Open Writing

Professor Edwards returned to his office nonplussed, as the two detectives entered Manasas’ office peeling their eyes for clues. Hartley rubbed his chin. It was a job to know where to start, the place had been given such a thorough going-over.

“I wonder if they found whatever they were looking for, sir,” said Khan, beginning to sifti through a heap of papers on the floor.

Hartley walked to the window to look for any signs of break-in. There were none. “Whoever it was came in through the door. And that means they had a key to this place. But why go to the trouble of making such a mess? My guess is whatever was being looked for is still here,” he said, coming back slowly and glancing all around.

“D’you reckon they came here before or after he was killed, sir?” asked Khan.

“Good question, Khan. Could be he was killed first. If they’d got out of him what they wanted before he died, they wouldn’t have made such a mess. On the other hand…” he left his statement unfinished. The marks on Manasas’s body told their own tale. He’d been tortured before he’d died.

They continued poking round the strewn books and contents of the drawers, but they found nothing. Not until Khan saw the desk. It was next to the filing cabinet which had lurched over, hiding it. Khan righted the cabinet and looked closer at the desk.

It must have been Dr Manasas’ private property, for it was unlike the rest of the office furniture. The small writing desk was more for decoration than use. An antique. A Regency escritoire in the Egyptian style. There appeared to be no drawers in it. Khan stood examining it for some moments, quite still.

“What’s up, Khan?” his boss asked. “Seen summat?”

Ibrahim Khan spoke more to himself than Hartley.

“Thomas Hope,” he said quietly.

“Eh?” said Hartley. “Thomas Hope? Who’s he when he’s at home?”

Khan smiled. “A well known maker of furniture. As famous as Chippendale or Hepplewhite in his day, sir. He was influenced by Egyptian furniture-makers. That’s probably why Manasas bought it. Or he may have used it for something else,” he said.
Inspector Hartley was impressed. “You’re in the wrong trade, Kahn. You ought to have been in antiques.”

“Too risky, sir. Looked what happened to Manasas.” Then he walked over to the writing table and began running his fingers under the ledge.

“Looking for chewing-gum, sergeant?” asked his boss.

The escritoire had a dropped frontal which appeared to be merely ornamental. But there was a small drawer behind it. Whoever had broken in had missed it. The sergeant’s slim fingers stopped suddenly and his hand tightened. There was a click.

“That’s it,” he said triumphantly as the drawer slid open. So fine were the joints between the drawer and the rest of the desk, you couldn’t have got a razor blade between them. They looked as one.

Inspector Hartley stared in surprise. “You’re a right old Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Khan? Who taught you that trick?”

The sergeant smiled. “My wife,” he said. “I’ve trailed around enough antique fairs with her to learn a thing or two.” He nodded at the open drawer. “Folks had the same trouble as us when this was made. Burglars. So they hid their money and valuables in drawers like this.”

He pulled out the drawer to its fullest extent.

“This is what they were looking for, sir,” he said. Nestling in the drawer were a notebook and some faxes. Underneath them was an automatic pistol with a box of ammo! Khan picked up the faxes carefully. They were in Arabic. Hartley glanced over his shoulder trying to read them.

“What’s all that about?” he asked.

“You’re not going to believe this, sir, “ he began, turning to his boss, “but Manasas was working undercover for the Egyptian police. He’s referred to as Major Manasas here. He seems to have been sent here on surveillance.” He put down the fax he was holding. “What are we going to do, sir?” he asked.

Inspector Hartley picked up the faxes and put them in his pocket. He told his sergeant to take the gun and the rest of the stuff in the drawer. Then he slammed it to.

“First come, first served,” he said. “If they come again, they’ll find nowt. And what’s more, we’re going to say nowt , Khan. We’ll take these back for a closer look-see. I want to know a bit more about the rest of ’em working here before we go public on this stuff. And say absolutely nothing to our Arthur. The less he knows, the better. Whoever turned this room over was an insider with a key. And he didn’t get that from Dr Ahmad Manasas, or whoever he was when he left home to work here.”

Satisfied with what they’d found, they returned to Professor Edwards’ office, where Hartley asked about his colleagues, especially those who’d worked with Manasas. They were all Egyptians, employed as a new research team by the Institute.
“They were recommended highly by one of our sponsors,” began the professor. Then paused.

“But not your first choice?” queried Hartley, noting the other’s hesitancy.

Edwards smiled. “Inspector Hartley, you’re a man of the world. Money has pull…even in academic circles.”

“Aye, brass allus has the last say,” observed Hartley. “So your hand was forced, so to speak?”

“So to speak,” replied the other. Then added quickly, “But in fairness, I ought to say all my staff are highly qualified and effiecient. I wouldn’t take anyone on who I didn’t think suitable.”

“Including Dr Manasas?”

“He had the highest credentials. I employed him before I had to take on the others.”

“Had to? And who put their names forward?” asked the inspector.

There was another pause. The professor bit his lip and adjusted his tie. “That I’m not allowed to say,” was all he’d offer. “I can’t mention our sponsors. They asked us not to.”
Inspector Hartley shrugged his shoulders. “Modesty, eh?”

The professor smiled wryly. “Hardly. But they fund us well.”

“How many are there in your research team?” asked Sergeant Khan.

“Four…three, now,” said Edwards tersely. He opened a drawer and handed the photographs and profiles of Manasas’s colleagues to the detectives. Hartley cast his eye over them before passing them to Khan.

“Dr Gamal Riad, Dr Hamal Mukhtar and Dr Saniyya Misha,” he said. “She’s a striking young woman,” he couldn’t help observing. The professor smiled.

“She has more than beauty,” he said. “She’s highly intelligent. One of the best. A real asset to the department.”
“I bet she is,” said Khan, looking at her photo.

“She’s still in her twenties. A very bright girl,” said the professor. “In fact, already the expert in her own field.”

“What’s that?” asked the sergeant.

The dynasty of Ramases II - if that means anything to you,” the professor replied, rather patronisingly.

“Better known as the Pharaoh who changed his mind,” said Hartley. He’d just read about him in the book from the museum, but he didn’t let on. Khan like the professor was impressed.

“How do you mean?” asked Khan.

“Went after the Israelites once they’d taken off, didn’t he? ‘Pharaoh’s chariots and his host hath God cast in the sea.’ Exodus,” said the inspector.

“You clearly know your bible,” said the professor.

“I should,” said Hartley, smiling. “I’m a priest.”

Edwards seemed even more surprised and Inspector Hartley thought he’d better explain.

“I’m an Anglican non-stipendiary.”

“A policeman priest?”

“Right first time, sir,” said Hartley, then changed the subject. “You said the other members of the research team had been here only a short while, sir.”

“Their funding came through only three months ago. It was all rather rushed. They’re still in the process of unpacking. You see, along with other Middle Eastern institutions, we work closely with the Egyptian museum service. It’s part of our agreement with our sponsors.” He fiddled with his tie again. He didn’t seem happy with that agreement, but didn’t elaborate.

“And Dr Manasas? How did he fit into the team?” asked Hartley.

“He was a brilliant semanticist. An expert in the hieroglyphics of the Ramases II era. There’s much research still to be done on that period. It was a very volatile period of Egyptian history.”

“Oh? How?” said Blake Hartley, genuinely curious.

“Threw up all sorts of extremists.. Egypt had been ruled by invaders for five centuries. The Hyksos people from the north. They didn’t like it at all, no more than any other occupied nation. Ramases II kicked them out, then enslaved the Israelites, who’d supported the Hyksos, when they’d migrated into Egypt. It was one of Ramases’ daughters who adopted Moses. An Egyptian, not an Israelite name, incidentally.”
His mentioning Pharaoh’s daughter jogged Hartley’s memory. He’d read about her in the book he’d borrowed from the museum. Whitcliff had said the mummy in Keighworth Museum was that of a daughter of Ramases II.

“I’m told that the mummy in Keighworth Museum was a daughter of Ramases II,” said Hartley.

“We thought it might be. We were investigating it. Dr Manasas was checking the hieroglyphics on the wrappings. He let me have his report only the day before he was found dead; but I haven’t had time to read it yet.” The professor went to a cabinet and pulled out Manasas’s report. It was only a page long. He frowned as he read.

“Something wrong?” asked the inspector.

“Not exactly. Only Manasas says he’s unhappy about the mummy. The hieroglyphics are new…very new. What’s more they’re inaccurate. They’re a fake. He says the original mummy has disappeared!”