A Killing at El Kab

By Janis Patterson

A seemingly cursed Egyptian archaeological dig...

An Acting Director with a clouded reputation...

Rumors of treasure hidden in the dig house...

Two vicious murders...

Stage psychic Sandra Caulder feels as if she has gone out of the frying pan and into the fire. On the run from a vengeful ex-boyfriend, she heads for the least likely place she can think of – Egypt. Her niece is working on a dig there, but Sandra is told she cannot stay. Right after her arrival, though, a very unpleasant Egyptologist is murdered and as she is the prime suspect, Sandra is told she cannot leave. Forced to work in menial jobs at the dig house, she comes across evidence of treasure having been hidden in what is now the mummy storage room. As gold fever infects the crew, there is another murder for which Sandra is suspected. Which of the crew is the killer, and who else must die before he is caught?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sefkhat-Awbi Books
• Release date: Mar 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781941520130

Book preview

A

Killing

at

El Kab

Janis Patterson

Copyright

Copyright © 2016 by Janis Susan May Patterson

Published by Sefkhat-Awbi Books

Cover Art from BookGraphics.net

Formatting by Rik – Wild Seas Formatting

Cover Photograph ©2016 Janis Patterson

ISBN - 978-1-941520-13-0

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system currently available or any invented in the future, without permission in writing from the Publisher. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at:

www.JanisPattersonMysteries.com

Except for actual figures of history and the three living people named in the Truth and Fantasy section, all the characters and events portrayed in this story are fictitious and products solely of the author’s imagination.

This Book is Dedicated to

Dr. Dirk Huyge

Rock art expert, gifted excavator and treasured friend,

without whom this book would never have been written

and to

CAPT Hiram M. Patterson, USN/R

the most wonderful man in the world

Chapter One

Even in the best of situations Dr. Paul Licht was not an attractive man. When angry, his normally small eyes squeezed shut to tiny slits and his mouth spread wide, giving him the look of nothing so much as an enraged pig, an illusion heightened by his nearly equal height to width ratio. At that moment any self respecting porker would have run screaming from the sight, but humans are neither as intelligent nor uninhibited, and so at least some of the archaeologists assembled faced him down.

Oh, shut up, Licht, it’s not the end of the world. Shortish and with a rebelliously curly mop of hair, Axel Abrams looked more like an undergrad intern instead of an award-winning Doctor of Egyptology. Serious with the gravity only known in the newly fledged, he looked up from his notebook, eyes dark with annoyance.

And what do you know? Licht’s fearsome glare swung to the young archaeologist. It was a testament to the young man’s character that he didn’t flinch, because in the flickering electricity of the dig house common room the Assistant Director was truly fearsome. "You are a child, a baby. What the hell does Huyge think making that – that criminal Acting Director? The job should have been mine."

It’s Dr. Huyge’s decision, Tiffy Bellingham said in her clear, soft voice. She wasn’t an archaeologist, but like most children of privilege had never been reticent about speaking her mind. He obviously thinks this Dr. Welborn is better qualified for the job than you.

Her words, carefully and deliberately chosen, were like gasoline on a flame. Dr. Licht had never been one of her favorite people ever since he had made her a decidedly unwelcome sexual proposition her first day there. As Tiffy had hoped Licht progressed from pure anger to an incoherent babble out of which only certain perjoratives such as ‘criminal’ and ‘smuggler’ and ‘thief’ could be understood.

I would be careful what you say, Dr. Eric vonDaschele said in his dry, irritatingly precise Austrian accent. Standing on the terrace just outside the screen door, he took a measured puff of his cigarette, then carefully tipped the ash into the thin, stamped metal tray beside him. He found it an annoyance that even in Egypt in the twenty-first century smoking was not allowed inside the house but was careful to obey the letter of the rule if not its spirit. It had been difficult to get all the permissions necessary to work here and he had no intention of endangering them. There are such things as slander and libel, and you remember Dr. Welborn was never convicted of any wrongdoing.

He was in charge of the excavation when the artifacts went missing, Licht spat. They couldn’t have gotten them out of there without his connivance. Just because he wasn’t charged doesn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. There is no smoke without fire.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Licht, do you have to be so trite? Anissa Declercq must have been really annoyed, because she put on her glasses, black, thick-rimmed things that she believed made her look older and more authoritative. In the two seasons the graceful young woman had been coming to El Kab she had gained a reputation for staying out of the internecine warfare which always seemed to arise from a disparate group of people being confined in a rough and isolated space for a lonely time of hard and dirty work.

Trite? To want what is due me is trite? Licht was close to gobbling again. I have been second in command here for two seasons now. If Huyge is going to shirk his obligations by running off to some conference or another…

It’s not some conference or another. It’s the International Committee on the Continued Funding of Historical Research, and what happens there could determine if we can get the financing to keep on working here or not. You should be glad that Muddir works so hard to get us funding, Axel said with some heat, using the Arabic title of Director that had become inextricably attached to Dr. Huyge.

That’s his job, just as when he is gone from the dig Acting Director should be mine.

Don’t argue with him anymore, Axel, Anissa said with a sniff. You won’t convince him and it’s just making this evening unpleasant.

Unpleasant? Let some criminal upstart take your job and see if you call it unpleasant. I...

The double wooden doors to the common room snapped shut sharply with an impact that echoed off the high domed ceiling. And I will hear no more such talk. Normally a gentle, soft-spoken man in spite of his carefully cultivated reputation as a grumpy taskmaster, Dr. Dirk Huyge fixed Licht with a hard gaze, exuding a power of command that few had ever seen. I have made my decision and it will stand. May I present Dr. Clayton Welborn?

Even though his expression was benignly neutral, Clay Welborn entered the room with the soft tread of a man entering unfriendly territory. As Dr. Huyge introduced each member of the team Dr. Welborn spoke politely, smiling and shaking every hand except Licht’s, which was ostentatiously not offered.

The two newcomers were a study in contrasts; a handsome man, Dr. Huyge was tall and slender, with a soft voice and the kind, slightly drooping eyes of a friendly basset hound. A generation younger, Dr. Welborn was tall as well, but roughewn of feature and sturdy almost to the point of being called musclebound.

He looks, Tiffy thought with a little sigh, like a cowboy.

She had always liked cowboys.

* * * * *

The season at El Kab usually lasted five to six weeks in the early spring, when the nights were still comfortably cool and the days not too miserably hot for desert excavation. The large old house built by Somers Clarke, the Victorian archaeologist and architect, had been made with thick walls and tall domes to keep the inside surprisingly cool and comfortable, which is why they spent the afternoons inside. So far the ghost of Somers Clarke, reputed to haunt his old home, had not appeared to any of the crew.

Always before the dig had progressed with reasonable civility and good humor, with only minor bickering among the dig family, none truly vicious and always quickly over. Dr. Clay Welborn was not having it so easy. If it hadn’t been for Licht it would have been okay – the rest of the crew were understanding and adult. Licht…

Welborn shrugged. Even from across the dinner table he could feel the man’s animosity.

Soup? he asked, lifting the lid on the enormous pottery tureen and filling a bowl. One of the things which had surprised him on this dig was that as director he was also expected to be the paterfamilias, serving the food from the head of the table. It was the way Dr. Huyge had always done it, everyone said, and – anxious to keep things on an even keel – he had complied, however clumsily.

Welborn knew that in appointing him Dirk had not without personal risk given him a golden opportunity to reestablish himself in the professional Egyptological community – a chance to get his life back. There was no way he was going to let anything get screwed up, for him or for Dirk. Not even for the pleasure of getting back at Paul Licht.

Please, said Gerolf Madaki in his soft, seldom-used voice as he held out his bowl. Happiest when studying the stone tools from the prehistoric levels, he rarely interacted with the crew on a social level. I believe it is lentil tonight?

Looks like it. Welborn passed over the bowl, then filled the others one by one.

For a minute it looked as of Licht, his face still a thundercloud, would refuse, but he accepted the bowl. It didn’t matter, Welborn thought, if he looked at the dense orange liquid as if it might be contaminated.

All that really mattered was keeping this show together and producing until Huyge finished his conference and got back to take his place as Muddir. Welborn knew it had been an act of supreme kindness for his old friend Dirk Huyge to put him in as Acting Director; in the normal chain of command the position would have gone to Licht, whether he was capable of holding it or not.

Lime juice? asked Henry Wolsey, holding out the dull metal squeezer. A young American archaeologist nearly finished with his PhD, he was serving as Registrar this season. We have several tonight.

His own bowl finally served, Welborn took the squeezer and pressed a fair amount of the yellowish juice into his soup.

What’s on for tomorrow? Licht asked, making the very idea sound suspect. Are you going to keep going on Trench A or try for a core sample in the northeast quadrant? If you’re going to want to core I’d better call Rasheed tonight to see if his crew is available.

For what Rasheed charges he should be available anytime we want them, Helma Arminius said. Perhaps one of the top half-dozen pottery specialists in the world, she was notoriously blunt.

Maybe the trench deserves at least another day, murmured Henry. We aren’t very deep.

A growl, rough as a subsonic tremor, rumbled up from Licht’s throat, but he remained silent, determinedly scooping in his soup. The man ate like a machine, quickly and with no evidence of enjoyment; if for no other reason than that Welborn would have disliked him. Eating should be a pleasure, not a rote exercise.

Welborn sipped at his own soup. Rich and thick and sparked with just enough citrusy tang, it was as good as any he had ever had. Of course, Dirk Huyge would see that his crew always had a respectable table; he enjoyed good food too much to do any less.

I think we can give the trench one more day, Welborn said after a moment of thought. "It’s right where the mammisi should have been."

There’s no proof that there was a birth house at the temple. Licht’s words were enunciated with poisonous clarity, even around a mouthful of soup.

We don’t know that for sure, Henry replied, crumbling little balls of the coarse Egyptian bread into his soup. They were an essential part of the temple ritual.

In the Late Period they were. We are looking to see if we can find any earlier example, remember. That’s why we’re here, because of the continuous occupation of the site. Very conscious that this was his very own research project, Axel was more than a little pompous.

How kind of you to remind us, Licht said, his words like little daggers. "We might have forgotten otherwise. How remiss of the ancients not to leave a signpost for us – this way to the mammisi."

Oh, good gad, Licht, this site has been reworked a dozen times. The temple itself was reconstructed during the Late Period using Middle and New Kingdom material. We don’t even know if there really is an Old Kingdom temple down below it.

Save your breath, Henry. Licht just wants to cause trouble, that’s all. Don’t spoil dinner by arguing with him. Axel took a big swig of the everpresent Stella. Funny, he’d never even liked beer much before coming to Egypt, but here it seemed right. He was glad something did. The good humor and light-hearted teasing he had so enjoyed here and on other digs seemed to have vanished when Dr. Huyge left.

Oswald, how are things going in Trench B? Welborn asked, scooping up the last of his soup and reaching for the tureen. Anyone want any more?

The stocky Briton shrugged. Not for me, thank you. Nothing spectacular, or even very interesting. Pre-Dynastic definitely, but still don’t know if it’s Badarian or not. Some sherds, but they’re all pretty poor stuff – domestic, it looks like. I brought them back for Helma.

Do not underrate domestic pottery, Helma replied gruffly, but no one noticed. Even her most kind and tender sentiments were gruff to the ears. In it is the only true dating system for history.

VonDaschele bristled at that. But documents…

Documents were for those who could read, and they were very few. Everyone used pots. Everyone drank. Everyone ate.

Not always, Tiffy said, anxious to shine. In my research I’ve found evidences of several famines where hundreds of people died. Isn’t that true, Clay?

Welborn looked at her, seeing more than she would have been comfortable with. There have been any number of lamentable famines in Egyptian history, theoretically dating back to the time of Joseph, but I’m not aware of any during the time of Somers Clarke.

The correction, however slight, sent a tinge of pink to the girl’s porcelain cheeks. There weren’t – not here at least – but Dr. Clarke wrote about them. His letters to Alfred Koenig...

Which is neither here nor there. Helma slurped up the last of her soup. Ceramics, basically domestic ceramics, are the only true yardstick against which history can be measured.

Muddir said…

Welborn could see it coming. All archaeologists would defend their particular discipline to the death, and these had before, practically on a regular basis; usually it was good natured, but he didn’t want to take the chance of it escalating. He didn’t trust Licht not to make anything into a tool against him.

Well, then why don’t we wait until Dirk returns? I’m sure he’ll have the last word on it. If we’re through with the soup…? Abdou!

Like a genie from a bottle, Abdou popped through the door. Smiling, he gathered up the stack of soup plates that everyone passed forward, then scuttled out, only to return for the large tureen. Peeking inside, he saw how much was left, then tut-tutted (which was the same in every language) and shook a finger at the table before leaving, muttering in Arabic.

That man takes too much on himself, vonDaschele said to himself. He acts as if he owns us.

Welborn chuckled. "In a way he does. He is the safragi – the head houseman. He looks after us when we’re here and the house when we’re gone. Without a good safragi a dig is doomed. You haven’t been on many digs, have you?"

If you wish to be accurate, I am not on one now, vonDaschele replied with a rare flash of dry humor. I am merely here to inspect certain documents fortuitously revealed when your front porch collapsed, though I have found my visits to the dig site most interesting.

The door flashed open again without warning, admitting a smiling Abdou with a great tray of food – strange, perfectly round meat cutlets unrecognizable as coming from any specific animal, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, a scattering of olives, something else Welborn didn’t recognize. Another bowl held a casserole of beans and macaroni. It all smelled delicious.

I wonder what we have tonight, he said, inspecting the platter as if it were some kind of artifact. Pass up your plates, please.

He was halfway through serving when a strange, regular thumping filled the air, making him pause, a pair of cutlets suddenly frozen in the air.

What’s that?

It’s the ghost of Somers Clarke, of course, Axel said, grinning. It’s about time the old boy made an appearance this trip.

Yeah, Oswald said with a grin equally as big. We’ve missed him.

Don’t be foolish, snapped Licht, speaking for the first time in a while. There is no such thing as ghosts. It is something from the village. God only knows what the fool natives are getting up to.

It sounds awfully close to be coming from the village, Welborn said, listening so intently that he was unaware one of the cutlets had slipped from the meat fork. Luckily it landed on the intended plate.

"Sounds carry at night, especially this close to the river. Can I have some tomato, please? I don’t want any kushari."

Here you go, Welborn said, passing down the filled plate to a waiting Axel. It was not the first time he had heard strange sounds in the night. Every dig house had its own symphony of noises, and he had not yet learned all of the ones from the mansion of Somers Clarke. The legends of the archaeologist’s ghost were widespread and pervasive, and while Clay didn’t believe in ghosts, there were certainly a number of inexplicable noises.

Without warning the double doors to the hallway flew open and Abdou charged in, looking more agitated than any of the team had ever seen him. He flew to Welborn’s side, his hands flopping wildly as if he were trying to catch the always pervasive mosquitos plaguing the room.

Sir… Sir… there is a problem… he babbled on in Arabic, words tumbling out one on top of the other.

Welborn motioned for him to slow down. In the three years of his exile from archaeology his Arabic had slipped from almost adequate to spotty, and he could only understand about a quarter of what the man was saying.

From her end of the table Tiffy watched, impressed, as Clay masterfully tried to calm the man. She didn’t know but a dozen words or so of Arabic – please and thank you and the other politenesses – and why should she? She wasn’t from this world or this discipline, though she was now doing her best to be sure she became part of it. If she kept working in the field she would have to learn other things, too, how to draw the artifacts and maybe even how to excavate, but Clay could teach her all that. Clay could teach her so much…

Bloody hell, Welborn said, his face dark.

What’s going on? Tiffy asked, for some reason alarmed.

Abdou says that a red-headed devil has attacked the house, muttered Licht. He tried to keep her out…

He certainly did, said the red-headed devil, standing in the open doorway. I had to force my way in. Some kind of hospitality you have here.

Her mouth open with shock, Tiffy stood up without knowing she did so, her eyes riveted to the dirty, wild-haired woman.

Aunt Sandy!

Chapter Two

After long years in the limelight Sandra Caulder was a mistress of controlling an audience, of making them see and hear just what she wanted them to and no more, but at the moment she knew she was lost here. Why not? Everything else in her life was a total bust, so why should this place be different?

Weary unto death, she allowed the strap of her overstuffed tote bag to slide from her shoulder to the floor. She would have sworn she had taken only the minimum number of necessities, hardly enough for an overnight let alone an indefinite stay, but over the last few hours the bag seemed heavy enough to contain everything she had ever owned.

If she still owned anything at all. She wouldn’t put it past Vladimir to turn everything she had left behind over to a second hand shop or maybe even burn them the moment he found she was gone.

Yes, darling, she said, painfully aware that her carefully applied smile was stiff and false. She also knew she had never looked worse in her life. Her print shirt and white slacks were positively filthy and her hair had frizzed into a complete mare’s nest. Your very own Aunt Sandy, come for a visit.

The man at the end of the table, a craggy-faced man whom Sandy might have regarded as handsome if he hadn’t been scowling at her, stood and walked the few steps necessary to put him between her and the table.

The table filled with food. How long had it been since she had eaten? Or even had any water? She tried not to think.

Who are you?

Ca – Sandra. Sandra Caulder.

She’s my aunt – my mother’s sister, Tiffy added in a squeak. Her color had improved, if going from stark white to palest ivory could be considered an improvement. What are you doing here, Aunt Sandy?

I just told you, Tiffy – I’ve come for a visit, Sandra replied gaily. Somehow it didn’t sound as good a plan as it had earlier.

Did you – ? The handsome man shot Tiffy a hard look, to which she shook her head violently.

No. Never.

You don’t have to act like I’m committing a crime, Sandra said, affecting a tone of hurt. I just want to visit my niece.

Well, you can’t. You’ll have to leave. Now.

I can’t do that. It’s dark.

It was dark when you got here.

It wasn’t dark when I started out, Sandra protested, trying not to smell the meat and vegetables. You can’t get here from anywhere. I couldn’t find a taxi that would bring me.

Moving as if her limbs were permanently stiffened, Tiffy crept around the table. How did you get here, Aunt Sandy? You didn’t walk all the way from town, did you?

No, but I was thinking I might have to. Finally I found a man who was delivering some beer here and he gave me a ride.

Omerr? roared the craggy man in a tone that boded no good for that unfortunate deliveryman, while Tiffy stared in astonishment.

Tiffy’s eyes widened. "You came in a tuk-tuk?"

If you mean that sort of pick-up thing stuck on the back of a motorbike, yes, and terribly uncomfortable it was too.

Well, you’ll just have to go back the same way. Axel, go tell Abdou to make sure Omerr doesn’t go without his passenger.

Obediently Axel rose from his chair, and suddenly it was more than Sandra could take.

But I can’t go anywhere else, she said in a voice that struggled to be firm.

Nonsense. You came from somewhere, so you can just go back there.

Uncomfortably hung halfway between standing and sitting Axel turned his head. "It’s too late, Clay. I can hear the tuk-tuk. It’s gone."

Well, she can’t stay here, the man called Clay said in disgust.

Just a moment, said vonDaschele, dabbing his lips. Perhaps she cannot stay here, but at least we can give her a meal. She looks as if she is about to faint.

Sandra didn’t know whether to be insulted or grateful, but the smell of the food decided that in short order.

The handsome man made some rumbling complaint, but after taking a second look at Sandra nodded reluctantly. Rushing forward, Tiffy took her aunt’s arm and led her to her own untouched plate. Ever watchful, Abdou rushed forward with another chair and a plate and after a moment of fierce activity everyone had scooted around to create room. Prompted by the relentless etiquette lessons she had endured at her father’s behest, Tiffy performed sketchy introductions to the crew.

Even while acknowledging each person – her own lessons in politesse had been no less stringent – it was all Sandra could do not to fall on the food like a starving wolf. When had been the last time she ate? Breakfast with Vladimir? Had that been yesterday or the day before? Surely she had eaten since then – she had a vague recall of a something they called a meal being offered on the plane, but couldn’t remember if she had eaten it or not.

Eat, the man at the head of the table – Dr. Clay Welborn, according to Tiffy – said grudgingly. Then you can go.

I want to talk to your boss, Sandra said with a smooth assurance encouraged by the food in front of her. Surely something can be arranged.

I am the boss, and no it can’t.

Drat! This wasn’t what she had planned at all. Almost clumsily, as if the utensils were something she had never seen before, Sandra cut into the food and tried not to gulp it down. Their mother had taught both Sandra and Tiffy’s mother Delia that showing uncontrollable hunger was bad manners, but whoever had decreed that rule had obviously never been really hungry.

I thought you were in New York, Aunt Sandy, Tiffy said, picking at her new plate.

I was, but I had a… a booking in Prague. Suddenly the bite seemed too big for her mouth. I had to leave suddenly, she added in tones that invited no questions.

And you decided to come here, the boss said. It was not a question.

Sandra nodded.

From Prague? Tiffy asked.

Sandra nodded again, her gaze never leaving the man’s distrustful face.

Well, I hate to cut into this touching family reunion, but you must leave tonight. He stabbed the meat on his plate as