"Very well, very well. It doesn't matter." He reached into the crate and pulled out a small golden medallion. "Here, take a look at this." He held it up for Pearson to see.
"Was the—" he paused, "the late gentleman wearing this, sir?"
"At one time, apparently. Now it's just lying beside him in the box. I found a similar medal in the other box I opened. Think it's worth anything?"
Pearson shrugged. "I'm no expert on such things, but I would assume it has some value. I tend to think, however, that its presence in the crate with the other object would make it valuable more as part of the same sale item than as a separate piece."
Roderick nodded dejectedly. "Probably correct. I don't suppose there's really any point in opening the rest of them, do you?"
Daring to hope for the best, the solicitor eagerly agreed. "Oh, I'm sure there isn't, Master Roderick. I think we had best just proceed as originally planned." He pointed at the briefcase which he had leaned against a Byzantine icon. "I do have the price offers and the item numbers, if you would like?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Roderick said, remembering why they had begun to ascend to the attic in the first place. "Well, let's get to it."
"I took the liberty of bringing the list of insurance amounts on each item as well, for purposes of comparison."
"Oh, they're all insured, are they?"
Somewhat taken aback at Roderick's lack of practicality, he nodded. "Of course they are, sir. Everything of value is insured."
"How comforting." Pearson could not tell if Roderick was being sarcastic or simply honest in his ignorance. He chose to assume the latter.
They worked their ways through the lists for well over an hour. Pearson would read off the item number from the insurance list and the amount for which it was insured; Roderick would search about for the object so numbered. Realizing the inefficiency of this procedure, they soon switched roles. Roderick would read off the item number from the object itself, and Pearson would leaf through the pages in an attempt to find it.
The names and descriptions rolled off like a museum inventory, which is what in a sense it was. Gauguin, Holbein, Durer, busts of the Caesars, armament from the Wallenstein army in the Thirty Years War, first editions of Milton and Goethe . . .
They were finished at last, and Roderick was well pleased with the offers Pearson had received for each of the items offered for sale. "Wait a moment," he said. "What about those mummies?"
"Wait a moment. . . . wait a moment. . . ." Pearson went over to the crates and knelt down beside them. He ran his hands over the wood, looked around the sides, even struggled to move the lone crate so as to look at its back. He bent, craned, crawled, and delved, but to no avail. "I'm sorry, Master Roderick. There doesn't seem to be a number on these crates."
"Really? How irritating."
"You don't seem to understand, sir. We've gone though the entire list. That, plus the fact that there are no numbers, means that these pieces are not insured."
Roderick seemed slightly surprised, but not shocked. "Hm. How unusual."
Pearson was only half listening to him. "These crates are apparently more important to His Lordship than anything else in the world. I can't believe that they were never insured."
"Perhaps they aren't worth very much," Roderick mused. "That would explain why they aren't insured, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, but it wouldn't explain why they are so important to His Lordship." Pearson shook his head. "There is something here I do not understand."
"Well, I'm not going to worry about it. I plan to sell them anyway. I don't suppose it really matters that they weren't insured, does it." It was a statement, not a question.
"No, no, I suppose not," Pearson replied, nodding. "Still, if we have to ship them somewhere, we had better get some insurance on them."
"Why waste the money? If we have a firm offer to buy, why not put the burden of insurance on the buyer?"
Pearson considered for a moment explaining to Roderick the ways in which business was conducted, and then thought the better of it. It would be a waste of words. "Yes, well, we can look into that."
"You do that, Pearson, by all means." Roderick straightened his back uncomfortably. "All this hopping about and lifting things has quite tuckered me out. Will you join me for a brandy before calling it a night?" He smiled. "You will spend the night, won't you?"
"Thank you, no. I must be in London early tomorrow morning. I will join you in a brandy, though."
"Fine, fine." Roderick proceeded to engage Pearson in the easy small talk at which he excelled admirably. They returned to the sitting room, where Roderick poured a brandy for each of them. Raising his glass, Roderick said, "To your health, Mr. Pearson."
"And to yours, sir," was the reply. "And to that of His Lordship."
Roderick laughed. "Oh, yes, fine. Certainly." Still laughing, he sipped. Pearson, not at all amused, sipped from his glass also. "Tell me, Pearson, what shall we do with those damned crates? If no one knows we have them, no one will—"
"Oh, gracious! We have an offer for them also."
"We do? Why didn't you mention it to me upstairs?"
"Well, I was waiting until we got to their item numbers on the insurance list. Of course, we never did, because they aren't insured."
"Oh. Well, no harm done. What is the offer?"
"Well, sir," Pearson said, sipping another bit of his brandy, "I received a phone call the day after the notice appeared in the press. A young lady named—wait a moment." He put his glass down and shuffled through his briefcase before pulling out an obviously handwritten memo. "Ah, here it is. Yes, yes, this is it."
"Another brandy?" Roderick was holding the bottle aloft.
"Oh, no, not for me, thank you, Master Roderick." He restrained his urge to comment on the extent of Roderick's drinking. "Shall I?"
"Oh, yes, yes, please continue." Roderick took a large gulp of brandy.
"Well, the day after the notice appeared in the press I received a phone call from the United States, from a young lady named—" He glanced at the paper. "Dr. Harriet Langly. Miss—I mean Doctor Langly told me that she is the curator of a museum in a small college—" Another glance at the paper. "WinthropCollege in Greenfield, the state of New York. She was quite excited about the mummies." He paused. "Odd thing for a young girl—"
"How young is she?" At last, a subject in which Roderick showed some normal interest.
"Oh, I don't know. I just mean she seemed to sound young on the telephone. She has a doctoral degree, so I don't suppose she can be too young."
"Probably a wrinkled old hag." Roderick laughed. "Go on."
"She says that her budget is not large, but she has been authorized to make some expenditures for the purpose of upgrading the college's museum collection."
"What level of expenditure did she mention?" He poured himself another brandy.
"She suggested five thousand dollars per mummy, a total of thirty-five thousand dollars, to be paid at the rate of thirty-five hundred dollars per year for ten years."
Roderick nodded. He took another drink and then asked, "Tell me, Pearson, how much is that in real money?"
"Real money, sir?"
"Yes, real money. Pounds and pence."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir." Pearson searched about in his pocket for a calculator, but had not brought one with him. "Well, I can estimate the amount roughly, if that's all right."
Roderick waved his hand expansively. "Certainly. Go right ahead."
"Well, let me see. . . ." He did a bit of mental multiplication. "It would be approximately thirty-five hundred pounds for each mummy, for a total of twenty-four thousand five hundred pounds, paid at the rate of twenty-four hundred pounds per year for ten years."
Roderick was crestfallen. "Is that all? That's absurd!"
"I'm sorry, sir, it isn't. In fact, it's the best offer we have received. I'm afraid that there is something of a glut on the market. Every little museum apparently has its own mummy. I called the BritishMu
seum, the Louvre, and the MetropolitanMuseum in New York—to see what price they might be willing to offer, you understand—"
"Yes? And?"
"They all gave the same answer. They would accept the mummies as a donation to the museum, but none of them would pay a brass farthing for them."
"Hm! No wonder they aren't insured. They aren't worth anything!"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but they are worth twenty-four thousand pounds to Dr. Langly."
"Well . . ." He seemed unwilling to accept the facts. He had hoped to realize a good deal more than the amount mentioned from the sale. "Why can't she pay us all at once? Why over ten years?"
"Budget problems on her side. As I said, it's a small college. I don't imagine they have much of a museum budget. Besides, it might be to your advantage to receive payment over an extended period."
"How so?"
"Taxes, sir. The longer the period of payment, the less the tax burden."
"Oh, really?" Roderick was as innocent of the tax law as he was of almost everything else in the world of finance. "Well, I suppose we'd best do it, then, eh?"
do think that it's the best offer we're likely to receive."
"New York. Is that anywhere near Orlando?" He pronounced it AwLAHNdo.
"I don't think so, sir. I believe that—"
"You know, Pearson, I've always meant to go to that Disney fellow's place over there in America." He poured himself yet another drink. "I do believe I shall! Listen here, old boy. As soon as Uncle passes away, you fix up the deal with this Langly woman and book me on the Concorde to America along with the crates."
"I don't know if the Concorde carries freight, sir."
"Well, whatever, whatever. You handle the details. I shall deliver the pieces personally and then go to this amusement park everybody seems so enthusiastic about."
"Master Roderick, I don't believe that New York is anywhere near—"
The entrance of Fredericks the butler interrupted their conversation. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I think you had better come, Master Roderick."
"Come? Come where?"
"It's His Lordship, sir. I fear that he is sinking."
"Really? Strange. He seemed strong enough a little while ago. I'll certainly, but—"
Fredericks did not propose to debate the point. "Please come now, sir."
Roderick sighed. "Oh, very well." He drained his glass, placed it on the table, and followed Fredericks out of the sitting room. Pearson followed at a discreet distance.
They walked down the long corridor toward the old Earl's room, and Roderick was made slightly uneasy by the servants who lined the hallway on both sides. Some damned death ritual, no doubt, he thought. The servants looked at him kindly and sadly, trying to express sympathy with a grief he did not feel.
They entered the bedroom silently. A nurse was bending over the old man, listening to his heart and lungs with a stethoscope. Fredericks whispered, "I've summoned the doctor, but . . ." He left the sentence unfinished, but his meaning was clear.
The old Earl turned his head painfully in the direction of the open door. His body was trembling, and his breathing loud and liquid. He raised one weak hand and gestured for Roderick to approach. The young man did as he was bidden, and sat down beside the old Earl, taking his hand and holding it gently. "Relax, Uncle. Everything is going to be all right.' The old Earl muttered something weakly. "What? I can't understand you, Uncle."
"Remember . . . remember . . ." Remember your promise, the old man was thinking. Remember what I told you to do.
"Remember what, Uncle?" Roderick had already for gotten.
A wave of rage washed over the old man's face, and he raised a fist as if to strike his nephew. Then, suddenly, he dropped back upon the pillow and, with a long, labored breath, he died.
The room was silent as the nurse applied the stethoscope once more to the old man's chest. She looked at Roderick and shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry." She gathered up her equipment.
Roderick felt nervous for some reason, but it passed almost as quickly as it had come. This was one advantage of superficiality. He turned to find Fredericks and Pearson facing him. Both bowed slightly as Fredericks said, "Your Lordship."
He acknowledged their salutation with a curt nod, and head high, back straight—the epitome of noble dignity—he exited the room and walked slowly down the corridor.
Pearson turned to Fredericks and said, "I'll make the funeral arrangements and begin probate proceedings. We shouldn't burden Master—I mean, His Lordship at such a time."
"Yes, yes, of course." They watched him as he strode slowly away. "A great responsibility to be thrust on such young shoulders. He must have enough on his mind right now without having to fret over such things."
"Yes, yes, indeed." Pearson sighed. "The late Earl was all the family the poor boy had. I can imagine what he must be feeling and thinking just now."
Fredericks nodded sadly.
As he walked down the corridor, the fifteenth Earl of Selwyn was thinking, I'm going to go to Disney World!
CHAPTER 2
When the phone rang at three in the morning it did not find Harriet Langly sleeping. She had been awake most of the night, though she had retired somewhat earlier than usual. She had reasoned that the approaching day was to be probably the most important day in her professional life, and she wanted to be well rested. Having told herself this, of course, she caused her own insomnia. She had lain tossing and turning since ten in the evening, and now, five hours later, she was still awake.
Thus, when the phone rang she picked it up on the second ring and said "Hello?" in her customary clear, precise voice, no differently than if it had been three in the afternoon.
"Hi! Did I wake you up?"
"Don't be silly. I've been up all night counting canopic jars."
"Counting what?"
"That's an Egyptologist joke."
"Oh. Good one, Harriet."
"Where are you calling from?"
"We're at KennedyAirport. Got here about a half-hour ago. Your friend with the truck was here waiting, and the exhibits are all loaded, safe and secure."
"Fantastic!" Harriet said as she hopped from the bed, phone in hand, and began to search with her toes for her slippers beneath the bedside. "That's great. No problems at all, then, right?"
"Not a one. We got through customs without a hitch. They didn't even open the crates. They just examined the papers and our credentials." Suzanne Melendez laughed on the other end of the phone line. "The Earl kind of greased our way through."
"You don't mean he bribed the officials! There's no need—"
"Oh, no, nothing like that. He just talked our way through. I think that man could charm the tusks off an elephant."
"Oh, good." Harriet repressed a brief surge of panic. She wanted nothing questionable done which might jeopardize the transfer of ownership from the Selwyn collection to the museum. For an instant a headline flashed through her mind: Earl of Selwyn Arrested in Bribe Attempt. Shipment Secured in Government Warehouse. She was relieved to hear that nothing improper had been attempted, especially because nothing improper was necessary. "Don't scare me like that."
"Relax, honey. Everything's fine and we'll be on our way in a few minutes. I just called to tell you because I knew you'd be worried."
"Thanks, Suzie. You know me pretty well. I've had butterflies in my stomach all week."
"Well, take it easy. I'll be there with the Earl and the seven late gentlemen in about four hours."
"The who?"
Suzanne laughed. "That's what his lawyer, Mr. Pearson, calls the mummies. The 'seven late gentlemen.' Isn't that a scream?"
"Cute." Harriet smiled. "What's he like?"
"Who, the Earl?"
"Yeah."
"He's a dream. I adore him. You'll hate him."
"You mean I'd better hate him, because you adore him?"
"Damn right."
She laughed. "Okay, I promise to detest him thoroughly."
&
nbsp; A pause on the other end as Suzanne spoke to someone near her. "Harriet? I have to sign off now. Your friend Mr. Foster wants to hit the road. He says he's afraid of hitting rush hour traffic."
Rush hour traffic! Harriet thought. Will Foster is such a pain. When rush hour begins, four hours from now, it will be heading toward Manhattan, not away from it. But it was good of him to drive down with his truck to pick up the exhibits, so Harriet decided not to make any remarks about him. "Okay, Suzie. We'll be waiting for you at the museum. You think you'll get here about seven?"
"Better make it eight. We're going to stop for a bite to eat in New Paltz."
"Don't leave the truck unguarded!" Panic rose again.
"Relax, Harriet. Jesus! I'm the one who underwrote the insurance on these things. Do you think I'm going to take any chances with them?"
"No, no, of course not. Sorry. It's just that I'm—well—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I understand." Her voice was kind, though just a bit condescending. "Look, I gotta go. Bye."
"Bye." She heard the click on the other end and then put down the receiver. Harriet sat back down on the bed and glanced at the clock. The numbers 3:12 blinked on and off at her. She considered for a moment trying to go back to sleep, and then decided against it. She could put this time to much better use. She wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. Though she had already spent weeks getting the museum ready for the arrival of the exhibits, she figured she might as well go there early for one final check.
Harriet walked out of her bedroom and into the kitchen. She put some coffee on and dropped a few bread slices into the toaster. The phone rang again and she ran into the bedroom to answer it, praying that it would not be Suzanne telling her that a plane had just crashed on top of the truck. "Hello?" she said breathlessly.
"Hi, sweetheart. I knew you'd be awake, so I decided to call and calm your nerves."
She heaved a sigh of relief. "Tommy! Thank God it's you." Dr. Thomas Sawhill laughed. "Hey, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me!"
"Don't be too flattered," she said, laughing also. "I just meant—"
"I know, I know. You're waiting for a call telling you the exhibits have been hijacked, right?"
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