Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) (2 page)

   Mother Stayton gave a curtsy to the rising king. The moment would have been quite beautiful had her feathered hat not flown from her head.

   The casket was truly magnificent. I say this not because of my personal investment, or the fact that it was to be donated to the museum in my beloved husband’s name, but because it was truly a sight to behold.

   The lid was carved to represent a reclining body. While the arms, crossed over the chest, were painted onto the wood, it was with such detail that they looked ever so real. The king’s face was carved from the wood and painted in with luscious color. The full lips and almond eyes were exotic, almost sensual. Surrounding the face was the
nemes
headdress, striped with faded but beautiful dark blue lacquer and thin gold foil. Atop this the heads of a cobra and vulture were carved. Semi-precious stones were inlaid about the casket, and they reflected the harsh lights from the exposed bulbs dangling from the garage roof. 

   I realized that I was holding my breath after a long moment of gazing into the likeness of Kind Kamose’s face.

   After Lucy helped pin Mother Stayton’s hat back in place, the two stepped beside me and gazed at the object as I did.

   The awe-inspired silence was broken when the timid Mr. Farber cleared his throat and said, “Now, let’s have it brought to the examination room where we will carefully reveal the mummy.”

   Spellbound, Mother Stayton followed without a word. I was quite impressed with King Kamose’s power over the woman; only one thought to be a God-King in his life might have the power to silence her so.

   Mr. Farber, nervous by nature, gave rambling orders to empty the rest of the van’s contents, and then he doubled his step to catch up with us.

   The curator was proficient at small talk. He had a good memory, or kept a dossier on his patrons, and was always able to bring up the last thread of shared conversation. “I believe the last time we spoke, you were taking painting lessons; are you still?” 

   “Oh no, she gave up on that a year ago,” said Lucy.

   “Such a shame. I had hoped we’d see your work on display here,” Mr. Farber remarked with well-practiced flattery before asking, “How do you occupy your time, Mrs. Xavier?”

   Well-meaning people are often quite concerned with how a young widow occupies her time. I had taken up many hobbies that did not suit me: piano lessons, painting lessons, horseback riding, even origami. Still, my time was not fully occupied, until a tome Lucy had her nose stuck in had inspired me.

   “I have recently penned two novels—well, manuscripts I suppose, as neither is published,” I told the man, modestly.

   “You don’t say—” Mr. Farber began to reply.

  “She’s a sleuth, that’s what she is,” said Mother Stayton with surprising pride, momentarily distracted from Kamose. “Do you ever pick up a newspaper? She’s Mrs. X!”

  I felt my cheeks blush as Mr. Farber’s narrow face twisted. “Great Scott, that sordid business at Pearce Manor,
the butler did it!
Yes, Mrs. X has been in the papers quite a bit.” He gave a queer, nervous laugh.

   Lucy chimed in, “Had it not been for Mrs. Xavier, that detective would never have solved Ms. Masterson’s murder.”

   Mr. Farber’s grin dissipated as he recalled my more recent exploits, and I spoke before he might.

  “The press praised me for my deduction at Pearce Manor, but they were not as kind when I discovered the murderer of a woman impersonating a Russian countess.”

   “That survivor of the RMS
Tatiana
, she was a sort of hero in the States, wasn’t she?”

   “Yes, Maxie “Grip” Beaumont—” I began but was interrupted by Lucy, who quoted one of the papers.

  
“Mrs. X pushes Maxie Beaumont off the deep end, causing her to lose her grip!”

   I remained silent as the others produced little chuckles.

   Lucy went on, “Truly, it was a muddle, but she saw the clues that no one else did.”

   We had come to our destination, and Mr. Farber’s interest in small talk was extinguished. In closing, he took the tone of a polite but bored host and said, “What an adventure.”

   Once the casket was set down on a long bench, which reminded me of my father’s examination table, Mr. Farber ran a finger around the lid. Then he nodded to the two men who had carried it, and with skillful grace, they began to open the lid.

   A shadow was cast on the interior; however, something seemed not quite right. We all stared inside the casket, dumbfounded, until Mother Stayton blurted out the words we were all thinking, “Where is King Kamose?” 

  For an instant, Mother Stayton looked as if she were about to faint. As she pointed herself toward the two men who had set down the casket lid, I think she felt the weight of her hat shift, and she thought better of giving in to the throes of emotion.

  Mr. Farber lost his wits for a moment. I think he nearly climbed into the casket, as if to make sure the missing mummy was not somehow hidden in the shallow case.

   Lucy was the one to make the most level-headed statement, “How odd for that to be the place where there isn’t a body.” In true character, she took from her purse a notepad and pen. My dear friend then told me in a perfectly rational tone, “It seems you have the plot of your next whodunit.”

   I tapped a gloved figure to my lips, fully putting my mind to the apparent problem at hand. “This seems more like a plot device, I dare say, to introduce us to the true story.”

   In a state of shock, Mr. Farber turned toward us and asked, “What are you talking about?”

   Lucy and I exchanged glances, and I replied, “We have a mystery, you see?
Where
is the mummy?”

   Lucy pointed her pen at the man and asked, “
Why
would someone take it?”

   With a sharp edge to her voice, Mother Stayton asked the next question, “And
who
took our King Kamose?”

    Obviously rattled, Mr. Farber readjusted his spectacles, and he replied, “I haven’t a clue.”

   Mother Stayton would have stormed out of the museum had her attire allowed for rapid movement. As it was, Mr. Farber was able to nervously grovel for forgiveness as he followed us out of the institution.

   Not until she came to our black sedan did she slow her pace. As the chauffeur scrambled to attention and swung open the back door, my mother-in-law turned back on Mr. Farber and said, “You have turned me into Betsy Wilton. All of my friends are coming to see the unveiling of King Kamose—and he isn’t here!”

   Lucy and I climbed into the motorcar as Mr. Farber promised he’d wire Professor Kinkaid in Luxor and find out what happened.

   Mother Stayton shouted to our driver, “Do whatever it is you do to make this thing speed off with an awful sound!”

   The engine revved, and there was a great jolt. Thank the Almighty that somehow, Mother Stayton’s hat remained in place.

Chapter Two

After we arrived home from the museum, Mother Stayton lamented on how she would be mortified once her friends found out that King Kamose was out of pocket.

   My mother-in-law went on to have Clarice, one of our less efficient domestics, ring up each her friends so that she could tell them the horrible news personally. This seemed to greatly raise the woman’s spirits.

   The following day, both Lucy and I avoided Mother Stayton’s preferred parlor as she paced the room, dictating a series of unpleasant letters intended for Mr. Farber.

   When our butler entered my little study and waved a silver dish before me with Mr. Farber’s calling card, I gave him a wink to indicate he had done well to not interrupt the verbal tirade one floor above.

   “Please show Mr. Farber in here. I will see him alone.”

   “Very well, Mrs. Xavier,” replied the uniquely efficient member of our staff.

   Mr. Farber shuffled into the study appearing quite disheveled. Lanky and nervous, he seemed less a thirty-five-year-old man than a gawky teenager. His little spectacles were bent, his tweedy jacket was worn, and while cut like every other man’s hair, Mr. Farber’s appeared somewhat crazed and unkempt.

   Bowing his head, the man stuttered, “Oh, Mrs. Xavier, this is really all a muddle. I don’t know where to begin.”

   “I find starting at the beginning helps,” I replied as I gestured for him to sit on the wingback chair across from me.

   “Right, sound advice,” he remarked, forcing a smile. “After you ladies left yesterday, I sent a telegram to Percy Huston; he was the photographer we hired to take the photographs of the tomb and the findings.”

   “What has happened to him?” I asked.

   Mr. Farber’s brow lowered. “How do you know that something happened to him?”

   “You just told me; you said he
was
the photographer, implying he no longer is.”

   The man nodded his head. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, he has gone missing.”

   “When?” I asked.

   “That’s just it, he went missing the evening before the mummy case was sent by train to Alexandria to be shipped by sea.”

  I knew this had occurred just less than three weeks earlier. “How did you find this out?”

  “Arthur Fox has been receiving cables and mail for him,” replied Mr. Farber.

  This Mr. Fox was the journalist who had been hired after Professor Kinkaid had discovered the tomb. Mother Stayton and I had commissioned him to write a book detailing the findings. We had not met him in person, but I had read his work. A particular article of his on the subject of a powerful Egyptian queen had caught my interest and my imagination.

   “What else have you learned?” I inquired.

  “Little else. Percy just up and vanished, during a—” He broke off, oddly.

   “Yes, Mr. Farber?”

   “Well, they had a sort of going away party for King Kamose. Back at the hotel, the expedition team gathered and celebrated. Worse for wear, it wasn’t until later the following day that Fox went to check in on Percy. Couldn’t find him.”

   “And?” I asked.

   The man shrugged. “Fox wrote that the day after the party, Percy’s belongings were still in his room, but sometime that evening, everything vanished.”

   I nodded my chin and replied, “Yes, that is quite a muddle. Tell me, Mr. Farber, how well do you know Mr. Huston?”

  “Know him?” asked the man, a bit unsteadily.

  “You refer to him not by his surname, but his Christian name; are you friends?” Yes, I felt very much the sleuth.

   “I guess you could say that I knew him, mutual friends and all that.” The man pushed his spectacles back to the top of his nose. “We had hired him to photograph a number of pieces of art. At the museum that is.”

  “That’s why you recommended him for the expedition?” I inquired, suspecting that he was holding something back.

  Mr. Farber’s head nodded. “Yes, he was someone I could trust.”

   The man’s choice of words left me with an unasked question: Was there a member of the team whom he did not trust? Instead, I put another question to him, “So his disappearance is out of character?”

   “Very much so.” Mr. Farber shook his head and sighed before continuing, “As to the mummy, I sent another message to Professor Kinkaid. In his reply he stated that he is dumbfounded. He’s contacting the railway and the shipping line now…”

  “Pointless,” I told him. “King Kamose went missing at the same time this Percy Huston did. The people transporting the mummy case had nothing to do with this.”

   Mr. Farber shrugged his shoulders. “How do you know that, Mrs. Xavier?”

   “Over the past seven months, I have read nearly thirty crime novels, and I’ve solved the murders of two people.” I sat back in my chair and smiled at the man, wishing I had a clever catch phrase as did the brilliant fictional detectives I had grown to admire.

   After seeing Mr. Farber to the door, I asked the butler to call Lucy to Mother Stayton’s brightly decorated parlor. I waited several minutes to make sure both would be waiting for me in a state of wonderment.

   While their anticipation built, I slipped into my dear Xavier’s old childhood bedroom that had been converted into his office. There, I found an item needed to break my news.

I swung open the little glass French doors of the sitting room, and Mother Stayton, Lucy, and even Toby, the little parakeet, fell silent as they gazed upon me.

   “Why do you have that on your head?” asked Mother Stayton.

   I raised one hand to my chin, and then pointed to the top of my head with my other hand. “This?”

  Lucy asked, “Is that a pith helmet?”

  “That it is, Lucy, and you’ll need one too, as we are headed to Egypt!”

   Mother Stayton gave a clap of her hands, which sent the poor bird into a fit. “To find King Kamose!”

   “Indeed,” I replied, agreeably. Locating Percy Huston was just as much my true intent. I was confident that once his little mystery was solved, so would be the pharaoh’s.

   Delighted, my mother-in-law replied, “Well, we will have to do some shopping.” She paused, and tapping her fingertips together, the woman asked, “Where does one buy a kaftan in London?”

   Mr. Jack, the manager of our finances, preempted what might have been the first quarrel between Mother Stayton and me.

  The words, “This time Lucy and I shall travel light,” set my mother-in-law into a frenzy. Vivian Burk Stayton was not one to travel; her social engagements, which were many, dominated her time. However, she was always knowledgeable about fashion trends, no matter how far away from London they might be.

   Mother Stayton had insisted we travel with the costliest formal wear we could buy because the hotels of Egypt were known for being quite lavish. I had argued that our time would be spent in the Valley of the Kings and the streets of Luxor, not in some gin joint.

   My choice of words, less tactful than usual, had summoned a fury within my mother-in-law. Mr. Jack leapt to my rescue and reminded us all that Lucy and I could only stow so much luggage on the airplane.

  This pacified the woman; her friends who traveled did so by ship and train. The novelty of flight was something for her to brag about. How many times had she instructed Clarice to ring up one of her friends so she could say, “Did I mention to you that my daughter-in-law and her friend are
flying
to Luxor?”

   Thus, upon our departure from Holland Park, the chauffeur was blessed to find only four suitcases waiting at the door.

   Mother Stayton gave the scant amount of baggage a pitiful glare and then forced a kind smile before giving me a kiss on the cheek.

   “Have you changed your mind? I’m sure you could be squeezed onto the plane,” I said, full well knowing she had no intention of missing her afternoon tea in her gaily decorated sitting room.

   “If only General Clayton weren’t counting on me to attend the opera with him tomorrow night … no, no, I have too many people here who rely on me.”

   Lucy, who appeared a little pale, attempted to sound cheerful as she suggested, “You can have my seat on the plane, and I’ll attend the opera.”

   On a recent trip across the Atlantic, Lucy had suffered terribly from seasickness. My poor friend was really quite nervous about flying.

   Mother Stayton gave Lucy’s hands a little squeeze and said, “You will be fine; it will be a glorious experience.”

   Despite the early hour of the morning, we were in a bit of a rush. “We should be off.”

   “Be safe, my dears,” said Mother Stayton, ever so proud of our adventurous spirits. She made a fist with a petite manicured hand and raised it into the air as she said, “Find our king!”

    The drive from Holland Park to the airfield in South Hampton gave Lucy and me ample time to discuss the information that I had gathered from Mr. Farber regarding the members of the expedition team. The discussion also kept Lucy’s mind off the flight.

   “Foremost, we have Professor Alec Kinkaid. King Kamose’s tomb is his first major find. He’s been researching and digging in the Valley of Kings for some ten years, with a break here and there to teach at a university.”

  “What age of a man is he?” asked Lucy.

   “He just turned fifty. He plans on retiring once King Kamose’s tomb is properly catalogued.”

  “And his wife is a member of the team?” Lucy seemed quite curious about the type of woman who would follow her husband into the desert for years at a time.

   “Yes, Martha Kinkaid. She’s helped him with the research. I suppose she acts as his secretary.” I had gone over the accounting of the team’s expenses with Mr. Jack and was surprised to see we paid her a stipend, a handsome one at that.

  “What a romance. The two living in a tent, isolated from society, delving into a mystic past,” said Lucy, rather whimsically.

   “Then we have the professor’s assistant, or as they call him, protégé, Jacob Saunders. He is an American, very eager to make a name for himself.”

   “Oh, I imagine he’s dashing. Windblown hair, his skin tanned by the Egyptian sun, a rugged scholar.” Lucy nearly swooned over her own description of the fellow.

   “We also have the journalist, another American, by the name of Arthur Fox. He’s written many articles on archeology, just fascinating stuff. From the records that Mr. Jack keeps, this Fox fellow is quite frugal.”

  Lucy knitted her brow and responded, “What does one need money for out in the Valley of the Kings?”

    “Percy Huston needed money. He had submitted all sorts of bills.”

   “Writers just need paper, pens, and typewriters, as we’ve come to know,” Lucy retorted, “but photographers, all that equipment must be very costly.”

    I would not belabor my point any more, but it seemed that Mr. Huston was a spendthrift. “I suppose so. Doctor Smith, fortunately, spends less money on bandages. He and his wife tend to the health needs of the team and the hired hands.”

   “Is Mrs. Smith a nurse?” asked Lucy.

   “No, but she is well trained by her husband. I think she has something of a religious nature. While going over the expenses, I noticed that she has purchased twenty-seven Bibles over the past two years.”

   Lucy’s eyes widened. “That seems somewhat odd, doesn’t it?”

   I nodded my chin, unsure of what else to say. Once up in the airplane, I would be very close to the Lord, and I didn’t want any statement I might make against The Good Book held against me. 

   “What of the natives?” inquired my curious friend.

   “Professor Kinkaid employs a foreman by the name of Hat Tem—I hope I’m pronouncing that correctly. He supervises the locals who help the team.”

  Lucy repeated the man’s name several times and then asked, “What of our guide, what’s his name?”

  I smiled. “It must be unpronounceable, to non-locals. Mr. Farber told me the fellow goes by the nickname of Sandy.”

   Lucy gave a little chuckle. “Well, I hope his English is good.”

   Our chauffeur nearly had to pull Lucy from the back of the sedan as her wide eyes gazed into the sky, following a noisy airplane ascending to the clouds.

   With a steady, even pitch, I suggested to my friend, “If you do not wish to do this, we can book passage by sea.”

   The driver gave a little sigh, and Lucy responded, “But you’ve been banned by the Red Star Line.”

   Feeling my cheeks redden, I retorted, “There are other liners, Lucy.”

   She took a deep breath and then let go of the automobile’s door frame. “I can do this.”

   Fearful she would change her mind, our driver called for a young porter to come fetch our bags. With little more than a mumbled farewell, he sped away before I had led Lucy into the glistening white two-story terminal.