Depth of Deception (A Titanic Murder Mystery) (50 page)

He paused. He thought he heard something.

"
Ay?
"
he called out. He strained to listen. There was nothing. He decided that fear was causing him to hear things. He pulled the woven drapes down from
the
wall, brought them to the woman’s corpse and carefully began the unpleasant task. Horemheb paused again and listened. He felt like he was being watched. There was still nothing. Where was Ay? It was likely that Ay was delivering the news to the late Pharaoh’s young wife. As the new King, Ay would also inherit the young widow as his wife as well. He chuckled. She was lovely, and Ay was...

Horemheb stopped, listened. He was certain he heard some heavy breathing. He looked at the dead bodies. There was no one else. Likely the echo of his own breathing in the empty hall. He hoped Ay would return soon with the High Priest.

He needed to dispose of the Blade and jars next. He strolled to the altar and gasped. He clearly remembered having set the jars and the knife on the marble slab. They were gone. He looked about desperately. The two corpses lay covered on the floor. There was no one else to be seen. Now he was certain that someone else had been there. Someone else who had watched and waited, then left nothing but—
what was that in the flickering torch light?
Something small and flat sitting on the altar. A betting playing card made of papyrus. He turned it over – the Jackal of Swords.

He silently prayed to Ra that the dark magic within the Blade of Anubis was only a myth.
No one who could willingly kill in cold blood should have the power of immortality.

Chapter I

July 10, 2010 – New York

A blanket of darkness shrouded Central Park. The general public didn’t venture into the enormous urban wooded area in the center of Manhattan after the sun went down. Even fewer dared during a new moon, when the shadow of the Earth smothers its light. Tonight, leaves obstructed some of the strategically placed streetlamps, making the park far less inviting. Officer Holz hoped this was enough to keep trouble away. He wanted a quiet night before the expected stress of tomorrow, when he
anticipated
the freaks would
flock to Central Park to celebrate the total solar eclipse. These sorts of things attracted not only the science geeks but also the weirdos, most of whom will be chanting about the end of the world, no doubt
. It happens every time and the world is still here.
He took comfort in knowing that he wouldn’t be around for the aftermath. Tomorrow after his shift was over, he’d be off to the Adirondacks with his brother for a whole week of fishing.

Officer Holz and his partner had split up to patrol the wooded areas surrounding the park’s baseball diamonds. Nothing but discarded newspapers and wrappers meandered through the grounds. On the southern end, close to East Drive, he spotted an LED light beam cutting through the trees.
So much for a quiet night.
Following the beacon, Holz could hear an odd scraping, scratching sound that grew louder as he drew nearer. From the protection of the surrounding evergreen trees he could see the clearing where the solitary Egyptian obelisk known as the ‘Cleopatra Needle’ stood erect before him. On the north side of the obelisk, beneath the plaque, a dark solitary figure was using tools to chisel away at the top 'step' of the white base of the monument. Careful not to cast a shadow, Holz leaned from the gnarled, twisted trees to see that only one of the lampposts positioned around the small octagonal courtyard was actually working. Was it fortuitous for him or for his suspect? Holz crept closer and crouched down at the edge of the treeline to watch quietly as the dark figure pried up some more bricks. From here, Holz could see that the access plate of the nearby lamppost was open and that the wires were pulled out. The darkness was deliberate.

When the dark figure jabbed the metal point of his tool into the hole, there was an odd thud, like metal hitting bone. Now that the suspect was no longer making any noise, Holz dared not move, even though Holz’s leg started to shake from being cramped in one position, and his knee was digging into a manhole cover at the edge of the step. He held his breath as the dark figure withdrew a wooden box from the hole in the ground. Holz automatically placed his hand on his gun handle. The dark figure opened the box and held up a white porcelain jar with the head of a snake on it. Holz relaxed his hand. This was most likely stolen property. He guessed it might even be from the King Tut Exhibit on 44th Street. It was time to take this suspect in for questioning. The dark figure began to uncap the white jar. Holz forced himself to ignore the surge of pins and needles through his lower extremities as he rose, then paused at the sight before him. The dark figure now shone his LED beam into the jar, causing the porcelain to become translucent, revealing hieroglyphic symbols that seemed to magically appear from within. The figure turned the jar to inspect it closer, then in a low baritone voice translated aloud, ‘The Blade of Anubis will get the heart.
"

What the hell did that mean?
Holz was certain this guy was a nut-job. He wasn’t going to wait any longer. Holz drew his gun as he called out,
"
Police! Keep your hands where I can see them!
"

"
This does not concern you. Please leave,
"
said the male voice with an odd accent.

"
You’re under arrest!
"

"
On what charge?
"

"
Let’s start with vandalism! Cleopatra's Needle is New York City property, and I’m sure that jar-thing was stolen from somewhere. I’m sure we can determine that once we examine it.
"

"
You are gravely mistaken. This obelisk was carved a thousand years before Cleopatra was born
and
was actually stolen from the city of Heliopolis long ago. It and its twin stood in the desert, unmarred, for 3000 years. Taken from Alexandria, and after only a mere century of being here, exposed to your pollution and acid rain, the hieroglyphics have been eroded away. As for the ‘canopic jar’… it belongs to me. So please leave.
"

Holz moved forward menacingly,
"
We’ll see about…
"

The dark figure casually tossed a small piece of paper into the air. Holz watched as it danced and fluttered in the breeze. It landed on the lock-bricks at his feet. He instantly recognized the familiar design of the face card: the Jack of Spades.

"
What the…?
"
His words were interrupted by a sharp pain in his torso. Holz looked down to see a knife sticking out of his chest.
The Jack of Spades had been a distraction.
His hands moved instinctively to grab the knife, dropping his gun, which clanged on the pavement. Holz knew that pulling the knife out would cause the blood to flow faster. As his fingers resisted the urge to pull, Holz became suddenly aware that the knife handle had some pointy-eared dog on it.

"
Sorry, Mate,
"
whispered the dark figure.
"
I did not want to kill you. I even asked you to leave rather politely, but you left me no choice. There is a task I must perform, and no-one must bear witness to the act.
"

Holz reached down and grabbed his two-way radio. He was about to shout into it when the dark figure yanked the knife from his chest, and sliced his throat with one fluid motion. The radio clattered next to the gun as Holz tried futilely to hold back the flow of blood. He could hear his heartbeat pounding, each beat counting down the last seconds of his life. He could feel the life drain from his body. Holz stumbled forward. He needed to know who had ripped his life away from him. He needed to see the face of his killer. With the last of his strength, he grabbed the figure and spun him around. If Holz could have uttered a sound, he would have screamed. The face was not what he expected to see.

10 July 1888 - London

The streets were dark. There was no moon in the sky. The flicking flames from the nearby gas lamps did little to illuminate the cobblestone street blanketed by fog.

Inspector Fredrick George Abberline squinted tiredly as he stepped out of No. 4 Whitehall Place, the Central Office of Scotland Yard. It was one of many small buildings on Whitehall Place that made up the Metropolitan Police. The force had grown so large that they had to take over the neighbouring buildings, including the stable. Even then, they were practically bursting at the seams.
T
he new Scotland Yard building i
sn’t being built swiftly enough,
Abberline sighed as he placed his bowler hat on his head. After spending his days behind a desk, his trousers were tighter— a walk to the Underground Station would do him good. He could not see the other end of the street but he could hear a cacophony of several horse-drawn carriages meandering through the adjoining roads.

The sudden ringing from Big Ben, just a few blocks south, echoed loudly through the night. Abberline pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and compared it to the chimes.
Hmmm. A little slow.
He adjusted the time and wound it all the way as he quickened his pace along the Victoria Embankment. He had been invited out for a pint at the Red Lion pub, but decided against it as it was late and he hoped to see his wife, Emma, before she retired to bed.

Foolishly he’d thought that being promoted to Inspector First Class and the transfer to the Central Office would end the long working hours into the night, but alas the criminals of London did not keep banker’s hours. Still it was a welcome change from the fourteen years of patrolling the streets of ‘H Division’, the armpit of civilization known as London’s East End. Overcrowded with immigrants trying to eke out a living with few jobs available and little room to breathe it was a breeding ground for crime and every form of depravity. He would die a happy man if he never had to set foot in ‘H Division’ ever again.

Abberline frowned as he huffed along
the
Victoria Embankment towards the Waterloo Bridge. He had hoped that the newly installed carbon arc lamps, part of a test of new electric lights employing alternating currents, would provide better illumination. Alas, some had already burned out and the others could not penetrate the thick fog.

Still, the soothing murmur of the Thames River reminded Abberline of the Stour River in his hometown of Blandford Forum, Dorset. He longed for the simpler days of fishing with his brother and two sisters.

Abberline’s stroll through his memory was interrupted by a dark figure darting behind the Cleopatra Needle which stood at the river's edge on his right. Abberline felt concern, evidenced by his usual habit of running the fingers of his right hand along his moustache to where it joined his mutton-chops. His sense of duty compelled him to investigate. The giant stone obelisk was dangerously close to the water’s edge. In this dense fog it could spell disaster. Abberline moved carefully but could see no one.

"
’Allo?
"
he called out into the night.
"
I say, is there anyone there?
"

Nothing. Were the shadows playing tricks with his eyes? He looked at the towering stone monument. He remembered attending the ceremony when it was presented to London as a gift from Egypt exactly 10 years ago. It was one of two obelisks; the other was given to the United States and was erected somewhere in New York City. This needle was flanked by two large Sphinxes that were carved here in London but it marked the start of England’s fascination with Ancient Egypt. Over the years, lost treasures of Egypt were put on display in the British Museums. Its influence has begun to be seen in fashion, decor and also in architecture. Even the park benches nearby were adorned with an Egyptian motif, not that it could be seen on this foggy night.

Abberline paused. He called out again,
"
’Allo?
"

No response. The fog was so dense that someone could very well be standing an arm’s length in front of him and he would not be able to see them. Fine. If they wanted to play games, he was not about to join in.
Let them fall in the Thames for all I care,
thought Abberline.

He turned to resume his journey to the Waterloo Bridge when his foot hit something causing him to trip and fall outright. Annoyed, his hand felt back for the protrusion. It was a loose stone. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a matchbox. Taking out a wooden matchstick, he quickly dragged it on the cobblestone. A spark of flame shed some light on the situation. The loose stone was sitting atop another stone. Abberline held the match to the hole where the stone belonged. The hole gaped beneath the step next to the obelisk. Something had been buried there. Whoever that dark figure was, they must have been responsible. Something suddenly fluttered by his foot, but the flame of the match was burning close to his fingertips. He would have to extinguish it before examining it further. Just before shaking out the flame, his right foot stomped on the fluttering object and held it to the ground.

Darkness again. His eyes needed to adjust from the flaming light to the foggy darkness. Abberline was about to light another match when he heard the unmistakable sound of another breath. Someone else
was
there. If the years of policing the streets taught him anything, it was that unnecessary risks did not serve him well. Better to retreat and return in the morning. Even if the fog was thick, he was taking no chances. He made a mental note of everything as he crouched down as if to tie his shoe laces, then he set his hand on the object beneath his right foot.
A playing card?
Using the magician’s technique of palming, he hid the card in his hand as he stood up. He then casually placed both hands in his pockets as he resumed walking along the Victoria Embankment. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention as he wondered if he was being watched. Or followed.