An Exhibition of Murder

by An Exhibition of Murder (retail) (epub)

  Had been buried as nothing.

  Anton tried to draw breath but there didn’t seem to be any oxygen left in the air. He backed up quietly towards the stairs. The eyes of all present were on Herziger, who was now comparing the Lykean kings to the great Trojan warriors. Nobody paid any attention to Anton. He hesitated one more moment and then raced upstairs.

  He knew exactly what he would find there.

  * * *

  ‘A day of triumph for the field of archaeology and the contribution of our very own Werner Herziger to it…’ Rupert Rohmann scribbled into his notebook. ‘…were it not for the curse that is hanging over the fabled mask of death. Wherever it goes, it takes lives. At the excavation site where the third partner – beside Treemore and Demain – died a horrible death when the burial chamber collapsed on top of him.’

  He frowned and then crossed out the latter words, replacing them with, ‘when the walls of the burial chamber he was tolling in caved and buried him under tons of…’

  He shook his head. No, it wasn’t dramatic enough. He gnawed on the end of his pencil as he studied the lines he had already written. The public wanted more than a dry exposé about today’s opening. They wanted drama. They wanted human emotion. Greed, jealousy, vengeance. A curse that followed the expedition members.

  Unfortunately for Rohmann, the curse hadn’t shown its evil influence in Vienna yet.

  On the contrary: the expedition members seemed to be doing better than ever. Werner Herziger’s museum was the centre of a storm of attention, both from the Viennese public and the foreigners who visited the city. Erneste Demain was a wanted speaker at all the important clubs and Sir Peter Treemore was engaged to be married.

  It seemed the sun of good fortune shone down on all of them and the curse had lost its power as soon as the death mask was removed from the place where it had rested for centuries.

  Rohmann lowered his pencil and bit back a cynical laugh. Just his luck. Nothing was going right lately. A year ago, he had been an influential reporter at the newspaper he worked for, writing about foreign affairs, spies, court intrigue. Then his divorce and the many lonely nights spent drinking until he couldn’t remember his ex-wife’s name had ruined his reputation with his superiors. After a brawl where he had hit a diplomat for refusing him an interview, he had been fired. He had straightened himself out again, at least to his own mind, but it was hard to find a new position. Word of his behaviour had gone round fast, and nobody wanted anything to do with him.

  Only a sensationalist story about something the public would gobble up could bring him back in the editors’ good graces and elevate him from the pitiful level of having to write about the social events no other journalist wanted to attend.

  Social events he’d rather avoid because they were agony with their free supply of alcoholic drinks. Even here the scent of champagne seemed to be in the air, invading his quivering nostrils and calling to his dried-out soul. But he would be strong. His big story was nearer than ever. He could feel it. He only had to grab at this chance to turn his life around again. And to forget about the woman who had brought all this ruin upon him.

  * * *

  ‘We will go up and see the mask for ourselves,’ Herziger concluded.

  At last, Demain thought. His bad knee ached from standing so long and he just wanted it all to be over. He had what he wanted: he was asked for lectures and new expeditions, and he wanted to forget about what had happened with the mask.

  Just get through this opening and then it will all be well.

  Trying to keep his full weight off the painfully throbbing knee, he hobbled after the company as they filed up the stairs to the second floor. Herziger went ahead as if he were a general leading his troops into battle. Demain thought wryly that at least one person was enjoying this charade.

  The crowd was in a good mood, laughing and chatting and pointing out the statues on display which they passed on their way to the special piece. It stood at the back of the large room they entered. As Herziger stepped through the door, he turned to watch the crowd come in, calling in a booming voice, ‘I give you the golden mask of death!’

  Then a woman screamed. People pushed back and Demain was slammed against the wall. More screams. Someone stepped on his foot. He swore and tried to see what was happening. He wanted to see the faces. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t see Herziger or Treemore’s daughter. Or anybody who had been there in the past when Müller had died.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Papa! Papa!’ Violet Treemore’s high-pitched, childlike cries echoed against the ceiling as she fell to her knees beside the man who was lying on his back in front of the glass cabinet. She touched his arm and sobbed.

  Jasper, who had pushed himself through the anxious crowd, halted abruptly when he saw the complete, grotesque sight. Sir Peter lay there like a felled tree, collapsed on the floor, but still neatly arranged with the golden mask of death over his face.

  A king, a leader, father of the land and the people, the thought whispered through Jasper’s mind. He stepped forward and touched Violet’s shoulder. ‘Do not disturb him.’

  She looked up at him. ‘I can’t disturb him. He’s dead!’ She let out a piercing scream. ‘I was afraid he would die and he’s dead. Dead!’

  She flew to her feet and banged her fists against Jasper’s chest. ‘You should have prevented it. I told you he was in danger. You did nothing. I hate you.’

  The intensity in her face hurt more than her slapping hands. A hint of hysteria in her eyes.

  Iris Phelps pulled her back, away from him. She was deathly pale. ‘Come, my child. I will take care of you. Come along now. It’s all right.’

  Violet stopped hitting him. Stopped screaming. It seemed like all life had suddenly flowed away from her, and she stood like a dummy, still and empty. She let Iris lead her away.

  People parted for her, shying away from her as if she had the plague. Shying away from her grief, from her hands that had touched a dead man?

  Or from her mad accusations and the feral intensity of her screams which still seemed to linger in the air?

  Jasper quickly leaned over and checked Sir Peter’s pulse. Nothing.

  The last shred of hope that the man might be merely unconscious after a blow to the head or something left him, and chill determination took its place. He could do nothing for Sir Peter or for Violet other than making sure the murderer wouldn’t get away with this crime. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m a retired inspector of Scotland Yard. I’ll keep an eye on this body until the police arrive. Can someone inform them as soon as possible?’

  Herziger stood beside him, looking down on Sir Peter’s still form. ‘I can’t believe this. Minutes ago he was downstairs with us, drinking champagne, toasting to our successes.’

  ‘I doubt it was minutes ago. You held a rather long speech and during that time Sir Peter was probably already up here. It would take time to murder him, arrange the body and put that heavy mask over his face.’ Jasper stared at the gold which gleamed at him with a shine that seemed inappropriate. But the mask was now used for the exact purpose it had been created for: to cover a dead man’s features. It was only doing what it was intended for.

  Did this say anything about the motive for murder?

  A man came forward through the crowd. His face was red as if he had hurried. He spoke with a grating breath, ‘I’m a doctor. I can have a look at the patient.’

  Jasper moved aside.

  The doctor stared down on the corpse. ‘Is this some joke? Why is that object resting on his face? No wonder he can’t breathe. It must be very heavy. Help me remove it.’

  ‘No.’ Jasper made a dismissive gesture. ‘The man is already dead. He can’t be helped anymore. And we must allow the police to see the crime scene as it is now, undisturbed.’

  ‘Crime scene?’ The doctor turned even redder. ‘I was told someone was unwell in here, fainted during the exhibition’s opening.’ He retreated in a rush. ‘I want nothing to do with crime
. Good day.’

  Jasper’s lips twitched in a wry smile. ‘I suppose,’ he said to Herziger, ‘that you don’t want anything to do with crime either, my friend, but a man has been murdered in your museum.’

  ‘My future son-in-law,’ Herziger whispered. ‘Beate must be so…’ He looked up, with a jerk. ‘Where is she? Has she fainted?’

  Jasper scanned the people present for Beate and her three companions – the empress of Austria and her ladies in waiting, as Iris Phelps had called them – but he couldn’t see them.

  Herziger walked away. ‘I must find her. I must speak to her and see how she is. Such a shock.’

  Jasper gestured to two museum guards who had drawn near and were casting each other uncertain looks. ‘You see to it that no one comes near this body or touches it or changes anything about it or about the glass container where the mask was before it was removed. You understand?’

  They nodded.

  He followed Herziger who was almost out of the room. The man turned left and hurried down a corridor. The gilded woodwork along the walls was carved into an elaborate pattern of fruits and flowers. Jasper followed his host. In the solemn silence he didn’t want to call out to Herziger. It was like the presence of sudden death could be felt.

  Herziger went through a large door with an painted scene on the panel of a woman in eighteenth-century clothing, including a towering white wig, sitting on a chair with her children playing around her.

  Jasper approached the door which was left ajar and heard voices. ‘Beate! Are you well?’

  Hysterical laughter rang out. ‘He lies there like a king. With his precious death mask on his arrogant face. A golden cover for who he really was.’

  ‘Calm down. Compose yourself.’ Herziger sounded sharp. ‘Jasper is here and taking charge. We can’t permit ourselves any kind of mistakes.’

  Jasper froze. Did this mean Herziger and his daughter were somehow implicated in the murder? The woman did sound on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  ‘I can’t shed tears for him, Papa. I can’t.’

  ‘I’m not saying you must. Only hold your tongue while Jasper is around. The local police won’t allow him to interfere with the investigation. He will be gone soon.’

  Ironic how the man who had wanted him present at this opening now couldn’t wait to shove him out of the door.

  But as Herziger had known he was going to be in attendance, was it likely he had planned a murder? If not, who then?

  Jasper knocked on the door and entered. Several objects in the room were covered with white cloths, suggesting an exhibition was either finished and about to be removed from here, or still in the process of being set up. Beate sat on a chair against the far wall, her face blotched. Her father stood leaning over her. No trace of her three companions.

  Jasper said, ‘I wanted to ask how you were, Beate. This must have come as a terrible shock to you. Your fiancé dead, so suddenly.’

  She nodded and hid her face in her hands. Clever not to say a thing which might betray her true feelings.

  Herziger said, ‘We must leave Beate in peace, Jasper. She is in no fit state to speak about this. Might not be for days. A shock, like you said. Terrible.’

  ‘I thought I saw you earlier with three friends.’ Jasper ignored Herziger’s implicit order to leave, his eyes on the woman who sat huddled. ‘Where are they? Shouldn’t they be with you and comfort you in your distress?’

  ‘Nadja ran off because she’s a silly girl,’ a voice spoke from the door. The tall older woman whom Iris Phelps had pointed out to him as the countess Lavinia LaRue came in with a glass of water in her hand. ‘She’s afraid of anything remotely involving death.’ She went over to Beate and offered her the glass. ‘Here, my dear, you drink this.’

  ‘And the other girl?’ Jasper asked. He hadn’t forgotten how Sir Peter had kissed Anna Liebknecht’s hand, his lips lingering on her skin. There had been something between those two.

  ‘Anna’s husband took her away. It’s hardly a sight for a lady.’ Lavinia LaRue gave him a cold look. ‘Is that all?’

  So the jeweller had also been at the opening. Might he have seen Sir Peter’s attentions to his young and beautiful wife? Jealousy as a motive for murder?

  ‘Yes, we are going,’ Herziger said, ushering Jasper to the door. ‘Don’t exert yourself, Liebling. It will be fine.’

  Having overheard the conversation, Jasper couldn’t help thinking these supposedly kind, generic words to his daughter carried a special meaning. But Herziger gave him no chance to ponder it. ‘We must get back to the exposition room. I can’t believe you just left the body behind.’

  ‘Two of your guards were there.’

  ‘They are all idiots,’ Herziger huffed. ‘Idiots! Else this would not have happened. Did you see the open window?’

  Jasper couldn’t say that he had. His full focus had been on the body on the floor and its golden adornment.

  Herziger raised both his hands. ‘The Lynx. Striking in my museum. During the opening speech! It’s too much. I will have to fire them all.’

  Jasper blinked. ‘You think that cat burglar did this?’

  ‘Yes. He came in through the open window. He wanted the mask. Sir Peter caught him red-handed and he killed him to avoid capture.’

  ‘And then he put his loot – the thing he came for – on the man’s face and ran?’ Jasper couldn’t keep the cynicism from his voice.

  ‘What other option is there? We were all downstairs listening to my speech. Sir Peter was here alone. The cat burglar could easily have killed him.’

  ‘Why was Sir Peter alone? Where were the guards?’

  ‘That we will ask them straightaway.’ Herziger strode ahead of him.

  In the room most people had vanished. The guards stood beside the body. A man in a suit was scribbling something in a notebook.

  ‘The police arrived quickly,’ Jasper observed to Herziger, who snapped, ‘That’s not a police officer. That is Rupert Rohmann, a louse of a newspaper reporter who wants to use the story of a curse to revive his dead career.’ He ran over to Rohmann and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Out of this room. At once.’

  ‘Hey, I can be here if I want to. I’m not touching anything. Just looking.’

  ‘And writing nonsense about a curse. I want you to leave.’

  ‘Do you deny there is a curse? Two of the three partners are already dead. Will Demain be next?’

  ‘I told you…’

  ‘Or you?’ Rohmann stared Herziger in the eye. ‘You are a part of it just as much. Why would the curse skip you?’

  ‘Enough.’ The veins on Herziger’s temples stood out. ‘Take him away now.’ He snapped his fingers at the guards who each took one of Rohmann’s arms and dragged him out of the room while the reporter objected and cursed.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ Jasper asked.

  ‘I’ll hear no more nonsense about this curse.’ Herziger took a deep breath. ‘There, you see. An open window.’

  Jasper did indeed see an open window and approached it to look out. It sat so high above the ground he had a momentary sensation of tipping forward and falling out of it. Could the elusive Lynx have entered the room via this route?

  ‘Don’t touch the sill or the frame,’ Herziger warned him in a sharp tone. ‘There might be fingerprints on it. Very important for the police.’

  Jasper turned back to Herziger with a hitched brow. ‘I worked for the police. I know these things.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ Herziger wrung his hands. ‘What a disaster.’

  A tall man in a dark blue suit with a uniformed policeman on his heels entered the room and came straight towards them. He talked to Herziger in German and Jasper could only make out a few words: tod, ermordet. Dead, killed.

  The man noticed his interest in the conversation and asked, ‘Wer sind Sie?’

  Herziger replied and Jasper caught his name and the word Polizei, police. The man extended his hand. ‘Marktherr. Have you seen anything
that can help with the investigation?’ His English was accented but understandable.

  Jasper shook his head. ‘I entered the room with all the others. The victim was already dead.’

  Herziger said, ‘It’s obvious it was the cat burglar which has been terrorising the city.’ He gestured to the open window.

  Marktherr nodded and set the police officer to work on the window, while he himself studied the dead body. He asked Herziger questions about the mask, which Herziger answered, all in German. He also talked to the guards, who had re-entered the room after having expelled Rupert Rohmann. Jasper had the impression they were explaining that they had left the room because Sir Peter had asked them to go downstairs as he wanted to be alone with the mask. This had left the way clear for anyone to enter and get into an altercation with the archaeologist. Any one of the guests could have sneaked away during Herziger’s long speech. Still, the inspector immediately followed the burglar theory.

  At the same time Jasper realised that if he started to mention threats and what Violet had told him, he would be creating a lot of problems for a lot of people. He had to think this over.

  As he stood there, still debating, Iris Phelps appeared by his side. ‘Could you come with me for a moment?’ She led him out of the room. Herziger and the inspector didn’t even seem to notice he was leaving.

  Outside, Iris said, ‘Violet is very upset. I want to apologise on her behalf for the things she said. She didn’t mean them.’

  Jasper frowned. ‘But she did mean them and she could have a point. I was asked to keep an eye on her father and he died. Of course she blames me.’

  ‘She should never have asked you to. What could you do? There were so many people about. Let the police look into it. They will know best what to do.’ She smiled at him. ‘You’re a good man, else you would have told her no when she came to you. But you have only made it worse. For yourself and for her. She is now so sad and… But she could never have prevented it. You see, people with high ambitions can take a long fall.’