Miss Clara Vale felt ridiculous walking through the freezing streets of Newcastle dressed as an Egyptian queen. She was wearing only a light coat to protect her from the elements, and if she didn’t get inside soon, she feared she’d perish from hypothermia. Oh, how she rued the day the Hancock Museum had agreed with her friend Juju Levine that they’d get more press coverage for the launch of the Robert Wallace Memorial Collection if guests came in fancy dress. The suggestion was even harder to refuse since Dr Charlie Malone, walking beside her dressed as Tutankhamun, also thought it was a splendid idea. ‘Your Uncle Bob would have loved it,’ he had reminded Clara when they were measured for size at Juju and Jonny Levine’s costume shop, ‘and let’s not forget this is all in his honour.’
Juju had fluttered around them like a butterfly. She and her brother Jonny had been Bob’s landlords, renting him the office space above their costume shop for his private investigation business which Clara had inherited after his tragic death the previous spring. It was Juju who had suggested Clara go to the launch as Nefertiti. ‘It’s either her or Cleopatra – they were the most beautiful women in Egypt, and you’re the most beautiful woman in Newcastle.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ said Clara.
‘I’m not being silly. Don’t you ever look in the mirror, Clara? You’d give Theda Bara a run for her money. If they make that picture again, they should cast you! Dark hair, dark eyes, darkly mesmerising looks …’
Clara laughed. ‘Oh, Juju, you flatter me, but a Hollywood vamp I am not!’
‘Well, that may be so, but we’ll have you looking like one for Bob’s sake,’ Juju tutted as she measured Clara for the costume she envisaged, the design sketches pinned to the sewing room wall. Clara was glad to see that the dress – although alluring – consisted of far more than the see-through sheer chiffon that Miss Bara wore in Cleopatra, and the elaborate headdress suited her black bobbed hair and blunt fringe quite nicely.
All this for some dusty old artefacts, thought Clara, as she and Charlie hurried into the museum, trying to ignore the amused glances of the good folk of Newcastle, sensibly bundled up against the winter cold.
Clara was immensely relieved that the museum’s heating was working and she smiled as she spotted the stout, grey-haired, no-nonsense figure of Dr Daphne Coleman, dressed like a Victorian gentleman explorer, striding towards them. Clara wondered if this was the outfit Dr Coleman had worn when she was a young volunteer on a dig in the Valley of the Kings in the 1890s. Daphne Coleman, one of the first ladies to ever earn a degree from a British university, was part of the crop of famous female archaeologists – including Gertrude Bell and Amelia Edwards – to have made their mark on the male-dominated field.
Dr Coleman shook Clara’s and Charlie’s hands enthusiastically, her eyes twinkling under the brim of her pith helmet. ‘How splendid you both look! A tad chilly, though,’ she said, casting an amused eye over the expanses of bare flesh left uncovered by their costumes.
‘What do you think Bob would have come as?’ asked Clara. Charlie and Dr Coleman looked at one another and laughed.
Charlie cleared his throat, then said, ‘Well, the last time we both saw Bob in costume – at one of Juju’s soirées – he was dressed as Genghis Khan! For an Egyptian theme, however, I’m not sure. What do you think, Daphne? Perhaps that god with the dog’s head?’
Dr Coleman chuckled. ‘You mean the jackal’s head? Anubis. Yes, I could see Bob coming as Anubis.’ Then she sighed. ‘Your uncle was a real character, Clara. And a great philanthropist. Have I mentioned how grateful we are for the bequest he left the museum in his will? And now this collection, too. You should be very proud of him.’
‘Oh I am,’ said Clara. ‘Is everything ready? Is there anything you need us to do?’
Dr Coleman nodded to some caterers who were carrying in ice buckets, directing them into the central gallery where the reception was to be held. ‘I think we’re on track. The orchestra have been tuning up – as you can hear – and the caterers are prepared. And the sarcophagus arrived from the station about an hour ago.’
‘How very exciting! Have you opened it yet?’ asked Clara.
‘Not yet,’ said Dr Coleman. ‘We thought we’d do that as part of the festivities this evening. The press have been invited, of course, and there’s also a moving picture team from the BBC. They asked if we can open it with an audience as it would make for a more exciting film. I agreed. It’s a well-known mummy the British Museum have sent us – I’ve seen him before, so there’s nothing of much scientific interest we’d gain from opening it in laboratory conditions. It’s theatre, really.’ She gestured around her. ‘Something’s got to pay for all this! And,’ she added wryly, ‘the heating bill from tonight alone will need to be earned back on future ticket sales.’
She sighed again. ‘Your uncle’s collection has immense academic interest, Clara, but the truth is the average museum-goer isn’t that interested in pottery and papyri. Still …’ her eyes lit up, ‘… the people who count are interested. And some of them will be here tonight.’
‘Anyone I’d know?’ asked Clara.
Dr Coleman shook her head. ‘Probably not, but your uncle would have known them. I’ll introduce you to them all. There are a couple of esteemed scholars from Berlin, someone from the Louvre, a gentleman from the British Museum who accompanied the sarcophagus up on the train, and – this is quite exciting for us up here in Newcastle – a delegation from the Metropolitan Museum in New York! It just shows you how well regarded your uncle was, Clara. And look, here they all come now!’
Dr Coleman called over to a group of people in assorted Egyptian dress – some more literal than others – and one who hadn’t bothered. Ten minutes later, Clara had met Herr Dr Heinrich Stein, Director of Antiquities of the Neues Museum of Berlin and his assistant Herr Rudolf Werner. There was Monsieur Professor Jacques Petit from the Louvre, Dr Jonathan Davies, Director of Antiquities at the Metropolitan Museum of New York and his assistant, Miss Jennifer Philpott. And finally, Dr Rupert Pilkerton representing the Department of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities at the British Museum. Clara did her best to memorise everyone’s names, titles and positions, but expected she’d get some of them wrong. She hoped no one would take offence.
‘We were expecting Dr Mortimer with the sarcophagus,’ said Dr Coleman. ‘Did something crop up at the last minute?’
‘Unfortunately yes,’ said Dr Pilkerton with a marked Yorkshire accent. Clara appraised him for a moment. He was at least a decade younger than the other esteemed academics, had the build of a boxer, and was the only one who hadn’t made an effort at fancy dress. He stood slightly apart from the rest of the group and there was a definite air of ‘us and them’. The other doctors, professors and assistants all seemed to know one another; Pilkerton was clearly the newcomer. Clara felt slightly sorry for him.
‘Have you been at the British Museum long?’ asked Clara. ‘I used to live near there on Great Russell Street until quite recently. I moved up here last summer. I might have seen you …’
Pilkerton turned to her and gave her the benefit of a polite smile. ‘Unfortunately not, Miss Vale. I only started working there a few weeks ago. And when Dr Mortimer was unable to come up – family illness, I believe – he asked me to do so on his behalf.’
‘Was Farnsworth not available?’ asked Dr Coleman.
‘No he was not,’ said Pilkerton, brusquely. Dr Coleman pursed her lips at his tone but made no further comment.
‘Well, we’re delighted you’ve come,’ said Clara, aware of the curious dynamic but not quite understanding it.
‘Thank you,’ said Pilkerton. He peered down at her, his dark eyes boring into hers over a nose that had been broken more than once. But when he spoke his tone was cordial. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Vale. Your uncle was a well-respected man.’
‘You knew him?’
‘I had the pleasure of meeting him. In Egypt. We were both at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo in the autumn of ’28.’
Clara nodded. ‘Yes, I believe he was there then. It was his last season before he became ill.’
‘I believe so,’ said Pilkerton. He gestured to the exhibits. ‘Is this everything he collected?’
‘From Egypt, yes. I finished clearing the last of it out of the house yesterday. I don’t think the museum has had a chance to go through it all properly.’
Pilkerton nodded. ‘Yes, there’s a lot. And papers too?’
‘Oh yes, plenty of papers!’
‘Well, thank you for donating it all. It will add a lot to the study of Egyptology.’
‘You’re most welcome. It’s what my uncle would have wanted. And by the way, thank you for bringing up the mummy,’ said Clara. ‘It will be a real draw card for the museum.’
Pilkerton grunted. ‘The public will like it, yes.’
Clara caught Daphne Coleman’s eye and smiled. ‘Well, it’s the public who keep places like this afloat.’
Pilkerton grunted again. He gave Clara an awkward little bow, and broke away from the group, joining some new arrivals as they filtered into the main gallery.
‘Well, he’s an odd fish,’ observed Dr Davies with his New York accent. ‘Anyone come across him before? He said he was in Cairo during the ’28 season.’
Dr Stein frowned. ‘There is something familiar about him, but I can’t place it. Werner,’ he asked, turning to his assistant, ‘do you recognise him?’
Werner shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Herr Doctor.’ And the rest of the group shook their heads in agreement.
‘I’m surprised Giles didn’t send a telegram to introduce him to us,’ said Dr Coleman. ‘I hope the family illness isn’t too serious. No idea why he didn’t send Farnsworth, though. He’s by far the most knowledgeable of twelfth-dynasty papyri.’
‘And that paper he wrote on Ptolemaic pottery! Genius!’ offered the French professor.
Clara felt it was time to withdraw, leaving the Egyptologists to talk shop. And besides, she’d just seen someone with whom she would much rather spend time. And he had just seen her. They held each other’s gaze across the crowded room. He was dressed as Mark Antony, his auburn hair and athletic physique worthy of the famed Roman general. Clara smiled appreciatively.
‘Pity you didn’t come as Cleopatra,’ whispered Charlie beside her.
The central gallery of the Hancock Museum – its walls lined with glass cases filled with stuffed creatures and fossils from its natural history collection – thrummed to the sound of the band. The guests, dressed as characters from history, film and fiction (or imaginary notions of what ‘those folks in Egypt and the Orient’ wore) chattered and chinked their glasses. Dressing gowns and tea-towels abounded, while the more well-heeled had availed themselves of the stylish services of Levine’s Costumes.
Clara was standing in the entrance to a side gallery which housed the museum’s Roman collection, excavated primarily from the area surrounding Hadrian’s Wall. Newcastle itself had grown out of the Empire’s most northern military outpost and remnants of the great wall ran through the city before stretching into Northumberland, then west to the coast of Cumbria. There had been lots of opportunities for Uncle Bob to practise his archaeology on weekends, and some of the contents of his house now augmented this collection. But it was the Egyptian material, laid out on tables in the central gallery, that the foreign academics had come to see. However, as Dr Coleman had predicted, most of the amateur interest was focused on the elaborately painted sarcophagus on loan from the British Museum. The doctor would be doing a brief introduction to the sarcophagus in front of the BBC’s rolling cameras at the culmination of the evening.
Clara was glad that she had nothing more to do. She had already given her brief speech and cut the ribbon to the entrance of the Robert Wallace Collection, and invited guests to avail themselves of drinks and snacks. In the far corner, near to the case with the stuffed dodo, were work colleagues of Bob’s including Detective Chief Inspector Sandy Hawkes from Newcastle police and some enquiry agency associates, including the rakishly handsome Jack Danskin. Clara disliked Danskin intensely, but she knew he and Bob had got on well so had extended an invitation to him. Besides, Danskin now ran his own security business and was contracted to provide guards for the museum.
Juju, Jonny and a few of their flamboyantly attired theatre friends – sporting costumes from a recent run of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra – were merrily indulging in the free drinks, their laughter bouncing off the stone walls. Charlie had been drawn into this group and Clara was pleased to see him relaxed and enjoying himself. Juju and Jonny were among the few people who knew about Charlie’s relationship with Bob, and he felt he could let his guard down with them.
A more conservative grouping, in front of a case of neolithic stone axes, consisted of Clara’s new assistant, Bella Cuddy; Bob’s former client, the picture house owner, Alice Whittaker; and his accountant, Stan Ridpath and his wife. Stan had facilitated the purchase, on Clara’s behalf, of the row of houses where Bella lived, in order to protect his client’s finances from the contagion of the recent disaster on Wall Street.
‘Everyone seems to be having a good time,’ said Andrew Ridpath, Stan’s brother and accountancy firm partner, as he handed Clara a glass of Bee’s Knees. She took the cocktail with thanks, smiling up at the handsome accountant, dressed like Mark Antony.
‘They do. I’m glad they’re all here – for Bob’s sake. And I’m glad you are too. How are you feeling, Andrew? Now that you’ve had your first full week back at work.’
Andrew had been discharged from a convalescent home just a month ago. He’d been recovering from a gunshot wound that had turned to septicaemia back in September. Clara, who had saved his life by getting him emergency medical treatment, had wondered for a while if he would survive. She was most relieved that he had. She was very fond of Andrew and, so his appreciative eyes revealed, he was very fond of her too. However, they had not yet rekindled the fledgling romance that had started last summer. He had been too busy recovering from his injuries; she, too busy solving cases and testifying in the resulting court proceedings. But now that things were settling down for both of them perhaps they could start enjoying one another’s company again.
He smiled at her and offered his glass for a toast. ‘To Bob,’ he said.
‘To Bob.’
A moment later, the band brought their number to a close, and Dr Daphne Coleman was tinkling her glass with a teaspoon.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’re having a dashing good evening – and toasting Bob with every drink. Now, don’t worry, I’m not tossing you out, but our friends from the British Broadcasting Corporation have to leave soon. Before they go, I said we would open the sarcophagus for the cameras. Are you ready for that?’
A cheer went up.
‘Jolly good. Well, first a little information about the mummy we are going to meet tonight. His name is Amentukah, he was around thirty-five years old when he died, and we believe he was a high ranking official – not a pharaoh, sorry to disappoint you – in the New Kingdom. That dates between around 1500 to 1000 BC. What we are calling here a sarcophagus, isn’t really that – those are made of stone – but this is what’s known as an anthropoid mummiform coffin. In other words, a coffin in the shape of a human. You’ll already have seen all the lavish painting and inscriptions. These are pictures of the various gods that will welcome Amentukah into the afterlife. And there are scenes, too, of him facing judgement. The inscriptions are incantations – prayers or spells – to protect him on his journey. I shall leave you to look at them in more detail yourselves. We will soon have an accompanying display explaining everything, so when you tell your friends about it and encourage them to come – and please do, tickets will be quite affordable – they’ll know what’s what. On the lid of the coffin we can see … ah, my apologies, I see our friends from the BBC are eager to wrap this up. So then, without further ado … Dr Pilkerton will you help me do the honours?’
The surly academic from the British Museum stepped forward and took the head of the coffin. Dr Coleman took the foot. Using specialised crowbars they prised open the lid. The other academics stepped forward and took the weight of the lid as it lifted, manoeuvring it to the side. And there, to gasps from the audience and the whirr of a film camera, lay a wizened mummy. The assembled guests broke into applause.
But Dr Coleman stepped back, her face aghast. Clara rushed to her side. ‘What is it, Dr Coleman?’
The doctor turned to the cameras, a smile fixed on her face, and said: ‘I never cease to be in awe of these ancient relics.’ Then she turned back to Clara, letting the smile slip. ‘It’s not him,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not Amentukah.’
Clara looked to the other Egyptologists, none of them seemed perturbed.
‘They wouldn’t know,’ whispered Dr Coleman. ‘Not at first glance. I’ve studied him extensively. They haven’t.’
‘Well, if it’s not Amen-whatsisname, then who is it?’
‘That I don’t know,’ murmured the doctor, stepping back to allow the crowd to gather around the mummy, oblivious that there was a mummified imposter in their midst. Clara retreated with Dr Coleman until they were out of earshot of the other guests.
‘It looks like they’ve sent the wrong mummy!’ said Dr Coleman. ‘Where’s Pilkerton? I want a word with him.’
Clara looked around the gallery, over the excited crowd and curious journalists, but she couldn’t see the man from the British Museum anywhere.
‘I don’t know, Dr Coleman. It looks like Dr Pilkerton has gone.’