked, “Did you have a pleasant evening? Sunday nights can be quiet. The locals don’t much care what day it is, but the European and American guests often try to restrain themselves.”

   Lucy gave a giggle and said, “We came down for supper, asked for a table just for two, and what would you know, practically the entire expedition joined us.”

   Sandy chuckled. “That had to have been one cramped table for two!”

   Lucy laughed, and I nodded my chin. “It was a queer sort of evening altogether. They seem an unhappy lot,” I said, baiting our
dragoman
.

   “Percy told me something that didn’t come to mind until last night. He said he felt like a secret was being kept. He and the journalist, Fox, spoke of it one day. They brushed it off; after all, they joined the team later.” Sandy took a sip from his glass of juice and then scrunched up his face. “Percy did mention that the doctor had some sort of skeleton in his closet, but he wasn’t forthright with the interesting bits. He also had a change of heart on Fox, but refused to elaborate.”

   “Oh?” the word flew from my mouth without thought.

   “Yes, but he made a joke of it when I asked—how did he put it? ‘A
gentleman doesn’t ask, and a lady doesn’t tell.’”

   I knew that there was significance to Sandy’s statement, only Sandy did not realize it. Lucy caught my eye, and I’m sure we shared the same thought: it seemed that Sandy and Percy must have spoken rather more frequently with each other than our
dragoman
had led on.

   After a brief pause, Lucy chimed in, “Jacob is eager to start his own work. Once this season is over, his commitment to Professor Kinkaid will be concluded.”

  Lucy turned to me as if to say more and thought better of it. Sandy watched this moment of hesitation and then looked down to his glass as if something was floating in it.

   Changing the subject, I said, “Mr. Fox has suggested that once we have solved our puzzle, he might write an article on the adventure.”

   Sandy smiled his pleasant smile, but made no comment.

   Lucy’s brow rose, and she asked, “When did he say that?”

  I felt my cheeks turn pink, and I replied, “I stopped in on him last night, before retiring.”

   Lucy looked to her glass as if something were now floating on top of
her
juice before she mumbled, “Oh, how nice.”

   Sandy’s smile turned into a grin, the type of grin that only men can manage to produce.

   “He is a pleasant enough fellow, but a little … skittish,” I said. Having done nothing unsuitable, I was not going to behave as if I had.

   Lucy lowered her tone to that of a conspirator’s and remarked, “Jacob pointed out that Mr. Fox’s room has an adjoining door to Percy’s. While Mrs. Smith keeps claiming that Percy was headed off to the Netherlands, she and her husband were quick to point out that Fox might have traipsed in and out of Percy’s room as much as he pleased.”

    The adjoining door had crossed my mind as well; however, I had no statement to make on the fact. Before my silence was questioned, the ambient noise of the breakfast goers quieted just a bit. I noticed several heads turn and caught sight of Hazel Keeley being escorted to her table.

   The seat nearest the window, looking onto the room, was pulled back, and the elegant creature sat down. With practiced grace she looked about the crowd, seeing us all as one flash of shapes and colors, and then, as the menu was handed to her, we all disappeared.

   I noticed Sandy steal a glance at her and rather nervously bite his lip. For no reason, he gave an almost startled laugh and then looked to Lucy and me as if we were in the middle of a conversation he had lost track of.

   After an awkward moment of silence, Sandy said, “Well now, what sights do you want to see today?”

   “I want to go to the library—”

   Sandy interrupted me. “The library?”

   The waiter returned with a perfect English breakfast, which seemed so natural within the walls of Winter Castle, but odd in the foreign land.

   I went on telling Sandy just what I had in mind for the day, in which the library was but one stop. As he listened, his natural smile faded away.

   Finished with breakfast, we were crossing the lobby when Jacob dashed before us. “Ladies, Sandy, I had hoped I hadn’t missed you.”

   “Good morning, Mr. Saunders,” I greeted him, as he and Lucy exchanged bashful salutations.

   “I found out that old Carter is in Cairo; there’s no better time to see the famous tomb. What do you say? Give Sandy the day off, and I’ll take you to the real sights. I hear he hasn’t even taken you to the Colossi of Memnon,” said Jacob, with startling zeal.

   Sandy chuckled. “Are you after my commission?”

   Jacob’s face darkened for an instant, as Sandy’s words came too close to the mark.

   One of the most pleasant afternoons I had in London was spent with a dressmaker desperate to be introduced to my mother-in-law; she had taken me to lunch and then to her favorite garden. I was not fooled for a second at her intentions, but I did still enjoy the quaint café she took me to all the same.

   “Yes, that does sound like a morning well spent.” I reached out for Sandy’s sleeve. “Perhaps you might head on to the places I mentioned over breakfast, without us. Let me make a little list for you.”

   Less than pleased, Sandy followed me to the front desk, where I was given paper and pen. He scoffed at my instruction, but by the time he thought it over, he became far more agreeable.

   “Detailed notes, if you please,” I concluded.

   “Righto, off to sleuthing, then, although I don’t know that I have the knack for it,” Sandy replied and gave me a devilish wink.

   I joined Lucy and Jacob, and at once, we were on our way to The Valley of the Kings.

   After giving out a great many handfuls of coins to the children who had swarmed the hotel entrance, like starlings descending onto budding trees, we sauntered past the black sedan that our
dragoman
had arranged and walked toward the glittering Nile.

   Jacob, speaking in the native tongue, bartered for our passage at the first skiff we came to. The young man was very animated; he enjoyed being the center of attention.

   With little effort, we glided over the gleaming river. Once landed along the green fields of budding life, Jacob began telling us the history of the Nile and its people. He relayed fanciful tales of how the ancients had sacrificed to the Nile gods when the waters were low. Their most cherished possessions were tossed into the river; of course, the effect was that the water rose as the chairs, tables, and pottery clogged the artery. This reminded me of the truth in the words,
The good Lord helps those who help themselves
.

   Walking along the riverbank and the farmland, we passed onto dry sand, and before us were the battered remains of two massive statues. Referred to as The Colossi of Memnon, they had once been seated figures, but it took some imagination to see this now.

   In ancient times, a mysterious sound had emanated from the statue to the right. Repairs had been made to the crumbling monument and the haunting noises stopped.   

   Jacob explained that they were part of a mortuary temple built to honor a long-dead king. He pointed along the bleak land stretching toward the Theban Hills and told us that a number of such temples had been built up and down the West Bank. There was very little left to see, just rocky foundations, barely emerging from the sands.

   “What happened to them?” asked Lucy.

  “Ramses the Great!” said Jacob with a scornful laugh.  “He moved the capital of his kingdom up the Nile to the delta, and built his own grand city. In time, Thebes became impoverished, neglected. The temples were scavenged for their valuables; the priests abandoned the temples, as there were no longer alms to support them.” Jacob took a deep breath and sighed. “Time marched on, and the sands took back the land.”

   “That’s what happens, isn’t it? Even etched in stone, nothing lasts as intended,” I remarked, almost absentmindedly, as I thought of the empty little room in the museum and the plaque with my dear husband’s name engraved upon it.     

  Jacob gave me an odd, uncomfortable glance.

  Lost in a strange melancholy, I vaguely listened as Lucy asked Jacob about the various temples that had once stood before us. Before I knew it, we were moving on.

  Jacob led us along a wide, well-traveled pathway. After what felt like a long stretch of time, I realized this was the dirt road Sandy had taken us. I hated to admit that my feet were getting sore, and I secretly began to miss the shiny black sedan.

   At last, with all the luscious green growth well out of view, we came to the plateau where the rickshaws had been waiting for Lucy and me. Much to my delight, the young Egyptologist had procured the use of three donkeys for us, instead of the Oriental contraptions. 

   Lucy laughed and laughed as I struggled to climb atop the feisty creature selected for me. I thought I would have the last laugh once she was helped onto her animal, but this donkey was the vapid, docile type and turned out to be most agreeable.

   With the grace of a man well-traveled, Jacob eased onto his animal, and with one whistle, brought ours into line. We set off up the long path toward the Theban Hills.

   Lucy pointed toward the left of the direction we were headed and said, “Sandy took us that way. How far is King Tut’s tomb from Kamose’s?”

   Jacob made a scoffing sound and replied, “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck on those steps carved from the stone; it’s the quickest shortcut, but it’s awfully dangerous that way.” He paused for a moment and then answered the rest of Lucy’s query: “Both Tutankhamen’s and Kamose’s tombs are in the East Valley, I’d say no more than seven hundred feet from each other. Kamose’s is located at the very end of the valley, as it curves to the southeast.”