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

by Robert Colton

  I considered his words and said, “What do you know of Percy Huston?”

  “Percy and Onslow went to school together. Onslow always had money, and Percy always needed money, typical artist. I think Onslow paid for every lunch, every pint, and a good deal of chocolates for Percy’s girlfriends. All the same, Percy looked out for Onslow, and he was good company. They made life easier for each other in their own ways.

  “There was a falling out; Percy isn’t just a photographer, he is an artist too. Percy thought Onslow would get his paintings hung in the museum. But it didn’t turn out that way. Percy had the knack, but not the creativity.”

  I asked, “Did Percy take photos for the museum?”

  Sandy rubbed his square chin. “Sounds right, yes; after they mended the fence, Onslow did what he could, sent a bit of cash the way of his friend.”

  “And here, Mr. Farber was doing him a favor by getting him this job under my employ?” I inquired.

  Sandy shrugged as the car came to a stop near the river’s edge. “The way Percy acted, it seemed he was doing old Onslow the favor.”

  We continued our conversation as Sandy led us to the waiting skiff. “Percy went missing after a party at the hotel; were you present?”

  “Me, at the party? Oh, no. I kept to a game of cards that night. Kinkaid was done with Percy; I knew better than to be around that lot.”

  “How is that?” asked Lucy.

  The good-natured man sighed and responded, as he helped both Lucy and me onto the boat. “This is all gossip, but I guess it is part of your sleuthing; someone else will tell you soon enough.”

  “Tell us what?” I pressed, most intrigued.

  “Mind you, Percy never told me this, just bridge table gossip, but they say he was pitching woo to Martha Kinkaid.”

  “What a scoundrel,” quipped Lucy.

  Sandy laughed. “Well, yes, but if there is a word for a female scoundrel, then you might attribute it to Martha.”

  The current caught the little boat, and I reached atop my head to steady my pith helmet. “Was the professor aware of this gossip?”

  Sandy shook his head up and down. “As I hear it put, the professor had his relics, and Martha had her passing fancies; they manage as best as they can with each other.”

  This was all very interesting. “What else has your friend Mr. Farber neglected to tell me?”

  Sandy gave me a big smile and asked, “Has he warned you about Hazel Keeley?”

  “No, should he have?” I retorted.

  Sandy chuckled and said jovially, “Everyone should be warned about Hazel. I’ll arrange for you all to meet at four.”

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “What does she have to do with the case?” inquired Lucy.

  Sandy’s smile widened before he answered, “She fancies herself to be an art dealer, but really, she is just a middle man between a shady deal now and then …”

  Nothing more could be said, as the instant the skiff came to a rest, a mob of ragged children appeared and began shrieking, “Baksheesh, Lady!”

  Chapter Seven

  Lucy tapped her sharp pencil against her notebook. “Depending on how the matter is all cleared up, we have quite the makings for a marvelous whodunit. What shall you call it?”

  I looked up from my sketch pad and responded, “Deception in the Valley of the Kings.”

  “Oh, how splendid.” Lucy peered over to my sketching. “What are you working on?”

  “Did you notice anything odd about the alabaster lid to the sarcophagus?” I asked.

  A puzzled look appeared on Lucy’s face, but then her eyes focused past me and she blurted out, “Egads, it is nearly four o’clock.”

  She rushed from my room through the door connecting it to hers, and we both changed into appropriate attire.

  With the sudden change in travel plans, we had enlarged our wardrobe while in the south of France, not yet realizing our ship was not equipped with a ballroom.

  Dressed for tea, I made a quick inspection of myself in the looking glass above the dresser. My eyes landed not on myself, but rather on the two framed photographs of Xavier. I could have sworn the portrait of him kitted out for golfing had been set to the left of the mirror, and the photograph of him dressed for riding had been to the right, however, they were vice versa. I could see no significance to this oddity, at the time.

  Afterward, Lucy met me in the hallway, dressed in a lovely jade blouse with matching skirt. A long strand of pearls dangled from her neck and were knotted just below her bosom. This contemporary style certainly suited my pretty friend.

  I wore a white blouse of simple design and a tan skirt, in keeping with the mood of our archeological adventure. However, I wore elegant satin heels in place of my boots, and a little ivory pill box hat rather than Xavier’s pith helmet.

  Sandy waited for us at the bottom of the stairs and ushered us to the Papyrus Court, just past the smoking room.

  Large windows looked out into a lush garden surrounded by fantastic palm trees, reedy-looking plants that grew tall around the trees, and exotic flowers that lazed in the warm breeze.

  There were many tables scattered about the opulent chamber, but I noticed one was positioned directly in front of the largest and tallest of the windows. The dark emerald green draperies, edged in golden tassels, appeared less like window décor, and more like stage curtains.

  Perfectly posed at this table, as if it were her stage, sat a striking woman. This was Hazel Keeley, of that I had no doubt. Her hair looked as if it were spun from gold. Contrary to the popular fashion of short bobs or square cut bangs, this woman’s hair flowed in heavy waves down to her shoulders.

  The dress she wore was simple and understated. Two small straps hung from her small shoulders and connected to pale gold crêped silk, which hung at a modest height below her long neck. One hand held a china plate, the other her cup of tea; the short gloves on her hands were also pale gold. Hazel’s skin was neither pale nor tan, but simply healthy.

  As Lucy and I crossed the gaily carpeted floor, Hazel’s delicate head rose on her lean neck. The woman smiled at me. I sensed a strange, curious anticipation from the regal figure.

  As she stood to greet us, it struck me that she was very much like a southern belle, until my eyes fell to the single adornment she wore. A narrow, black ribbon was tied around her long neck. The short loops of the bow fell to her left. Something about this accessory struck me as provocative. To the male sex, might this ribbon suggest a package to be unwrapped?

  I had nearly forgotten that Sandy was trailing behind until the sound of his voice startled me. “Mrs. Xavier Stayton, Ms. Lucy Wallace, may I introduce you to Mrs. Hazel Keeley.”

  “I am so happy to meet such a celebrity,” said Hazel, her English accent very crisp. I noted that she did not look at or even acknowledge Sandy.

  “Celebrity, I wish the press flattered me so,” I replied, taking the chair offered to me.

  To Lucy, our hostess said, “And I understand that you are her scribe. I believe the Egyptian god who looks over you is Thoth.”

  Attempting to sound well-informed, I retorted, “Is he not also the god of Truth?”

  Hazel’s friendly smile never wavered. “I believe you are correct.” She tilted her head to Sandy, and spoke to him as if he were her employee rather than mine. “Your wards are in good hands, Mr. Warner. I overheard Major Baxter mention he needed a fourth for bridge.”

  Sandy’s handsome face spun toward a nearby table of three men, and he mumbled, “If old Baxter is playing, then they need a third as well,” before sauntering over to join the gentlemen.

  “Do forgive me, Mrs. Stayton, but I believe I know a thing or two about you. Gossip is a commodity here at the Winter Castle. May I ask, will you write a mystery novel based on your time here?”

  I felt my cheeks grow pink. “Yes, most likely.”

  Hazel gave me a satisfied smile, took a sip of tea, and then said, “I would so enjoy playing a part in
the story.”

  Lucy, kindly, asked, “A heroine, perhaps?”

  Hazel’s eyes politely fell on Lucy for just a moment before gliding back to mine as she responded, “No. I want to be the red herring.”

  I said, “That is a relief; I already have a great many suspects.”

  Hazel nodded her head. “How true. A nervous, temperamental archeologist; his adulteress wife; the scheming protégé; a doctor with no past and his simpering, judgmental, wife; then there’s the journalist, always pouting and often lurking.”

  “What about my charming dragoman? I am not so sure that he can be trusted,” I added, hoping to sound as worldly as Hazel.

  The woman’s eyes left mine, and she peered at our guide for a moment. “No. Sandy is just what he seems; good-natured, a little lazy, but ever too happy to be bored.”

  I asked, “Tell me, Mrs. Keeley, what makes you a prime candidate to be the red herring?”

  Hazel took a little watercress sandwich and inspected it as she replied, “We can be frank amongst one another.” Her grey eyes went back to Lucy. “Of course, Ms. Wallace, you may be more sensitive to my boldness; after all, your friend and I are both widows.”

  I spoke for Lucy. “Fear not, she has a high tolerance for boldness.”

  Hazel nodded and said, “Well, then, I am sure you’ve been told about my relationship with Percy.”

  My face went blank, and I replied, “No, I had not. Your name was only mentioned to me late this morning. We were told that you are an art dealer. Sandy said that I would want to meet you.”

  The smile faded from Hazel’s face, for just an instant. “I see that my notoriety has faded upon your arrival. I would have thought that Alec had already pointed the finger at me to shield his wife.”

  I lifted my cup of tea and remarked, “I am sorry to disappoint you.”

  Hazel’s shrug was not as nonchalant as she had thought it was. “Well, then, where should I start?”

  “The shocking bits are the best introduction to the story,” I quipped with a smile that took the edge from my words.

  “Oh, yes, yes, you are right.” Hazel paused to take a deep breath and then said, “Percy Huston and I had been lovers.”

  Lucy momentarily choked on her tea. This seemed to please Hazel, as she paused before continuing, “Percy was a very handsome man, a typical brooding artist. He reminded me of my husband, the fiery sort—passionate.”

  I pointed out to Hazel, “You said that he was a very handsome man, rather than is.”

  “Yes, well, that is because he is most likely dead,” Hazel replied.

  I toyed with my cup and asked, “Why do say?”

  Hazel gave a little pout. “No one has spoken of me to you? Surely you know who my first husband was?”

  “I am sorry, but I do not.”

  Hazel sighed. “Well, I am sure you know who he was, Bertram Archer, his old school friends called him Archie.” She was satisfied by the exchange of glances that Lucy and I shared. “Yes, I thought you would know the name. I suspect he and your husband knew each other. I’m sure you know my former father-in-law, do you not?”

  I nodded my chin. “Why, yes, he’s the president of the London Museum of Art and Antiquities’ board of directors.”

  “Still? The board must run like an eastern parliament. Well, yes, and old man Archer never cared for me. Now stop me if you know this story, but Bertram and I were just getting serious when the old man invited me to lunch, a private lunch. He started off civil enough, but then he told me I wasn’t the right sort of young lady for his perfect boy. Would you believe that he offered me money to just up and leave London? A tidy sum at that, I’ll tell you.”

  Knowing that she would appreciate the question, I asked, “What did you tell him?”

  Ever so pleased with herself, she said, “I told him that I needed time to consider his offer. Then, straightaway, I told Bertram about his father’s proposal.

  “I went back to the old man and told him I had always wanted to see Egypt, and this suited him just fine. As agreed, once I arrived here in Luxor, his bank transferred his promised money to my bank, and two weeks later, Bertram joined me, just as he and I had agreed.”

  Lucy could not help but give a little gasp of shock. I gazed at the black ribbon about Hazel’s neck and was hardly surprised by her story.

  “What a romance,” I retorted, in a most emotionless tone.

  Hazel beamed with delight. “Oh, and it was. We loved each other, and we hated each other too. After we wed, the money went quickly. You can live well on the cheap here, compared to London, but the bills catch up all the same.

  “No matter, we were living life to the fullest, and it was grand; then poor Bertram got himself killed.”

  The smile vanished from her face completely, and for a moment, she even appeared quite broken until I spoke.

  “I am so sorry for you.”

  I would not dare ask what became of her husband. I so hated it when others put the question to me. However, Hazel wanted to tell us, I could see that when life came back to her grey eyes.

  “He was shot, shot dead. Bertram had taken a lover; she wasn’t the first, mind you. It was one of the things we fought about. The tramp’s husband came home early, found them in his bed, a local fellow, the well-connected sort. One bullet to the heart … my heart too, I must confess.”

  I could only repeat my words, the same ones that so often had been said to me, “I am so sorry for you.”

  Hazel reached across the table, and I put down my cup to take her hand. “You see, that’s why I know that Percy is gone. The fire, the spark, all the passion had died out between us, then he found himself attracted to Martha. They killed him, Mrs. Stayton, I know they did. I can see it in my mind’s eye. Alec ignored them at first, as was his custom, until he couldn’t take it.”

  “That’s quite a leap,” I replied.

  Hazel let go of my hand, reached into her purse, and took out a piece of folded stationery. “Not at all. There was a party on the evening before Percy vanished, a crazed sort of going away party for the mummy heading to London. Mind you, by this time the group was rather sick of each other.

  “I was surprised to be invited. All the same, I attended. The professor and I had done some business with each other, and we were on good terms. Martha and I played up as if we were old chums, but she was actually sour with me the entire night; she is not as sophisticated as she acts.

  “I had had enough of her, so I went out on the terrace, and Percy trailed after me. I didn’t want her to follow and cause a scene. I told him I was fine, I just needed a spot of fresh air. He knew I was lying, but he respected me. Before he left, he gave me the jacket he was wearing; there had been a chill in the air.”

  Hazel handed me the folded letter. I shook it open and read it aloud for Lucy’s benefit.

  “My Darling, I think of you night and day. My soul aches for you. We must be together, tonight.”

  Hazel remarked, “That must be a note from Martha. If the two did in fact meet, then what became of Percy?”

  “Have you shown this to anyone else?” I asked.

  Hazel gave a slight shrug. “There has been no one else to show. I thought of sharing it with Arthur Fox, the journalist, but I thought better.”

  “Why?” asked Lucy.

  “He’s an odd sort of fellow. I don’t feel entirely comfortable around him. Percy had a soft spot for him; he’d taken him to the socials and dances, tried to teach him how to pitch woo to the young ladies who come here from England hoping to nab a husband.

  “They do that, you know. The ne’er-do-wells pack their little darling girls on steam ships, all third-class, with a stop in Paris to get fine fashion on the cheap. They spend the winter here in Luxor or in Cairo, put up in some economical hotel, or even better, with some distant relative. The girls loiter at the fine hotels for tea and dances, they frequent the polo matches and the tennis courts, what have you.

  “Better than when I was a g
irl, I suppose. Boring men in their finery, standing in the vestibule, chatting until they might be privileged to an invitation to tea, no—that wasn’t for me.”

  Once Hazel fell silent, I asked, “Were you not the least bit jealous of Martha?”

  The woman shook her head. “No. You see, like I said, Percy and Bertram were cut from the same cloth. Once the thrill, the passion went stale, I knew it was time to be done with him.” She pointed a finger at me and said, “And that is what makes me a fine red herring, Mrs. Stayton, because no one will believe me.”

  Once our meeting came to a polite conclusion, Hazel told me that I could keep the note. Lucy and I stood from the table, but oddly, Hazel remained, as if she would stay on to hold court.

  Sandy jostled the table he was seated at and, in a haphazard manner, tossed his cards down, saying, “Righto, a shame we weren’t playing gin-rummy; with this hand, I might have won.”

  In two long strides he was beside us, and rather loudly, he asked, “What did you think of the resident Jezebel? I hear that’s what Mrs. Smith calls her.”

  I hesitated until we were in the hall to respond. “She’s quite a character.”

  “I’ll say! What gall, but she’s made good of it. Hasn’t stepped foot out of this hotel in three years,” Sandy said, sounding rather amazed.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Lucy.

  “The bet!” said Sandy.

  I asked, “What bet?”

  Sandy stopped in his tracks. “I’m surprised she didn’t tell you about it; she’s quite proud of herself.”

  Becoming a tad impatient, I said, “Then I am sure she would be pleased if you elaborated.”

  “Righto, well, this is what I know of the story: After her first husband, poor Archie, got himself shot to death, Hazel didn’t waste much time. Archie left her some artwork, pinched from his father, and a note for a few months’ back rent. She married some old sod right off. What do you know, the fellow choked to death on a piece of lamb at a dinner party a month after the wedding. I have a friend who was there, played witness to the shocking scene.