by Jim Eldridge
Sir William introduced the two speakers, and the subject of the debate, which concerned something called the pyramid inch. As the debate got under way, with Professor Waldheim opening, it seemed to Daniel that the pyramid inch was a measure, one twenty-fifth of a sacred cubit, which some pyramidologists claimed to have been used in ancient times to work out the proportions for the pyramids to be built. There was a chart on the wall behind Professor Waldheim which he pointed at frequently whenever he quoted from one of the names on the chart – those who had first proposed, and then developed this theory of the pyramid inch. The names meant nothing to Daniel, but he could tell from the pompous way that Waldheim spoke their names that he, and the rest of the audience, were meant to be impressed by this roll call of pyramid inchers: Professor John Greaves (1602–1652), John Taylor (1781–1864), and finally Charles Piazzi Smyth (born 1819). Isaac Newton also appeared on the professor’s list of names. As far as Daniel could gather, the main thing in this theory was that the total length of the four sides of a pyramid would be 36,524 pyramid inches, a hundred times the number of days in a year, and the reason Newton’s name appeared was because this was part of some larger universal scheme of things which even had religious implications involving the earth and the solar system.
Whether it was Professor Waldheim’s heavy-handed style of delivering the theory (and Daniel was still unsure what the implications of the theory were), or just the repetition of numbers, Daniel had to force himself to keep his eyes open. Obviously, this sense of drowsiness was not shared by the majority of the other people in the room: Abigail, for one, sat forward on the edge of her seat as if spellbound, and he could see she was frequently champing at the bit to interrupt with a question.
Things livened up when it was Edward Hardwicke’s turn to speak, mainly because he began by dismissing the theory of the pyramid inch as quasi-religious mumbo-jumbo based on a major error.
‘The theory of the pyramid inch is based on one particular measurement, the height of the Great Pyramid at Giza. But Flinders Petrie …’
At the mention of the name of Flinders Petrie, there were catcalls and boos from a large section of the audience, and Sir William was forced to bang his gavel repeatedly on the lectern in front of him to restore order.
‘But Flinders Petrie found,’ continued Hardwicke, determined not to be put off, ‘that when he measured the Great Pyramid in 1880, the pyramid was actually several feet smaller than previously believed. In other words, the pyramid inch is based on a serious miscalculation of measurement, and as such the theory is completely discredited!’
Once more this led to howls of anger from Professor Waldheim’s supporters, and Sir William duly gave the professor the opportunity to come back and try and refute Hardwicke’s point. The professor, however, merely launched into a personal attack on the character of Flinders Petrie and all those associated with him, accusing them of denigrating a great man in Piazzi Smyth, and the memory of all those who’d gone before him.
‘The argument goes to your Mr Hardwicke, I think,’ Daniel muttered to Abigail.
There then followed an invitation from Sir William for questions from the floor, and Daniel wasn’t at all surprised when Abigail was one of the first to raise her hand. Sir William pointed towards her and she rose.
‘Professor Waldheim,’ she began, ‘can I ask … ?’
That was as far as she got.
‘No, you cannot!’ boomed the professor. ‘I refuse to answer questions about science from a woman! Women have no brain! You have no intellect of any value!’
Before Daniel knew what he was doing, he was on his feet, shouting indignantly back at the professor, ‘And you, sir, have no manners! And I would venture to suggest that Miss Abigail Fenton, who you have so unjustly abused, is possibly the most intelligent person in this room. And that includes yourself.’
At this, there were outbursts from all over the room, loud shouts of abuse directed at Daniel, while others echoed Daniel’s sentiments and shouted at the professor, demanding an apology from him.
As Sir William tried to restore order, banging a gavel on the lectern, Bella leant into Abigail and whispered to her, ‘Well! How does it feel, Abi, to have a knight in the form of Mr Wilson coming to your defence?’
Abigail, who felt she must have gone a bright red, shook her head and muttered back, ‘I do no need anyone to come to my defence.’ But as she looked at Daniel, who had retaken his seat, she felt an overwhelming burst of gratitude towards him. No one before had ever stood up for her. Everyone – her parents, her schoolfriends, her colleagues, certainly her sister – seemed to believe that there was no need to stand up for Abigail because ‘she is self-sufficient’.
Part of her felt she should be angry at his intervention, made without her permission, but the spontaneity of it – the way he had leapt to his feet, the controlled anger in his voice on her behalf – made her want to hug him.
I’m being foolish, she rebuked herself.
As the hubbub in the room, subsided, Daniel leant towards her and said, ‘My apologies for embarrassing you with my outburst, Miss Fenton.’
‘There is no apology necessary,’ Abigail murmured back. ‘In fact, I am grateful for your intervention. Although you may have exaggerated the level of my intellect. There are many people in this room whose intellectual and archaeological achievements far exceed mine.’
‘Perhaps, but I do not know them so I cannot pass judgement on their abilities,’ said Daniel.
With the audience calmed down, Sir William obviously decided enough was enough and not to take the risk of another outburst, so he put the debate to the vote. The result was a narrow victory for Professor Waldheim’s view.
‘As expected,’ said Abigail. ‘Piazzi Smyth’s supporters are here in force tonight.’
With the debate finished, Daniel saw the figure of Edward Hardwicke pushing his way through a crowd of well-wishers, all keen to congratulate him on his performance, towards them.
‘Abigail!’ He beamed. ‘We lost, but I trust I put our case well enough to persuade even some of those here tonight on the virtue of Petrie’s theories.’
‘You did, indeed, Edward.’ Abigail smiled.
Hardwicke turned towards Daniel and held out his hand. ‘And allow me to shake your hand, Mr Wilson. Your defence of Miss Fenton was admirable. To be honest, I was about to say the same myself, but you beat me to it.’
‘Yes, wasn’t Mr Wilson wonderful!’ enthused Bella. ‘Like a Lancelot, or St George rising up against the dragon!’
‘It certainly made for a lively debate,’ said Dr Keen.
Suddenly, a flash of lurid green at the back of the room caught Daniel’s eye. He turned, and saw a man heading towards the exit who fitted the description given by the assistant at Heffers to perfection. The luxurious side-whiskers in the style of W. S. Gilbert, but most of all his suit of the almost luminous pale green large-checked material.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘There’s someone I need to talk to.’ He turned to Abigail and Bella and said, ‘My apologies, ladies, but I may be caught up. If I’m not back when you are ready to leave, perhaps Mr Hardwicke or Dr Keen would walk you home.’
‘I would be delighted to.’ Hardwicke smiled.
‘As would I.’ Keen nodded.
‘Is this something to do with the case?’ asked Abigail.
‘It may well be,’ said Daniel. ‘Excuse me, but I must catch this person before they vanish. I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Fenton, and report. Will you be here?’
‘Indeed,’ she said.
Daniel nodded his farewell and hurried off. The man in the green suit had disappeared, but Daniel hoped he wouldn’t have gone far. Unless he had a cab waiting for him outside.
CHAPTER FORTY
Daniel was in luck. The man had stopped at the gates of the Fitzwilliam and was looking along the line of cabs waiting in the road. Daniel reached him just as he was about to climb aboard one.
‘Excuse me!’ called Daniel
.
The man stopped and turned to look at Daniel, curious. ‘Yes?’
‘I’d like to talk to you about “Lot No. 249”.’
The man stared at Daniel, an expression of bewilderment on his face. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘“Lot No. 249”. It’s a short story by Arthur Conan Doyle. You went to Heffers bookshop to ask about it.’
The man shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you must be confusing me with someone else.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Daniel. ‘But there’s a simple way to clear this up. If you would accompany me to the police station …’
‘I will do no such thing!’ said the man indignantly. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘My name is Daniel Wilson. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired by the Fitzwilliam to investigate the recent deaths there.’
‘Which are nothing to do with me,’ said the man firmly.
‘Shall we see what Inspector Drabble thinks?’ asked Daniel. ‘If you won’t talk to me, then I shall be forced to place you under citizen’s arrest and hand you over to the police for questioning.’
‘You have no authority to do that!’ protested the man.
‘On the contrary, I have every authority,’ said Daniel. ‘As a former detective inspector with Scotland Yard, I am well versed in the law. So, what’s it to be? Me, or the police?’
Abigail was still filled with a sense of excitement at the evening’s debate as she and Edward Hardwicke walked home, side by side. Bella and Dr Keen trailed behind them, also deep in their own very different conversation.
‘How on earth can any supposedly intelligent person, with a practical experience of the pyramids, still insist on promoting Piazzi Smyth’s outdated theories?’ asked Abigail, exasperated.
‘In fairness to Smyth, they aren’t really his theories,’ Hardwicke pointed out. ‘He’s just reiterating views that have been expressed for the past few hundred years.’
‘Which have been discredited by Flinders Petrie’s work!’ Abigail pressed.
‘True.’ Hardwicke nodded, then smiled. ‘I have to say, Professor Waldheim’s face was a picture when your friend, Mr Wilson, stood up and attacked him. I don’t think the professor is used to being taken to task so publicly.’
‘Mr Wilson can be very old-fashioned with his view that women need a man to protect them,’ said Abigail.
‘And would you have thought I was being old-fashioned if I’d said the same out loud?’ asked Hardwicke. ‘Because I was on the point of saying exactly that when Mr Wilson rose to his feet in your defence.’
‘I’m not saying I wasn’t grateful for his intervention,’ said Abigail. ‘All I’m saying is that I felt I could have countered the professor’s statement on the ignorance of women on my own terms.’
‘If you’d been given the chance,’ said Hardwicke. ‘Which, with the professor in a bullish mood, looked unlikely.’ He frowned thoughtfully as he asked, ‘Do you know who Mr Wilson was so eager to see when he rushed off?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Abigail.
‘Do you think it’s connected with the case?’ asked Hardwicke.
‘I expect so. I’m sure he’ll report back to me tomorrow.’
‘I’d be interested to find out,’ said Hardwicke.
‘You’re interested in the case?’
‘Inasmuch as it involves the Fitzwilliam, and – apparently – the articles I sent back from Egypt. I’ve never been involved in a murder mystery before.’
A few paces behind them, Bella nodded as Dr Keen talked, although she wasn’t really paying attention. She was also thinking about Daniel Wilson’s sudden departure from the room. She had been so sure that he would walk her home after the event, having spent the past few hours with her and Abigail – and with Abigail so obviously enraptured with Edward Hardwicke, there would have been every opportunity for her to invite him in after he’d walked them home. And she was sure he would not have been so churlish as to refuse. And afterwards …
Suddenly, she caught the word ‘matrimony’, and her attention turned to Dr Keen, who was looking earnestly at her as they walked.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, puzzled.
‘I asked how you felt about matrimony?’ said Dr Keen. ‘I know at this moment I am really just starting out on my career as a doctor and my income is not as large as I would wish, but in the future …’
Bella stopped and stared at him.
‘You are asking me to marry you?’ she said, stunned.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Keen. ‘If you’ll have me.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The man’s name was Algernon Cobb. He’d decided to opt for talking to Daniel, while still insisting his innocence of anything to do with the murders, and now the two men were sitting in a quiet corner of the bar at the Lion Hotel, not far from the Fitzwilliam. Cobb had elected for a large whisky, Daniel for a lemonade, determined to keep his head clear.
‘“Lot No. 249”,’ prompted Daniel.
‘I’m a theatre producer,’ explained Cobb. ‘I’m always alert for new ideas, especially ones that would be suitable for a small touring company. It so happened that I was in a bar here in Cambridge, reading in the newspaper the report of the murder of the nightwatchman at the Fitzwilliam, when this gentleman sitting at the next table suddenly burst out “My God, it’s ‘Lot No. 249’!”
‘That sort of outburst is unusual, and especially when it’s done by an American. That’s not an accent you hear very often in Cambridge.’
‘You’re sure he was American?’
Cobb nodded. ‘We got into conversation, and he told me he was from New York, over here on business. I asked him what he meant about “Lot No. 249”, and he explained that the story in the paper was the same plot as this story of Arthur Conan Doyle’s that he’d read in an American magazine called Harper’s.’
‘Did you get this man’s name?’ asked Daniel.
Cobb shook his head. ‘I do know that he was leaving the next day, to return to America. So, alas, I can’t produce him to back up my story. The thing was, I was intrigued by this story. A murderous Egyptian mummy, reanimated. Revenge. Murder. Terror. It’s got it all!’
‘So you went in search of the story?’
Cobb nodded. ‘Heffers is the best bookshop around, so I thought if anyone would know about it and could get me a copy, they would. But it turns out it hasn’t been published in book form yet, just as a short story in this magazine.’
‘So you set about trying to get the rights to it, to turn it into a stage play.’
Cobb hesitated, then said reluctantly, ‘Not exactly.’
Daniel regarded him quizzically.
‘Not exactly?’ he repeated.
‘This whole thing about rights is complicated,’ said Cobb. ‘I mean, who really owns an idea.’
‘I would assume the original writer,’ said Daniel.
‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Cobb. ‘So often it’s the publisher. Or even someone else who was nothing to do with it. It’s all about contracts. For example, did you know that for the first Sherlock Holmes story that Conan Doyle wrote, A Study in Scarlet, he sold all the rights to the publisher for £25. So no matter how many copies it sold, or if there were any translations or adaptations done of it, Conan Doyle got not one penny more for it. Now is that fair?’
‘No,’ agreed Daniel. ‘But I’m sure that Mr Doyle had his reasons for accepting those terms.’
‘Lack of money and an eagerness to see his work in print,’ said Cobb. ‘That’s the fate of all new writers. They’ll take any terms they’re offered to see their words on the printed page. In my opinion, most of these publishers are vultures, living off the soul and spirit of the original creator, and I don’t want to give them one brass farthing to add to their ill-gotten gains.’
‘So you were planning to take the story and adapt it without permission?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Cobb again, his tone cautious.
>
‘That’s the second time you’ve used that phrase,’ said Daniel. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Alright, this is how it is,’ said Cobb. ‘If I find a really good story that I know audiences will love, I look at it, at the very core of it, and see if some things can maybe be altered. Like, for example, “Lot No. 249” is set in Oxford. Why Oxford? Why not, say, Edinburgh. Or Paris. Then I look at the main characters. Have you read the story?’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel.
‘So you’ll know it centres on three students all at the same Oxford college,’ continued Cobb, ‘Abercrombie Smith, Edward Bellingham and William Monkhouse Lee. But say instead it’s a lodging house in Paris, with two young men and a young woman they’re both in love with. And one of them uses some ancient ritual to reanimate this mummy to get rid of his rival. See what I mean? It’s a different story!’
‘It’s still the same story,’ said Daniel.
‘No it’s not. The only thing they have in common is a reanimated mummy, and that’s an old Egyptian myth, things coming back from the dead. There’s no copyright on that. The thing is to check everything that’s in the original, and make sure you avoid them. Hey presto, you’ve got a whole new story. And you’ve beaten the vulture publishers.’
‘And also avoided paying anything to the original writer,’ observed Daniel.
‘Yes, well, that’s the nature of the creative business.’ Cobb shrugged. ‘Look at Shakespeare. He stole most of his plots from Holinshed, but who today remembers Holinshed?’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Bella sat at the breakfast table and beamed. God, thought Abigail, she’s positively glowing!
‘He said he’s been thinking about asking me to marry him for ages, but he’s never had the courage or the opportunity to ask. Until last night.’
‘Marriage,’ repeated Abigail. ‘You and Dr Keen.’