Breaking the Circle, page 3
In particular, the head of a high-born Egyptian of the New Kingdom looked back at her now, through the one eye that remained open. The skin was the colour of Nile mud, the long strands of hair dull and copper-coloured. The teeth, though few, were surprisingly good for a man who had died nearly three thousand years ago. The archaeologist measured the space between the eye sockets, the occipital length and the drop of the lower mandible. She noted it all down and started to draw it. Photography had been available all Margaret Murray’s life, but the camera would never replace the pencil when it came to accurate detail. And accurate detail was what archaeology was all about.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ she called.
A burly man stood there, in passé Ulster and bowler hat.
‘Mr Reid!’ She crossed the room and shook his hand. ‘What brings you to Bloomsbury?’
‘I happened to be passing,’ he said, sweeping off his hat.
‘Liar,’ she scolded him. ‘Ex-doyens of Scotland Yard never happen to pass anything. Try again.’
‘Hello,’ he caught sight of the head on the archaeologist’s desk. ‘Anybody we know?’
‘Ah, I wish I could tell you. He’s from the Valley of the Kings, certainly, but not, I think, a pharaoh. Probably a high priest or a royal official of some kind. Unfortunately, by the time we got him, he’d long ago become separated from the trappings that might have given us a clue as to his name.’
‘And from his body, presumably,’ Reid nodded. He looked closer at the shrivelled face. ‘I think we’ve got his twin brother at the Police Museum,’ he said. ‘Wedged between Charlie Peace’s false arm and William Corder’s left ear.’
Margaret Murray raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, on the skin cover of a Book of Common Prayer, of course.’
‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘Tea, Mr Reid?’
‘Thank you, Dr Murray. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but I was sure we were on first-name terms by now.’
The little Egyptologist looked up at the big Kentishman. ‘Very well,’ she said, adopting the primmest pose she used on a student she believed was above himself. ‘I shall call you Edmund if you tell me why you’re here.’
‘Madame Ankhara.’ Reid accepted her gestured offer of a chair.
‘Ah, Muriel Fazakerley.’ She clattered her crockery.
Reid laughed. ‘As always, Margaret, you don’t miss a trick.’
‘Did you know the lady?’ she asked.
‘Not personally,’ he admitted. ‘She was just the small print in the paper. I find myself drawn to that sort of thing these days. You?’
‘No,’ she lit the gas. ‘She came up in conversation with the Crawfords yesterday at tea.’
‘Ah. Andrew. How is he?’
‘Detective sergeant nowadays, of course. Doing well at the Yard, I believe.’
‘Hmm,’ Reid nodded. ‘Under John Kane. Good man, Kane – I’d have liked to have worked with him. Two kids now – Crawford, I mean.’
‘Two and a third,’ Margaret corrected him. ‘But you didn’t hear that from me.’
‘Quite. Quite.’
‘So.’ She placed the Unknown Egyptian to one side, ‘the late Madame Ankhara …’
‘I popped into Vine Street on my way here,’ Reid said. ‘Old Joe Davenant, the mortuary attendant there, owes me a few. He mentioned the black feather.’
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘Intriguing.’
‘Even more intriguing is the mulligatawny.’
‘Mulligatawny?’
‘The woman was found, effectively drowned in the stuff, on her fortune-telling table at her home.’
‘Good Lord. Where was this?’
‘Bermondsey.’
‘I’ve always been rather fond of mulligatawny,’ she told him. ‘Conjures up my Indian childhood.’
‘Disguises a multitude of things, too.’
‘Such as?’
Reid shrugged. ‘Any poison that doesn’t lead to convulsions. I chatted to Constable Bentinck, a wet-behind-the-ears kid who attended the crime scene. No signs of a struggle, apparently. Nothing upset or overturned.’
‘Quick-acting poison, then?’ Margaret queried.
‘I’d say so,’ he said, ‘but it’s all about the feather. That’s the clincher.’
‘Where was it found, exactly?’
‘In her mouth … well, it fell out of her mouth.’
‘You mean, she swallowed it?’
‘No. Apparently, it was completely intact and undamaged, just damp.’
‘So …’ the professor’s forensic brain was whirling, ‘it must have been placed in her mouth post-mortem – or ante-mortem into the soup – by person or persons unknown.’
‘That would be my reading of it,’ Reid said.
The kettle whistled loudly and Margaret did the honours.
‘Which brings me to the point of my visit. In your line of business, does a black feather have any significance?’
‘A certain kind of woman gives a white feather to any man she considered a coward. We had a few of those during the war, didn’t we?’
‘We did,’ Reid nodded. ‘Two lumps, please, Margaret.’
‘Black birds of all breeds are associated with death, of course. And with battle. In Gaelic tradition, the rooks pecking at battlefield corpses were believed to be Annis stealing their souls. In the Norse, the Valkyrie often ride horses with black wings. And we all know what will happen to the Tower if the ravens ever leave, don’t we?’
She passed Reid his tea.
‘I’m not sure you’re taking this very seriously,’ he chuckled.
‘No, I’m sorry, Edmund,’ she said, solemnly. ‘I don’t mean to be flippant. What’s the official take on this? Andrew said something about accident?’
‘Natural causes, the coroner’s going for, apparently, in the absence of anything more definite. Even he baulked at accidental drowning in soup.’
‘They’re ignoring the feather?’
‘They are,’ he said. ‘Of course, it’s A Division’s baby. They might call in the Yard, in which case it’ll find its way to John Kane’s desk. But with the inquest calling it natural … well, it’s likely to be case closed.’
‘But if it isn’t,’ she said, sipping her tea, ‘the whole thing might have to be left to an ex-detective of police and an interfering amateur busybody.’
Reid leaned forward and carefully put down his cup. ‘You may well be busy,’ he said, nodding at the silent Egyptian, ‘trying to identify ancient victims and all. You have certainly been known to interfere. But amateur, Margaret? Never.’ He sat back, arms folded. ‘Nobody could call you that.’
Flinders Petrie’s left eye loomed large behind his Ross and Cavanagh magnifying glass. All his working life, whether in the swirling sandstorms along the Nile or here in damper London, he had been screwing up his face and straining his eyes to decipher the little squiggles that men long dead had etched in stone, or bone, or marble, or clay. Every quirk of the stylus, every tap of the chisel, he knew, would throw new light on the ancient world he loved. He had been wrestling with this particular scarab now for weeks, and the little black and gold insect was threatening to get away from him.
He didn’t notice the knock on the door.
‘William,’ his visitor tutted, ‘you never call. You never write …’
He looked up, irritated. ‘Oh, Margaret, I know I promised to get back to you … It’s this wretched inscription!’
She looked at him; he was crimson with frustration above his starched wing collar, his wild white hair less obedient than usual. ‘Tea,’ she said. ‘That’s the answer.’ And she busied herself with the makings.
Flinders Petrie’s rooms were as arcane as hers, except that he had no Mrs Plinlimmon watching his every move. ‘I heard from Goubran the other day,’ he called through to the woman clattering in his little kitchen, ‘in the Valley of the Kings.’
‘Oh, how are things?’
‘Murderous,’ he told her. ‘Same as usual. There was some trouble with the fellaheen, but he shot a couple and all is well.’
‘Shot a couple?’ Margaret bustled through with a cake stand brimming with French fancies courtesy of both archaeologists’ favourite pâtissier, Thomas, of the Jeremy Bentham tea rooms across the road. ‘Not literally?’
‘You know Goubran,’ Flinders Petrie shrugged. ‘Never met a hyperbole he didn’t like. Probably involved a little mild thrashing on his part. The French are trying to muscle in on the digs again.’
‘Par for the course,’ she said.
‘And Arthur Weigall’s up to his old tricks.’
‘Dear Arthur,’ she smiled.
‘Yes.’ His mouth was a twisted line of annoyance. ‘Isn’t he, though?’
She patted his shoulder. ‘You mustn’t let it all get you down, William,’ she said. ‘Egypt has been there for the best part of five thousand years, give or take a dynasty or two. It’ll outlive both of us.’
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Sorry, Margaret. What did you want my views on?’
She looked around the chaos that was Flinders Petrie’s study. ‘There,’ she said, her eyes alighting on a package of papers. ‘Mr Merrington’s artwork.’
‘Ah, for your book, yes. I thought Quaritch was supportive.’
‘He was at first.’ Margaret poured the tea. ‘But as soon as I began to raise complaints, his support fell away, so to speak.’
‘Bound to defend his own, I suppose.’ Flinders Petrie took his cup. ‘Thank you.’
‘But he’s not “his own”, is he? As I understand it, Kirk Merrington is a freelance artist. He’s not in-house as such.’
‘And what’s the problem, exactly?’
Margaret rolled her eyes, just a little. She and the Great Man went back to who knew when. He had been her mentor, her guide, occasionally more than that, but always her friend. What he was not was organized. She pointed to the first of the foolscap sheets. ‘See this? Hieroglyph Four?’
Flinders Petrie adjusted his pince-nez. ‘Is … is Nefertiti winking?’ he asked.
‘She is,’ Margaret confirmed. ‘But that’s as nothing to Hieroglyph Nine.’ She sorted the pages accordingly.
Flinders Petrie peered again, frowning. Then he reached for his Ross and Cavanagh. ‘Good Lord!’ he said.
‘I personally had no idea that Rameses I was hung like a mule,’ she observed.
‘No more had I,’ he said, ‘especially considering all the incest. Is this man having a joke at our expense?’
‘At the expense of scholarship, that’s what concerns me.’
‘I’ll get right on to Quaritch. This isn’t good enough.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Pen. Pen.’ Then he looked about him. ‘I’ve got a secretary somewhere … haven’t I?’
Margaret laughed. Surely not even William Flinders Petrie expected to find a living woman under a pile of papyrus in the corner. ‘You have indeed, William,’ she said. ‘But it’s her day off today. No, leave it to me, at least in the first instance. I need to beard Mr Merrington in his lair, ask him face to face what his game is.’
Flinders Petrie smiled. At five foot nothing, Margaret Murray was easily a match for any scribbling artist. He almost wished he could be there. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But you’ll let me know if and when I can be of further assistance?’
‘Of course,’ she smiled. She picked up the scarab and looked at it, the shaft of sunlight streaming through the window, translating as she read. ‘Twenty barges,’ she said, ‘shall take the pharaoh to the hereafter. Back …’ she peered closer, ‘jackals?’ She nodded. ‘Yes, jackals. Back, jackals, for the pharaoh is mine.’
There was a stunned silence. ‘Jackals?’ Flinders Petrie thundered, after it was over. ‘Barges?’
Margaret shrugged and held up the pot. ‘More tea, Professor?’
It didn’t take long for Margaret Murray to get the information from the girl on the desk at Bernard Quaritch, Publishers. No, she didn’t know Mr Merrington personally, but she felt sure that he would welcome working with an author whose book he was currently illustrating, and she handed over the man’s address.
‘I’m Courtney,’ the girl said on the elegant studio threshold at that very address.
What an odd name for a girl, Margaret thought. And how broad and tall she was for a receptionist. However, the archaeologist in Margaret Murray had been exposed to Egyptian courtship rites for some time now; she didn’t judge.
‘Mr Merrington will see you now,’ and Margaret followed her through an arched passageway hung with questionable lithographs of the Aesthetic school, heavily embellished with lilies and phallic symbols. The stairs, which split in two halfway up, were thick with purple carpeting and the wallpaper burned a dull gold. Margaret was shown into a large drawing room, the windows of which gave a charming view of the British Museum and her own dear domain of University College.
Lolling on a chaise longue at the far end was the artist-in-residence, who got up at her arrival.
‘Dr Murray, what an honour.’ He bowed and kissed her hand extravagantly. ‘Will you take tea?’
‘Thank you, no,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid my visit may not, in the end, turn out to be a social call.’
‘Oh dear,’ Merrington said. ‘That would be most unfortunate. Courtney, be a dear and bugger off, would you? I sense that Dr Murray is a little miffed.’
He patted the chaise longue and she rather reluctantly sat down beside him. Kirk Merrington was the wrong side of forty, like Margaret herself. His hair was black and glossy, combed forward à la Nero, and his grey eyes sharp and watchful. Margaret expected him to be at least a little daubed with paint, but he – and the whole house that she had seen – was spotless.
‘It’s the drawings, isn’t it?’ He looked concerned.
‘It is, Mr Merrington,’ she nodded and hauled the portfolio up on to the nearest table. ‘For instance, this.’ She pointed to Hieroglyph Four. ‘As an historian and archaeologist, I am prepared to accept that the ancient Egyptians had many habits similar to our own. Nefertiti may have winked, just as I am sure that Rameses the Great probably broke wind. The point at issue is that, in what I hope is a scholarly work, we cannot have frivolities such as this. And as for Hieroglyph Nine,’ she pointed to the pharaoh’s private parts, ‘this is simply obscene and Mr Quaritch could never publish it in a family book.’
Merrington had the decency to look shame-faced. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said and led her across the room. He slid aside a screen and pressed a button on the wall. Panels slid sideways with a gentle scrape and thud and a range of canvases hung there, like ballgowns in a lady’s toilette. He flicked the first one round. ‘What do you notice?’ he asked.
Margaret blinked. ‘It’s the Mona Lisa,’ she said. ‘With a moustache.’
Merrington slid the canvas aside and produced a second. ‘And this?’
‘Leda and the swan,’ she said. ‘Except … oh.’
‘Not a swan, but a cormorant. Or, as the more casual ornithologists call it, a shag. And then, there’s this.’
He hauled a third canvas to the front. ‘Lady with an ermine,’ Margaret said, ‘but the ermine is now a toad.’
‘I could go on,’ he said.
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she said and whirled away, back towards the door.
‘Let me explain,’ he said. ‘But first, tell me honestly, apart from the moustache, the cormorant and the toad, would you say the painting is good?’
‘It’s remarkable, Mr Merrington,’ she said. ‘I am not an artist myself, except in the strictly archaeological sense, but I know what I like. You have enormous talent.’
‘Dear lady,’ he gushed, ‘you are too kind.’ He ushered her back to the chaise longue, ‘but I also have an extremely low boredom threshold. Oh, I can copy till the cows come home, create fresh canvases of my own, even illustrate archaeological tracts. But I quickly tire. My imagination takes over and I begin to doodle. God forbid that Frederic Leighton or Lawrence Alma-Tadema should find out, but I have lampooned them both outrageously. Are you familiar with Millais’ Princes in the Tower?
Margaret was; two terrified little boys, awaiting murder below a dark and spiralling stair.
‘Mine, I am ashamed to admit, has the lads playing diabolo. Holman Hunt’s Light of the World?’
Margaret nodded.
‘My version has the lantern with the flame just gone out with a gust of wind. It’s completely black.’
For once in her life, Margaret didn’t know what to say.
‘I call it the Flippant School,’ Merrington told her. ‘And I can only apologize again. Please, Dr Murray, give me a second chance. Let me redraft the drawings – and supply the rest – and I promise you, there will be no more jokes.’
She looked at him, the earnest grey eyes, the worried countenance. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said, ‘but I must see them all first.’
‘Absolutely.’ He took her hand and patted it.
She stood up, collecting her papers. ‘Shall I leave these with you?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I shall be starting afresh.’
She took her leave and paused at the door. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said. ‘The Flippant School. Do what you like with anything by J.M.W. Turner. You could hardly make it worse, could you?’
‘So, ladies and gentlemen, I remain convinced that there were a number of sun temples to the great god Ra. It’s just that we haven’t found them yet.’
Margaret Murray closed her notebook, her face lit from below by the flicker of the magic lantern. ‘And perhaps one of you will find them in the not-too-distant future.’
There were hoots of approval, whistles and cheers. The throng of students in the auditorium were on their feet, crowding around their little lecturer, wanting to know more, as always, about her excavations along the most mysterious river in the world. She held her hands up. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘Dr Tingle will be along shortly and you must be in your places. I believe his theme today is Medieval post-holes and their role in pan-Hellenic society – you won’t want to miss that.’
