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

by Robert Colton

  “So, Mrs. Stayton, you are from America. I suspect you are accustomed to these big cars,” Sandy said, his head turned so that he could converse with us.

  “Why yes; in fact, my father has a motorcar much like this,” I responded.

  “You don’t say; a driver too?” Sandy asked, showing his skill at making small talk.

  “Oh yes. I can’t imagine my father attempting to drive his way about. He’s a brilliant doctor, but he always seems preoccupied.”

  Wanting to add to the conversation, Lucy said, “Her father may not drive, but she has become quite the driver herself.”

  “You don’t say. Is that a fact?” Sandy waved about and said, “I haven’t driven in years. I never know which lane is for normal cars, giant Packards, or donkeys.” He ended his comment with a little chuckle.

  The narrow road, choked with gritty sand in the air, was densely populated. Stall after stall lined the avenue, if you could call it that. Foods of all sort were sold from carts of various condition and upkeep. A throng of people waded just inches away from the moving sedan, inspecting melons, dried fruit, and strange objects I knew not what.

  In addition to the many natives, I was surprised by the amount of non-locals who strolled about the street; Luxor seemed a great melting pot of peoples.

  Sandy asked, in his pleasant-natured way, “Now, I am a bit confused. Mr. Farber said that you two would be arriving at the airport, two days ago. Then I received a message that you had caught a ship from France and were headed to Alexandria, with intent of traveling by train to Luxor.”

  Lucy and I exchanged quick glances, and she spoke only after I shrugged. “Yes, well, we had a change of heart.”

  Sandy gave a chuckle and said, “I don’t care for biplanes; crazy contraptions. A big ship, that’s the way to travel. Did you have a pleasant crossing?”

  Again, Lucy and I exchanged quick, nervous glances. She responded, “We had the finest accommodations offered on the particular ship. The trip was uneventful.”

  “Which ship were you on?”

  This question caused Lucy and me to look away from each other before she replied, “The S.S. Amiemois.”

  Sandy gave a harrumph and said, “Never heard of her.”

  I was not surprised by his lack of familiarity with the vessel, as it was a cargo ship. Lucy and I had shared a very tight cabin that only the two best of friends could have managed in. The ship was quite small, and the rough seas had not been kind to poor Lucy’s disposition. In short, I doubted that we would ever speak of the experiences, unless pressed to recall the dreadful passage.

  Sparing Lucy the effort of a pleasant reply, I responded to Sandy’s comment. “You would prefer one of the flying contraptions over this particular ship.”

  Sandy gave a friendly chuckle and let the subject rest. “Righto. Well, I suppose I should start earning my keep, ah?” He pointed to the west. “Across the Nile there, see the hills?”

  I nodded my chin. What he called hills looked like mountains to me.

  “Those are the Theban Hills, and there is where you will find The Valley of the Kings. Beyond that is the dessert, and no man’s land. Of course, you find some little monasteries and bands of nomads, but that’s nothing the tourists care to see.”

  The handsome man gave a flourish of his hand to the east. “And here is Luxor. Back in the days of the pharaohs, the city was called Thebes. Temples, palaces, this was the place to be.”

  Lucy remarked, “I thought Cairo had been the capital.”

  “What’s that? Oh, yes, well, Memphis was the old-old capital. That all changed in the Eighteenth Dynasty. Invaders took over Egypt, but with the help of the priests in Thebes, these foreigner usurpers were driven off.”

  Lucy smiled and replied, “How interesting.”

  Approaching the Nile, we arrived at a large hotel situated on the edge of the East Bank of the famous river. Constructed some twenty years ago, the place was quite grand. Faced with white limestone, the building was dazzling in the late afternoon sun. The bulk of the hotel ran parallel to the river, and at the center was a horseshoe-shaped double staircase that led from the street level to the second floor. This effect reminded one of a French palace. At each end of the main building were short wings, housing many rooms.

  Sandy pointed at the hotel and said, “The Winter Castle, Luxor’s modern marvel.”

  The motorcar came to a stop, and a porter opened the sedan’s door. I was surprised that the young man was not a native. He gave me a little bow and said, “Bonjour.”

  The French greeting was quite simple, but always fearful of butchering the language, I replied, “Good afternoon.”

  Sandy gave a chuckle and said, “Righto, the Winter Castle staff all speak English; seems they want to put us dragomen out of business!”

  Lucy and I ascended the stairs, and I was surprised by how mild the temperature was. So many people in London spoke of winter travel to Egypt to enjoy the warmth. I dare say on my first afternoon in Luxor, the temperature was no more than sixty degrees; of course, compared to the grey winter days in England, I suppose that was warm.

  Entering the hotel lobby, I was taken aback by how decidedly European the décor was. A guest would scarcely realize he was in Egypt by the look of the place. I had hoped not for opulence, but rather exoticness.

  Lucy looked about the grand staircase and bright white walls, which were crowded with wainscoting, and remarked, “How lovely.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” I replied agreeably.

  Sandy was standing at the reception desk, explaining who we were, and a well-dressed fellow gave us a wave before ducking around the counter and racing toward us; he too was not an Egyptian.

  “Mrs. Stayton, it is our pleasure to have you and your friend as our guest at the Winter Castle. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant.”

  Sandy clarified that this Englishman was the hotel’s general manager; he then politely gave the fawning fellow the brush-off and said, “I suppose you two need a bit of rest…”

  “Actually, Sandy, I am eager to meet the expedition team,” I told him.

  He took his watch from his vest and looked at the time. “Righto; I say, you two ladies will want to change your attire and then meet me here at half past four. I’ll introduce you to the gang—sounds good, yes.”

  Lucy and I looked down to our kaftans, which had caused many an odd glance, and I replied, “Yes, we will do just that.”

  Before our departure from England, Lucy and I had thumbed through a great many issues of The Science and Archeology Chronicle Quarterly in search of photographs that might show us what female adventurers wore.

  With the help of our seamstress and a cobbler, Lucy and I devised a number of seemingly suitable outfits. Riding boots were made to fit us, but the soles were given more grip to allow us better footing for exploring tombs. We had several wool skirts of modest length made, with pleats that hid higher than normal slits, which would give us the ability to climb on and off camels with greater ease. We had a collection of practical, loose-fitting blouses to be worn under our special-made vests. As we had seen in pictures, our vests had a great many pockets, which I suppose would be handy if we found artifacts or clues. I even had a pocket for a little pearl-handled gun that Mr. Jack had forced upon me, although the object was really too heavy for the vest.

  Lastly, Mother Stayton had helped to create a bonnet for Lucy. One quarter helmet, one quarter a sun blocker, the rest was pure fashion, as the scarf that kept it in place was leopard print and three shortened peacock feathers jetted from the left side.

  I had no need of a bonnet. All kitted out, standing in front of the mirror, I looked at my reflection with some amount of pride. Xavier’s pith helmet rested upon my head just perfectly.

  My dear Lucy clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “You look perfect!”

  Ever so pleased with ourselves, we left our room and headed down the grand staircase.

&nb
sp; Catching sight of Sandy in the lobby, I noticed his eyes widen and his smile waver. Upon the last step of the stairs, I asked him, “What do you think?” with a flourish of my hands. I supposed that he saw few women who were properly attired for the West Bank.

  “Don’t you look … the part!” he said with a chuckle.

  Lucy and I gave a little bow, and then Sandy gestured not to the nearby exit, but toward a sitting room that was set for teatime.

  I was just about to tell him that we would dine after we returned from the Valley of Kings when I noticed an ensemble of people keenly watching us.

  Confusion clouded the polite smiles of the men who stood, one of whom crossed the space to take my hand.

  Sandy spoke rapidly. “Professor Kinkaid, may I introduce you to Mrs. Xavier Stayton.”

  Speaking with a lyrical English accent, the man replied, “How very nice to meet you at last.” I knew this statement was quite untrue.

  Alec Kinkaid was not quite fifty years old, but despite his salt-and-pepper hair and suntanned skin, he retained some element of youth about him. He kept a short beard, and close-cropped hair. Wearing tan trousers, white-and-brown wingtip shoes and an ivory jacket, he looked much more like a professional golfer than an Egyptologist.

  After a moment of supreme embarrassment, I replied, “Likewise.”

  Kinkaid gestured to a woman sitting on the opposite side of the settee he had risen from, “My wife, Martha.”

  Martha raised her cup of tea from the small plate she held in her other hand, as if toasting me. “Mrs. Stayton,” she said in a flat tone. Her accent was supremely posh.

  There was something unpleasant about Martha Kinkaid. Her black hair wasn’t the glistening shade of a raven’s feather, but rather the unreflective color of a well-used locomotive engine. The woman’s features were hard, and she wore heavy makeup that accentuated the sharp angles of her face. Wearing a black shirt with a high waist and black-and-white striped blouse with a man’s crimson tie, she reminded me of a German cabaret dancer. I was curious about her choice of attire. She seemed to be making a rather deliberate first impression.

  Professor Kinkaid turned to another fellow still standing and said, “This is Jacob Saunders; we call him my protégé, but I assure you, he’s every bit my equal.”

  Mr. Saunders was a tall, lean fellow of perhaps thirty years. Light brown hair, suntanned skin—he was a very handsome chap. As he reached out to take my hand, I noticed that the cuffs of his white shirt, under his threadbare brown suit, were worn and stained. So it seemed he was earning his keep.

  “Mrs. Stayton, it is just such a pleasure to meet you. Yes, a true honor. You don’t know what your generosity has meant to us.” The man’s voice was without accent, and I guessed that he came from the Midwest, like myself.

  The next introduction was to Arthur Fox, the journalist. He was a small man with delicate features. His red hair was oiled and parted down the middle, and he wore thick-rimmed glasses that made his eyes appear misshapen and insect-like. Arthur’s voice surprised me. I had read many of his magazine articles, and found his choice of written words to be smooth and flowing. However, his speech was choppy; he had a harsh Boston accent, and nasally pitch that made him a chore to listen to.

  I grasped his palm firmly and Mr. Fox gave me an odd look, as I shook his hand in the style of a man rather to the woman’s gentle shake he was expecting.

  Xavier had taught me this. My dear husband had a commanding presence, and when he shook someone’s hand, they knew it had been shaken. He had encouraged me to follow his example, as he said, “Take ’em off guard, my sweet little cinnamon stick. Don’t let them just give your tiny fingers a soft embrace; grab their palm and squeeze until they grimace while you shake them about like a greyhound thrashing a rabbit.”

  With a bit more enthusiasm than he had the other two gentlemen, Kinkaid next introduced me to the last fellow of the party. “And this is my old friend, Dr. William Smith.”

  A large and very genuine smile appeared on the doctor’s round face. He wasn’t overweight, yet he looked very puffy. Tipping his fedora, I could see that he was balding, and the top of his head was sunburned.

  Dr. Smith spoke with a pleasant, rural, English accent. “Mrs. Stayton, my benefactor, so nice to meet you.” He turned toward a plump woman with a beaming face, who leapt up from her chair to take my hand. “This is my wife, Wilma Smith.”

  She too was English, and speaking rather loudly, she said, “Wilma Smith, always been a Smith, even before I married Will; the village mocked us for being related, but we aren’t.” Her face then rested into a sort of paranoid smile, and her small, dark eyes went some time without blinking.

  It was my turn to introduce them to Lucy. “My dearest friend, Ms. Lucy Wallace.”

  Once more, a round of handshakes and pleasant greetings were said; Mrs. Kinkaid was just as aloof with Lucy as with me, and Mrs. Smith was just as awkward.

  Afterward, I asked, “What of the foreman, Hat Tem?”

  The group all looked to each other in surprise of my question before Sandy stepped in and said, “Other than the few locals who work as maids, in the laundry, or the grounds, you won’t see any people here who aren’t … well-to-do.”

  “Of course, he was here for the party,” remarked Wilma, her beady eyes twinkling, until her husband’s hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  The professor quickly said, “The locals are welcome; it is just a matter of …” He let his voice trail off.

  This seemed rather elitist, but I kept my response to myself. Instead, I took the seat offered to me, removed my hat, and said, “It is my fault that Lucy and I look rather foolish, I had thought we would be meeting you at Kamose’s tomb.”

  A polite chuckle was shared by the group. Professor Kinkaid spoke for the collective. “Oh, we didn’t want to subject you to that on your first day.”

  Sandy sat down, and as he poured me a cup of tea, he remarked, “Entirely my fault. I should have explained the situation better.”

  Arthur ran a finger along the brim of my helmet, which was now sitting on the table, and said, “What a fine pith helmet, Mrs. Stayton.”

  After a sip of my tea, I responded, “Thank you; it belonged to my husband.”

  There was a moment of silence. I had asked Mr. Jack to wire a message to Professor Kinkaid, requesting that he let it be known that questions regarding my husband’s death were unwelcome. I had vacillated about sending such a high-handed message, yet it seemed better to do so than spinning lie after lie when asked. Truth be told, I had run out of believable stories, and each fictional version was becoming more preposterous.

  Lucy, accustomed to redirecting conversation when need be, said, “This must be nice for you all, a break here at this lovely hotel, rather than spending all your time in the desert.”

  Several eyebrows knitted together, and a frown or two appeared before Professor Kinkaid said, “Actually, we all reside here.”

  Mrs. Smith added, “Not every night. Professor, there was many a night you spent in the tomb when the sarcophagus was found.”

  I noticed that as Mrs. Smith spoke, her eyes fell on Martha, who glared back at her.

  “I see,” was the only response I could muster as my eyes looked about the opulence of the sitting room.

  Professor Kinkaid gave me an awkward smile and said, “We take the boats moored just across the street from the hotel over to the West Bank every morning. We chose this hotel because it is the closest to the Valley of Kings. Mr. Farber saw to all the arrangements.”

  I replied, “Yes, I see.” After a sip of tea, I decided it was time to pounce. “And was Percy Huston also residing in this hotel?”

  Martha’s eyes dropped to her china cup, Jacob and Arthur looked to each other, and the professor, the doctor, and the doctor’s wife all spoke at once, “He was.”

  Yielding to the professor, the Smiths fell silent.

  “It’s the damnedest thing. Huston’s room was right next door to
Arthur’s. The morning after the party, he was gone.”

  Mrs. Smith blurted out, “Well, he really wasn’t gone. His belongings were in the room until that evening, so he must have come back to get them.”

  “Did he?” I asked, dryly, like an unconvinced sleuth.

  Mrs. Smith stole a quick glance at her husband and said, “Well, who else would have?”

  “An excellent question,” I remarked.

  Arthur Fox leaned forward from his seat and asked, “Is that why you are here, Mrs. Stayton, to find out what has happened to Huston?”

  “That and to see what became of King Kamose’s mummy,” I answered.

  Kinkaid’s protégé remarked, “I very much doubt that there is a correlation. Huston was on odd sort, a bit of a troublemaker. This time, he got himself in a pickle he couldn’t get out of and took the train to anywhere.”

  It struck me that Jacob Saunders’s words were rather rehearsed.

  Martha Kinkaid raised a petite sandwich to her lips, but before taking a bite, she said, “Mrs. Stayton, it’s such a shame to spoil our repast; come now, I’ve read a whodunit or two, you need to get us all alone and question us individually before you find out the dirty truth of the matter.” She smiled and then popped the morsel of food between her red-painted lips.

  A nervous chuckle was shared by the group, and I nodded my chin.

  Chapter Five

  Lucy and I slept like logs, exhausted by our journey. Still, we rose early and had a light breakfast.

  Gazing around the opulent café, Lucy remarked, “I am still surprised that the expedition team resides here. They are certainly living high on the hog.”

  Though her statement was true, it pained me that the only American expressions Lucy had learned from me seemed to all mention farm animals.

  “It does strike me as peculiar. In that novel with the little brainy detective, the archeologists all lived in tents near the dig site,” I said agreeably.