That night, after returning from what had been a successful if curious evening, Clara sat in her dining room, now clear of Bob’s paraphernalia, and had a glass of cognac. She had in front of her the only thing she had not given to the museum: a leather-bound book. She opened it and was comforted to see her uncle’s distinctive handwriting. It was a journal of her uncle’s last expedition to Egypt in 1928. Pages of writing were interspersed with hand-drawn maps and sketches of many of the artefacts she’d packed over the last few weeks, with notes on how and where they were found. She had shown it to Daphne but had said that she would like to keep it for now. She had inherited Bob’s estate despite not having spent much time with him, due to strained relations between Bob and her mother, his sister Lady Vanessa Vale. There was a lot Clara didn’t know about him, and she wished she had had a chance to get to know him better in life. She looked forward to having more of an insight into his life through the journal.
‘To you, Bob,’ she said, toasting him with the last of her cognac, before retiring to bed.
Clara was awoken by a frantic banging on her front door and the furious barking of her neighbour’s dog. She turned on her bedside light to see it was two in the morning. ‘Who on earth …?’ The banging persisted. She got up and made her bleary way to the window, overlooking the street, and peered out. Down below, her face turned up to the light, was Dr Daphne Coleman. Clara opened the sash window.
‘Come at once, Clara, please. Something awful has happened at the museum.’
Dr Coleman led Clara into the museum’s central gallery, where the new Robert Wallace Collection was on show. The heating was now off and the warmth of the previous evening’s reception was seeping out of the stone. Clara kept her coat on. In the gallery were some museum employees administering first aid to a man sitting on a chair, wearing a guard’s uniform, and sporting a bloody nose. Dr Coleman checked that he was all right and needed no further medical assistance, then turned Clara’s attention to the sarcophagus in the middle of the gallery. On the floor beside it, was the imposter mummy.
‘He just tossed it out. Absolutely no respect!’ said Dr Coleman, her voice taut with anger. ‘But that’s not the most shocking thing. This is …’ She pointed into the sarcophagus and Clara gasped. Under where the mummy had lain was an array of ornate jewellery made of precious metals and gemstones: a necklace, a diadem and a bracelet.
Clara was no expert, but at first glance they appeared to be ancient Egyptian. ‘What the deuce?’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Dr Coleman. ‘It appears as though these artefacts were under the mummy and an intruder was attempting to steal them – or perhaps retrieve them – when the guard interrupted him. A scuffle ensued. The intruder was getting the better of him, but a second guard, hearing his colleague’s cries, came to help. Together they managed to best the fellow.’
‘But he escaped?’
‘He did. We’re not sure if he took any artefacts with him, but these remained.’
‘Where did they come from?’ Clara’s eyes were drawn to the exquisite objects. She had never seen anything of this value in the Hancock Museum’s collection. She had seen similar, however, at the British Museum. ‘Are these from the British Museum?’ she asked Dr Coleman.
Dr Coleman shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. There is something similar at the Louvre, but not similar enough. Now that I think of it, I have never seen items like these in any collection anywhere in the world … other than Cairo.’
‘Then these are from Cairo?’
‘I think so.’
‘But why are they here? Were they sent up with the mummy as part of Uncle Bob’s exhibition?’
Dr Coleman shook her head and lowered her voice. ‘I don’t think so, Clara, and that’s why I’ve brought you here. I fear they have been smuggled out of Egypt. As I said earlier, this is not the mummy we were expecting. It is his sarcophagus. But it’s not him. I was going to wait until the morning to tell my colleagues here, then to get on to the British Museum – specifically Giles Mortimer – to see what they know about it. But now …’
‘Now you’re going to have to call the police?’
‘Well, not immediately …’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because,’ said a male voice, breaking away from the group around the guard, ‘Dr Coleman here tells me they may want to keep this quiet for a while.’
Jack Danskin, unshaved and frustratingly attractive, approached the two women. ‘Sorry to get you up, Miss Vale. I told Dr Coleman it wasn’t necessary – that I could handle it – but she insisted.’
‘I insisted, Mr Danskin, because Miss Vale is Bob Wallace’s niece. As this is connected to the Robert Wallace Collection, I think she is best placed to assist us – discreetly. And, let’s not forget, she has a scientific background too. I think that might be needed.’
‘Oh?’ said Clara.
‘Yes. I’ll explain more in the morning about that. For now, though, if we are all in agreement, we will delay bringing the police into it. Your man was not seriously hurt …’
‘Only because the other guard came to his aid,’ added Danskin. ‘And only because they are both trained in the martial arts, unlike Miss Vale.’ The last added with a smirk.
Clara chose to let it wash over her. She had had one jiu-jitsu lesson from Jack Danskin, but he clearly didn’t rate her ability. What he didn’t know, however, was that she had continued to take lessons from Danskin’s former star pupil, Bella Cuddy, who was now her assistant. Danskin might be quite surprised at her skill these days However, she brought her line of thought back to the real issue: the break-in at the museum.
‘I’m still not sure why you won’t call the police,’ said Clara. ‘There’s been a break-in. A crime’s been committed.’
Danskin shrugged. ‘Technically not. There hasn’t actually been a break-in.’
‘Then how …’
‘Seems as if the fellow was hiding in the museum after the reception. So he didn’t break in,’ Danskin replied.
‘Splitting hairs, surely,’ said Clara.
Dr Coleman nodded. ‘You’re right. We are splitting hairs. But we need some time to look into this ourselves before we bring the police in. Once they’re involved it will be out of our hands. And then the Home Office and the Egyptian Embassy will be drawn into it. And while they’re investigating it, a suspension might very well be put on new concessions in Egypt.’
‘Concessions?’ asked Clara.
‘Permission to dig and do archaeological investigations. They are granted by the Egyptian government. But since they were given independence back in ’22 it has been increasingly difficult to get a concession. There are tensions – political – that are complicating matters. So if it were to get out that there have been artefacts smuggled out of Egypt to a British museum – and that museum is the Hancock! – we could be in very hot water. So, I propose we do a little investigation ourselves first. As we don’t know if anything has actually been stolen, and there wasn’t a break-in, and the guard’s injuries are minor, I think we can justify keeping this in-house. At least for a while. Are you willing to help us investigate this, Clara?’
Clara’s sleep-deprived mind was starting to whirr. What an exciting proposition! She wasn’t entirely sure it was the wisest course of action not to tell the police, but from past experience she knew that the police could unnecessarily complicate matters. When they had more evidence of what had actually happened, then they could bring in the authorities.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I certainly will.’
Jack Danskin rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘Amateur hour.’
Dr Coleman gave him a withering look. ‘Mr Danskin, if you would like to keep your security contract with the museum, I expect your complete discretion on this matter. And I expect you to aid Miss Vale in any way you can.’
Danskin snorted. ‘You can expect my discretion, Doctor, and that of my men, but I will not be playing second fiddle to any amateur. I’ll be doing my own investigation. It was my employee who was injured, after all.’ He turned to Clara and gave a mocking salute. ‘May the best man win.’ Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
Dr Coleman shook her head in disbelief. ‘That man’s ego needs a museum of its own!’
Clara laughed. ‘I was almost expecting him to offer me a wager!’
‘Pistols at dawn?’
Both women laughed. ‘But seriously,’ said Dr Coleman eventually, ‘we need to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible.’
‘Agreed,’ said Clara, slipping into work mode. ‘So firstly, did the guards give you a description of the intruder? If not, I’ll get one when I interview them.’
Dr Coleman shook her head. ‘No need. They not only gave me a description, they gave me a name.’
Clara’s eyes opened in surprise. And then the penny dropped. ‘Oh no, don’t tell me … it was Dr Rupert Pilkerton.’
The Egyptologist sighed. ‘One and the very same.’