Deadly Curse (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #11)

Chapter 5

Five

I thought of what I was able to learn from my great aunt about Sir Nelson’s family as I made the return trip to the museum to speak with the director and Mr. Hosni.

There had most definitely been family difficulties in the past with Sir Nelson. And still?

It would certainly explain his nephew’s refusal to see to Sir Nelson’s funeral arrangements.

From my great aunt I had also learned the Lawrence family manor house was gone, sold some time before, as the Lawrence estate was lost to mounting debts he incurred, expenses to fund his travels. That might not have gone over well with his sister.

When he returned to London, he stayed at the residence of an acquaintance from his university days. Perhaps that person could tell us something as well—if Sir Nelson had mentioned anything he was concerned about regarding his work of the new exhibit.

With the new Egyptian exhibit still closed, the museum was not as crowded as it might have been. Upon arrival, I inquired at the main entrance about the possibility of meeting with the director of the museum.

“Lady Forsythe?” the clerk at the desk near the main entrance inquired.

“If you please. It is regarding an important matter.”

I waited as he put through a telephone call to the director’s office.

Sir Edward Thompson was the first director of the museum and distinguished for his studies of ancient manuscripts during his time as the head librarian of the museum.

My great aunt was acquainted with him and had suggested that I request his assistance when I arrived.

In consideration of his position and responsibilities, I hardly expected him to meet with me. An assistant perhaps. I was therefore surprised when the clerk returned the handpiece to the phone and personally escorted me to the director’s office.

Sir Edward immediately rose from behind his desk.

“It is indeed a pleasure Lady Forsythe, although it would be preferrable under other circumstances. I received a call earlier from Lady Montgomery that you would be calling. How is her ladyship? She is well, I hope.”

“Very well, thank you. When I left Sussex Square she was practicing her golf game.”

He chuckled at that as he indicated the chair across the desk.

“A spirited lady to be certain, one I have long admired,” he commented. “And now, you are obviously here about the matter that occurred yesterday in what should have been a celebration.”

“Anything you might be able to tell me about the exhibit, Sir Nelson’s work on it, and any others involved, could be very useful in resolving the situation.”

We met for very near an hour, and Sir Edward was able to provide me the names of those who had assisted in assembling the exhibit.

It seemed that all were carefully selected and had worked previously on other exhibits, including ancient manuscripts that Sir Edward translated as well. Still, I asked for the names of those individuals. I then inquired about Mr. Hosni.

“Poor man,” he replied. “He was quite upset, as you might well imagine, yet he insisted on returning to Sir Nelson’s office this morning. There is still a great deal of work to be done on the catalogue for the exhibit.”

We spoke of any unusual situations regarding the exhibit, difficulties perhaps, or anyone who might have been opposed to it. There were none that he was aware of.

“There was such excitement for the opening. It is very tragic that this has happened. There are also lectures that have had to be cancelled. And the loss of Sir Nelson is especially tragic. He was planning on returning to Egypt at the end of the month.”

“He was staying with a colleague from his university days, I believe.” I mentioned.

“Yes, Sir Anthony Fellowes. They were friends of many years. I can only imagine that this has been a dreadful blow for him.”

I made a mental note of that. Perhaps Sir Anthony might be able to offer some insight. I inquired if I might be able to inspect the exhibit.

“It does seem as if the police have completed their inspection, although we are not allowed yet to re-open the exhibit. I am aware of your work in past matters, Lady Forsythe, and see no harm in allowing you access.”

With that, his assistant was requested to escort me to the Egyptian room in the exhibit hall.

I thought of the previous day as we traversed the halls to the room that housed the Egyptian exhibit. There had been such excitement, then such tragedy.

When we arrived at the exhibit hall, I was somewhat surprised to discover the doors were not secured. There were only a half dozen stanchions with velvet ropes, the sort I had seen in theaters and opera houses, that blocked the entrance.

The clerk set aside one of the stanchions and opened the door for me. I thanked him and stepped inside the large room that had been transformed to resemble an antechamber in an Egyptian palace for the exhibit.

It was unusually quiet inside the room, closed off from visitors and attendants of the museum. I took out my notebook and pen.

I made notes of my conversation with Sir Edward, and began my walk about the exhibit. It was as I remembered it from the day before.

I made a diagram of the layout of the enormous room that included the stone table with the tall columns that lined the room, the display of canopic jars on a stone table, the glass-enclosed cases with ancient tools, another row of glass cases with gold jewelry and adornments that had been discovered, along with that carved statue of a cat that seemed to stand guard over it.

I made note of another display then, as I had the day before, I rounded one of twin floor-to-ceiling sandstone sculptures carved and painted with hieroglyphic text and temple ritual scenes. And, as I had the day before when Aunt Antonia had made that startled sound, I came face-to-face with that imposing statue of Ramses II.

As I approached that twelve-foot statue, my gaze was drawn not to the base where Sir Nelson’s body had lain, but to the details of that statue—the intricate headdress he wore, the compelling features of the man who had once been Pharoah of Egypt, the powerful half-clad body with those carved markings on the shoulders. And what appeared to be a dark stain on one hand of the statue.

I had not noticed it the previous morning, but it was there now.

“Lady Forsythe?”

Startled, I turned and came face-to-face with Sir Nelson’s assistant.

“Mr. Hosni,” I remarked with more than a little relief. So deep had I been in my thoughts that I hadn’t heard him enter the exhibit hall.

“I did not mean to frighten you. The door was open.”

“The director was kind enough to allow me to see the exhibit once more,” I explained. “I wanted to make my notes with the hope that we might be able to assist in the investigation into Sir Nelson’s death.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied in heavily accented English. He glanced at the note book.

“You have made a drawing.”

“It is often useful in making our inquiries.”

“You are most skilled.”

“I am not the artist in my family,” I assured him. “My efforts are quite simple, however ...” I caught him staring at the statue with a frown on his face.

“Are you injured, Lady Forsythe?” he abruptly inquired.

That seemed somewhat strange. “Not at all.”

He was staring at the stain on the statue’s hand. “I would never touch an artifact.” I assured him.

He had approached closer, and his frown deepened.

“This was not here before. It is not possible ...” He turned and stared at me. “The stain, it is blood. The curse of the Pharoah!”

“What curse?”

“The curse against whoever defiles the Pharoah. They will pay in blood!”

I assured him that I had not touched it.

“I just noticed it as well. I have no idea where it came from. Perhaps one of the museum staff ...”

“Do you have the amulet that I gave you?” he said with growing urgency.

I retrieved the medallion from my bag.

“You must hold it before you to protect against the curse.”

It seemed pointless to explain that I had not violated anything, that I was only attempting to find information that might provide a clue in the murder of Sir Nelson.

Yet Mr. Hosni was most insistent and quite anxious. I held the amulet before me, and he began to speak in Egyptian.

“It is an ancient prayer to the gods to protect the keeper of the amulet from the anger of Ramses,” he explained. He glanced at the hand of the statue.

“You must take care,” he again cautioned.

“What is the meaning of the stain?”

“It means death to those who have defiled the statue.”

“Sir Nelson?” Did he actually believe that Sir Nelson had been killed by an ancient curse?

“He was a very spiritual man. He respected our ways and gave prayers to the gods before he removed the statue. The blood is for the one who has done this dreadful thing. We must go now.”

I was not one to question another person’s beliefs, as I returned the amulet to my bag and followed Mr. Hosni from the exhibit and back to the office he had shared with Sir Nelson.

It did seem that we were dealing with not only Sir Nelson’s death, but a curse as well. The question was, was it a bad curse or a helpful one?

“The Eye of Horus will protect you,” Mr. Hosni assured me as I sat at the small table with him and he poured tea.

I would have preferred something much stronger after the encounter in the exhibit room, if it could be called that, but graciously accepted the tea. I explained that I had questions about the previous day.

“I have heard of the work you do—most unusual for a woman,” Mr. Hosni said. “I will help in any way that I can. As you see,” he gestured to the desk, “there is still much work to be done for the catalogue that the museum wishes to provide. I was to assist Sir Nelson in this, but now ...”

He seemed genuinely upset and saddened by the loss of the man who had brought him from Egypt. I wondered what would become of him after the catalogue was completed.

“We were to return at the end of the month,” Mr. Hosni replied. “Now ... You must forgive me, Lady Forsythe. His death is a great personal loss for me as well. I will try to answer your questions. Perhaps in that way I may be able to assist you in finding who did this.”

“Was Sir Nelson upset about anything the past several days before the exhibit was to open?” I inquired. “Had anything happened that might affect the exhibit?”

He shook his head. “I know of nothing. Sir Nelson was most excited about it finally being ready for the world to see.”

“Was there any disagreement among those he worked with?” I asked. “Perhaps someone who didn’t approve of his bringing the exhibit to London?”

I was aware there was controversy over removing artifacts from other countries—that they did not belong to the person who discovered them, but should remain where they were found.

“As I told you, Sir Nelson was highly respected among those in Cairo and with those who worked with him. He was very respectful in what he was doing, and he promised to return the statue and the artifacts found with it to the people of Egypt, unlike the one that was stolen earlier.”

I was aware that a much larger statue had been discovered and removed several years earlier. It had eventually made its way to London. But Sir Nelson’s discovery had been an unexpected one in Saqqara, where it was found, and had included those unique gold artifacts.

“Did he ever speak of criticism or difficulty from any of the other archeologists?”

“If there was any such thing, he did not speak of it. It was not his way.”

“There are many gold pieces in the collection. Have you made certain that nothing is missing?”

“With the permission of the director, I worked through the night to make certain that everything was still there.

“Who would want to harm Sir Nelson?” he asked. “And then leave everything as it was when we completed the exhibit?”

Who indeed? Unless he came upon someone unexpectedly who was attempting to steal something from the exhibit and was caught in the process.

Yet, the museum was well secured at the end of the day, and guards were posted as there were a great many valuable pieces—other statues, paintings, rare books, in other exhibits that could bring enormous profit from someone willing to take the risk of being caught.

Except, according to Mr. Hosni, there was nothing missing.

“When did you first work with Sir Nelson?” I inquired.

Mr. Hosni’s expression softened. “Many years ago. I was hardly more than a boy. I was hired to accompany him on his first trip. I had no family and had been living on the street. The pay was only a few coins each week, but more than a child ever had.

“Because I had no family, I stayed with him and traveled to the other places that he had traveled. I came to England with him, and he arranged for me to study your history and your language. I returned with him to Cairo. I was with him when he discovered the chamber that the statue was in with the other artifacts.”

It was a story not unlike Brodie’s.

“What of his nephew?” asked. “Did he have contact with him?”

“He attempted many times upon our return to England. It seems there was some difficulty there. Mr. Sutcliffe came to London only days before.”

“Before?”

Mr. Hosni nodded. “Sir Nelson spoke of it. He was not expecting it. He did not speak at length of it, but I sensed that it was not a pleasant meeting.”

Family relations. I understood how difficult they could be. But just how difficult?

Sir Nelson’s nephew, John Sutcliffe, and his family lived in Twickenham, where he was a teacher and private tutor. I thanked Mr. Hosni for the information.

“You will continue with your investigation?” he asked. “Even with what I have told you about the curse, and the stain we saw?”

“Sir Nelson was my friend as well,” I replied. “I’m not afraid, and we will find the person who did this. What will you do now?”

“There is the catalogue to finish—that will take some time. After that is completed ... I do not know.”

I left the office he had shared with Sir Nelson. I did feel such sympathy for him. He was in a foreign country, albeit one that he had lived in and been educated in as well. Still, he had lost a friend in the man who had taken him from the streets. As I knew only too well, such bonds ran deep, and he obviously felt that loss profoundly.

I was deep in thought, already making my mental notes about our conversation as I turned down the long hallway the led from the office. I might have run into the man if I hadn’t suddenly looked up.

He was obviously one of the museum workers, dressed in a work shirt, cotton trousers and boots as he pushed a handcart, the usual sort one might find in the museum as exhibits were added to or changed.

The man ducked his head so that it was impossible to see his face, and continued on his way with a slight limp.

I returned to the office on the Strand after leaving the museum.

I had no sooner stepped down from the coach and greeted Mr. Cavendish when Brodie appeared and held over the driver. He gave him the destination of the Bow Street Police Station and we both climbed aboard.

“I was able to persuade the chief inspector to delay charges against Howard Carter for a few days,” he explained.

He was also able to arrange for us to meet with Mr. Carter, our present destination, in an attempt to learn any information he might be able to provide that could be helpful in finding the murderer.

“Wot were ye able to learn at the museum?” Brodie asked.

I hesitated to tell him what Mr. Hosni believed about the discovery of the stain at the statue of Ramses II that wasn’t there the day before.

Brodie was not a religious person, as far as I knew. He had never mentioned such, nor had we discussed it prior to our marriage. I suppose, for some, that would be considered an enormous error and we would be considered heathens.

Yet, the appearance of a stain on the statue might have the effect of convincing one of such things. I decided on a simple explanation.

“I spoke with both the director of the museum and Sir Nelson’s assistant, Mr. Hosni. It seems that nothing was found to be missing from the exhibit. Either the murderer was interrupted as the exhibit was about to open, or the intended purpose was not robbery.”

Much like the police investigator he once was, Brodie listened, a frown on his face as I eventually worked my way toward explaining what Mr. Hosni and I had discovered this morning.

“There was a peculiar mark that I noticed on the statue,” I casually added.

“A mark?”

“It was more of a stain of some sort that wasn’t there before.”

“Wot sort of stain?”

And here we were with my best intentions, I thought, choosing my next words carefully.

“Mr. Hosni seemed to think that it might be blood.”

Brodie was thoughtful. “It might have been left when Sir Nelson was attacked, if he attempted to fight off his attacker.”

“It wasn’t there yesterday.”

That dark gaze met mine across the interior of the coach.

“Wot are ye saying? That someone else put it there afterward? For what purpose?”

I made an offhand gesture with a wave of my hand. “It’s possible that it has something to do with the curse.”

Those dark brows angled sharply as we arrived at the Bow Street station. Due to the other matter at hand—speaking with Howard Carter—I was spared his reaction, at least for the time being.

We signed in with the constable at the main desk. Brodie gave him the information that C.I. Graham had approved for us to meet with the prisoner. We were told to wait while paperwork was verified.

“Right yer are, Mr. Brodie,” the man at the desk finally acknowledged as he motioned for another constable and gave him instructions to escort us to the holding section.

As we followed him, I caught the distinct change in Brodie as he returned to one of the places where he had once worked, and the frown that came with it.

We eventually arrived at the adjacent building where prisoners were detained until they were formally charged, then moved on to other facilities to await their court date.

“Mr. Brodie and guest to see the prisoner, Howard,” he told the man at the duty station.

I caught the curious look the man gave me. It was obvious not many women came to visit.

Here again, approval for the visit was noted. Brodie turned to me.

“If ye should want to remain here ...?”

I assured him that I wanted to see Mr. Carter as well. We were asked to leave anything we carried with us with the constable at the duty station.

Brodie had left his revolver and the knife he always carried at the office, in anticipation of our meeting with Mr. Howard.

He gave me that look, one of several that I knew quite well.

“It will be returned,” he assured me with a look at the constable to confirm it.

I retrieved the revolver he insisted that I carry. There hadn’t been time to tuck it away at the office.

I handed it to the man at the desk, the one with the startled expression.

“Blimey! You carry this around, miss?”

I smiled. “And I am most proficient.”

“Can we get on with it?” Brodie reminded him.

We were escorted to one of several holding cells down an adjacent hallway. I heard the key in the lock, and the cell door opened.

“People here to see you,” the constable announced.

Howard Carter emerged out of the looming shadows inside the cell with only a single overhead light that blinked on and off. He blinked as well, as he recognized me.

“Lady Forsythe?”

Brodie explained the reason we were there and that we were making inquiries into the case.

“I do wish there was something I could tell you about that day,” he said as he sat on the cot against the wall, while I sat in the other piece of furniture he was allowed, a straight-backed chair. Brodie stood and leaned back against the inside wall.

“Anything ye might be able to tell us?” he inquired. “Anything ye might have seen or overheard, anything out of the ordinary.”

Howard Carter shook his head. “There was so much going on that day, last-minute deliveries from the area where the artifacts were stored, coordinating with staff to have everything in place for the opening of the exhibit ...”

“Was there anything Sir Nelson mentioned?” I asked. “Perhaps something about the exhibit. Was anything missing?”

Once again, he shook his head. “Everything was in quite a bit of chaos, what with those last items arriving that needed to be placed inside the room and all the last details. I checked everything against the list. Nothing was missing.”

“Was there anyone about who shouldn’t have been?” Brodie inquired.

Howard was thoughtful. “Not that I was aware.”

That coincided with what the director of the museum had told me earlier.

“What about the workers who brought the additional artifacts from storage?” I asked.

“There were four, all on staff with the museum. I recognized them from another exhibit I had assisted with recently.” He looked over at Brodie.

“Why am I here? They won’t tell me anything.”

“According to the information they have, ye were the last to have contact with Sir Nelson.”

“They cannot possibly think that I had anything to do with his murder!” he exclaimed. “I respected him and worked with him the past two years when he returned to London.”

“Did he mention anything about the curse associated with Ramses II?” I continued.

“It’s fairly well known about dishonoring the dead,” he replied. “There’s always a curse or two associated with archeology in Egypt. Sir Nelson was aware, but put no stock in it. I suppose one cannot, or nothing would ever be brought to museums.”

“What about the dagger?” I asked. “Was it part of the exhibit?”

“It was part of the exhibit, displayed in a glass cabinet. It had been found with the statue of Ramses II according to Sir Nelson.”

For those who believed in them, it might be proof of the curse.

He looked from Brodie to me. “What will happen now?”

Brodie explained that the police would continue with their investigation, while we did the same.

“I must remain here?”

“Mr. Brodie has made certain that the charges against you won’t be formally read for several days. In that time, we will do everything we can to find the person responsible.”

Howard slowly nodded. “It would seem that all I can do is wait.”

I reached out a hand to comfort him. He looked very young and somewhat forlorn.

“We will succeed.” I told him and asked if there was anyone he wished us to take word to about the situation.

“My father,” he replied. “He will be quite upset about this. He calls my fascination with archeology a ridiculous folly, yet I would not want to worry him or my mother.”

I took out my notebook and pen. “If you wish to send a note to them, I will see that it is delivered.”

“I would appreciate that very much, Lady Forsythe.”

He penned a brief note for his parents, explaining that he was working long hours at the museum and would be staying with a friend while he completed a work project at the museum. He handed it to me.

“I do appreciate everything that you are doing,” he told Brodie. “And you as well, Lady Forsythe. You are acquiring quite the reputation for solving crimes.” He continued to hold my hand for a moment longer, then laughed nervously.

“I do believe the situation is in good hands,” he added.

I retrieved my revolver as we left the holding area at Bow Street.

“The Mudger, Mr. Brimley, and now Mr. Howard Carter,” Brodie commented as we found a driver. “Ye do seem to have a way with them.”

I looked up with some surprise.

“Ye have them fallin’ at yer feet, including the hound. And the worst of it is, ye seem completely unaware.”

“Whatever is your meaning?” I replied with wide-eyed innocence.

“Ye use yer woman’s charms, as ye did on that poor lad.”

“Woman’s charms?” I replied with more than a little amusement.

“Ye know well enough wot I’m speakin’ of. Yer intelligent, well-spoken, and caring in yer way.”

“Why, Mr. Brodie, I do believe that you are jealous.”

He scoffed at that. “I dinna have time, and there has never been a woman who deserved it.”

“Never?” I asked, most curious.

That dark gaze met mine. His expression was equally dark and quite wicked.

“Well, perhaps one .” He conceded. “What of yer visit with her ladyship? Was she able to provide any information regarding Sir Nelson?”

I managed to control my amusement over his last comment about my ‘woman’s charms.’

“It does seem there was some difficulty in Sir Nelson’s family when he decided to pursue his explorations in Egypt. There is his sister and his nephew, who were apparently put out about it and the fact that most of the family wealth went to finance his explorations over the past several years.”

“There might be something there,” Brodie commented. “It could be useful to pay a visit to the man. Do ye have the nephew’s name and whereabouts?”

I acknowledged that I did.

Before leaving Bow Street, Brodie asked to see the dagger that had been retained as evidence in the murder.

“Back at it, Mr. Brodie?” an older constable inquired as we were shown to the room where evidence was stored. It was much like a locker area at the German gymnasium, with rows of locked drawers in a cabinet that filled one wall.

“In the matter of a private investigation,” Brodie replied as Constable Hughes checked the log book, then escorted us to the far wall where more rows filled another cabinet. Each drawer was labeled with the case name and number.

“More’s the pity. It’s different here since you left, but Mr. Graham is a good man,” he added of the Interim C.I. He pointed to the cabinet

“All of this will be moved to the new building when it’s ready. And here it is, Lawrence, case number 287.” He opened the drawer and removed the gold dagger with a cloth wrapped around the handle. He laid it on a nearby counter for us to inspect.

“I’m usually required to stay when someone makes such a request so there’s no tampering with evidence. However, in your case, Mr. Brodie, I’ve no concern in that regard. You know your way about these things.”

With that Constable Hughes left us to our examination of the dagger.

It was approximately ten inches long, made entirely of gold. Intricate figures and script had been etched into the gold handle, with traces of dried blood on the blade. I recognized some of the characters from my travels to Egypt.

“It appears this might have been part of the funerary items to protect Ramses on his journey into the afterlife.”

A highly valuable artifact that had been left behind by the murderer. What did that tell us?

When we returned to the Strand, Mr. Cavendish had received a message for Brodie. He was to meet the illusive Mr. Brown that afternoon at a designated location.

“Where would that be?” I asked, uneasy that the message had been specific that Brodie was to go alone.

“He’s not of a mind for me to share that.”

I didn’t usually ask for specifics in such things, but I was uneasy with the arrangement.

“I told ye, I am far more valuable to him alive. And if he has information that might be useful, it would help resolve the case. Young Mr. Carter would be appreciative of that,” he pointed out.

He kissed the back of my hand as he prepared to leave for his meeting.

“I’ll be careful as church mice. And yerself?”

I might have pointed out that I wasn’t worried about the mice. I didn’t.

“Do you have your revolver?” I casually inquired.

He patted the front of his coat. “Always.”

“I’ll contact Sir Anthony.” I commented as I waited with him for a driver. “He may be able to tell us if there was some incident, or a conversation he had with Sir Nelson that might tell us something.”

“Be careful,” he told me as a driver arrived. “It’s already late in the afternoon.”

“I’ll take the hound with me.” That brought the usual reaction, although I must admit that after our previous inquiry case it did seem that Brodie was coming around to the possibility that Rupert was well worth his keep. I had even caught him slipping the hound a biscuit one evening after we’d eaten at the public house.

And once more, he told me. “Be careful and dinna be about late.”

I assured him that I would on both counts.

After he had set off, I had Mr. Cavendish take Howard Carter’s note for his parents to the local messenger office. I made a telephone call from the office to the auction house at St. James with the hope of meeting with Sir Anthony Fellowes.

“Such a dreadful situation,” he responded. “I am expecting a delivery and cannot leave until it arrives,” he explained.

I assured him that I was pleased to meet with him at the auction house. I left a note for Brodie and locked the office door.

Mr. Cavendish waved down a driver as I reached the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs. He did manage to navigate most efficiently on that rolling platform after losing both legs some years before in an accident aboard a cargo ship.

He was also the stalwart companion to Rupert the hound. Together they navigated the streets of London quite handily.

“Is there a message for Mr. Brodie when he returns?” he now inquired.

“I left a note on the desk upstairs. I’ll return here after my meeting,” I explained.

“He’ll not like you going off on you own, miss,” he reminded me, like the good friend he had become.

“It’s still early in the day, Mr. Cavendish. I have the revolver he gave me; I’ll be quite safe.”

I whistled for the hound.