The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

His next step was to reveal the corpse’s face. The lips were pulled back in what resembled a grimace of horror. It seemed as if the man had died a violent death, but Malinferno as yet had no idea if that were true. In fact he had not yet even figured out the identity of the man who lay under his steady hands. He continued his examination in absolute silence, noting that the hair of the head, eyebrows and beard were all shaved off. The skin was a livid grey colour, and when he touched it, it felt greasy. There was a layer of something perfumed over the skin, the odour redolent of cinnamon. The facial features were shrivelled, and the eyes were still in their orbits. He looked at the hands, which were crossed over the body’s chest. Their well-manicured fingernails reflected the person’s privileged lifestyle. What he didn’t know and was endeavouring to find out was the cause of his death.

For the first time, Malinferno broke the silence that hung like a pall over the assembled throng.

‘I estimate this body is…’

There was a communal intake of breath as those gathered to hear the professor’s deductions awaited his opinion. Malinferno did not disappoint them.

‘… three thousand years old.’

There was a gasp from the crowd, followed by a ripple of noise as gloved hands were slapped together in the most refined of ways to applaud his skill, and their hostess’s generously proffered entertainment.

Rosamund, Duchess of Avon, was a widow with too much money, and too much time on her hands since the death of her elderly husband, the fifth duke. Her cold and echoing mausoleum of an ancestral home had for all too long induced in her a stultifying boredom that she ached to assuage. Her childless life was tedious and unfulfilled. The idea of purchasing an Egyptian mummy had suddenly come to her over a dull breakfast one day.

She had been reading the Bathhampton Packet , to which her husband had subscribed, and which, by an oversight, she had failed to cancel after his death. In fact she had never previously read the slender sheet, it being her husband’s predilection to monopolise the rag. A week after his death, she had had occasion to pick it up idly from the breakfast table where the duke’s old butler had continued to reverently lay it in lieu of other orders. She had been going to tell Goring to dispose of it, but an article caught her eye. It appeared that one of her neighbours had set up shotguns attached to tripwires to dispose of unwanted trespassers on his land. A court case had ensued on the death of a gypsy, and the wrangling of the lawyers and judge, as reported in the Packet , was all about whether in such circumstances human life was as forfeit as an errant dog. Lady Rosamund was clear as to her own opinion on the matter, and snorted with satisfaction that the editor of the Bathhampton Packet seemed to concur. Since that date, she had read the newssheet assiduously.

On one particular rather dull and drizzly morning, next to a piece about the scandalous goings-on of the Prince Regent, she saw an item concerning Countess Shrewsbury and an Egyptian mummy. It seemed the latest craze was to unroll these beastly things at a soiree, and offer your neighbours the chance of some grisly voyeurism. She instinctively realised this would provide the ideal opportunity to demonstrate her new-found intention to be the centre of social, if not exactly intellectual, life in her corner of the county. She had undertaken enquiries, and soon made the necessary purchase from a man at the British Museum, who was willing illicitly to supply her needs. Along with a man who could effect the unrolling.

For his part Il Professore Giuseppe Malinferno had been delighted when he had been contacted by his old friend from the BM, Thomas Elder, with a request to examine a mummy. He had been both eager to lay his hands on such a rare object, and fearful that his limited knowledge might be exposed. He realised he need not have worried. The unrolling was not going to take place in the presence of expert Egyptologists – of which there were a small but growing number – but at some remote and exotic site before a bunch of provincial socialites, leavened with the odd vicar and bibulous Member of Parliament. Malinferno soon saw that he could bamboozle them with any old nonsense he cared to utter. This he had proceeded to do, along with a subtle touch of showmanship.

When he had stepped out in front of his audience, a magnificent, white-robed figure, a gasp had come from the gentry present in the marquee. He seemed preternaturally tall as his head was topped with a cruel, staring jackal’s mask, its ears abnormally pricked. It was the very embodiment of Anubis – God of the Dead, Guide through the Underworld, and Hearer of Prayers. Several ladies recoiled in terror, and had to fan themselves for fear of fainting. The unbearable heat in the tent and the anticipation was literally breathtaking. Malinferno as Anubis threw his arms high into the air, and cried out, causing another frisson to run through the crowd.

‘O Great One who became Sky,

You are strong, you are mighty,

You fill every place with your beauty,

The whole earth is beneath you, you possess it!

As you enfold earth and all things in your arms,

So have you taken this great lady to you,

An indestructible star within you!’

The audience was enraptured. But beneath the mask, beads of sweat were pouring down Malinferno’s forehead, and stinging his eyes. However, he was in no position to wipe them away, and blinked, shaking his head slightly. The mask of Anubis wobbled, and settled at a more uncertain, rather jaunty angle on his brow. He invoked the gods once more.

‘Oh Imsety, Hapy, Duamutef, Kebehsenuef,

Who live by maat ,

Who lean on their staffs,

Who watch over Upper Egypt,

O Boatman of the boatless just,

Ferryman of the Field of Rushes!

Ferry Ankh-Wadjet to us.’

This had been Doll’s cue, but nothing happened. He had cursed under his breath, and called out again, louder this time, ‘Ferry Ankh-Wadjet to us.’

At the last moment, a form appeared as if by magic at the head of the mummy. It was a tall, voluptuous figure wearing the horned mask of Hathor. The diaphanous robe did little to hide the curvaceous attractions of his mysterious companion, whom he had named as Madam Nefre. She was scandalously nude underneath her robe, and the audience loved the fact.

‘Couldn’t ’ear you because of this stupid mask,’ whispered Doll Pocket into Malinferno’s jackal ear, her dulcet tones melting with the heat. ‘And I’m sweating like a pig under it.’

‘I’ve told you before, Hathor is a cow god not a pig, hence the horns. Now let’s get on with this farrago.’

The unravelling of the bandaged mummy had then proceeded well, if a little drily. Malinferno had done his best to perform like a fairground barker, while still slaking his own genuine curiosity about the strange means of burial as practised by the ancient Egyptians. In fact, he had even managed, as he often did, to sneak several funerary souvenirs into the pocket of his jacket as he was exposing the leathery visage of the long-dead Egyptian to the general gaze. He did it not for their intrinsic value, of course – though he had no doubt he could shift them for a tidy sum on the burgeoning antiquities market – but to further his own understanding of ancient Egypt.

He hoped to leave the tedious soiree as soon as his part in it was effected, and carry on with the real reason for his presence on the hill. But he knew his employer expected more. As those she had invited craned eagerly over the large dining table that held the dusty and rather smelly remains of her investment, she reflected on the success of the evening. All in all it had gone well, though she wished that the man she had engaged – this Italian professor with an unpronounceable name – had conducted the event with a little less scholarly sobriety, and a little more élan. His naked assistant had promised well, but the unrolling had been accompanied with too much talk.