Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3)

MURDER MOST EGYPTOLOGICAL

A MRS. XAVIER STAYTON MYSTERY

Robert Colton

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events in this story are fictional or used fictitiously.

MURDER MOST CONVENIENT

Copyright © 2015 Robert Colton

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1508463514

ISBN-13: 978-1508463511

Published by Seventh Zone Press,

Saint Louis, Missouri 

Printed in the USA

Cover design by RJ Deel

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 

First Printing June 27, 2015

For more information:

www.robertcolton.com

In memory of

VIRGINIA Rogers

“Why must you leave your homeland to wander in a dangerous and uncivilized place?”

-Barbara Mertz

Also By Robert Colton:

Rome to Alexandria:

A Collection of Short Stories

Pompeii:

A Tale of Murder in Ancient Rome

Pompeii:

A Conspiracy Among Friends

Pompeii:

Hazard at Bay

Pompeii:

Pluto’s Maze

Pompeii:

Boudicca in the Arena

and

MURDER MOST CONVENIENT

A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

MURDER MOST POSH

A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

                                                                 March 15
th
, 1928

Dear Mr. Edwin Peters, 

   Enclosed with this letter you will find a fully completed and edited version of my manuscript,
Deception in The Valley of Kings.
I believe that as the publisher of
The Science and Archeology Chronicle Quarterly
you will be most interested in this account of my recent travels. In fact, as I currently have not secured a literary agent to represent me, it occurred to me that your publication might be the perfect organization to present my work to the public and dispel the untruths recently shared by the press.

   Perhaps my story could be broken into articles and published as a serial; just think how thrilling this would be for your readership! Unlike the sensationalism of the press, my firsthand knowledge of King Kamose is based on pure facts.

   As a bit of background information for you, your periodical is a household favorite. My husband has received the magazine for these past six years; of course, he has been deceased for nearly four years now, but when the latest edition arrives I sit before one of his framed photographs and read each article aloud. I do believe that even from the great distance of Heaven, he still enjoys the latest findings on science and archeology.

   It is due to my husband’s interest in archeology that I found myself embroiled in mystery. While many pieces of information regarding my exploits in Egypt were shared by the newspapers, the truth can only be found in my manuscript. Within, I have explained the circumstance that led me to Luxor, Egypt, on a quest for the truth. I will have you know that the ancient land lived up to the mystique, but native folklore is never as harrowing as the darkness of a sinister mind.

   This is my third manuscript. I believe you will find it most well crafted. An author whom I recently met gave me much advice. This person has been widely published in both newspapers and periodicals. I would mention the identity, however, I doubt that dropping the name of someone currently serving time in an Egyptian prison would help my cause.

   As to payment for my story, I ask for nothing more than that each of the serialized accounts is dedicated to my dear Xavier. My travels to Egypt proved frightfully expensive, but I have not the intention of attempting to recoup my costs through publication. I only want to share my side of the story. Well, I am sure that you are eager to begin reading my account. I do so hope that it meets with your enthusiastic approval. 

Sincerely,

Mrs. Xavier Stayton  

Chapter One

Mother Stayton’s hat continuously jabbed at both Lucy and me as the sedan rolled onward. The elegant woman sat between us, clutching a small purse in one hand and her lorgnette in the other. No sooner had my dear friend brushed the errant bonnet away than a stray feather was catching onto the veil of my own small hat.

   With skill quite unknown to me, my mother-in-law, Vivian Burk Stayton, ignored her hat’s abusive behavior and our rebuffs against the object as she ever so excitedly rambled on, “To think, in just moments we will be gazing upon a king.”

    The chauffeur rounded a corner with his typical lack of finesse. As I pulled a dyed feather from my lips, I remarked, “A king who has been dead for over three thousand years.”

    Lucy commented in her lovely English accent (of which I am jealous), “All that time, hidden in a tomb with his treasures.”

   Mother Stayton ignored us both. In a rather faraway tone, she said, “When I was a young lady it was fashionable to host parties in which Egyptologists unwrapped mummies. My friend Betsy Wilton had such a party.” The woman fell silent for a moment while she recalled the details of the event.

    “How grand it was. The gas lights were lowered, candles were lit, and some exotic spices were burned. The parlor was abuzz with curiosity. Off came the lid of the golden sarcophagus, and there was the mummy. As it was unwrapped, charms were discovered, and to our delight, these treasures were given to us.”

    “Oh, what fun,” Lucy remarked in her good-natured way.

   “So we thought. It turned out that the so-called Egyptologist was a flimflam. The sarcophagus was papier-mâché, and the charms just bits of tin, pressed to look like Egyptian trinkets. Of course, the mummy wasn’t real either—and Betsy Wilton knew it.”

   For an instant, I felt rather sorry for this Betsy Wilton. I can only imagine the scene made by my outspoken mother-in-law once she realized that she had been deceived.

   Choosing just the right words, I said, “Well, that will not be the case here. We’ve paid good money for a legitimate pharaoh. I’m sure that Professor Kinkaid hasn’t let us down.”

    “If he has, the curator will certainly hear about it,” retorted Mother Stayton.

    I’m sure that Lucy and I had the same thought running through our heads:
Heaven help Mr. Farber if the mummy isn’t to her liking.

   Our motorcar came to an abrupt stop, which caused the hostile hat to leap forward. Forgetting all decorum, Lucy and I both flung the doors open and left the other occupant of the sedan to conquer the object that was no longer securely affixed to her ashen blonde, permanent-waved hair.

   Before us was the London Museum of Art and Antiquities. It was this place that would exhibit the mummy we’d acquired by rather complicated and costly measures.

   Mother Stayton and I contributed handsomely to the museum, and we were often invited to special affairs for the benefactors. On one such occasion, Mr. Farber, the curator, remarked, “I recall Xavier telling me of how he planned to see Egypt. Such a pity he wasn’t able to.”

   My poor dear husband had planned on seeing the entirety of the world. However, after his tragic accident, this dream of his was surely afforded to him from the vantage point of Heaven, where not a detail might be overlooked.

   As I recall, the mention of Xavier’s lofty plans caused me a pang of sadness. I pulled a clove from my little silver snuff box and placed it on my tongue. After a moment passed I began to pay attention to the curator’s words again.

   “Yes, he promised he’d bring me back a mummy, one even better than that
boy king
they found …”

   In that instant, I knew it was my widow’s duty to make good on my late husband’s promise. I grasped my mother-in-law’s hand, and speaking for both of us, I asked, “How does one sponsor an archeological expedition?”

   After a moment of surprise, the lanky man answered my question, in great detail.

   That was two years ago. In the time since, the Egyptologist Mr. Farber hired on our behalf discovered what all his peers dream of: the undisturbed, sealed tomb of a pharaoh. King Kamose, who ruled briefly in what we were told was called the Eighteenth Dynasty, had been buried in a modest tomb within the Valley of Kings. 

   With the help of Mr. Farber, we secured the rights from the Egyptian Department of Antiquities to start a dig. For a handsome sum, a license was granted us, with a great many provisions. One of these was that the Egyptians had first claim on any items discovered if our team in fact stumbled across a tomb.

  A factor to our benefit, which my mother-in-law chose to ignore, was that our King Kamose had been particularly short lived and had avoided mention in all of recorded history. It would seem that the scholars running the renowned museum in Cairo had little interest in our pharaoh and approved of him being sent to London to go on permanent public display.     

   So now a newly refinished room within our beloved museum stood ready for the king’s arrival. In a matter of days the sarcophagus would be unveiled, and a party would be thrown in both Kamose’s and Xavier’s names; but first we would have our peek of the king’s mummy.  

   Standing at the bottom of the steps before the large stone building, Lucy and I watched as Mother Stayton brushed aside the stray feathers and netting of her hat, all the while convinced that she had retained her dignity.

   A smart-looking young man rushed to open the door for us. Looking to Lucy, the young man said, “Mrs. Stayton, Mr. Farber sent me to greet you.”

   I could not blame the young man for the mistake. My dear friend and companion very much resembled a young well-to-do socialite. Her dark brown hair took nicely to a permanent wave and was cut in the short style that was the current rage. My amber hair was best brushed back behind my ears and covered with a simple hat. While I felt more comfortable in wool, satin and velvet lay on Lucy as naturally as dew on a leaf. It was I, clutching my purse with little poise and wearing a tweedy suit that my mother-in-law had pointed out was last year’s fashion, who appeared to onlookers to be the friendly companion.    

   Embarrassed, Lucy gestured to me. “This is Mrs. Xavier Stayton.”

   Quick to recover from the error, the young man took my hand and greeted me, then, with great excitement, he said, “King Kamose has only just arrived. Mr. Farber asked me to see you to his office.”

   I was about to reply agreeably when Mother Stayton joined us atop the steps and asked, “Where is the king?”

   The question brought about a frown on the young man’s face. He hitched a thumb over his shoulder and admitted, “The unloading dock.”

   “Well, then, take us there,” demanded the impatient woman from under her grand hat.

  Only a person of true courage argued with my mother-in-law. With only the slightest sign of hesitation, we were led through a series of corridors seldom seen by the general public.

   At what must have been the back of the large building, we entered a large garage. The smell of petrol caused me to cough.

   Lucy put a gloved hand to her face and batted her eyes. “Perhaps I should remain in the hall.”

   The poor dear had only just overcome a lingering cold caught on the Atlantic, aboard a grand liner.

   “Nonsense!” shouted Vivian Burk Stayton over the sound of a large lorry’s idling engine. She pointed her forceful voice toward the driver and called out, “Disengage that contraption!”

   Somehow the man actually heard her, and he turned off the engine. A moment later, the voices of two men from the back of the lorry echoed about the garage.

   “Well, where is it?” boomed one fellow.

   A faint mumble followed, and I knew this meek sound had emanated from Mr. Farber.

   “Look!” exclaimed Lucy as she pointed to a large chest sitting outside of the van.

  “That must be him.” Mother Stayton seemed quite horrified that King Kamose languished unattended.

   As I hail from America, the reverence the English held for their royalty has always been beyond my grasp. I believe that my dear mother-in-law labored under the belief that our pharaoh deserved the same respect as did her King George V, whom she alternately criticized and hailed in equal measure.

   “Mr. Farber!”

   A narrow head poked out of the back of the lorry. Only somewhat befuddled, the curator called out, “Mrs. Stayton, how good to see you.” This lie rolled off his tongue quite naturally; it seemed that those employed by charity organizations were conditioned to beam with delight in the presence of donors, no matter how unwanted their presence might be.

   Mother Stayton pointed toward the prone crate. “Don’t tell me that King Kamose is within this coffer, just abandoned there.”

   Poor Mr. Farber pressed his lips together as his eyes fell onto the crate. He was spared answering the question when another fellow scuttled out of the back of the lorry.

   “Well, that’s part of him, Mrs. Stayton. Here’s the rest!” A rather corpulent man held a wooden chest the size of a typewriter’s case. He whistled for the young man who had escorted us to take the item from him.

   Mother Stayton spoke loudly in what was meant to be an awe-inspired whisper. “The canopic jars?”

   These are the sacred jars which contain the mummy’s internal organs. The most morbid crockery known to modern man, I would say. 

   “That they are, my good lady,” replied the heavy man.

     Mr. Farber leapt out of the lorry and quickly spoke, “Mrs. Vivian Stayton, you know Mr. Archer, of course.”

   The two nodded heads, politely. Mr. Archer was the president of the museum’s board. He had been quite opposed to the memorial we had intended to include in the display we had financed for King Kamose.

   Pointing out to my mother-in-law that he too had lost a son at a young age and was sensitive to our desire, he had, however, also expressed that the memorial we had selected, according to him, was even more grandiose than the tombstone he had commissioned to mark his own son’s grave.

   While my mother-in-law would disagree, I must admit that the Egyptian-style stela we had designed to honor our Xavier may very well have stolen focus from the sarcophagus. In the end, Mr. Archer had approved the bronze plaque that we settled on.

   Mr. Archer greeted me, and even acted as if he and Lucy were well acquainted. Throwing a sidelong glance to Mr. Farber, the man said, “You’ll ring me later.” And then to us, “Right. I am rather late for a pressing engagement. I will see you lovely ladies at the unveiling.”

   As the bulky man tootled past us, Mother Stayton pointed to the crate and said, “Don’t you want to wait a moment and see our mummy?”

   In a rather rehearsed way, Mr. Archer replied, “You’ve seen one mummy, you’ve seen them all.”

   Making sure that the man was still within earshot, Mother Stayton sighed and said, “Such a pity a man so uncultured is the president of this museum’s board.”

    Poor Mr. Farber pushed his round spectacles into place and ran his hand through the dark bangs that drooped over his forehead. “Well, Mr. Archer was in Egypt last year; he saw the
boy king
and all—”

   Mother Stayton brushed off the comment; mention of the more famous young pharaoh was tantamount to an insult in her presence. 

   Sensing that his benefactor was growing irritable, Mr. Farber called out for the men working about the garage to converge at the crate.

   Stepping very close to me, Lucy whispered, “Our
Mrs. X
would denounce that there is a body in that crate.”

   This fictional
Mrs. X
had started as a character of my invention, but the press had labeled me Mrs. X, and the most recent taglines had not been all that complimentary.

   I nodded my chin but made no reply. Nor would it have been heard. As two men took crowbars to the chest, Mother Stayton shrieked, “How undignified!”

   Her protest was ignored by the brawny men, not so well trained to respect the sensitivities of the patrons. A moment passed, and the lid was off and leaning against the wooden crate. Thick wood shavings were tossed out onto the floor, then a few tattered rugs were heaved aside.

   I had known that King Kamose’s mummy case was not gilded in gold, and that his mortuary items were considered second-rate, and I had steadied myself against all disappointment. I merely prayed to the good Lord above that this ancient coffin was some degree superior to Betsy Wilton’s.

   Of course, as Mr. Farber had educated us, “sarcophagus” is the wrong word to use. The sarcophagus was the most outer vessel, made of stone, which held the mummified ancients.

   Like those curious Russian nesting dolls, a mummy would be safely sealed within multiple caskets, some made from gold, silver, or wood. The Egyptian Department of Antiquities had only approved the inner-most casket to travel abroad with King Kamose.

   The moment the crowbars were placed on the ground, the workmen magically transformed into gentle creatures, and with surprising reverence, they lifted the mummy case from the open crate.