The next day, Agatha agreed with Harriet that it would be better if she went to the British Museum by herself.

"Anyway, I need to finalise my calculations.” said Harriet. “We only have eight days left before the time vortex appears at the Tower.”

With that said, Agatha hailed herself a cab and headed back to the British Museum. 

She sat in the back of the cab looking at her drawing of the cartouche. Then she thought back to yesterday when her and Harriet were in Room 61 sweeping up. While she was there, something had been bothering her. None of the broken glass or pottery around the sarcophagus had been disturbed! No-one, had been back into that room since the vortex light show. Yesterday was the first time, when the clean-up begun.

Apart from removing the body, the police had obviously not been back into that room, giving it a thorough investigation. So how could they make a conviction without inspecting the sarcophagus?

In her past experience the police had sometimes been hurried in their decision making, particularly during a high-profile case when the Home Secretary was put under pressure by the public and then by the House of Commons for a result. She had read in the past of many an innocent man or woman going to the gallows because of this. Agatha, however, was free from political pressure thus strengthening her resolve to continue with her own investigations.

There was going to be no disguise today for the museum, just Agatha and her notebook. The only ruse being a change of name, Edith Cavendish, an Oxford student studying ancient languages.

The cab eventually arrived at the museum and to Agatha’s surprise, instead of letting her out at the gates it continued to drive through, along the wide gravel path that led to the main entrance. In her time, only delivery vehicles were allowed in this far.

Agatha exited the cab, paid the driver his farthing and climbed the stones steps to the museum entrance. Once inside, she walked across the flagstones and up the white marble staircase to the upper floor.

Once on the upper floor, Agatha could see ahead of her a reception desk. She waited for the clerk to finish with the couple in front of him, then she approached with a big smile.

“Good Morning,” She said, her tone light and friendly.

The clerk looked up into Agatha’s eyes then over her shoulder. Seeing she was without male chaperone, said to her. “I see madam is alone today without her suitor?”

This late nineteenth century treatment of women as second-class citizens, was by now getting to Agatha. Not to be outdone, she replied. “Your powers of observations do you credit this morning my good fellow.”

The clerk raised an eyebrow, and not wishing to engage this potential troublesome woman, simply asked; “How may I help you?”

“My name is Edith Cavandish, I’m a student of ancient languages at Oxford University, and I wonder if anyone here is able to help me translate this?”

Agatha retrieved her notebook and turning to the page with the cartouche drawing, she held it out for the clerk to see.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the clerk.

Agatha looked down at the seated clerk, and then back at her drawing. Had he seen something she’d missed?

“You!” said the clerk, somewhat shocked. “At Oxford!” Then closing his eyes, he shook his head in dismay. “So, they finally let women walk its hallowed halls! Whatever next,” he muttered to himself, “Women in the clergy or heavens forbid, a politician?”

Agatha didn’t have time for his bigotry, “Is there someone here to help me or not?”

The clerk, reluctantly got off his stool. The world was changing around him and there was nothing he could do about. “Wait here.” He said, as he went off into a side office.

Within minutes he was back, “Mr Huntly-Smythe will see you now, but you’ll have to be quick. He has a funeral to attend to this afternoon.”

Agatha froze, Huntly-Smythe! Of course, how stupid of her! He is the curator of the Egyptian artefacts! He’ll recognise her for sure from yesterday, her disguise after all wasn’t that good. Even if he didn’t recognise her, he’ll remember the drawing she did in her notebook!

Maybe she could ask to see his assistant? No, that would bring to many questions. Agatha knew the cartouche off by heart, she didn’t need the notebook. So, she placed it in her jacket pocket, then allowed the clerk to escort her into Huntly-Smythe’s office.

“The Oxford student asking to see you sir.” The clerk left Agatha standing behind Huntly-Smythe desk as he exited the office closing the door behind him.

Huntly-Smythe was reading one of his morning letters, when he asked in a breezy manner. “How may I help you?”

Upon looking up and seeing Agatha standing before him, his friendly approach vanished. “Oh! I was expecting to see…”

“A man!” Agatha said concluding his sentence.

“An Oxford student.” Huntly-Smythe said, correcting her.

“My name is Edith Cavandish, I’m a student at Oxford University studying ancient languages and I wondered if you could help me with this cartouche?” Without waiting for Huntly-Smythe to reply, Agatha took a piece of headed paper and a quill then began to draw the cartouche.

When she finished, she turned it around for Huntly-Smythe to see. He looked at the drawing then looking up at Agatha. “Interesting, Miss?”

“Cavandish.”

“Indeed,” replied Huntly-Smythe, now staring more intently at Agatha.

“So, what is your interest in this cartouche, Miss?”

“Cavandish.” Agatha repeated a second time.

She was in no doubt, that he was on to her. Huntly-Smythe was using a basic form of interrogation employed by the police when a suspect is believed to be using a false alias. By getting the suspect to repeat their name, particularly under pressure, the theory was, that the suspect would eventually let slip their real name.

Not the sort of tactic you’d expect to find in a museum curator. Maybe Mr Huntly-Smythe has a few secrets of his own! Thought Agatha.

“I was here last week,” she said. “Looking at the sarcophagus in Room 61 when I saw this unusual cartouche and it got me thinking who it belonged too. I came back today to make some more notes, but I see the room is closed.”

After Agatha had finished speaking, Huntly-Smythe let the silence between them hang in the air. The whole of the time Agatha spoke, he just remained seated with his right-hand index finger placed upon his lips.

The silence was now becoming uncomfortable, then without looking at the drawing, Huntly-Smythe eventually said, “It’s the cartouche of the high priest Akhen who belonged to the royal household of Thutmosse III.”

Yes, thought Agatha. At long last. She quickly scribbled the names of the two Egyptians down on the headed paper next to her drawing, then asked. “And do you have a note of who the excavator was?”

Huntly-Smythe then smiled as her leaned back against his chair. “Now, tell me dear woman. Why would an ancient language student want to know that?”

Agatha flustered, she needed to think fast. “Summer work!” she replied. “I have to put my request in to the British Consort in Cairo if I want to attend a dig this year. And I thought, why not join the team who uncovered the tomb of Akhen.” Agatha had to admit to herself it was a feeble story, but what did she have to lose.

Huntly-Smythe looked at his wall clock, time was marching on and he really needed rid of this woman. So, he got out of his chair and went over to a bookcase that contained row after row of identical beige coloured books.

He took the first book off the shelf and opened it. On the opening page were a list of excavated ancient Egyptian dignitaries whose names all began with the letter ‘A’. Huntly-Smythe ran his finger down the first ‘A’ column. When he was unable to find what he was looking for, he turned the page and ran his finger down the second ‘A’ column.

Once he reached the end of both ‘A’ columns, he turned back to the opening page and repeated the process. Agatha could see from the expression on his face, that something was wrong.

“This cannot be right!” questioned Huntly-Smythe. “The excavation of Akhen is not recorded!”

“I thought all digs had to be recorded for shipping documents?” asked Agatha.

Huntly-Smythe looked once again at the clock, it was 1pm and he had some work to do before he left for Thomas Carter’s funeral. This small administrative error could wait. He closed the shipping log and Agatha knew at that point her time was up.

She folded-up the headed paper and put it in her pocket. “Thank you for your time.” Agatha said and turned to walk out of the door. She was just about to leave when Huntly-Smythe called her back.

“Oh! Miss Cavandish.” He said returning to his letters.

“Yes?” answered Agatha, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“Don’t come back."

To be continued...
© Alice White