An Exhibition of Murder

by An Exhibition of Murder (retail) (epub)

‘He will be coming of his own accord. But we can use that. You can use that.’ Again Sir Peter smiled at the display cabinet with the glittering mask. ‘We must protect our prize at all costs.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. I won’t pay a cent to keep this man away from us. I have nothing to hide.’ The latter was meant to impress Sir Peter, but it only provoked some disbelieving laughter.

  ‘You’ll recognise him easily enough. I’m glad you brought it up now, because if you had seen him without warning, you might have had a scare.’ Sir Peter walked over and stood in front of him. ‘Enough of one to stop your bad heart, perhaps?’

  Was that a threat? His anger coming to a red-hot boil, Demain wanted to grab Sir Peter and shake him but as Sir Peter was a head taller, that was rather hard to do. He hissed, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He looks just like Karl. No wonder.’ Sir Peter passed and went to the door. ‘Almost time to meet our guests. I think it’s rather fitting he’s here. To represent Karl at this opening event.’ He glanced back at him. ‘Anton Müller. His son.’

  * * *

  Although Sir Peter had tried to sound light when he spoke to Demain about the unwanted element that would appear at their opening, inside unrest reigned. One moment he tried to convince himself it made no difference, the next he wasn’t too sure. He would have wanted to prevent the silly boy from popping up with his far-fetched claims, but he also knew it would be impossible to keep him away. Part of his cool calculating brain even hoped for the young man to do something stupid, attack him, shout abuse, so he’d be arrested and locked up. The police didn’t look too kindly on foreigners making a scene at one of the city’s most iconic museums. Anton Müller was a nobody here, while Herziger was an important man and Treemore himself even more so. He would ensure that the press printed the story the way he wanted it to be told.

  But as soon as he thought it, worry assailed him that the moment they heard the word ‘murdered’ they’d be all over him and digging into his past. He should have taken action when he got the letter. Paid the amount the foolish boy wanted.

  If it was money he was after.

  Of course, he tried to soothe himself, what else?

  But some people weren’t satisfied with money. They wanted more. Vengeance perhaps?

  He raised a hand and ran a finger round his collar which suddenly seemed too tight. Karl Müller had been buried alive in that chamber. A fate every archaeologist feared. Sometimes he dreamed about it, tons of earth falling over him, the darkness pressing upon him like an unbearable weight.

  But Karl’s death hadn’t caused any trouble then and he shouldn’t let it cause any now. He had to keep his back straight and enjoy his moment of glory.

  Oh, he had made nice findings over the years, but never anything as spectacular as the death mask. Suddenly, at forty-five, he was a hero. He couldn’t go back to being the man he had been before. He had to hang on to what he had found and add new fame to it. Marrying Herziger’s daughter would ensure access to a circle of established museum connections that he could use to his advantage. The mask would tour the world and he would follow in its wake, being celebrated as its illustrious finder. The name Karl Müller would soon be forgotten and…

  ‘Darling!’ A hand touched his arm and before he knew it, he had been whisked into an alcove. She stood in front of him, radiant in her golden dress with the bright red lips. Oh, those lips as sweet as the forbidden fruit. Forbidden she was to him, as he was about to be married to the prospects he needed more than anything else in life. But he couldn’t stay away from her. Her perfume filled his nose, his head, and he surrendered to her kiss without thinking.

  * * *

  A few yards down the corridor a man swore under his breath. She couldn’t stay away from him; she had to get him alone before the opening, share secret kisses. She had lied to him that it didn’t matter. It did. He had to act on this. He raised his hand and patted his breast pocket. He knew the way to deal with Sir Peter Treemore. As soon as possible.

  * * *

  In one of Vienna’s many cafes a small unobtrusive man emptied his coffee cup and checked his watch. Almost time to go. He didn’t want to be late. Punctuality was very important in his line of work. He gestured to the waiter, who came over to present him with the bill. He paid and rose to his feet. At the door he almost bumped into two well-dressed businessmen breezing in and swearing at him for being in their way. One of them even seemed to call him a no-good bugger.

  The man smiled to himself. Little did they know that this ‘no-good bugger’ was the person all newspapers wrote about. The mysterious Lynx, who glided into buildings and back out with loot as if he were invisible.

  He bet most people imagined him to be something special. But the best thing about him was that he wasn’t special at all. Oh, his talents for recognising valuables and procuring them might be special, but he himself, his looks, were not. In a crowd nobody would ever notice him. If someone saw him in the street, then later they would be unable to give an accurate description of him. Average would be the recurring theme. Medium height, medium build. Normal hair, normal face. Oh, he was so wonderfully medium and normal.

  They’d never catch him.

  Because they didn’t have a clue as to how.

  Chapter Six

  Jasper stood in the museum’s entry hall where the guests to the official opening were being received. Afternoon sunshine poured in through the cupola overhead, glinting off the golden ornaments on the walls. Around four o’clock, Herziger would address the guests, with a short lecture on the legacy of the Lykean kings, after which they would be escorted up to the second floor where the golden mask of death awaited them. Normally Jasper would have enjoyed the glass of champagne offered to him and the little wager he had made with himself on the way over that Herziger would surely mention Troy in his speech, likening the Lykean kings to those great warriors immortalised by Homer.

  But under the circumstances, the contents of Herziger’s welcoming words barely interested him. The more people poured into the room, laughing and talking, the more restless Jasper became. If Violet Treemore had been right in her assumption that someone wanted to attack her father at this event, that person would have an easy task among all these people. He could slip up behind Treemore and plant a dagger in his back.

  Or put poison in his champagne.

  Jasper found himself studying the waiters searching for something suspicious. One of them had a rather large moustache. Real or…?

  He shook his head in irritation at his own thoughts. He was but one man, with the impossible task of preventing an event which he didn’t know was actually going to take place – and if it did, in what shape it would manifest itself. The letter had merely threatened that ‘the murderer will pay.’

  He started when someone touched his arm. Turning his head, he found Violet standing by his side. She wore a red dress which brightened her complexion. She wore no other jewellery but the long diamond pendants in her ears, catching the light as she moved her head. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  Loud laughter drew his attention away from her and he saw a very handsome woman in a golden dress more fit for an evening out than this daytime occasion. Her raven-black hair was combed back and secured with a clasp of gold painted feathers. She waved a hand in the air as if dismissing something. A circle of men and women enclosed her, all mesmerised by her lively manners and animated conversation. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked Violet.

  ‘Isobel Maurin.’ Violet beamed. ‘I’m delighted she came. She’s a wonderful singer. I love classical music and my father often takes me to her concerts. She’s a real star and I hadn’t expected her to make time for anything like this. I can’t imagine she’s interested in the possessions of long-dead people. She’s so alive.’

  Jasper narrowed his eyes. ‘You invited her, or your father?’

  ‘My father did, for my sake. He knows I adore her and wish I could sing like that.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I’m not very good, I’m afraid.’


  ‘Such things take a lot of practice,’ he replied automatically. Her answer that the singer had been invited to please her sounded plausible. That a father doted on his only daughter was natural enough. But there was something so alluring, almost seductive, about Isobel Maurin that Jasper couldn’t help but think Sir Peter might personally be under her spell and only using his daughter’s admiration for her singing talents to invite her into his inner circle.

  But Sir Peter was about to be married, to Beate Herziger, daughter of Jasper’s host. If his intuition was right, the situation was extremely painful not only for the Herzigers, but also for Violet, who was being used as a cover by her own father. Jasper hoped he was wrong with all his heart.

  Violet said, ‘I will go and say hello to her. Thank you for being here. I can now believe all will be well.’ She quickly walked away.

  Jasper turned his attention back to the waiters with their silver trays full of champagne glasses and to the new guests coming into the room. He still had the unsettling feeling there was something important to be seen here, if only he knew what he was looking for.

  ‘She’s a fool, you know.’

  The quiet voice made him start.

  Iris Phelps stood by his side, in a purple dress with a simple but elegant golden necklace. It held a locket she toyed with. ‘The poor girl believes her father is doing her a favour by inviting that woman to the opening. But he’s only doing it for himself.’

  Jasper studied her features.

  ‘I for me,’ Iris continued calmly, ‘can’t say I’m surprised that a healthy man who has been widowed for so long takes an interest in an experienced woman with a talent for the dramatic. He should have remarried years ago. He had the opportunity, I suppose. Many influential friends would have loved to get closer to him by giving him the hand of their daughters or nieces. But he never wanted to tie himself to anyone. His work is all he lives for. And Violet of course.’

  She smiled, a soft emotion turning her plain features smoother. ‘I’m happy that he cares so much for her and that he’s never hidden her away on a country estate while he travelled for his work.’

  ‘He took her with him from an early age?’

  ‘Yes, always. We’ve seen half of the world together.’ Her smile deepened. ‘I’m a fortunate woman, Inspector. My own means are barely enough to take me to Brighton for the summer. But my employment with Sir Peter has brought me to some of the most beautiful places in the world.’

  ‘Were you also with Sir Peter on the expedition where the mask was found?’ And where Karl Müller died.

  ‘Yes, of course. It was the most spectacular find ever made. The whole camp was in a vibrant mood. Even Violet wanted to descend into the burial chamber to see how the work progressed. She was normally afraid of enclosed spaces or things that could come down. It has to do with an accident that happened in her childhood.’

  ‘I see.’ Jasper shifted his weight. His eyes wandered the room, brushing by men and women, searching for the unusual and the possibly dangerous. But his mind was elsewhere. On that expedition.

  ‘Who else was there? I mean, are they all coming today?’ He wanted to know more about the players.

  ‘Werner Herziger is of course the director of this museum.’

  ‘Herziger was on that dig?’ Jasper’s shoulder muscles tightened as he realised his host might be implicated in Karl Müller’s death. But why immediately assume that Herziger had wanted Müller to die? What for?

  ‘Yes. And his daughter Beate. She wasn’t engaged to Sir Peter then. They were staying nearby and when they heard about the discovery of the mask, they came over for a few days to see the mask and with the hope that more artefacts like it could be unearthed while they were present. Demain was there, of course. Sir Peter’s partner.’ She discreetly pointed out a rotund man with a shock of black hair who was talking to some guests with wild hand gestures. ‘He’s French. There was also an English journalist who wrote about the discoveries made. He was always complaining that he couldn’t get close enough to them. That he wanted to be on the scene.’

  Had he tried to get on it, and had the walls collapsed and Karl Müller been buried alive? Jasper wondered. An accident perhaps, the gruesome consequences unintended, but still a death caused by someone who would feel a measure of guilt about it and might not have owned up to his actions?

  She said, ‘We are all here now to celebrate Sir Peter’s success.’

  ‘I read something in the papers about a curse.’

  ‘Hush, don’t speak of that.’ She looked genuinely startled, her brown eyes widening. ‘Sir Peter isn’t a superstitious man, but he doesn’t like any kind of taint on his successes. The curse story is an absurd invention from the press to…’ She fell silent and gazed across the room.

  Jasper followed the direction she was looking in and spotted Beate Herziger in an expensive embroidered dress followed by three other women. One older than she was, the other two rather young. They were whispering to each other and giggling behind their hands.

  ‘Empress Elisabeth of Austria with her ladies in waiting,’ Iris Phelps muttered.

  He looked at her. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That’s a nickname they have given Beate Herziger. Because she always moves with pomp and has these three friends accompanying her wherever she goes. The elder lady is Lavinia LaRue, a countess. She’s quite sensible, I understand. The other two are definitely not. I wonder sometimes how Beate can stand to be in the company of such silly women. The blonde with all the diamonds is Anna Liebknecht, the third wife of one of Vienna’s richest jewellers. He lets her wear his creations as if she is a display window. And that redhead is Nadja Bruckner, a diplomat’s wife who originally came from Russia. She has this penchant for folk tales. She could tell you about curses, I’m sure. The bloodier the better. If you thought Grimm’s fairy tales had disturbing elements, you should hear the Russian ones. Enough to keep one awake at night.’

  Only half listening, Jasper watched how Sir Peter went over to the group and kissed his fiancée on the hand. Then he repeated the same gallant gesture with the other three women. It struck Jasper that the contact of his lips lasted just a fraction too long with the jeweller’s wife. Anna Liebknecht had a high colour in her face and avoided his eyes for a moment, then looked back up at the archaeologist with a wide smile.

  Did Jasper detect a hint of admiration there? Or even a certain familiarity?

  Iris Phelps had just pointed out the singer Isobel Maurin, a woman who displayed her physical attributes like a peacock. Pretty indeed, but in an obvious manner. Perhaps Sir Peter was attracted to more subtle beauty?

  Then again, Anna Liebknecht could hardly be much older than Sir Peter’s daughter. And she was his fiancée Beate’s best friend. Certainly Sir Peter wouldn’t be so foolhardy, and indiscreet, as to carry on with her?

  Sir Peter chatted with the women for a few moments and then moved along to greet other guests. Beate stared after him with large hungry eyes as if she had wanted more.

  Jasper felt a stab of pity for her as she would forever want more than this man could offer her. She was the sort of woman who craved constant reassurance she was good enough, worthy of love, and Sir Peter with his roving eye would create the exact opposite feeling – that she wasn’t good enough, would never be what he needed – by always looking for the next beauty to cross his path. Why did men like that even marry?

  He turned to Iris Phelps, who still stood beside him, quietly people watching. ‘You just mentioned Sir Peter had many opportunities to remarry but he never did. Why did he agree to get engaged to Beate Herziger now?’

  ‘Who can tell?’ Iris shrugged. ‘He doesn’t discuss such matters with me.’

  ‘But you have been in his household for many years, from the time his wife died. You raised his daughter. You must know his character and can judge his actions.’

  ‘I wonder if a woman can ever fully understand a man.’ Iris smiled with a hint of sadness. ‘Sir Peter is
a good person who tries to do what is right for Violet. I can only assume he avoided marrying before because he wanted to be there for her and give her his undivided attention. But now that she’s grown up…’ She waited a moment. ‘It’s also convenient to be living in Vienna.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jasper gave her a questioning look but before she could offer an explanation for this rather cryptic statement, Herziger tapped a spoon to his glass, drawing all attention to him. He launched into a lengthy welcome speech, expressing his delight in seeing so many friends and lovers of archaeology here today. ‘You will be utterly amazed to gaze upon the famous golden mask of death, the face of a king long dead but still glorious and telling us of his conquests.’

  Jasper sipped his champagne while he listened to the story with a vague hope it would deliver some clue as to the death of Karl Müller.

  But of course his name wasn’t mentioned.

  Not even once.

  * * *

  Of course his name isn’t mentioned. Not even once.

  Anton Müller clenched his hands into fists by his side as he watched the pompous museum director address the eager crowd gathered to see the masterpiece Anton’s father had unearthed. The discovery he had paid for with his life.

  It was unfair that credit hadn’t been given to him. This meeting here today should have honoured him, his life’s work. But instead he’d been erased from public memory like he had never existed. And the man responsible was taking all the credit.

  Anton took a deep breath. He had told himself he wouldn’t act on an impulse and do something he would later regret. But standing here, he couldn’t fight the anger rushing through his veins like lava. They were all here: Herziger, who had visited the dig on the day his father had died; Demain and Treemore, his so-called loyal partners who had of course never meant to share their glory with ‘a mere German workman’ as they had always called his father. They had considered themselves far superior in knowledge, certainly in wealth and standing, in reputation. His father had counted as nothing.