‘I was so sorry about your father, Miss Pitt-Messanger. Have the police any clue as to who might have done such an awful thing?’
Maud shied like a startled horse. Verity had chosen the direct approach over anything subtle, which Maud might have chosen to ignore or misunderstand.
‘Oh, Miss Browne, I didn’t see you. My father . . . ? I really don’t know. I don’t think so but they tell me nothing.’
‘They have talked to everyone sitting nearby in the Abbey, I suppose? Surely someone must have seen something?’
‘Apparently not. There were lots of people milling around, you know.’
‘And I suppose someone might have come in from the cloisters?’
‘Yes.’
Verity felt she was not getting anywhere. ‘You must be very anxious to find out who . . . hated your father enough to want to kill him. Did he have any enemies?’
Maud looked uncertain and then – to Verity’s dismay – she began to cry. Verity kicked herself. She had been too brutal. ‘I’m so sorry, I did not mean . . . Please, take this.’ She proffered a clean handkerchief.
‘Many enemies,’ Maud answered, surprisingly.
Verity was encouraged. ‘So the police have . . . you know . . . leads to follow up?’
Maud turned to her fiercely. ‘I really don’t see what it has to do with you. My father was a beast of a man. Everyone hated him and I’m glad he’s dead. There, I’ve said it. Now, please leave me alone. The men will be back soon and you can fascinate them instead of persecuting me.’
Verity was abashed and, unwontedly, at a loss for words. She saw Mrs Cardew and Virginia looking at them. She thought bitterly that Edward would have charmed Maud into giving him a complete account of everything that had happened since the murder. Her technique, she appreciated, had got her nowhere. She might as well have hit the poor girl over the head with a rubber truncheon. She had rushed the fence and her horse had refused. ‘I am so sorry, Miss Pitt-Messanger, I have been impertinent. I apologize. I just wanted to help.’
‘Help! Why should you . . .?’ She waved the magazine she held in protest and mopped her nose with the handkerchief. ‘Why should someone like you care about me? Is it some game you’re playing?’
‘How do you mean, “someone like me”? I’m just . . .’
‘Don’t pretend you can’t see how all the men fawn over you and say how clever you are . . . but the looks they give you . . . disgusting. That dress . . . ! Then they look at me. Or rather they don’t look at me unless they have to.’
Verity found herself blushing. It always annoyed her that, though she saw herself as a hard-bitten journalist, she could blush so easily at any personal remark.
‘You think the men . . . ‘ she began but Maud butted in.
‘It was bad enough with Isolde looking so . . . like a Wagnerian goddess but Graham was right. How can you call yourself a Communist when you wear dresses by . . . is it Schiaparelli? . . . and let these rich men drool over you?’
Verity blushed again but tried to hold back her anger. ‘I am sorry if I have offended you in any way, Miss Pitt-Messanger. I was not trying to show off. I just wanted to . . .’
‘Get another scoop?’ With a snort of disgust, Maud got up from her chair, tossed her magazine on the sofa and strode out of the drawing-room.
Verity looked round nervously to find everyone looking at her. Mrs Cardew said gently, ‘Whatever did you say to the poor girl, Miss Browne?’
‘I . . . I was trying to be friendly,’ she said lamely, ‘but I think she thought I was being patronizing. I did not mean to be.’
Virginia laughed. ‘Come over here, Crumbles, and stop looking so forlorn. Maud’s in a bad way. You see her whole life was her father and though she couldn’t make up her mind whether she loved or loathed him – I think both at the same time – she misses him. I imagine it must be a bit like being in chains for years and then, when they are removed, you still feel the weight of them.’
‘What sort of man was her father? He was a great scholar, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s what they say,’ Mrs Cardew answered. ‘He was famous for the work he did in Assyria. He discovered the tomb of some king or other. I don’t remember the details.’
‘Yes,’ broke in Isolde, ‘but then it turned out his assistant – what was his name? I remember! Sidney Temperley – anyway, he had actually found the tomb and resented Pitt-Messanger taking all the credit. He came back to England and kicked up a bit of stink.’
Virginia took over the story. ‘And then he died – of cholera they said. It was all rather fishy. There were rumours that he had committed suicide but who knows? The worst thing was that Maud convinced herself that she and Temperley had been going to get married. No one can say if she was fantasizing or if there was some truth in it. Anyway, the poor child never forgave her father. Pitt-Messanger’s reputation suffered but he managed to find some money somewhere – from Simon among other people – and started digging in Egypt, in the Valley of the Kings.’
‘He found something sensational,’ Isolde said, ‘but I can’t remember exactly what.’
‘That’s right,’ Virginia said, combing her Pekinese’s fur with her fingers. ‘He had this mad idea – at least I assume it was mad – that he had found the grave of . . . I can never remember the names of these people. Wait a minute, I’ve got his pamphlet here somewhere. I was trying to read it before Maud arrived.’ She flicked through the pages until she found what she was looking for. ‘Here we are! He says he found the grave of Nebhepetre Mentuhotep, the founder of the Middle Kingdom. 2008 to 1957 BC. It was all so long ago and, what with the time running backwards, I can never make head or tail of it. Anyway, he found a letter. It told of Lutenheb – a beautiful Helen of Troy-type queen – whose beauty caused a war – a civil war, I think. Here, take it up to bed with you.’ She gave Verity the pamphlet. ‘Tomorrow I’ll show you some of the beautiful things he gave us in return for Simon’s help in funding his expedition. We’ve got a gallery above the great hall. A sort of small museum.’
‘You knew Pitt-Messanger well, Ginny?’ Verity asked.
‘Simon did. We met him in Assyria and he was very kind and took us round all the tombs. As I said, Simon got so enthusiastic he offered to finance the dig for a year.’
‘That was generous,’ Verity said.
‘It helped that his work seemed to support Simon’s views on breeding. Apparently the ancient Assyrians were like the Spartans and bred a warrior class. I don’t remember the details. You must ask Simon. He’ll love to tell you.’
‘Lord Benyon also got him some funding, I believe,’ Verity said meditatively.
‘Yes. He could be very good at getting money out of the rich,’ Mrs Cardew said, a little spitefully, ‘but I still hold that he was horrid to Maud.’
‘Poor Maud!’ Virginia said. ‘That’s why I feel we owe it to her to be patient and try and help her find her feet.’ She sounded quite sincere and Verity suddenly remembered why she had liked her so much at school.
At that moment they were joined by the men. Montillo went over to Virginia and whispered something in her ear before leaving the room. Sir Simon came straight over to sit by Verity.
‘Ginny was telling me about Mr Pitt-Messanger,’ she said, thinking she might as well use his enthusiasm for her company to find something out. ‘He was a good archaeologist? I know nothing about the subject.’
‘Oh, yes, Miss Browne . . . Verity. I must be allowed to call you Verity.’ She smiled her permission. ‘He was a good archaeologist – almost a great one – but he was dogged by bad luck. As a very young man he had dug with Leonard Wooley at Ur of the Chaldees. He helped discover the tomb of Queen Pu-abi who was buried along with her retinue and her oxen.’
‘I have never heard of her!’ Verity exclaimed.
‘Nor has anyone. She was queen about 2600 BC when writing was in its infancy and she is not mentioned in any of the scrolls. However, they did find many wondrous things – a lyre,
I remember him showing me, covered with rolled gold, a small statue of a golden donkey and many other implements made of gold and silver. Yes, and a wooden board for playing some game which might have been similar to chess. Most of it is now in the British Museum.’
‘So long ago!’ Verity marvelled. ‘I can’t get my mind round it. But you say he had bad luck?’
‘Yes. As is always the case with archaeology, which usually involves some form of grave robbing, he was said to be cursed. He stumbled on an extraordinary killing chamber. Seventy-four skeletons – mostly women – in a pit. Certainly human sacrifices, probably made to celebrate the funeral of some king. It was horrific and the evil was supposed to have attached itself to those who had disturbed the dead.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I don’t know the details but he quarrelled with Wooley and the two men never spoke to each other again. I expect they could both be bloody awkward. Well, I know Pitt-Messanger could be. Then he went off to Nineveh to assist Reginald Campbell Thompson. It was a pretty exciting time – the first proper excavation of the capital of the Assyrian empire.’ Verity looked a bit vague. ‘You remember Jonah and his whale? He lived in Nineveh and was its chief prophet. Nineveh was one of the greatest cities of the ancient world until the Medes and the Babylonians destroyed it about 600 BC.’
‘That was where you met him? I mean, not in 600 BC but when he was excavating Nineveh? ’
‘That’s right – four years ago in Iraq on the banks of the Tigris. You have no idea what an amazing place it is. Mosul stands just across the Tigris from Nineveh and the landscape is quite different from the desert sands round Ur. The plains of Northern Mesopotamia may be the cradle of the human race, you know. It is certainly fertile and temperate enough. Pitt-Messanger had some interesting theories about the development of the human race which made a lot of sense to me. I loved Mosul with its pleasant gardens and shady houses. Even Ginny liked it and it must have seemed like paradise to those ancient peoples. Mosul! I can picture it now – the sun glinting off the minarets and domes of the mosques, the artificial lakes and water gardens . . . It seemed like something out of the Arabian Nights after Ur, burning in the desert, whipped by sand storms which cut your flesh and blinded you.’
‘And Pitt-Messanger found . . .?’
‘Well, for one thing he worked out the chronology of Nineveh, dividing it into five eras. He found a tomb strikingly similar to the Mycenaean tombs in Greece, dating from the Halaf period, about 5000 to 4000 BC.’
‘Was that the tomb Sidney Temperley claimed to have discovered?’
‘It was a ridiculous storm in a teacup. These discoveries are group finds and often the actual moment when a tomb is exposed is witnessed only by a native.’
‘But that’s not what Pitt-Messanger thought?’
‘You have to remember how arduous these digs are, Verity. People are always getting ill what with the dirt and the rats and mice. Everyone gets cranky. Mind you, Pitt-Messanger held that . . . now how did he put it when I complained of a bad headache? I remember – “pain was a benign secretion of a disorder and an essential part of the healing mechanism.” He said that enduring pain was a virtue and that we white northern Europeans were better at it than the black races. In fact, he went so far as to say that illness is due to a lack of moral fibre and that the sick should be put out of their misery. Poor Temperley was often ill so you can imagine how that went down with the Professor!’
‘Keep a stiff upper lip and all that. But you said this place was healthier than Ur, with a much more temperate climate?’
‘Yes, but it was still a strenuous dig. There’s so much that can go wrong. There’s never enough money for one thing. The natives steal everything they can lay their hands on. Officials are demanding bribes. And you are so far from home. People will quarrel over a pot of Oxford marmalade, let alone a royal tomb.’
‘Did he finish the dig?’
‘No. It may not ever be “finished”, as you put it. There is so much to find there. Pitt-Messanger’s health was failing him. He needed something easier.’
‘Ginny was telling me about his work in Egypt.’
‘She told you about the beautiful queen he found in what they are now calling the Valley of the Queens?’
‘She said she would show me your museum tomorrow.’
‘Why not now? Or are you too tired?’
‘I’m not too tired.’
‘Isolde? Will you come? I know Emily has seen it many times.’
‘Yes, I think I’ll go to bed if you don’t mind, Simon.’
‘Where’s Maud?’ Sir Simon asked.
‘She’s gone up to her room,’ Virginia told him. ‘Dominic was worried about her and has gone to see she’s all right. He’s such a considerate man. Dr Morris went with him.’
‘And Graham?’ Sir Simon inquired of his wife.
‘He said he had to tidy up his book and disappeared out into the night.’
‘Typical!’ Isolde said. ‘He can be so charming’ – Verity looked amazed – ‘but he delights in being antisocial. He wants us all to know he hates the rich and yet he lives off Simon. He’s just a sponger.’
‘I say, Izzy!’ Roddy exclaimed. ‘I think you’re being a bit tough on the man. I won’t pretend he’s my favourite character but he’s just . . . He’s just who he is. I rather like that.’
Verity, Isolde and Roddy got up to follow their host.
‘It’s not really a museum, you know,’ Sir Simon said, suddenly modest. ‘Just a few things I’ve picked up on my travels.’
When they reached the great hall, above which the museum was located, they found the lights weren’t working. ‘The fuse often goes,’ Simon explained. ‘I’ll change it in the morning. I’ve got to have the whole of this side of the house rewired. There’s a torch somewhere on a table. Be prepared is my motto. Ah, here we are.’
With the powerful beam shedding its light before them, they crossed the great hall with its tapestries and ancient armour, circumvented the massive oak dining-table Sir Simon had had made and at which the Castlewoods feasted on high days and holidays, and climbed the narrow staircase up into what was called the minstrels’ gallery. Their footsteps echoed on the stone so that Verity had an urge to walk on tiptoe. She tried not to trip over her dress because the stairway was steep and the stone steps uneven. She was relieved when they came at last to the glass showcases. The lights were not working here either but Sir Simon shone his torch on the ancient papyri, the beads and jewellery and a fantastic head-dress once worn by a queen of Babylon. He picked out for them a splendid golden necklace – the prize object in the collection – which shimmered in the torchlight.
Verity said, ‘It’s beautiful but is it safe? These glass cabinets don’t look very strong.’
‘No one would steal these things. They are too well known. I mean, if you took this necklace to any dealer they would know its origin and that it had been stolen.’
Verity thought her host was complacent. ‘So there’s no alarm? I’m surprised the insurance company doesn’t make you keep it all in a safe.’
‘It’s not insured,’ Sir Simon said casually. ‘As you say, they would not let me display the collection and what is the point of having objects like these if you cannot admire them? In any case, we stole them from a tomb so, if anyone steals them from us, they are doing no more than we did.’
‘Admirable philosophy!’ Roddy remarked.
Verity said nothing but thought that Sir Simon was criminally lax leaving such ancient and beautiful works of art unprotected.
‘Shall I read you the translation of this letter? It’s quite fascinating.’ Sir Simon pointed his torch at the card in front of the papyrus. ‘“They have begun to eat men and women here. The entire land is dead with famine. We shall all starve.”’
Sobered by this ancient cry of despair, they moved to the last case – which was empty.
‘Hello!’ Sir Simon said sucking in his breath. ‘I do believe . . .’
‘Surely there was a knife here . . . a gold dagger,’ Roddy said. ‘It had a stunning handle, most intricately carved. Assyrian, I think. Where have you put it, old boy?’
‘I haven’t put it anywhere,’ Sir Simon said in a low voice. ‘It has been stolen. It must have been.’
‘Could Ginny have removed it?’ Isolde suggested.
‘She would never do such a thing without telling me.’
‘But look!’ Verity cried. ‘Shine your torch over here.’ She pulled at the glass and the door swung open. ‘I thought so. It’s not locked. It hasn’t been broken into. Where do you normally keep the keys to the cabinet, Sir Simon?’
‘In the safe in my bedroom. Oh God! I had better go and look and see if they are there. Damn and blast! I suppose I should call the police.’
‘What time is it?’ Verity asked.
‘Almost midnight,‘ Roddy told her, consulting his watch in the torchlight.
‘I think we should go back to the drawing-room. You can check your safe, Sir Simon, and we can raise Lampton and ask him to put a fuse in the fuse box.’
Sir Simon did not seem to mind Verity taking charge and Roddy just nodded in agreement.
Ten minutes later Verity, Isolde and Roddy were back in the drawing-room explaining to Virginia what had happened.
A Grave Man Page 7