“Good heavens!” stammered Robinson, who was young in years and somewhat new to his profession, “you – you must be mistaken.”
“Mistaken! mistaken!” shouted Braddock with another glare. “Come and see that poor fellow’s body then. He is dead, murdered.”
“By whom?”
“Hang you, sir, how should I know?”
“In what way has he been murdered? Stabbed, shot, or – ”
“I don’t know – I don’t know! Such a nuisance to lose a man like Bolton – an invaluable assistant. What I shall do without him I really don’t know. And his mother has been here, making no end of a fuss.”
“Can you blame her?” said the doctor, recovering his breath. “She is his mother, after all, and poor Bolton was her only son.”
“I am not denying the relationship, confound you!” snapped the Professor, ruffling his hair until it stood up like the crest of a parrot. “But she needn’t – ah!” He glanced through the open door, and then rushed to the threshold. “Here is Hope and Painter. Come in – come in. I have the doctor here. Hope, you have the key. You observe, constable, that Mr. Hope has the key. Open the door: open the door, and let us see the meaning of this dreadful crime.”
“Crime, sir?” queried the constable, who had heard all that was known from Hope, but now wished to hear what Braddock had to say.
“Yes, crime: crime, you idiot! I have lost my mummy.”
“But I thought, sir, that a murder – ”
“Oh, of course – of course,” gabbled the Professor, as if the death was quite a minor consideration. “Bolton’s dead – murdered, I suppose, as he could scarcely have nailed himself down in a packing case. But it’s my precious mummy I am thinking of, Painter. A mummy – if you know what a mummy is – that cost me nine hundred pounds. Go in, man. Go in and don’t stand there gaping. Don’t you see that Mr. Hope has opened the door. I have sent Cockatoo to Pierside to notify the police. They will soon be here. Meanwhile, doctor, you can examine the body, and Painter here can give his opinion as to who stole my mummy.”
“The assassin stole the mummy,” said Archie, as the four men entered the museum, “and substituted the body of the murdered man.”
“That is all A B C,” snapped Braddock, issuing into the vast room, “but we want to know the name of the assassin, if we are to revenge Bolton and get back my mummy. Oh, what a loss! – what a loss! I have lost nine hundred pounds, or say one thousand, considering the cost of bringing Inca Caxas to England.”
Archie forebore to remind the Professor as to who had really lost the money, as the scientist was not in a fit state to be talked to reasonably, and seemed much more concerned because his Peruvian relic of humanity had been lost than for the terrible death of Sidney Bolton. But by this time Painter – a fair-haired young constable of small intelligence – was examining the packing case and surveying the dead. Dr. Robinson also looked with a professional eye, and Braddock, wiping his purple face and gasping with exhaustion, sat down on a stone sarcophagus. Archie, folding his arms, leaned against the wall and waited quietly to hear what the experts in crime and medicine would say.
The packing case was deep and wide and long, made of tough teak and banded at intervals with iron bands. Within this was a case of tin, which, when it held the mummy, had been soldered up; impervious to air and water. But the unknown person who had extracted the mummy, to replace it by a murdered man’s body, had cut open the tin casing with some sharp instrument. There was straw round the tin casing and straw within, amongst which the body of the unfortunate young man was placed. Rigor mortis had set in, and the corpse, with straight legs and hands placed stiffly by its side, lay against the back of the tin casing surrounded more or less by the straw packing, or at least by so much as the Professor had not torn away. The face looked dark, and the eyes were wide open and staring. Robinson stepped forward and ran his hand round the neck. Uttering an ejaculation, he removed the woollen scarf which the dead man had probably worn to keep himself from catching cold, and those who looked on saw that a red-colored window cord was tightly bound about the throat of the dead.
“The poor devil has been strangled,” said the doctor quietly. “See: the assassin has left the bow-string on, and had the courage to place over it this scarf, which belonged to Bolton.”
“How do you know that, sir?” asked Painter heavily.
“Because Widow Anne knitted that scarf for Bolton before he went to Malta. He showed it to me, laughingly, remarking that his mother evidently thought that he was going to Lapland.”
“When did he show it to you, sir?”
“Before he went to Malta, of course,” said Robinson in mild surprise. “You don’t suppose he showed it to me when he returned. When did he return to England?” he asked the Professor, with an afterthought.
“Yesterday afternoon, about four o’clock,” replied Braddock.
“Then, from the condition of the body” – the doctor felt the dead flesh – “he must have been murdered last night. H’m! With your permission, Painter, I’ll examine the corpse.”
The constable shook his head. “Better wait, sir, until the inspector comes,” he said in his unintelligent way. “Poor Sid! Why, I knew him. He was at school with me, and now he’s dead. Who killed him?”
None of his listeners could answer this question.
CHAPTER VI. THE INQUEST
Like a geographical Lord Byron, the isolated village of Gartley awoke one morning to find itself famous. Previously unknown, save to the inhabitants of Brefort, Jessum, and the surrounding country, and to the soldiers stationed in the Fort, it became a nine days’ centre of interest. Inspector Date of Pierside arrived with his constables to inquire into the reported crime, and the local journalists, scenting sensation, came flying to Gartley on bicycles and in traps. Next morning London was duly advised that a valuable mummy was missing, and that the assistant of Professor Braddock, who had been sent to fetch it from Malta, was murdered by strangulation. In a couple of days the three kingdoms were ringing with the news of the mystery.
And a mystery it proved, to be, for, in spite of Inspector Date’s efforts and the enterprise of Scotland Yard detectives summoned by the Professor, no clue could be found to the identity of the assassin. Briefly, the story told by the newspapers ran as follows:
The tramp steamer Diver – Captain George Hervey in command – had berthed alongside the Pierside jetty at four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon in mid-September, and some two hours later Sidney Bolton removed the case, containing the green mummy, ashore.
As it was impossible to carry the case to the Pyramids on that night, Bolton had placed it in his bedroom at the Sailor’s Rest, a mean little public-house of no very savory reputation near the water’s edge. He was last seen alive by the landlord and the barmaid, when, after a drink of harmless ginger-beer, he retired to bed at eight, leaving instructions to the landlord – overheard by the barmaid – that the case was to be sent on next day to Professor Braddock of Gartley. Bolton hinted that he might leave the hotel early and would probably precede the case to its destination, so as to advise Professor Braddock – necessarily anxious – of its safe arrival. Before retiring he paid his bill, and deposited in the landlord’s hand a small sum of money, so that the case might be sent across stream to Brefort, thence to be taken in a lorry to the Pyramids. There was no sign, said the barmaid and the landlord, that Bolton contemplated suicide, or that he feared sudden death. His whole demeanor was cheerful, and he expressed himself exceedingly glad to be in England once more.
At eleven on the ensuing morning, a persistent knocking and a subsequent opening of the door of Bolton’s bedroom proved that he was not in the room, although the tumbled condition of the bed-clothes proved that he had taken some rest. No one in the hotel thought anything of Bolton’s absence, since he had hinted at