Open Writing

Blake Hartley couldn’t get back fast enough to pick up his book and drive to Albert Park Museum. There, he and Sergeant Khan compared the illustration in the book with the hieroglyphics on the mummy.

At first glance they looked alike. Only when you got down to the nitty-gritty details did the differences become obvious. Some details were missing altogether. Even the paint looked new.

“The murk in this case gets murkier,” said Hartley. “If this isn’t the original, what…or who’s in there?”

They had the book open at a photo of the mummy and its display case when it had been brought to the museum Though the photo was faded, the details were clear enough.

“Not only has the original mummy gone, sir, but also its case,” said Kahn. “Look. The one in the book has a heavier frame. It’s solid. This one looks like a bit of chipboard.”

They returned to the curator’s office and Hartley asked if the mummy had been put in a new display box at all.

Maurice Bottomley said not. “No need to change those original display cases. They’ll outlast the museum itself,” he said. “In any case, that display unit was specially sealed by Sir Joshua when he brought it back. We check it constantly. If any air got in, the mummy wouldn’t last two minutes in Keighworth’s atmosphere.”

“She’s not the only one. It takes most folks in Keighworth all their time to reach three score and ten,” said the inspector drily.

The curator was curious. “Why do you ask about the case?” he said.

“Just wondered how you kept a the mummy preserved so well,” said Hartley. “Makes sense not touching it much if it’s going to fall from together so easily.”

“Humidity and sunlight. We have to watch them all the time,” said Bottomley. “Old Whitcliff had the mummy sealed in before it left Egypt.”
They went into the small library beyond the office to replace the book. To reach it, they had to pass through a store-room in which was a collection of traditional Dales furniture, left to the museum by the family of a local farmer who’d died recently. Blake was interested. He knew him well. He was pleased to learn the curator was setting up a replica of the living room of the old farmhouse. The farmhouse had been sold it and its new owners were tarting it up. “All bow-windows and brass lanterns,” said Bottomley. “You’d hardly recognise the place now.”

There was a map on the wall showing where the farm was located. Inspector strolled across to it. “They gave their farms some strange names up there,” he remarked. Zion, Jerusalem, Bethlehem.”

“Early Methodists,” explained the curator. “Their holdings were built when Wesleyism was in full stride in the these parts.”

Hartley looked at an adjacent cluster of farm names. “And these?” he asked.

“They were built by the Whitcliff family,” said Bottomley. “They still own all the land up there. Sir Joshua built the family mansion at Pithon Hall, in the middle of the estate. The old house at Ingerworth became too hemmed in. He needed space.”

“Funny name - Pithon,” observed the inspector.

“It’s named after the place in Egypt where he did much of his excavating,” said the curator.

“Ah! I remember,” exclaimed Hartley. “Pithon and Ramases - the treasure cities of the Pharaohs. Built by Israelite slaves.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But aren’t all those farms derelict now?”

“They were bought by the water-board when they built the reservoir at Peckmill in the 1930s. Yes, they’re all in ruin now. The Whitcliff’s left their family mansion about the same time and returned to Ingerworth, letting Pithon Hall go to ruin,” said the curator.

“I’m not surprised,” said Hartley. “It must have cost a bob or two keeping up that place on the moors. The weather takes most things apart up there given time.” The curator opened a cabinet. It contained old photographs.
“I’ve some shots of the place in its heyday. Here’s one of the Whitcliff family, too,” he said.

He passed over a collection of faded photographs to the inspector to mull through. One of them showed Sir Joshua and his Egyptian wife. His lrage family were ranged around him. Over a dozen. The old patriarch sat in the middle in grand style wearing a fez and carrying a fly-whisk and what looked like a short shepherd’s crook. Behind him stood his sons, including Jason Whitcliff’s grandfather. At his feet sat a gaggle of grandchildren and their mothers.

“What’s those things he’s holding?” asked Ibrahim Khan.

The curator gave a short laugh. “The old man fancied himself as some sort of Pharaoh. Always claimed he’d married into the Egyptian royal house…the ancient royal house, descended from the Pharaohs. What he’s holding are the symbols of Pharaoic power. You see them in Egypt carried by statues representing the Pharaohs and painted on their mummies.”

“And out of all that lot there’s only Jason Whitcliff left,” commented Blake Hartley, handing back the photographs.

The curator replaced them. “There was supposed to be some sort of curse on those who entered the burial chambers, unless…” he paused.

“Unless what?” asked Hartley.

“Unless they became followers of the Princess Hathor.”

“The mummy downstairs? She cursed them?” asked Khan, incredulous.

“Yes,” replied Bottomley. Then added, “I don’t want to sound superstitious, but it certainly worked in their case. Of all those in that family photograph only one survived, Mr Whitcliff’s grandfather. Most of old Joshua’s grandsons died of illnesses in childhood. Two were killed in the First World War. Rumour had it he became a follower of Hathor to avoid the curse. Like his father and grandfather he also married an Egyptian wife.”

The curator drew out more old photographs. This time of the hall. It was a strange building with a marked Egyptian look. To one side of the old hall stood a large Mausoleum in an acre of land. Around the perimeter was a screen of pines, partially hiding it from the highway that ran about half a mile off.

“Interesting,” said the inspector. “I’ve passed there many a time but never seen that before. You’d never guess it was there from the road.”

“All the Whitcliffs are buried there,” said the curator. “They even brought back the bodies of the sons killed in the war.”

“I wouldn’t mind looking over that some time,” said Hartley. “Got a yen for old burial places.”

The curator said the Whitcliffs had never let anyone near their family tomb. It was still guarded jealously. They’d got a thing about it. He’d tried in the past to look over the place. Wanted to record it for the local archives, but hadn’t succeeded.

“It’s a no-go area as far as the present Mr Whitcliff is concerned. He has the place guarded day and night, got the whole place electronically sealed off.”

Hartley said they ought to be getting back and thanked him for all his help. As they passed the mummy, Maurice Bottomley asked if they’d got any further with the case.

“Ask the lady in there,” he said, nodding in the direction of the mummy.
“As ever, the Princess holds all the secrets. Even in death.”

Sergeant Khan glanced again at the still figure in the box.

“I shouldn’t get too close, Khan,” said Hartley. “You might fall under her curse!”

**

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