by Simon Brett
‘Better sip from the jolly old bottle,’ said Christabel as she offered it to Blotto. ‘Don’t have the luxury of any glasses down here.’
‘Well, actually,’ he said, reaching into the voluminous pockets of his tweed jacket, ‘I have got one.’ And he produced the glass that he had taken from the Two Pharaohs Hotel.
‘Oh, that looks familiar.’ Christabel stared at him. ‘Why did you pick that up?’
‘Oh . . . er . . .’ Blotto was deeply embarrassed. ‘Never know when a spare glass is going to fit the pigeonhole. I just . . . er . . .’
He could tell from the shrewdness in Christabel’s eyes that she knew exactly why he had taken the glass, and that made him feel even more embarrassed.
He tried to get out of the gluepot by changing the subject. ‘I heard a jolly good riddle once.’
‘Did you?’ asked Christabel with amused affection.
‘Yes. Now let me get it right . . . “What is the difference between a person who sells watches and a prison officer?”’
‘I don’t know.’
After a moment Blotto was forced to admit he didn’t either. He wished Twinks was there to tell him how to ask the riddle properly.
But Christabel Whipple didn’t seem to mind about the unresolved joke. Instead she relaxed and talked to Blotto about her childhood, about how her discovery of a Saxon hoard of gold on her parents’ estate when she was five had triggered her lifelong love of archaeology.
Secure in the intimacy of their conversation, neither Blotto nor Christabel wasted any time in conjectures as to who had locked them in the underground chamber or what those people’s intentions for them were. The two were very similar in temperament. They had both been brought up constantly to stiffen their upper lips, to ‘rally round’, not ‘to make a fuss’ and to ‘do the decent thing’. In other words, neither of them had any imagination at all.
And for Christabel, though being locked in might be a bit of a bore, their incarceration did at least give her the opportunity to make a thorough examination of the sarcophagus of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop. As she had announced to Blotto when they first met, archaeology was ‘the absolute love of her life’, so she wasn’t about to pass up the professional opportunity fate had offered her.
So while she talked about her childhood, she examined the sarcophagus. Blotto just watched as she ran her torch beam along its surfaces, stopping now and then to write a neat observation in her notebook. As she became increasingly absorbed she grew silent. Blotto felt content in her presence, hot but very content.
Some of the time he couldn’t help noticing that, to get a better view, she squatted on her haunches. Wonderful haunches she had. Again he was reminded of Mephistopheles.
Eventually Christabel Whipple stood up, closed her notebook and turned to face Blotto. ‘It’s a fake,’ she announced.
‘What!’ He was thunderstruck. Amongst the surprises that he and Twinks had encountered since they found the sarcophagus, the one thing he had never doubted was its authenticity. That conviction might have wavered a bit when the other artefacts brought back by Rupert the Egyptologist had been denounced as counterfeit, but Mr McGloam – an expert from the British Museum, no less – had never doubted the provenance of the sarcophagus. Christabel’s words were a major body blow.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Positive. I’ve seen enough of the real thing to recognise one that’s leadpenny.’
‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ said Blotto. ‘But my sister Twinks – who you met briefly last night . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘But she could read those things along the side . . . horrorgraphs . . . ?’
‘Hieroglyphs?’
‘That’s the Johnnie! Anyway, she said they were genuine hiero . . . hiero . . . She said they were genuine.’
‘Yes, they’re genuine. But they weren’t carved over two thousand years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been done in the last few months. Oh, skilfully done – and the whole things been skilfully aged and distressed . . . but the fact remains it’s a fake.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I could tell you, Blotto, but . . . how much do you know about archaeology?’
‘Nothing,’ he admitted.
‘Egyptian history?’
‘Nothing.’
‘The burial rites of the ancient Egyptians?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then I think it would be better, Blotto, if I were to delay my explanation of why I know that this is a fake to some occasion when we’re more relaxed.’
‘Tickey-tockey.’ He couldn’t wait for a situation when he and Christabel were more relaxed.
‘No, I think what we should do right now,’ she went on, ‘is open the thing and find out whether there are any human remains in it or—’
‘No, we can’t do that!’ cried Blotto.
‘Why ever not, old thing?’
‘Because I really don’t want you to end up suffering from Plagues of Blood and Frogs and Lice and Flies and Moron and Boils and—’
‘Blotto . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘What on earth are you blethering about?’
‘Well, this may look like an ordinary sarcophagus to you—’
‘An ordinary fake sarcophagus.’
‘That’s as maybe, but I still have to tell you that some really murdy things happen to anyone who opens it.’
‘Oh yes, I read that,’ said Christabel casually.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s what it says in the hieroglyphs round that side.’
‘Yes, that’s where Twinks found them and she said that—’
‘But it’s complete balderdash. A lot of nonsense has been talked about pharaohs’ curses – particularly since the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb – but it’s all rubbish invented by the gutter press.’ She moved towards the sarcophagus. ‘Now this is going to be heavy, Blotto, but I’m quite strong and I’m sure you are too, so—’
‘So you really think it’s safe to—’
‘Of course it’s safe, Blotto. Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I trust you, Christabel,’ he said devoutly.
‘Right.’ She indicated the wooden rollers on the floor. ‘If we both get hold of one of those and push upwards against the rim of the lid, I’m sure we can shift it.’
Blotto did as he was instructed. The two of them were very close as they heaved against the pole, trying to shift the massive lid. At first it seemed absolutely rock solid, sealed in position by its own weight, if nothing else.
‘Come on, Blotto – one more try. On a count of three . . . One . . . Two . . . Three!’
This time it worked. The lid gave way, lifting perhaps a couple of inches. But as it did so, the steamy chamber was filled by the terrible shriek Blotto had heard before in the Tawcester Towers attic.
‘I told you so!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve unleashed the curse again and it’ll be Blood and Frogs and Lice and Flies and—’
‘Oh, Blotto, do put a sock in it,’ said Christabel coolly. ‘Now come on, just lift the bally thing a couple more inches and we’ll be able to slide it back.’
‘But what about—?’
‘Just do it, Blotto!’
He did as he was told. He rather liked Christabel Whipple being masterful.
This time they succeeded. They lifted the lid out of its groove and slid it back along the top of the sarcophagus.
The first thing Christabel focused her torch on was a small battery-powered siren with a string attached to the lid. As she pointed it out she asked, ‘Still think the thing’s genuine, Blotto? That little widget dates from the last ten years or I’m a Dutchman. Certainly wasn’t installed two thousand years ago. But now . . .’ Blotto could hear the excitement in her voice and feel the tension in her body ‘. . . let’s see whose remains are inside.’
She moved the torch beam down the interior of the sarcophagus till it came to rest on its glittering pile of c
ontents.
Ingots of solid gold. Each one stamped: ‘PROPERTY OF US GOVERNMENT’.
It was the Tawcester Towers bullion.
27
Captured!
Corky Froggett was extremely dutiful. Indeed his duty to authority – be it His Majesty’s Forces or the Lyminster family – defined his entire life. So he had willingly done as instructed in driving out to what he had been told was the Valley of the Kings and back to Cairo. In the Shepheard’s Hotel garage he had willingly retuned the Lagonda to its highest pitch of perfection.
But when he had discharged those duties, he allowed his own priorities to assert themselves. And he set out on the mission which from his point of view was the main purpose of his visit to Cairo – the search for dirty postcards.
Corky was not a natural tourist. His main interest in other countries was how many of their nationals he’d killed on military service and his total of Egyptians was a disappointing none. Nor did he have any skills in – or interest in learning – foreign languages. But there are certain words and combinations of words which seem to be understood in every tongue – a kind of global lingua franca. ‘Taxi’ was one, ‘telephone’ another. And, as Corky Froggett found that day in Cairo, ‘dirty postcard’ also did the business.
He made his first enquiry to the receptionist at Shepheard’s Hotel. For this one he could use English. The receptionist clearly recognised the words ‘dirty postcard’, but regretted that he could not supply any information on the subject until he had been given a baksheesh. That really annoyed Corky. He argued forcibly that tipping was something that one’s betters did to their worses. Working people should show solidarity with each other. They should not demand extra payment from their equals simply for doing their jobs. Both the chauffeur and the receptionist made their living by the sweat of their brows. The purity of their working-class ethics could only be sullied by the exchange of tips between them. At times during his harangue Corky Froggett sounded like Alfred Sprockett at his rhetorical best.
Needless to say, none of these arguments had any effect on the Shepheard’s Hotel receptionist. He was incapable of releasing any information about dirty postcards until he had been given a baksheesh.
Somewhat annoyed, the chauffeur strode out of the hotel foyer (refusing baksheesh to the obsequious doorman) into the battering heat of the Cairo afternoon. There he went up to the first white-robed Egyptian he saw and said the international words ‘dirty postcard’.
The man replied immediately in broken English that he had a cousin who dealt in just such wares and if the gentleman would follow him, he would make the required introduction.
Corky Froggett, his good humour restored by the ease with which this step had been achieved, did as he was told and walked in silence behind his new friend. He did not notice two surly-looking men in dark uniforms detach themselves from the shadows of Shepheard’s Hotel and follow some twenty yards behind them.
A more sensitive soul than Corky’s might have responded with fascination and delight to the sights around him as he was escorted from the main broad boulevards of the city into a hinterland of narrow streets. His new friend led him through the maze, into the midst of throngs of robed men and veiled women. They passed endless stalls displaying multicoloured fabrics, jewellery, amulets, scarabs, shoes, bags, fresh fruit, vegetables and spices. These last filled the air with their sharp aromas, mingling with tobacco and roasted meat. The air was also busy with the cries of the street traders extolling their wares, the clang of metalworkers’ hammers and the distant tapping of drums.
Almost anyone but Corky Froggett would have found the atmosphere exotic. He didn’t notice it. His main concern was what kind of dirty postcards he would be offered.
His other concern was that their journey seemed to be taking an extraordinarily long time. He’d lost count of the number of turnings they had taken through the souk. There was certainly no way he could have retraced their steps. Eventually, like a child on a journey, he asked his guide, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’
‘Very nearly,’ came the reply. ‘My cousin’s shop is just around the corner. Very good dirty postcards. Best in Cairo. Very cheap too. And very dirty. Dirtiest in Cairo. You will see, effendi.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Corky, mishearing him, ‘I won’t be offended. Takes more than a bit of filth to offend me, let me tell you. Some of the stuff that was passed around in the trenches . . . phwoar!’
‘We are here,’ announced the man, taking a sudden turn off the main alley.
Corky Froggett followed, gleeful with anticipation. But round the corner he did not see the expected shop, nor the expected cousin, nor the expected dirty postcards. He was in a shallow cul-de-sac, an angle made by two dusty red buildings, invisible from the passing hordes.
Realising it was a trap, Corky turned, just in time to see the two men in dark uniforms blocking his exit. Fighting machine that he was, he immediately took up a defensive stance, but at the same moment the man who had been his guide enveloped him with his arms. Corky resisted like a tiger, but before he could work a hand free, one of the uniformed men had produced a blackjack and brought it down heavily on the back of his neck.
The chauffeur’s last thought before he passed out was regret that he hadn’t seen any dirty postcards.
The three men carried their insensible burden through the alleys of the souk, constantly asking to be directed to a doctor, maintaining the illusion that Corky had just been taken ill (not that any of the passers-by seemed much bothered with what had happened to him). Then they suddenly turned off into an even narrower alley that led down to the riverside.
A felucca was moored, waiting for them. The three men trussed up the unconscious chauffeur, pinioning his arms behind his back and tying his ankles together with ropes. Then they tipped him over the gunwale onto the deck of the boat. With a wave to the crew, they stood on the bank and watched as the felucca sailed off towards the middle of the Nile.
Twinks was not the kind of person who let setbacks set her back. Her parents’ total lack of interest in her as she was growing up had made her into a resourceful child. And that resourceful child had become an even more resourceful adult.
So though the discovery that her and her brother’s journey to Egypt (carrying with them the risk of permanently alienating their mother) had been based on false information might have daunted a lesser spirit, that was not the effect it had on Twinks. It made her extremely angry, yes, but more than that it made her determined to remedy the situation as soon as possible.
A quick analysis brought the realisation that she had two immediate options. Bengt Cøpper having been proved to be a crook, the first possibility was to confront the man who had introduced the stencher to her, Rollo Tewkes-Prudely. But Twinks’s estimation of the Major was that he was stupid rather than devious, exactly the kind of man whom Bengt Cøpper would have found easy to dupe. Besides, she hadn’t got the energy to cope with another amorous swain cooing all over her.
No, a much better option would be to consult Christabel Whipple. On their brief meeting the previous evening Twinks had been impressed by the young archaeologist (and had not been unaware of her effect on Blotto). Christabel might not only be able to shed some light on the murky background of Bengt Cøpper, her professional knowledge could also enable her to explain the mysteries surrounding the sarcophagus of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop.
As ever with Twinks a decision was no sooner made than acted upon. She immediately rang for a uniformed flunkey and paid him a baksheesh to take a message for Corky Froggett. He returned some ten minutes later with the news that the chauffeur did not appear to be in the building, for which he was paid another baksheesh. Twinks then paid him a further baksheesh to arrange for a taxi to be ready in fifteen minutes at the main entrance of the hotel to take her to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. In the foyer she paid baksheesh to the receptionist who told her her cab was waiting, the doorman who opened the hotel door for her and the porter who opened the
cab door for her.
The minute she got in, she realised that she was not alone in the back of the taxi. But before she had a chance to escape she felt a strong arm gripping her round the waist and a damp cloth being pressed against her face. Because she was the kind of person she was, before she passed out Twinks identified the smell on the cloth as formyl trichloride. Chloroform.
28
Imprisoned!
Blotto didn’t know how he’d got into the room where he found himself. His last recollection had been of quietly simmering in the underground chamber with Christabel Whipple and the sarcophagus of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop. Then they’d been aware of sounds above them and something sweet-smelling being pumped into their space. Blotto had started to feel drowsy and . . . that was the last thing he remembered.
He seemed to be in a hotel room, he decided as he came to. It was still light, though whether the same day as when he had lost consciousness he did not know. The windows were closed, but not barred. But when he tried to move towards them he found he was handcuffed to the brass frame of a massive double bed. He tried to drag it towards the windows, but either it was fixed to the floor or just too heavy for him to shift. Blotto was well and truly snickered.
He lay back on the bed, feeling a little woozy. It was like the morning after a night getting seriously wobbulated, but he hadn’t had any alcohol at the excavation site (or whatever it really was). He wondered what the gas was that had so effectively knocked him out.
His next thought was of Christabel Whipple. What on earth had happened to her? Despite the uncomfortable conditions in that underground chamber, being there alone with Christabel had been one of the most profound experiences of his life. He’d never felt so fizzulated.