by Holly Webb
Unfortunately, she had then assumed that he was an international art thief, instead of an undercover policeman, but anyone could have made that mistake. After Maisie had helped Sergeant Grange to break the art thieves’ secret codes, he had been promoted to Inspector.
“Like the new office?” he asked proudly.
Maisie nodded, and tactfully didn’t point out that his office was narrower than the broom cupboard at Albion Street.
“Very nice! And we read about you in the newspaper this morning.”
Inspector Grange shrugged modestly. “Oh, they write a lot of humbug. It was a simple case. No need to make all that fuss.” But he was smiling to himself. “It had to be someone knowledgeable about ancient Egypt, you see. To paint all those strange messages. There weren’t that many suspects.”
Maisie gave a tiny sigh. “Are you absolutely sure you’ve got the right person?” she asked. She didn’t want to spoil Inspector Grange’s case, but she was convinced that he had the wrong man.
“Of course I am!” Inspector Grange glared at her. “Maisie Hitchins, don’t tell me that you’ve got inside information about this case as well!”
“Lord Dacre is a friend of the professor’s,” Maisie admitted. “And I’ve met Mr Travers. He’s so nice!”
“Lots of criminals are very charming,” the inspector snapped.
“Oh, I know, it’s just that…” Maisie shook her head. “It doesn’t feel right. He loved the Egyptian exhibits in the museum so much. He took me all round and told me about them, while Professor Tobin chatted to Lord Dacre. And the way he talked about them was so … so respectful, I can’t imagine him pulling the eyes out of the scarab, or throwing it into the river. He just wouldn’t do that.” She looked worriedly at Inspector Grange. “Poor Mr Travers. Are you really sure? You’ve got evidence?”
“Well, he hasn’t actually confessed. And we didn’t find the missing rubies in his rooms… But of course we have evidence, Maisie! Scotland Yard doesn’t make mistakes about that sort of thing,” Inspector Grange said irritably.
Maisie thought that he looked the tiniest bit worried, and he hustled her out of his office quite soon after. She wondered if she ought to tell him about the man in the tall hat that the little mudlark had seen – she couldn’t imagine Mr Travers in a silly hat like that. But that was just her feeling – and Inspector Grange didn’t seem to be in a mood to listen.
Knowing that Mr Travers had been arrested had suddenly made everything much more urgent. Maisie couldn’t bear to think of him shut up in a cell. But Inspector Grange was right – there just weren’t that many people who could have painted those hieroglyphic messages. It made sense that the burglary was an inside job – and Mr Travers was an obvious suspect, even if Maisie couldn’t think why he would have done it.
“Maybe I was wrong about him…” she muttered to herself, slowly climbing the stairs to the first floor. Her feet felt heavy. “I thought he was such a lovely man. But then, I suppose I did think Inspector Grange was an art thief, once.” She sighed. “I don’t want to believe it. That’s the problem. I’ll just have to try harder to find some evidence one way or the other,” she added, as she knocked on Professor Tobin’s door. She needed to find out more about the theft. Perhaps she could prove that it hadn’t been Mr Travers, somehow? That surely had to be easier than finding out who it had been…
“Travers?” Professor Tobin said disbelievingly, when she told him the news. “Nonsense! A very sound chap, I thought. Sensible, and a first-class brain.”
Maisie tried not to grin. It was lucky that Mr Travers had admired the professor’s work.
“I know,” she agreed. “I thought so, too. And he was so kind, showing me round the gallery. I don’t see why he’d do it! He liked Lord Dacre, I could tell, and he loved his job. He was as enthusiastic about the finds as Lord Dacre was. What good could it possibly do him to steal the scarab and then terrify his own employer?”
“But the police must have thought of that, Maisie…” Professor Tobin frowned. “They can’t have arrested him for no reason at all.”
“They must have some sort of evidence,” Maisie agreed. “But I’m not sure Inspector Grange was happy with it. He wouldn’t tell me why they’d arrested Mr Travers.” She looked at him hopefully. “Professor, I don’t suppose you feel like visiting Dacre House, do you? I thought that if I could look at the scene of the crime I might find some answers. And it would be ever so much easier if you came with me. I know you asked Lord Dacre to let me investigate, but I’m not sure he really believes I can help. I’ve a feeling that the servants might just send me away. Especially as Lord Dacre is so upset by everything that’s going on.”
Professor Tobin nodded. “We’ll go at once, Maisie. Run and fetch your coat, and then see if you can find a cab.” He bustled about, finding a pair of stout boots and a thick overcoat with a fur collar, and Maisie hurried to find her own warmest things and explain to Gran that the professor had asked her to go with him.
“Off on another educational visit, Maisie?” Gran asked her grimly. “Like the museum?”
“We’re going to Lord Dacre’s, Gran,” Maisie explained. “It’ll be very educational – full of Egyptian artefacts.” And thieves, she felt like adding. I’m sure the thief is someone from the house, but not Mr Travers.
“Oh, very well,” Gran murmured, impressed in spite of herself by Maisie visiting such a grand house again. “Behave! Don’t do anything unladylike!”
Maisie smiled. “I promise!” But she had her fingers crossed behind her back. Sometimes, detectives just had to be a little bit unladylike. If not downright deceitful. Maisie didn’t really like telling lies, but sometimes there was nothing else she could do.
“What are they doing?” Maisie murmured to the professor, as they got out of the cab. Two of Lord Dacre’s footmen were perched on those strange statues outside the house with buckets and cloths, scrubbing at the marble.
“They look like they’re riding on them.” Maisie tried not to giggle. But then she frowned as she noticed the red marks on the stone. “Oh, what if someone’s left another message?”
One of the footman clambered off the back of his sphinx and grumpily showed them into the house. Fincham the butler came hurrying to meet them, looking harassed.
“Good morning, Professor. Yes, yes of course. His lordship is in the library.” He trotted across the hall, beckoning them after him, and Maisie watched in surprise. When she had visited before, the butler had been so grand – he had seemed to glide everywhere instead of walking. Something had clearly upset him very much.
“I still can’t believe it,” Lord Dacre said sadly, as he came to shake the professor’s hand. “Travers! The police seem so sure. Oh, do sit down. Fincham will bring tea.” He waved them over to a sofa. “Yes, Travers is the last person I would have expected to betray me in such a dreadful fashion.”
“Exactly,” Maisie muttered.
“But Max saw him, you know,” Lord Dacre explained, shaking his head. “Poor chap didn’t say so at once. Said he didn’t want to believe it himself. He liked Travers, too! Besides, who was he to know why Travers was sneaking around in the middle of the night, he said. He thought perhaps Travers and I were working late. But then when the scarab was found so badly damaged, and the messages began to appear, Max decided he had to say something.”
Maisie glanced sideways at the professor. It all sounded very fishy to her. Surely in a police investigation, no one would be stupid enough to hold back that sort of evidence? Perhaps Mr Max Dacre just wanted to throw the police off the scent, Maisie thought. Inspector Grange had told her that the police were sure it was an inside job – and Max Dacre was inside, too…
“And then dear Isis admitted to me that Travers had been behaving very strangely,” Lord Dacre went on, with a huge sigh. “He wrote her a poem, apparently, and he kept picking flowers for her in the garden. She was forced to tell him that it must stop. She thinks maybe he stole the scarab because she made
him angry.”
Maisie blinked. She hadn’t seen any signs of Mr Travers mooning around after Isis when she had visited before. He had been far more interested in the buttered scones that they’d had for tea.
“And, of course, Travers is one of the few people who would be able to come up with those confounded messages that are being painted up all over the place. Did you see what’s been done to my sphinxes? Hieroglyphics all over them! They appeared the night before last – all the footmen have been trying to scrub the paint away, but it’s still there. Oh, good heavens, where is that tea?” Lord Dacre muttered. “I do apologize, the house seems to be upside down these days. What with Isis ill, and half the servants giving notice because they think we’re all cursed, it’s a wonder I ever get anything to drink at all.”
Fincham came in, looking rather flustered and carrying a tray. He was followed by a terrified young girl, who obviously wasn’t used to waiting on visitors. Maisie suspected she might usually be a scullery maid – her hands were very red and chapped as if she’d been washing up. The girl set her silver tray down on the table with a clang, and the butler actually shuddered before hustling her out of the room.
“I’m so sorry, my lord. The cook is having hysterics after reading about the latest painted message in the newspapers. Mrs Binns seems to think that a man with the head of a vulture is going to eat her heart, my lord.”
“Good Lord, Fincham,” Lord Dacre muttered crossly. “Where on earth do they get this nonsense from? Absolute rubbish. Vultures! She may be confused about Anubis, I suppose. A jackal – like a dog, you know. Perhaps I had better come and explain it to her.”
The butler flinched. “I don’t think that will be necessary, my lord,” he said firmly, and Lord Dacre sat back.
“No, perhaps not. Fincham, has anyone taken tea to Miss Dacre?”
“I will do that directly, my lord.”
“Shall I take it?” Maisie asked suddenly. “If you need to be downstairs seeing to the cook, Mr Fincham.”
The butler was so harassed he didn’t stop to think that Maisie’s offer was rather strange, which was exactly what she had been hoping for. She hurried down to the kitchens after him to fetch the tray, and noticed the scullery maid looking at a recipe book and sniffing into a handkerchief. Obviously she was going to have to cook the dinner and she was not going to be up to it.
“Tell that Fincham to order in from a hotel,” Maisie muttered in her ear, as she snatched up the tray and made for the stairs again. “His lordship won’t notice, will he?”
Fincham had told her that Miss Dacre’s room was down a passage to the right, but as Maisie came up the staircase and eyed the painted mummy case that was peering down over the banisters, she heard voices.
Whispers were hissing out from the passageway. It was amazing how many people didn’t realize that whispering was easier to hear than simply speaking in a low voice, Maisie thought, as she padded quietly across the thick carpet and left the tray on top of a stone chest. It was probably some sort of ancient coffin, she realized guiltily, but she didn’t think a tea tray would do it much harm.
She peered around the corner into the passageway, trying to listen in on the hissing voices.
“Pick out something really nasty…” It was a man’s voice, sounding excited.
“I’m not sure we should, Max, dearest.” That was Miss Dacre! Maisie leaned a little further around the corner of the passage. What on earth were they doing? And surely Miss Dacre was supposed to be desperately ill in bed, not having secret meetings in the corridor. Maisie could see them now. They were both standing by the wall, Isis in her nightgown with a shawl around her shoulders, and they were looking up at a framed papyrus.
“There, what does that say? Is it a curse?” Max asked, stabbing a finger at one of the painted symbols.
Miss Dacre frowned at it. “I’m not sure… It’s not that easy, you see. Sometimes the hieroglyphs are a letter, or … or an idea. Or a name. It’s not the same as English. I think that’s the name of a priest.”
“Well, can’t he curse your father? Do hurry up, Isis, I want to deliver another message to your father tonight.” He chuckled nastily, and Maisie shivered.
“I don’t see why we need to paint another message,” Miss Dacre protested. “If we frighten Papa much more, I’m worried it will affect his heart, Max. You know he’s not strong. But I suppose we must,” she added worriedly. “Poor Mr Travers. I shouldn’t have said what I did about him courting me… I know you said we had to, but I never thought they’d actually arrest him. I just wanted to confuse the police… We have to paint up another message to prove that it wasn’t him. But then, the doctors said Papa’s heart was terribly weak…”
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Max said airily. “Now please don’t worry, darling, everything—Drat it, what’s that?”
“The front doorbell! Oh, it’s probably Dr Epps, I think Papa said he would call this afternoon. I must get back to my room!” Isis fluttered away up the passage, and Max stormed down towards Maisie, cursing. Maisie hurriedly ducked back and snatched up the tray, standing at the top of the stairs as though she had only just come up them. Max pushed past her with hardly a glance.
“Stupid, witless girl,” he snarled, as he stomped down the stairs, and Maisie was quite sure that he didn’t mean her. He’d hardly noticed she was there. But he couldn’t be talking about Miss Dacre, could he? Not if they were in love. She stared after him, frowning. This was the most confusing case she had ever tried to solve. Gilbert Carrington, the private detective who was Maisie’s hero, was famous for saying that motive was the most important thing. That it all came down to why. And at the moment, Maisie had absolutely no idea why at all. She shook her head and walked along the corridor to deliver the tea to Miss Dacre.
“Good afternoon, Miss. I’ve brought your tea.”
“Who are you?” Miss Dacre asked, staring at Maisie in surprise. “Where’s Margaret?”
Maisie bobbed a little curtsey and stared at the floor. Isis obviously hadn’t recognized her, which was good. She didn’t know if Lord Dacre had mentioned her to his daughter. “I’m not sure where she is, Miss. I was just visiting, and Fincham asked me to bring this up. I think some of the maids have left. Something about a curse?”
Miss Dacre’s eyes widened a little. “Oh…” she said quietly. “Poor Margaret.”
Maisie wondered if this was something Isis hadn’t expected to happen. But just what had she been expecting? Maisie put the tea tray down on a little table by Miss Dacre’s bed, slowly, so she could look at everything else that was on there. Several bottles of medicine and pills. Some books. A thermometer in a glass beaker. Miss Dacre’s embroidery, which looked like it would be a fine lawn handkerchief when it was finished. She was stitching initials in the corner and a delicate border of leaves. Maisie recognized the stitching – she had seen Lord Dacre using a handkerchief just like that. So his daughter embroidered all his handkerchiefs for him?
Maisie smiled as she handed Miss Dacre her tea, but her mind was whirring. What did Miss Dacre actually want this strange plot to achieve? Only someone who loved their father would spend all their free time embroidering him handkerchiefs, surely? But she and Max were definitely behind the painted messages – Maisie had just watched them plotting the next one.
Were they both after the same thing, though? Miss Dacre seemed worried that they were going to scare her father too much, but Maisie had a feeling that frightening Lord Dacre to death might be exactly what Max wanted.
She handed Miss Dacre the sugar bowl, frowning to herself. Had Miss Dacre and Max stolen the scarab, too? Surely there weren’t two sets of conspirators in the house – but that meant the rubies could be somewhere here, in this very room… Maisie’s fingers itched to search it. But she couldn’t, not properly. She would have to be sneaky, instead. Where would Miss Dacre have hidden those ruby eyes? There were so many places – under her pillow? No, too dangerous, the maids would find them when they changed
the sheets. But Miss Dacre would want them close to her as she lay in bed.
Maisie’s eyes widened as she spotted a little china pot on the table, next to the thermometer. It was just the right size for a pair of ruby eyes…
“Shall I tidy up a little, Miss?” she asked, looking at the messy piles of books and newspapers next to the bed.
“Oh, yes…” Miss Dacre said vaguely, sipping her tea. “But don’t touch anything on the table, please.” Maisie was almost sure that she glanced at the tiny pot as she spoke. “Was that the doctor at the front door, do you know?”
“I’m not sure, Miss,” Maisie said, scooping up an armful of books. “Would you like me to go and see?”
“Yes… Yes, could you?” Miss Dacre was sitting up a little straighter, Maisie noticed.
Maisie bobbed her a curtsey, and walked to the door, pulling it almost closed behind her, but not quite. She stopped and peered back through the slit. Miss Dacre bounced upright as soon as she thought Maisie had gone and whipped the thermometer out of the glass beaker. Then she dipped it into the teapot and held it there.
Maisie shook her head disgustedly and retreated a little further down the passage, in case Miss Dacre should see her. She wasn’t surprised to learn that Isis was trying to deceive the doctor. After all, she had seen her in the passage, looking perfectly healthy. The nervous collapse was just an act. But it was making Maisie cross now. Miss Dacre might not be frightened and worried, but her father certainly was, and poor Mr Travers was in a police cell. Whatever strange reasons Miss Dacre and Max had for this conspiracy, they had to be stopped.
Maisie knew she didn’t have enough proof to convince Lord Dacre that it was his own daughter and cousin who had stolen the scarab. So she was just going to have make them prove it themselves.