1 The Museum Mystery Read online

  The curator passed it over. It went back years, and as the inspector flipped through it, he noticed the names of researchers from the Institute of Middle Eastern Studies - including the name of Dr Manasas. They’d come to study the unique Egyptian collection which included the mummy. He was surprised to see the names of local people, who’d recently been looking over the Egyptian collection. One of those was the great-grandson of Sir Joshua Whitcliff, the donor of the collection.

  The old man had been an eccentric; not unusual in Keighworth. Donaldson kept saying you had to be crazy to live there, and that cut deep with Hartley, who’d been born and bred in the town. They didn’t come more Keighworthian than him. He’d been tempted to ask his superintendent what strain of madness had brought him to the town, for Donaldson was a southerner, a Home Counties man, and very much out of kilter in Keighworth.

  Old Sir Joshua Whitcliff had been obsessed with the ancient religions of Egypt. He’d spent years excavating there and had married an Egyptian wife, as had his sons and grandsons. That fascination for the ancient civilisation had continued through succeeding generations down to his great-grandson, Jason Whitcliff, who lived in the family home at Ingerworth. He was unmarried.

  Like the rest of the family, the present Whitcliff lived much of the time in Egypt and had presented a library of books to the museum. From the register, these had been well used by the researchers. A bookman himself and his curiosity roused, the inspector wandered over to the annexe where the library was kept. His eye ran along their titles. He pulled a leather-backed volume from a shelf. It was about the mummy and the site it had come from. More than that, it contained a section on the occult. Blake signed it out, and took it home to browse through. It would go well with a dram of malt whisky that night.

  When he returned downstairs, Superintendent Donaldson collared him. Said he was handing the case over to him. He wanted to attend a conference in London on criminal psychology. “So I’m handing over to you, Hartley,” said the Super, “now you’ve carried out the initial locationary analysis. Should be just up your street, eh? A museum and all that. Sgt Khan will keep things ticking over till you’re one hundred per cent fit Another day or so and you’ll be as right as rain. It’s rather essential I attend this conference, you understand.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Hartley, and gave a huge sneeze.

  The superintendent said a good night’s sleep and a stiff whisky before he turned in would soon put the inspector right. Hartley thought Donaldson seemed unduly affable, as he chatted away pleasantly. As they made their way to the door it became clear why.

  He remarked that the trip to London might bear fruit. Might gain him promotion. He’d waited long enough for it.

  “Too long, sir,” observed Hartley. “You should have left Keighworth years ago.”

  Donaldson glanced up, but was met deadpan. As they passed by the cockatoo, it raised its crest and screeched at him. “Somebody ought to wring that bloody bird’s neck!” he growled. The bird screeched again and Hartley smiled, mentally noting to buy it a bag of peanuts next time he came to the museum.

  Donaldson noticed the book Hartley carried and enquired about it Hartley told him it was about the occult, the worship of gods and goddesses. All about the dead and the after-life, which the Ancient Egyptians were obsessed with.

  “A bit out of your depth, aren’t you, Hartley? You a Christian priest and all that. I thought the occult was forbidden.”

  “Only its practice, sir. As Saul found to his cost.”

  “Saul? What’s he got to do with it?”

  “First Book of Samuel, sir,” said Hartley, marvelling at his boss’s ignorance Donaldson was a churchwarden and training to be a Reader in the Church of England - and a bishop’s son, to boot! “You know, sir. In the Old Testament. You learn a lot about human nature from it, sir,” he added. Donaldson tried to think of an answer, but before he could reply, his inspector got into his car and drove off.

  That night, sitting in his favourite chair next the fire, clad in his pyjamas and dressing-gown, Blake Hartley began reading the book he’d borrowed from the museum. It made fascinating reading.

  The remains embalmed in the coffin were those of a young princess, one of many daughters of a royal Pharaoh. The hooded cobra on her head-dress signified that. But not only was she a woman of royal birth, she also held divine status on account of her powers of necromancy and had offered herself as sacrifice to the goddess Hathor. She’d become a cult figure in her own lifetime and had been worshipped after death. Her followers believed she would claim them as her own to share her immortal kingdom when they in turn died.

  Sir Joshua had spared no expense producing the book. It was finely bound and everything from the excavation was in it: the grave utensils, furniture, everything - including a list of the human sacrifices made at the princess’s entombment and her companions in the after-life.

  After the princess’s burial, young women were selected at intervals as incarnations of the princess during their lifetimes. And when they reached the age the princess had died, they were ritually sacrificed to join her retinue. Like her, they were given the name Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of love and dance, the mistress of the stars. That was name on the mummy in Keighworth Museum. What surprised the inspector as he read was that the cult still had its followers!

  He’d got well into the book when the doorbell rang. He could tell by the look on Mary’s face they had no ordinary visitor. He put the book by his chair and stood up to flick crumbs off his dressing gown.

  “It’s Mr Whitcliff from High Royd House,” she whispered. “Says he wants to speak to you urgently. About the man found dead in the museum.”

  Blake asked her to show him in then hid his book under the evening paper.

  Jason Whitcliff was about Inspector Hartley’s age. He was on the short side, heavy-jowled and dark. The sort who needed to shave twice a day. He badly needed his second shave then. He had limpid dark eyes, that would have charmed women, had they not been masked with heavy lids. He sported a thick moustache and looked every inch an Egyptian. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather had all married Egyptian upper-crustian families, which claimed descent from the Pharaohs.

  Jason Whitcliff was last in the line. He’d never married, but like the rest of them he spent much of his time in Egypt. He’d more contacts there than in Britain, and he’d inherited a vast fortune. He’d also inherited his forebears’ passion for Ancient Egypt.

  Yet, though something of a recluse, he visited Keighworth regularly. He remained shut up in High Royd much of his time, or at the other mansion on the moors near which his grandfather had built the family mausoleum. Four generations of Whitcliffs were buried up there.

  He’d a slight stoop and inclined his head to one side as he spoke. He smiled easily and gesticulated freely. He was softly spoken, but his voice had a guttural edge to it for Arabic was his first language. Blake was surprised to see him. He’d never met the man though he lived not far away on the other side of the valley.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, inspector,” he began, “calling on you so late.” He paused and bit his lip, before continuing, “But I’ve only just heard about the dreadful business in the museum. Read it in the evening paper. I felt I had to see you at once, when I saw your name. But I do apologise for disturbing you…”

  His voice trailed away. Inspector Hartley tried to put him at ease. “Mary, will you take Mr Whitcliff’s coat?”

  Whitcliff was impeccably dressed. Mary took his camel-hair coat and expensive trilby. He handed her a silver-headed walking stick, too, flashing her a smile and inclining his head.

  He waited till she’d gone, declining the tea she offered, then took the chair opposite Hartley.

  “I really don’t know how to begin,” he said, “but I felt you ought to know that Dr Manasas came to see me recently. I’m closely connected with the Institute he worked at, y’know.” Whitcliff paused again and again bit his lip. “The fact is, the man m
ade me an offer for some Egyptian artefacts I’d been after. I wanted them badly for my collection. Been after them for years. They came from the same grave as the mummy in the museum.”

  Blake Hartley listened in silence. Only nodding at times to encourage him to speak on. From what he’d just read, he knew Whitcliff was a keen collector like the rest of his family. What they had stashed away was nobody’s business. He acted dumb, though he’d already learned a lot from what he’d read - about the Whitcliffs as well as Ancient Egypt.

  After speaking a while about his collection (and Hartley had the distinct impression that Whitcliff was quizzing him about the case) Whitcliff said, “I’ll come straight to the point, Inspector Hartley. What Dr Manasas was offering me had been stolen from a Cairo museum five years ago. I pretended I didn’t know and made him an offer, asked if he could obtain other collectibles I was after - so that you would have names in any subsequent investigation. Alas, he was murdered before he could tell me his dealers. But he did admit he had colleagues…how do you say?…in cahoots with him.”

  “Oh?”

  “He offered me a great sum of money for the mummy in the museum. It’s only there on loan, y’know. He had a buyer.”

  “And what did you tell him?” asked the inspector.

  “I said it was out of the question. The mummy had been loaned permanently to the museum by my great-grandfather and I had to honour his wishes.”

  “As his heir, you could have claimed it back any time,” said Hartley. “There’s a lot of brass wrapped up in it.”

  The other looked puzzled a moment, then smiled. He spoke patronisingly.

  “Brass? Ah, I see. The dialect word for money. Inspector, you must realise that my family is as much part of Keighworth’s history as…as the mummy in the museum is part of Egypt’s. She’s a royal princess, y’know. A divine being.”

  Hartley opened his eyes wide. “Fancy that!” he exclaimed. “Keighworth having royalty on its doorstep all these years!”

  The other chuckled softly. “In her lifetime she was considered the incarnation of the goddess Hathor. She was also a daughter of Rameses II - one of more than fifty.”

  Hartley’s eyes opened wider still. Then he laughed out loud. “Wonder he’d any time for owt else with a family that size!” he said

  Whitcliff gave his patronising smile again. “So, she’s very special,” he said softly. “Sought-after even in death.”

  The way he made the remark took the grin off the inspector’s face. Whitcliff was not joking. He spoke about the dead woman in awe, with veneration.

  Hartley asked how Dr Manasas fitted into the picture, why he’d approached Whitcliff.

  “He was treading on very thin ice trying to make a deal. After what’s happened, perhaps his contacts will take heed.” Whitcliff looked sharply at the inspector. “The goddess Hathor still has many devoted followers,” he said, almost in a whisper. “What Manasas was doing was sacrilege - worthy of death! To them the mummy is the earthly relic of a goddess. More holy than any of your saints.”

  All humour had left Hartley’s face. He looked astounded. “I don’t understand,” he replied. “Are you telling me the princess still has worshippers, a following? That Dr Manasas was trying to flog her back to them?”

  “That appears to be the case,” said the other. “He and his fellow academics have many contacts in the Middle East. It would be a relatively simple thing for people like him to steal the princess from Albert Park Museum and get it back to Egypt. After all, there’s virtually no security there. Not like the museums in Egypt.” He gave his patronising smile. “Provincial town museums are easy pickings for international criminals. But you will be well aware of that, inspector, I daresay.”

  “I daresay,” Hartley echoed.

  For a moment those hooded eyes closed a little, sizing up the inspector more closely. But as he left, he shook the inspector’s hand affably enough and Hartley thanked him for his call. Mary insisted her husband keep warm so she showed their visitor out, bringing him his coat and hat. He thanked her effusively, bowed, and flashed her his oily smile.

  But as she closed the door behind him, she shivered. She didn’t know why, but there was something about him which repulsed her, something uncanny She was glad to get back to her husband and the warmth of the lounge.

  Chapter Four

  The Institute of Middle Eastern Studies was impressive. Funded by rich oil magnates and designed by leading Arab architects, it knocked nearby contemporary western buildings to cocked-hats. They sprawled around it like bits of decrepit concrete. By contrast, the Institute building was a gem of modern Arab architecture.

  It covered a thirty-acre site, a few miles outside Bradford, and was conveniently placed between Leeds and Bradford, two centres of Islam in the North, and two centres of learning. No expense had been spared. It was built from marble, and surrounded by exotic gardens and streams. A modern Xanadu, which had brought the next best thing to an oriental paradise to West Yorkshire.

  An arcade of arabesque arches enclosed the main block, composed of lecture theatres, which rose in levels like Babylonian gardens, each sporting a verandah filled with flowering shrubs. In the centre, surrounded by its own courtyard, was a golden-domed mosque, capped by a crescent moon. A delicate minaret stood next to it.

  Inspector Hartley and his sergeant halted at the security gate and, as the guard checked them in, Hartley glanced around at the ornate gardens and fountains. An electrified fence ran discreetly through the line of trees surrounding the Institute. Among them, security guards and dogs patrolled.

  A tall distinguished-looking academic came to meet them. He was tanned, not long back from Egypt into the Pennine fogs. His hair was close-cropped and greying and he spoke the clipped old-fashioned brand of English. Clearly, he’d spent more time out of the country than in it for the past few years.

  He was Professor Richard Edwards, who had lived most of his life in the Middle East. Internationally famous for his excavations, he had returned to England as Principal of the newly-opened Institute.

  “A sad business. A terrible shock to us all here Manasas being murdered. He was such a popular member of staff. A brilliant researcher in a first-class team,” he said, as they strolled from the car-park to the main block

  Hartley nodded sympathetically. “How long’s he been here?” he asked.

  “Not long,” replied the other. “About six months. Came from the Department of Antiquities in Cairo. Came with the strongest recommendations. It’ll be a great loss to them, too.”

  By now they’d reached the entrance to the lecture theatres and research laboratories. A set of plate-glass doors opened silently as they approached and inside they were met by a rush of warm air. The doors slid to behind, chopping off the cold winter wind which had followed them from the gate.

  The inside of the Institute was as impressive as its exterior. The floors were tiled with black marble inlaid with intricate mosaics. In the curves there were hints of the erotic. Indeed, the whole place made a sensuous impact the moment you entered. The walls were faced with marble, too. Along them in Arabic and Persian script were quotations from ancient mystics and philosophers, and the professor translated as they walked along. Khan listened intently. He was fluent in Arabic, but kept that card close to his chest.

  As they crossed the entrance hall a receptionist greeted the professor and his guests. They signed in and were issued with identification labels.

  “We can’t be too careful,” explained the professor. “We have some valuable artefacts here. Worth a bomb. And we’ve currently an exhibition from Damascus which is priceless.”

  “Have you ever had anyone after your stuff?” asked Sgt Khan. “Dealers?”

  “I’d call them barefaced criminals. Got to watch ’em all the time…them and the crazy extremists.”

  “Extremists?” echoed Khan.

  “Every time we deal with the Israelis we get hate-mail from the Arabs. And every time we deal with the Arab
s, we run foul of the Israelis,” said the professor. “We work on both sides of the border - in Palestine and in Israel. Their pasts are linked irrevocably. Have been throughout history. But extremists see only their part of history. So we catch it from both sides.”

  “And I suppose both say God’s on their side but not the other’s,” murmured Hartley

  Edwards agreed, somewhat surprised by Hartley’s remark. He motioned them to the lift near the reception desk and they went to the third floor where Professor Edwards had a suite of offices. The offices and work-rooms of his staff ran adjacent along the corridor. About half-way along was Dr Manasas’ office.

  “No one’s been in here since…since we heard of his death. I said it hadn’t to be opened till you came.”

  He opened the door and stopped dead. Then gasped. The place was in chaos. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents strewn across the room. A steel cabinet near the window had been forced and leaned drunkenly against the wall. The room looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane.

  Professor Edwards stopped just inside the door, staring in amazement. He was prevented from entering further by Sgt Khan.

  “We’d rather you let us go in first, sir,” he said. “Don’t inform anyone yet”

  Hartley looked slowly round the room, with the perplexed Edwards at his elbow. “It seems Dr Manasas wasn’t as popular as you thought, sir,” he commented.

  “Who could have done it?” asked Edwards. “What were they after?”

  “That’s the thousand-dollar question we all want answering,” said Hartley. “If you wouldn’t mind, sir, could you leave us here and we’ll come back to your office and let you know if we’ve picked up anything? Oh, and let’s pretend for the moment nothing’s happened. Get yourself a cup of tea, professor. You look as though you need it. We won’t be long.”

  Professor Edwards returned to his office nonplussed, as the two detectives entered Manasas’ office peeling their eyes for clues. Hartley rubbed his chin. It was a job to know where to start, the place had been given such a thorough going-over.