The steam from the locomotive settled like low-lying fog across Platform 1 of King’s Cross Station, as Clara and the rest of the passengers on the Edinburgh to London commute gathered their belongings and disembarked. The iron beast heaved and hissed beside them, like a dragon catching its breath as it settled down to rest. ‘Oh, do be careful with that!’ Daphne berated the four porters hauling the mummy’s crate from the freight carriage. ‘There are precious goods in there!’
Precious to someone, thought Clara. But whom? Who is the young woman lying in the sarcophagus? How did she die? Who did this to her and why? Clara hoped that she and Daphne would find some answers here in London. As she wrapped her scarf around her neck and repositioned her beret, a group of men approached Daphne, pulling a large luggage cart with them.
A portly gentleman in his late sixties wearing moon-shaped spectacles and leaning on a walking stick broke away from the group. ‘Dr Coleman!’
‘Dr Mortimer!’ said Daphne shaking his hand vigorously. ‘Oh, Giles, I am so glad you’re here! You wouldn’t believe what’s happened! This is Miss Vale, Bob Wallace’s niece.’
The gentleman raised his Homburg hat and wished her good day, followed by his entourage: an eager-looking young man in a bowler hat whom Clara assumed was ‘the assistant’ Daphne had spoken to, and two more earthy-looking fellows who tipped their flat caps. They then set to work transferring the crate onto the cart.
Daphne, in a lowered voice, proceeded to tell Giles Mortimer exactly what had happened, making sure her voice did not carry to the assistant or the workmen. Clara, meanwhile, nodded to the assistant who introduced himself as Felix Renshaw, a graduate student from University College London on placement. ‘So, what exactly is going on?’ asked Felix. ‘Dr Coleman said the wrong mummy arrived. We have absolutely no idea how that happened.’
‘Neither do we,’ said Clara. ‘But hopefully we’ll find out. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to a few people here at the station.’ She looked around, hoping to find the freight and luggage office, when she spotted the familiar figure of Jack Danskin heading towards what might very well be the place she was looking for. ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ she said. ‘I’ll be back shortly, Daphne. Don’t leave without me!’
‘I say, Miss Vale, may I ask where you’re going?’ asked young Felix.
But Clara rushed off without answering. She’d be damned before she let Jack Danskin get ahead of her on this case. It looked like he’d been thinking along the same lines of enquiry. Which wasn’t surprising, if she stopped to think about it – which, of course, she didn’t have time to do – as Jack was an experienced investigator who’d been in the business far, far longer than she.
She arrived at the entrance to the office as Jack was speaking to someone at the counter. She held back, hoping not to be seen, but still able to listen.
‘So, can you describe the fella who signed the crate in? That’s him, there,’ said Jack, pointing to a written name on an open ledger. ‘He signed himself as Dr James Farnsworth.’
‘Lordy, guvnor, now you’re asking. It was a few days back. But if I recall he was a small, bookish gentleman. Around sixty.’
‘Are you sure? Not a tall, well-built fella with a boxer’s nose? Early forties?’
The clerk shook his head and chuckled. ‘I think I’d remember that. No, guvnor, he was a little bloke. Definitely. Couldn’t tell you his eye colour or nothing so specific, but I can tell you his size. If he was a boxer he’d be a fly weight!’
The two men laughed.
So, thought Clara, it looks like Dr Farnsworth did indeed sign the crate in. But did he accompany it up to Newcastle? She would need to speak to on-board train staff to verify that. She stepped back and looked left and right, wondering where she should go next.
‘The on-board staff have their own cloakroom,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you where it is.’
Clara whipped around to see Jack Danskin standing right behind her. His dark eyes twinkled. ‘Eavesdropping is not becoming of a lady, Clara, but it is essential for an enquiry agent … lady or not. So I assume you’ve already heard that the real Farnsworth signed over the crate. The question now is, did he actually get on the train, and if he did, at what point did the fella calling himself Pilkerton take his place?’
Clara could not think of anything scathing enough to say, so she kept quiet. Besides, Danskin was completely correct. Infuriatingly so. ‘Well, let’s go to the cloakroom,’ she said eventually, wishing she actually knew how to get there.
Danskin threw back his head and laughed, then thrust out his arm. ‘Allow me to guide you, my lady.’
Clara gave him a withering stare. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jack, let’s just get on with it.’
He shrugged, turned, and walked down the platform. She followed, matching her stride with his, grateful she was wearing her Chanel trouser suit and boots, rather than tottering along on Cuban heels.
A few moments later, after enduring a few mock ‘after yous’ and exaggerated bows, Clara preceded Jack into the train staff’s cloakroom and adjoining tearoom. A few men were sitting around tables, reading newspapers, smoking and sipping cups of tea.
‘Afternoon, gents,’ announced Jack. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’
Me, not us, thought Clara. She rolled her eyes but kept quiet. Pride would not help her get the information she needed. She would just let Jack take the lead, then figure out a way to outflank him in the investigation later.
Five minutes later, Clara and Jack had found out what they needed to know. Two of the men present had crewed the London to Edinburgh train last Friday. A man matching the description of Dr James Farnsworth had indeed got on the train in London and travelled in second class. However, neither of the men were able to tell them if he got off at Newcastle or if he collected the crate.
‘That’s not our job, guvnor,’ said one of the men. ‘That’s the job of the platform staff at Newcastle, to offload the luggage. My job was to look after the passengers. The last time I saw the fella was when he had tea in the dining carriage, about half an hour before we got to York.’
‘Did you see him after York?’ asked Clara.
‘No, miss, I didn’t.’
‘Could he have gone into the freight carriage without you seeing him?’
The man pursed his lips. ‘Yes, he could have. I say, the last I saw of him was in the dining carriage, but I can’t swear he was there the whole time. I do know he wasn’t on the train after Newcastle, that I can tell you.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Jack.
‘’Cos his compartment was only booked ’til then. And new passengers got on at Newcastle. A family. Parents and two children. They took over his compartment then.’
‘Did you see him get off? With his luggage?’ pressed Clara.
‘No, miss. But there was dozens of passengers getting off. I could easily have missed him.’
Jack then asked if any of the men had seen a man matching the description of Rupert Pilkerton get on the train at any point. No one had.
Clara and Jack thanked them and left. ‘But we know Pilkerton collected the crate at Newcastle,’ said Clara, as they stepped back onto the platform.
‘Do we now?’ said Jack, his voice on the teasing side of sarcastic.
‘Yes, we do,’ said Clara. ‘At least I do. Whether you have properly investigated it is by the by. So now we know that Farnsworth got on in London but wasn’t seen again after York. And somewhere between York and Newcastle the lock on the door to the freight carriage was broken. Whether that is just a coincidence has still to be determined. As for Pilkerton, no one saw him get on, but he was seen getting off.’
‘Was he seen getting off?’ asked Jack. ‘Or was he just seen collecting the crate.’
Clara thought for a moment then conceded: ‘Good point, Jack. The information I have is that he collected the crate. Not that he was seen getting off the train.’
‘So, he may never have been on the train,’ observed Jack.
‘That’s a possibility,’ agreed Clara. ‘But where is James Farnsworth? Where did he get off the train? York? Newcastle? Did he have anything to do with the broken lock? And which side of the door was he on when the lock was broken? But most importantly, where is he now? The first thing we need to do is—’
‘We?’ asked Jack, amused. ‘Are we working together on this?’
Clara sighed. ‘It looks like we are, yes. Partners? At least temporarily?’
Jack grinned, tipped his hat and said, ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve admitted that you need me, Clara, but we won’t be partners. I don’t work on an equal footing with amateurs. However, if you would like to assist me on the case …’
Clara snorted. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you, Jack?’
At that moment, Daphne Coleman and Giles Mortimer approached them. ‘We’re loaded up and ready to go, Clara,’ said Daphne. ‘Oh, Mr Danskin. Are you and Miss Vale working together now?’
Jack turned to her and gave one of his most charming smiles. ‘We are not, Dr Coleman. I continue to work in my professional capacity as head of security for the Hancock Museum, reporting to Mr Wright and the board. Ah, Dr Mortimer, I presume. Jack Danskin, may I have a word …’
And in an instant Danskin had the Egyptologist’s arm and was leading him out of earshot.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Daphne, picking up on Clara’s frustration, ‘Giles is a loyal friend and colleague. Let Danskin do what he does best, and you do what you do.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Clara, consciously bringing her anger under control.
Daphne smiled gently. ‘Let him find James Farnsworth and this Pilkerton chap; it’s what he does for a living. We have other things to find: the identity of the mummy and the source of those jewels. Right now, no one but you and I know that the mummy is as young as she is – not even Giles, although I will tell him in due course. I have booked her in for an X-ray at the British Museum tomorrow morning. I’d like you to be there. Danskin will not be invited. He has no qualifications to warrant such an invite, but you do.’ Her eyes twinkled as she put her arm around her younger companion. ‘Let the best woman win.’