Open Writing

There was a message waiting for them at the station. Dr Dunwell had found something on the body of Manasas and wanted them to go immediately to his lab. There was also a note from Superintendent Donaldson in London saying how much he was enjoying his course. How they’d all benefit from it when he returned.

Inspector Hartley grimaced and passed the note to his sergeant as he reached for his raincoat and battered trilby. “Our Arthur’s laying on a talk for us when he gets back. On the psychology of narcotics.”

“Surprise, surprise,” said Khan, glancing at the note. “What shall I do with his letter, sir?”

“The polite answer to that is file it, Khan, ” said Hartley. “In the waste-bin!”

Ibrahim Khan hated path. labs. He was squeamish. and the very sight of blood made him feel sick. Then all that white tiling and the pervading stench of disinfectant. And worst of all another smell which he guessed came from the bodies the pathologist hacked about. Yes, Ibrahim Khan hated the place. But his boss revelled in it like Dunwell. They were two of a kind.

Dunwell’s laboratory was stiff with bits of preserved bodies. Facing you as you entered his place was a pickled head. He used it in lectures to demonstrate how repeated blows by a hammer to the face and cranium depressed the bone structure and caused lesions. Aspiring forensic scientists relished it. Khan did not.

He put his handkerchief to his mouth and retched as they went into Dunwell’s office. The stench of carbolic and formaldehyde kicked at his stomach. And though he tried to avert his eyes, he just had to look at that ghastly head. It was magnetic and became more horrendous each time he saw it. One dark eyelid was permanently closed in a gruesome wink.

Once they were inside he turned his back on the thing. It was the pick of that chamber, where, facing him, were bottles of intestines coloured with an assortment of dyes. But at least they were featureless. Then there were legs, arms and hands. Ears and pickled eyes. Every part of the anatomy.

“Well. How’s things going, Blake?” Dunwell asked breezily as they walked in. He offered them some coffee. Khan was glad to get his nose into a cup.

“So, so,” answered the inspector, sipping his drink. “We’re on the move, I think, Gus.”

Dunwell knew Hartley was onto something but didn’t press him. He’d tell all in his own good time. He took off his glasses and wiped them, saying casually, “I hear you were at the Institute of Middle Eastern Studies. What’s that place like? It looks like something straight out of ‘The Arabian Nights’ from the outside.”

“Aye. It’s certainly a Kubla Khan of a place,” said Hartley, going dreamy-eyed. “ ‘Twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girded round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree…’ ”

“All right. All right. Spare us the bard bit, “ said Dunwell. “What did you find there?”

“We found an exotic bit of the orient - including a fair Egyptian lady called Dr. Misha. She was a colleague of Dr Manasas. Talking of whom, what have you got to tell us about him?”

The pathologist took them into the adjoining lab. At the far end was the morgue. Khan knew what they were in for and lagged behind. When they reached the refrigeration units, Dr Dunwell, opened the door of one and pulled out the corpse of Dr Manasas. He drew back the cover to reveal the head and torso. Just below the neck was what looked like a tattoo. Dunwell invited the detectives to look closer. Hartley leaned over examining the cadaver closely. Khan turned his back on it.

“A burn - branded on before he died? It looks fresh,” said Hartley.

“Right first time,” said Dunwell.

“The sign of a cobra,” said the inspector, looking closer still. “What d’you make of it, Khan?”

His sergeant had been looking studiously out of the window at the television aerials opposite. He gave it the merest glance and said, “There was a hooded cobra on the head-dress of the mummy, sir.”

“An afuet, a royal head-dress,” explained Hartley. “The hooded cobra is a sign of divinity. All the Pharaohs and their families wore it.” He examined the corpse closely again. “As well as driving home some point with this poor chap, I think someone was trying to tell us something as well,” he added quietly.

Gus Dunwell raised his thick eyebrows. “You certainly have been putting in some homework, Blake,” he said . “Tell me more.”

Dunwell slid the corpse back into its container.

“There isn’t all that much more to tell,” he said. “Except there was a curse on anyone who tried to mess about with the mummy. Certainly worked on him,” he added nodding at the refrigerator.”

“And who exactly is it wrapped up on display in Albert Park Museum?” asked the pathologist, walking back with the detectives to his office.

“She’s a lady. Right out of the top drawer,” said Hartley. “A princess called Hathor, after the Egyptian sky goddess. And this’ll surprise you, Gus. She was a daughter of the Pharaoh at the time of Moses.”

Dr Dunwell chortled. “By Jove, it really would be one for the book if we’d had old Moses’ foster mum lying around in Keighworth all these years!”

“A one in 59 chance,” said Hartley.

“Oh? How d’you work that out?” asked the pathologist.

“Ramases II sired seventy nine sons and fifty nine daughters, according to the records,” said the inspector.

“Records!” echoed Dunwell. “I should think he damn well broke the lot!”

“Find owt else, Gus?” said Hartley as they entered his office.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Dunwell. “There were some dog hairs on his trouser legs. You might check out if Manasas owned one. A dog with white hairs. If he didn’t, then he’d been with somebody who did just before he died. They were very recent.”

Blake Hartley grunted. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Half Keighworth owned white dogs. But he found his haystack all right. And the needle when it bit him!