by Splendid You
“Why did you put ‘J.’ instead of Julia?”
“Remember I didn’t know you when I wrote these. I didn’t want to embarrass the sweet elderly woman I thought you to be by splashing your name about.”
“That was thoughtful. They look very nice indeed.”
For an hour, Julia followed Simon around as he expounded on his theories of life three thousand years ago. Many of his ideas she’d read in his letters, but she found it thrilling to be able to ask questions and argue contrary views on the spot, as it were, instead of waiting weeks for an exchange of letters.
“Would you care to try on one of these bracelets?” he asked while standing over the case of An-ket’s jewelry.
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to damage it. Besides, I don’t really care for jewelry. A ring or a brooch is well enough, but anything more than that is overdoing it, I find. My aunt loves to go clanking around wearing five beaded necklaces, two cameos, three bracelets per arm, and at least one ring for every finger—everything, in fact, that can be strung or hung on a person. And you should see her when there’s a special occasion!”
“Did your mother like jewelry?”
“I think my father liked her to wear it. When he started making a great deal of money—they were quite poor when they first were married—he gave her a fine string of pearls. I don’t think she wanted anything else.”
“From what I discovered in the tomb, I don’t believe An-ket would be of the same opinion. Even these few pieces show, I think, that she was very fond of adornment. Most Egyptian ladies were, it seems.”
“Then you do believe the tomb was robbed at least once? Your last letter seemed to indicate some doubt.”
“Didn’t I tell you about the sandal mark?”
“Not that I recall.”
“We found a smashed chest that held jars of unguent. All but one had been stolen, but that one had spilled, making a pool. It was quite hard and black as tar by the time we arrived, dried out and changed into something utterly different, but it must have been sticky when the robbers first broke the jar. One of them stepped in it, because a woven-sandal print was impressed into the mass.”
“Amazing! To think that one could see such a thing. As though we were traveling back in time to that very moment.”
“I confess, I felt something of that when my reis pointed it out to me. At first, it looked so fresh that I thought one of his men must have done it, but he showed me that the splotch was as hard as a stone. Entirely impervious to new impressions.”
“Did you bring it with you? The shape and form of the weaving might tell us much.”
“I think that in order to remove it we’d have to heat the substance, which would destroy the print. It’s still there, on the floor in one corner.” He sighed. “Besides which, people are not interested in the footprints of tomb robbers. Only in the gold. Frankly, I think the footprint has more to tell us than all the bangles and beads in the world. But my opinion is in the minority.”
“There’s a minority of two, then. When I do reach Egypt, will you show me where you found these things?”
“You are still determined to go, then?”
“If I must, I shall submit to undertaking a Cook’s tour. They at least show one the most important monuments, if in the wrong chronological order.”
“I pity your tour guide, if he tries to teach you anything.”
“Why should you? I am willing to learn from any source willing to teach me.” For some reason—perhaps it was the look in Simon’s eye—-Julia felt suddenly self-conscious, as though she’d unwisely said something with a double meaning.
Just then, someone rapped on the door, pushing it farther open even as he knocked. “I wondered why this door was open. Hello, Archer.”
“Good morning, Keene. All’s well, I trust.”
“Yes, fine. Just came in for a last look round, did you?”
The young man who had come in had so schooled his features to be cool and faintly amused that he might very well have been said to have no expression whatsoever. He hardly glanced at Julia, focusing instead on Simon. She couldn’t tell whether he meant to be polite, by ignoring a strange lady until introduced; or rude, by ignoring a lady who might not be a lady at all. Many people might frown on a young woman remaining alone with a man for any length of time, no matter how little patience she had with such conventions.
Simon performed the introductions.
“Ah,” Mr. Keene said, taking Julia’s hand. “The marvelous Miss Hanson. I’ve heard so little about you.”
“Then we are even. I’ve heard nothing about you.”
He bowed as though she’d complimented him. “I have the honor to be secretary, and general dogsbody, to Sir Walter Armbruster, one of the guiding hands of this establishment.”
“Which means, I suppose, that you do all the work and he gets all the credit.”
Mr. Keene grinned at her and she saw why he’d cultivated a mask of imperturbability. When he smiled, he looked like a particularly mischievous twelve-year-old boy. He said to Simon, “She’s as perceptive as you said, my dear fellow.”
He bowed again over the hand he’d held all this time. “I’m enchanted, Miss Hanson.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir,” she answered, tugging free.
Keene asked, ‘Tell me, what do you think of Archer’s finds?”
“Magnificent. This exhibition, combined with his theories on the religious beliefs of the ancient Egyptians, will rock the fuddy-duddies back on their heels.”
“I wish I could quote you to the newspapers.” He glanced about him. “But regrettably, the fuddy-duddies can read. Speaking of newspapers, my dear Archer, have you seen the morning editions?”
“No, I didn’t have time this morning,” Simon said. “I suppose they’ve all carried stories about that nonsensical seance at Dr. Mystery’s last night.”
“You suppose correctly, but that story is somewhat eclipsed by the most recent developments. Permit me to congratulate you, sir. Dr. Mystery has announced his withdrawal from the spook business, effective without delay.”
“What?”
“I have the newspaper in my office if you’d care to see them. Miss Hanson, would you honor me by taking tea?”
Chapter Twelve
Simon read the closely printed columns of his third newspaper with the aid of Mr. Keene’s magnifying glass. “This is impossible,” he said, turning over a leaf. “Nothing happened at that gathering last night to warrant this reaction.”
“Something must have happened,” Mr. Keene said, pushing a cup of tea across the table to him.
Simon shook his head. “I did not expose him as a fraud, nor offer proof of his trickery. I merely assured myself that he was resorting to tricks, including burning a mild form of a drug I know from the East in order to disorient his ‘clients'"
Julia looked up from the newspaper she was reading. “Then why is Dr. Mystery suddenly throwing his hand in? Unless he is afraid you will find out more than you have already.”
“I suppose that could be it. Though I did not present much of a threat last night. I had the feeling he was laughing at me.”
Julia realized that she’d never met a man before who could admit without excuse that someone might laugh at him. She could only respect him for it. “Perhaps he saw that you recognized the drug? Surely drugging people against their will must be against some law. Perhaps he is afraid you will give him in to the hands of the police. Even a minor charge laid against him would spoil his ability to draw in the credulous.”
“I think you have too high an opinion of the intellect of the people I saw there last night. They were not the kind to disavow their beliefs for anything less than absolute and unarguable proof. If that. Mystery must know I don’t have anything near that convincing, so why throw in his hand so soon?”
“True, he could go on bilking people until that proof was in your hands. How much did he charge to contact spirits, anyway?”
“You wrong hi
m,” Simon said with a sneer, throwing aside the paper. “He never asked for money, not directly. One of the ladies present last night—obviously a confederate—went on and on about Dr. Mystery’s expenses and how unselfishly he asks for no payment. Of course, donations are always welcome.”
“I wish I could feign dudgeon at Mystery’s tactics, but I fear they are the same as those we employ here at the museum to open the hands of our patrons.”
Julia, who liked Mr. Keene better the longer she spent in his company, said, “But for a much nobler purpose.”
“Perhaps, perhaps. Welt, whatever the reason for Dr. Mystery’s having so suddenly decamped, it’s a fine thing for the museum. The publicity will bring eager hordes through our gates, which is all to the good when it comes time for dunning our patrons.” He handed Julia a teacup, for he was being “mother” on the principle that it was wrong to ask a guest to work. “Let us drink a toast to Mr. Simon Archer. Confusion to his enemies!”
“Hear, hear,” Julia said, lifting her cup in salute.
“I’m the one that’s confused,” Simon said. His eyes went to Julia. “About so many things.”
For some reason, she felt herself flush. She set down her teacup, murmuring, “So hot! I shall take cream after all, Mr. Keene.”
“By the way,” Mr. Keene said, pouring a dollop into her cup. “What do you think of the goings-on in Egypt Hall last night?”
“Hmmm? Did something unusual happen?” Simon asked in a casual tone. Julia felt that Simon was still looking at her, this time with his brilliant blue eyes as hard as sapphires. Yet when she dared glance in his direction, he seemed to have eyes only for the swirling tea that he was stirring.
“Why, yes. I didn’t think that I... you really don’t know?”
“I haven’t heard a word about anything unusual.”
“Douglas told me about it—actually called on me at my lodgings at an unearthly hour this morning, fairly panting with excitement and anxiety.”
“Douglas?” Julia said wonderingly.
“Our best watchman, Miss Hanson. Terrified he’d be sacked, poor fellow. Of course, I told him none of it was his fault. One cannot blame a man for failing to prevent acts of God. Whom, by the way, I thank for your escapade last night, my dear fellow.”
“But... Keene ...”
“No, I say it in good faith. If the newspapers got hold of this—especially after Dr. Mystery’s folderol about your mummy’s displeasure over her ‘violated’ tomb ...” Mr. Keene raised expressive hands high in exaggerated horror. “Well! That kind of publicity we don’t need.”
“ ‘Got hold’ of what?”
“Oh. Didn’t I say?”
Both Julia and Simon shook their heads. Julia was bracing herself to hear that she’d been seen leaving with Mrs. Pierce. Perhaps this cozy little tea was really the bait in a trap.
“First, let me assure you, Archer, that no damage was done.”
“Damage?”
“Not even the smallest clay hippopotamus was so much as cracked. It missed all the significant specimens, by what I can only term a miracle!”
“It? What’s ‘it’?” Simon pronounced each word with force, as though to compel Keene to be less murky in his suggestions.
Keene bowed before Simon’s intensity. “A bolt of lightning was attracted by the metal grids over the windows. It broke the window and left a huge scorch mark on the floor. One of the jewelry cases was smashed but nothing, as I say, was broken.”
“Lightning?” Julia said, for Simon sat back, drained even of amazement, his handsome mouth hanging open ever so slightly.
“Yes,” Mr. Keene said. “It was a mercy the whole building didn’t burn down. It’s all the marble, you know. Hard for a flame to gain any headway. But think if it had struck a mummy! They’re highly flammable.”
“Yes. Didn’t they once use mummy wrappings to burn as torches to light the tombs?”
Mr. Keene and Julia both glanced at Simon. He was frowning, as he found a flaw in the story. He said slowly, “I saw nothing of this when I was there this morning.”
“Naturally not. I realize we of the museum have a reputation for being dilatory—after all, there’s little point in rushing about foolishly when dealing with thousand-year-old pieces—but, by jingo!, when there’s a need for haste, we shall never hold back!”
“Bravo!” Julia said.
Mr. Keene ducked his head like an embarrassed schoolboy. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make speeches. It’s an easy matter to explain, old boy. As soon as Douglas told me, I came to see for myself. Then I sent a messenger hotfoot to the builders. They had a few squares of marble left over—always quarry a couple over in case of accident— and they sent them over directly with the right men for the job. For a wonder, they even had the proper tools. No sending back to the shop for this or that.”
He took a sip of tea. “They had the old pieces levered out and the new ones laid before you could say Jack Robinson. Only difference is the new ones ain’t as highly polished, but I doubt anyone will notice. They’ll be too dazzled by the display.”
Simon said, “And the window? And the display case?”
“There’s a glazier’s not two streets over. It’s a small shop but I try to throw our business their way when I can. They were the ones who replaced the glass in the skylight that time those birds landed on it. Did a first-rate job of it in next to no time.”
“Birds?” Julia echoed. “How could birds break a skylight? Unless ...”
“Nothing gruesome,” Mr. Keene hastened to say. “Merely that a whole flock of pigeons, Miss Hanson, decided that our main skylight was the perfect roosting spot. Feldspar—the glazier—estimated there must have been nine hundredweight of pigeon on it, more or less, and, of course, it was never meant to bear such a burden.”
“How ever did he arrive at that figure?”
“Approximately four hundred and fifty pigeons times the average weight of one bird.”
“Ah, of course. And a glazier must necessarily be fond of making measurements and calculations.”
“A good thing it was not my father’s profession,” Mr. Keene said. “I am perfectly hopeless with figures.”
Simon seemed to have recovered from his stupor. “I suggest you don’t let Sir Walter overhear that confession, Keene. Don’t you balance the office accounts?”
“I try,” Mr. Keene said with a rueful shake of his head. “I can but try. More tea, Miss Hanson?”
Julia drank tea with the two men, her heart relieved by Mr. Keene’s story of the lightning strike. It fit the facts so well, in part through its truth, and left out so much that was awkward. Simon would have to accept that lightning had struck last night. Now he had only to believe her about the burglar and he would be two-thirds of the way to believing her about An-ket. For if so much of her story was proven, then it must follow logically that the rest would be true as well.
“I beg your pardon,” she said during a break in the men’s conversation. “Mr. Keene, do you have the address of one Mrs. Pierce? I believe she’s been a charwoman for the museum for many years, beginning with the last premises.”
“Mrs. Pierce? Pierce?” Mr. Keene drummed his fingers on his somewhat prominent chin. “It sounds familiar....”
“Perhaps you have her name in your files?”
“I suppose I must, but why ... ? I beg your pardon; it’s none of my business.”
Julia smiled and explained, shading the truth a trifle. “I met her yesterday and discovered she does mending. I need someone reliable to do some work for me while I am in London and thought she would do.”
“Ah! Of course. Pardon me a moment. I’ll just ask my clerk.”
Julia took a biscuit and sat back to nibble on it. Simon hissed at her from across the table. “Why do you want that address?”
“I want you to interview her. Ask her some questions.”
“I asked her questions last night at your request. She knew nothing.”
“Perhaps she d
idn’t want to speak then. She might have been afraid of getting into trouble. But you could ask her about the lightning, at least, and more about the burglar. Then you’d know I was telling the truth about that, at least.”
He sighed, exasperated. “Very well.” He lowered his voice as he glanced toward the door through which Keene had departed. “I didn’t like you lying to Keene. He’s a good fellow.”
“I couldn’t have very well said, ‘I want the charwoman’s address so I can ask her what it was like to be possessed by the spirit of a dead Egyptian priestess,’ now could I? Be practical.”
“Lies are so often practical, Miss Hanson. It is no excuse for telling them to all and sundry.”
“Do you never lie, Mr. Archer?”
“I make every effort to stand on the truth. Truthfulness is the cornerstone of science.”
“Probably very true. But it is the headstone of polite society. Shh. He’s coming back.”
Julia thanked Mr. Keene for the tea. “You’ve been very kind.”
“Nonsense,” he answered, spluttering a little. “Everything is none too good for Archer’s muse.”
Mr. Keene threw Simon a waggish glance. “Isn’t that right, old boy? That’s what you called her?”
“Is it?” Julia asked.
“I may have said something of the sort.”
“My dear, he raved about you. I’m delighted for his sake that you aren’t the elderly lady he told me about, hut then, he always has been the luckiest devil of my acquaintance. Just look at how he discovered his marvelous find.”
“Oh, he didn’t need a goat to find me, Mr. Keene. I sought him out.”
Mr. Keene heaved a sigh that would have seemed extreme coming from the chest of a consumptive Romantic poet. “As I say, a lucky devil.”
Simon, his face a slightly ruddier tan, held the door open for Julia. With another mischievous look, Mr. Keene bowed over Julia’s hand and even pressed a kiss onto her glove. “If there’s anything I can do for you while you are in London, Miss Hanson, please don’t hesitate to call upon me. I’m sure Sir William would feel the same. The resources of the museum are at your disposal.”