by Simon Brett
There was a motor launch moored against the jetty at the end of the terrace. A gangway was let down from the side to let passengers embark. Along this Christabel Whipple was escorted on to the boat. Resistance to her uniformed captors was clearly useless, and Bengt Cøpper followed closely behind them.
Mr Crouptickle and Mr Snidely stood back while the carpet and its heavy contents were manhandled on board. Only when the four uniformed men were back on the jetty did the two accountants get on the boat. Within seconds the mooring ropes were cast off and the motor launch was on its way out on the bluish waters of the Nile.
And nobody noticed that, clinging to the back of the vessel just above the waterline, was a small blue-robed figure.
For the second time that day – or was it the next day? – Blotto returned to consciousness not knowing where he was. He wasn’t on a bed; beneath his back was flat stone or cement. He was also aware of a splitting headache and a vague wobbliness. At first he thought this was a related symptom, but after a while he decided that the motion was genuine, a slight rocking accompanied by a regular chug of some kind of engine.
Blotto decided he was on a boat and presumably, given where he’d started the day – or was it the day before? – that boat was on the Nile.
But he couldn’t see anything. At first he thought that was because he was still semi-conscious, but again after a while he came to the conclusion that he was in a dark place. And at least, thank goodness, he wasn’t handcuffed or, so far as he could tell, restrained in any other way.
He could feel something lying on his chest. Not anything heavy. He moved his hands up to feel what it was and, to his great relief, recognised the contours of his beloved cricket bat. That really gave him a lift. Nothing could be totally bad for Blotto so long as he’d got his cricket bat.
He then stretched out his arms to assess what kind of room he was in. And very quickly realised that, whatever he was in, it wasn’t a room. The space in which he was enclosed was much smaller than a room. He could only reach his hands about a foot away from his body before they encountered walls made of the same kind of stone or cement as the floor on which he lay. And reaching upwards, he soon encountered a very low ceiling of the same material. The ceiling seemed to be curved above him. As he felt along it, he found its shape was a larger version of his own body.
Finally Blotto realised the truth. He was inside the sarcophagus he had once believed to house the remains of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop.
Christabel Whipple was in a very unhappy situation. Seated next to Bengt Cøpper at a table in the saloon of the motor launch, she found herself opposite Mr Crouptickle and Mr Snidely and between them two men she had never seen before. One of them they all seemed to defer to as their boss. He repeated his question, ‘Will you cooperate with us, Miss Whipple?’
‘By “cooperate” you mean that I should go against all my instincts as an archaeologist?’
‘Oh, I think that sounds a little self-righteous, Miss Whipple. We’re just asking you to help us in the same way Mr Bengt Cøpper has been doing for some years.’
‘Denying that there are any objects of archaeological interest on the sites where you plan to build your hotels?’
‘Exactly that, Miss Whipple. You catch on very quickly.’ The boss smiled at her. ‘There will of course be a few other services we require of you . . .’
‘Authenticating fake artefacts, so you can sell them at inflated prices to gullible tourists?’
‘That kind of thing, yes.’
‘And is that why you’ve got that fake sarcophagus on the boat? So that you can sell it off to some poor unsuspecting collector?’
‘No, in that case, Miss Whipple, we feel the sarcophagus has served its turn. And rather than leave around something that could potentially be used as evidence, it is our plan very shortly to dump the sarcophagus over the back of the boat. It will become just another secret in the mud at the bottom of the Nile.’ There was a silence. ‘You still haven’t said whether you will cooperate with us, Miss Whipple.’
‘No, that’s true. I’m thinking about your offer,’ Christabel lied. She would no sooner work for this bunch of crooks than she would have her head shaved and join a nunnery.
‘You would only be doing,’ the boss went on, ‘what Mr Cøpper has been doing for us very successfully for years. As has Mr McGloam from the British Museum.’ He gestured to the man beside him. ‘I don’t know if you two have met, Miss Whipple . . . ?’
‘I have heard of Mr McGloam by reputation in archaeological circles.’
‘Thank you, Miss Whipple,’ said the gratified Scotsman.
‘A reputation which I now know, since I find him here amongst a bunch of crooks, to be totally undeserved.’
McGloam looked considerably less gratified.
‘To call us “crooks”, Miss Whipple,’ said Mr Crouptickle evenly, ‘is ungracious of you. We are merely men of business.’
‘Men of business who do not mind stooping to the shabbiest of criminal tricks.’
Crouptickle spread his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. ‘All commercial enterprises have to conform to the ethics of the countries with which they do business. A little flexibility must be allowed in such questions of morality. Anyway, Miss Whipple, I am sure that both Mr Cøpper and Mr McGloam can tell you, we are very generous people to work with. You will be very well paid for your services . . . won’t she, Bengt?’
The Norwegian agreed that she certainly would be.
‘And you would be doing us a lot of good too,’ the boss went on, ‘helping in the creation of what will soon be a global hotel empire.’
‘And betraying the values by which any self-respecting archaeologist should conduct their work.’
‘Again you’re sounding a teensy bit self-righteous, Miss Whipple. All you would be doing is playing your rightful part in the capitalist system.’
‘A system I despise.’
‘Oh, a lot of us despised capitalism when we were young. The lure of Socialism can be very attractive when you own nothing that you want to protect. Most people grow out of that kind of idealism when they discover how the world really works.’
‘Do they? Well, I have not yet been infected with that kind of cynicism. And I hope I never will be.’
‘Fine words, Miss Whipple. But are you seriously saying that you will not cooperate with us?’
‘That is precisely what I am saying.’
‘Well, that’s rather unfortunate. Because you do know rather a lot about how our consortium works. Rather too much, one might say. And if you’re not on our side . . . possessing all that knowledge . . . I’m not sure that we can allow you to survive, Miss Whipple.’
Keeping clear of the motor launch’s propellers, Twinks had hauled herself up over the stern of the boat soon after they left the jetty. Ahead of her she could see the enclosed bridge from which the boat’s skipper steered the vessel. He had his back to her and she wasn’t too worried about the possibility of his turning round.
There was no one on the back deck, just the heavy bulk of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop’s sarcophagus – or, as she now knew, the faked-up version of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop’s sarcophagus. It had been tied round with two stout ropes and placed on the edge of a hatchway that led down into the interior of the vessel, where presumably she would find Mr Crouptickle, Mr Snidely, Bengt Cøpper and Christabel Whipple. Under the sarcophagus were wooden rollers, like those with which it had been manoeuvred in the place that wasn’t the Valley of the Kings. Large stone blocks had been placed to prevent the huge artefact from shifting, either forwards into the hatch or back over the boat’s stern.
Resourceful though she was, it was difficult for Twinks to form a plan until she had more information about the level of predicament she was in. She looked around the deck, noting with approval that there was a small dinghy hanging from davits above the churning propellers. That might be useful if she needed a quick getaway. There were also some stout metal boathooks stowed along the
side of the deck. They too might have a purpose to fulfil in the plan that was beginning to take shape in her mind.
A bit more scouting out was required, though, before she could put any of it into action. She moved silently towards the hatch to go down and explore the launch’s interior.
Blotto had tried shifting the lid of the sarcophagus. He had pushed up with his feet, he had crouched in the cramped space pressing with his back against the curved surface trying to force it upwards, but either the cover was too heavy or it had been sealed or tied down. He had tried hammering with his cricket bat at the junction where the lid met the bottom part, hoping to crack the seal, but without success.
One thing he did notice though, during his exertions, was that a little light was penetrating the sarcophagus. A row of small holes had been drilled into the cover, just above where his head would naturally lie. He was sure they hadn’t been there when he had last seen the thing, in the underground chamber in what wasn’t the Valley of the Kings.
He found this obscurely comforting. Whoever had imprisoned him in the sarcophagus had not wanted him to die of asphyxiation. Clearly they had other plans for him . . .
Twinks heard voices as soon as she stepped on the ladder down into the launch’s interior. The proceedings were dominated by a voice she recognised, but would not in a million years have anticipated hearing in Egypt in the middle of the Nile.
He was saying, ‘Well, if that’s your decision, Miss Whipple, I can only say I’m sorry for you. I’ve given you the chance of saving your life and you’ve thrown it straight back at me.’
‘I cannot go against my conscience. I love archaeology too much to compromise my feelings for the discipline.’
‘Admirable – if foolish – sentiments, Miss Whipple.’
‘And now, if you’d excuse me, I’d like to go up on the deck and compose myself for . . . whatever lies ahead.’
‘I have no objection to your doing that, Miss Whipple. But I should warn you that, if you think you will have a chance of escaping from this boat, I would put such notions out of your mind.’
‘I have no such hopes. I know what my fate is to be. I just need to go and compose my mind, to make myself ready for it.’ Christabel Whipple did sound rather magnificent, thought Twinks, rather like Joan of Arc.
Twinks knew Christabel was about to come out and meet her, so she just had a quick look inside the room to confirm the identity of the man who had been speaking.
She was right. No one could mistake that cottage loaf body – or the ginger moustache. The boss of this criminal conspiracy was none other than Alfred Sprockett, the man who wanted to represent Tawcestershire in the House of Commons. So much for his Socialist principles.
Christabel Whipple left the cabin and walked straight into Twinks. She was so surprised that there was a serious danger she might have let out a cry, but Twinks clapped a hand over her mouth and led her up on to the deck.
‘Listen,’ she demanded when they were in the open, ‘where’s Blotto?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since he was knocked out by Bengt Cøpper back in the Two Pharaohs. I assume he’s back there, under guard.’ A tear glinted in Christabel Whipple’s eye. ‘So I’ll never see him again before I die.’
‘Don’t talk such utter toffee!’ said Twinks. ‘You’re not going to die! We’re going to get out of this murdy situation! We’ll soon be reunited with Blotto!’
And Twinks quickly outlined to Christabel her plan of escape.
‘Gosh!’ said the archaeologist. ‘What a spiffing wheeze! When Blotto and I were locked in that chamber yesterday or whenever it was, he said you were the nun’s nightie and, gosh, was he right!’
But Twinks had no time for compliments. Quickly she lowered the dinghy down from its davits so that it floated behind the boat ready for their escape. Then she said to Christabel, ‘Now, look, I’ll remove the stone that’s keeping the sarcophagus in place and get out of the way as quick as a lizard’s lick. You get those boathooks under the back and give it a hefty shove, which won’t be difficult with it on the rollers. Then, if my calculations are right – larksissimo! – the weight of the sarcophagus falling down through the hatch will punch a neat hole in the bottom of the launch and send that load of stenchers to their watery graves. Meanwhile you and I will be in the tender, rowing like mad back to the Two Pharaohs to rescue Blotto!’
And Christabel Whipple actually said, ‘Jolly hockey sticks!’
They did exactly as Twinks had planned. She moved the stone out of the way. Christabel, raising it slightly with the boathooks, pushed the heavy artefact forward and, as she did so, she cried gleefully, ‘I’m longing to see you, Blotto!’
‘I’m longing to see you too, Christabel!’ came a voice from the falling sarcophagus.
The two women looked at each other in horror. With sickening certainty Twinks realised that the heavy load taken from the Two Pharaohs Hotel wrapped in a carpet had not been gold bullion.
‘Oh no!’ cried Christabel Whipple. ‘Blotto’s inside the thing!’
31
At the Bottom of the Nile
But for the small detail of its sending her brother to a watery grave, Twinks’s plan worked brilliantly. The sarcophagus duly launched itself down through the hatchway and its weight smashed through the bottom of the motor launch, sending a huge jet of water up through the vessel, which sank within seconds. None of its passengers had time to move out of the saloon and they all went down with the boat.
Twinks and Christabel meanwhile had leapt into the dinghy at the critical moment, cut loose from the launch and floated free in the turbulence caused by the sinking vessel.
The young archaeologist’s face was a picture of desolation.
‘Don’t don your worry-boots!’ cried Twinks. ‘I’ve still got a few beezer wheezes left.’
And she reached for her sequinned reticule.
Blotto was quite shaken up and bruised by the sudden movement of his stone coffin. He didn’t know what caused the crashing noises around him, but as the pace of his descent slowed he concluded that he must be free-falling in the waters of the Nile.
Then he felt muddy water dribbling on to his face and he realised that the drilling of holes in the lid of the sarcophagus might not have been such a generous gesture on the part of his captors.
He tried to console himself. He’d had a good innings. But even as he had the thought he knew he’d rather have had a slightly longer innings. It was like just getting your eye in and then being clean-bowled by a daisycutter. Still, the great Umpire in the Sky had clearly given His verdict and Blotto wasn’t the kind of abject stencher who’d question the decision.
And at least he thought, hugging it to him, he had his cricket bat. He wished that he had Mephistopheles with him in the sarcophagus too. And the Lagonda. And of course Twinks. And, increasingly, Christabel Whipple . . .
Oh well . . . Heigh-ho . . .
Twinks took off her Arab robes and stripped down to underwear. Then, attaching the end of a fine ultra-strong silken thread to one of the tender’s rowlocks, she fed the line out as, taking a very deep breath, she dived into the muddy blue waters of the Nile. Her sequinned reticule was hung around her wrist. It was from that she had produced the thread and the goggles she wore.
Twinks had calculated that the flow of the river would have taken the debris of the motor launch some way further downstream than the sarcophagus, so she knew where to focus her search.
She also knew she didn’t have long to rescue Blotto. Or till her breath ran out. After one abortive underwater circuit she had to return to the surface to take in another gulp of air. Then she dived again.
This time she was lucky enough to distinguish a line of bubbles rising from below. Following them down, she felt rather than saw the outline of the sarcophagus, already beginning to sink into the soft mud of the Nile bottom.
Twinks felt around the outside of the shape and found that it had been tied with ropes. Reaching into he
r sequinned reticule, she produced a boning knife to cut these. But the problem of lifting the lid remained. Blotto might have been able to push the cover up, but there was no obvious means of communicating the need to him.
Feeling the pressure of her dwindling breath supply, Twinks reached into her sequinned reticule and produced a small hydraulic jack which she kept there for just this kind of occasion. She managed to introduce it between the main part of the sarcophagus and its lid and began to pump. At the same time she banged on the cover with a small hammer to try to alert her brother.
Blotto, who had just been slipping into insensibility as the water inside rose above his nostril level, responded, pushing up with both his arms and his legs. The lid shifted, then slid off the sarcophagus into the mud.
Blotto and Twinks clasped their arms around each other and kicked upwards, until the pair of them, lungs bursting, broke through the surface of the Nile.
32
Escape!
When parting from Corky Froggett as he went off to fetch the Lagonda from Shepheard’s Hotel, Twinks had given him the master key to the suites in the Two Pharaohs. Returning and not finding her there, the chauffeur had used his initiative and, stuffing them one at a time inside his blue uniform jacket, had transferred all of the ingots from Mr Crouptickle and Mr Snidely’s room to the secret compartment of the Lagonda.
So when the exhausted Blotto, Twinks and Christabel Whipple finally rowed their dinghy into the jetty of the Two Pharaohs, everything was ready for their departure. And there to greet them was not only Corky Froggett, but also Rollo Tewkes-Prudely.
‘Twinks!’ he cried. ‘I have missed you so much! I love you so much!’
‘Oh, go and boil your head in balsamic vinegar,’ she said wearily.
He went, his visions of flaxen-haired children melting around him.
They didn’t want to hang about. Though all their enemies, led by the great capitalist hypocrite Alfred Sprockett, lay at the bottom of the Nile, the fact remained that the Two Pharaohs Hotel was the consortium’s fiefdom. When news of the accident got back there, the English group might well be in danger.