The Mystifying Exploit Of The Scorned Caledonian Poetess

By Neil Willcox

Gentleman Adventurer Heinrich von Schneemann finds himself in Germany, on the trail of Professor Hans Roth, Europe’s most notorious Egyptologist. He arranges to place himself in the middle of an investigation into a most curious mummy. But Germany is his homeland, and there are familiar friends, knowledgeable enemies, and most ominous of all, members of his own family.

Schneemann, cunning and reckless, finds all his plans in disarray. He will have to go undercover to resolve his problems. But he may not like the answers he finds, for contrary to appearances, the lying, cheating, roguish Schneemann is not a nice man and some of the victims he has left in his past are not content to stay there.

A comedy crime novel set in 1902, The Mystifying Exploit Of The Scorned Caledonian Poetess pokes outrageous fun at jailbreaks, mummy stories and Edwardian England.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Willcox
• Release date: Jul 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463030547

Neil Willcox

Having worked in the back office of an insurance company, as a fruitpicker, in a call centre, as a teaching assistant and as a ticket seller Neil is in no way qualified to write historical fiction, let alone make jokes about it. Yet here we.

Book preview

A Pharaoh of the XVIth or XVIIth Dynasties

Lonely silent silver in the sky

Isolated huntress searching far

Where does she her lunar mask let lie

Riding in her celestial car

Beam-like her arrows are let fly

And her beauty damaged by a scar

With a forsaken virginity

Her lover’s touch missing far too soon

Romantic impossibility

For them to embrace in the light of noon

Between them comes another party

He cannot lie on her seashore dune

Newly born almost invisible

They meet sheltered by the darkness

That love might blossom incredible

Under disparate bonds of duress

She in the sky opposite of full

He gathers her in gentle caress

Swelling waxing all too late

Inevitable growth goes on

They will not cannot escape fate

Arrival of Nemesis son

Can time retard, reverse its rate

Not now what is done is done

In fullness all shall now reveal

Perhaps a miracle will occur

A portion of the truth is concealed

Love shall never again recur

From marriage bed romance steals

This is the end we must concur

The long drawn out almost silent end

Life, love, marriage all now on the wane

A consolation her heart does mend

The screaming drives her half insane

She would change nothing, heaven forfend

Her love, her life were also her bane

Moon Maiden, Fiona Mackensie, 1902

Chapter 1

Von Schneemann. I warned you. I told you. I said that any future contact between us must be in writing and delivered through our agents. That we should not meet again. Yet here you are, snuffling after me like a tracking dog. You knew the consequences. I hope that you are ready to face them.

He turned around and rose out of his chair. She spoke upper-class German, very like his own though with a little more of a Rhineland accent. She was short in stature, blond curls spilling out from under her small, stylish hat. Dressed in respectable black her jacket appeared to be hastily flung on, she had no gloves and the tips of the shoes appearing from under her skirt were dull and unpolished.

Her skin was pale, her eyes blue and wide. She was not quite his type but extremely well-looking nevertheless.

Oh, she said, raising a slightly pink hand to her mouth. I do apologise. You are not Herr von Schneemann.

"On the contrary. Although there does appear to be some confusion I can assure you I am von Schneemann," said Heinrich von Schneemann. He had been waiting quietly in a private sitting room of the inn with a Bonn newspaper; this promised to be a much more interesting diversion.

But not... I mean... oh. She sagged. No time to ponder further. He darted forward and took her arm, steering her into a chair. He attempted to shut the door but a maid appeared with a tray.

Ah the coffee. Could you get us a second cup, and then see that we are not disturbed? Thank you. He took a seat at right angles and looked at her again. She was trying very hard not to cry.

"Please allow me to offer some educated guesses. A man who shares my name has wronged you in some way. My sad lack of male cousins narrows the field. Your reference to an agent suggests that it is not the Freiherr himself, a direct man who would have no truck with such an arrangement. Young Adolf might have broken your heart, though in truth he is much too amiable to cause so much distress. Wilhelm is a possibility – he has no concern about causing pain to others – but you misidentified me from behind and he is already quite bald though younger than I."

Schneemann paused to run a hand through his own full, black hair. Perhaps it was receding a little – just a little – creating a widow’s peak. Time enough to worry about that later. First he would find out what trouble his family was making.

"No, I rather think it is Karl, the eldest brother, the tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking heir to Schloss Schneemann and its modest estates that you mistook me for. As he is a married man I... ah no it would be indelicate of me to continue. He shook his head. Although I have never met my brother’s wife, you do not resemble the lady as she has been described to me."

An icy beauty, raven-haired, dark-eyed, cheekbones so sharp they can cut you from across the room a somewhat flowery correspondent who had witnessed some of the courtship had written to him. When he had met Adolf in London last year the young man had called her distant, not exactly friendly. She has a lovely voice, like a rich sweet wine.

Schneemann’s own tastes in wines tended to the dry. Dryness was in short supply; the lady opposite had burst into tears. He intercepted the maid, took the cup and firmly ushered her out. He poured coffee, politely waiting until she had recovered her composure before handing her a cup.

Your... your brother? she muttered, her curiosity seeming to have stemmed her crying. It was as good a way to deal with it as any.

I am Heinrich von Schneemann. I apologise for having to introduce myself. However there seems to be no one else available and even were you on speaking terms with Karl it is unlikely that he would acknowledge me. I am his half-brother and illegitimate.

She nodded, in no way disconcerted by this admission; it seemed she was a worldly woman herself. "Yes the scapegoat. Or black sheep as you might say in English."

Clearly Karl had told her more than he had surmised – or perhaps she had found out more on her own. Just because she looked like a brainless floozy and had collapsed into tears was no reason to underestimate her. His own pose as a thoughtless society drone – which he had carelessly thrown away here, a symptom of his thinking and speaking in his native German – was to encourage just such a dismissal.

She continued. Finding myself in a similar position it seems appropriate to introduce myself. Maria Bauer.

Schneemann nodded in greeting. I had intended to avoid my family during my visit to Germany. Yet I cannot entirely regret meeting a connection so charming as yourself. I am not the von Schneemann you thought so it seems the only action remaining is to finish our coffee, repair our appearances, and go our separate ways.

Bauer nodded, then immediately disagreed. I must also apologise for interrupting you so precipitously. I overheard the maid mention the name von Schneemann and jumped to a conclusion. It was...

Schneemann waited politely for a moment then offered, Unwise?

She frowned. Rude I would say. Uncivilised. To drag a stranger into my affairs...

I am not precisely a stranger, being connected by blood to, ah, another party in the affair. If by no closer association.

She picked up her coffee and drank some, clearly unsure of what to do next. The situation was somewhat unconventional. His brother’s mistress – or rather ex-mistress – was here in an obscure country inn just the other side of the city from the von Schneemann estates.

Though not so obscure as all that, being on the main road. In fact if one were to look in the guidebooks for a decent and inexpensive place to stay outside of the city and, for personal reasons, chose this side of it, then it would be the best choice. This was not a bizarre coincidence so much as the two of them using the same criteria to select their lodgings.

He eyed her suspiciously. A woman he had never met, claiming a remote connection and in obvious distress. It was possible that this was an attempt to defraud him in some way. The joke would be on them as he was currently very short on funds. Of course it could be an enemy seeking to trap him in some other way or distract him from his intended tasks. He had no particular need to get involved in his family’s affairs so would simply make a quiet exit.

He finished his coffee. I am glad to make your acquaintance Frau Bauer. I wish you luck in all your endeavours, even those involving my brother.

He shook her hand, picked up his hat and walked back into the inn’s entrance hall. She did not follow or even respond. He would keep an eye out but it appeared the encounter had been exactly what it appeared to be. Quite an unusual occurrence for him, events turning out to actually be what they seemed.

I apologise for the, ah interruption. You, ah, know the lady?

Schneemann gave the small, balding innkeeper a thin smile. She is a family connection. Now, about my room?

Of course, of course. The fire is lit and your luggage has been delivered. If you wish the services of a laundress or need your shoes or coat brushed...

I shall ring. The smile was thinner, the voice frostier. He turned to where a smartly uniformed boy was standing, waiting to guide him to the room.

"One more thing Herr von Schneemann. While you were, ah, closeted, I mean, ah, consort... conversing with that lady, ah, you did not wish to be disturbed. Now though you are available, and, ah..."

Schneemann stared at him, eyes hard. Would this fool get to the point?

A message came for you. The man proffered the envelope. Schneemann frowned. He presumed much, handing it directly to him.

Deliver it to my room if you please. He turned and stalked away, the boy scampering to get ahead.

Thoughts of his family had put him in a bad mood. That was no reason for taking it out on the staff, even if they were incompetent, poorly-spoken and stupid. He may have been in Germany on behalf of another, yet it was his own plan that had led him so close to his birthplace.

He had been sent away from home in semi-disgrace, yet he was not actually banned from returning. It might be amusing to visit, meet his sister-in-law and find out what, if anything, Karl had been doing with Maria Bauer. The usual sordid intrigues he would guess. Perhaps he might speak to his father, who after all was not getting any younger. If he had something to say to the man he might as well do it now, as the opportunity might not arise again. And he quite liked Adolf; a scapegrace like himself; the family seemed to have learned from the mistakes in Schneemann’s upbringing and more successfully channelled his troublemaking.

Or as a legitimate son they had spent more – some – effort on the project.

He ignored the maid delivering water to the washstand and the boy who was ready to point out his trunk and bags on their stands. He walked over to the doors to the balcony and stepped through.

The pleasant view from the third floor calmed him down. On the Rhine a couple of fishing boats floated by the near bank, out of the way of the barges carrying lumber downriver. On the far side the bank rose steeply, covered in green with just the slightest touch of autumnal orange appearing on the higher trees.

There was a cool wind, and he put his hat back on as he leant on the rail. This was agreeable, though the addition of the occasional motor-vehicle to the traffic did not improve the situation. He breathed in and out, seeking some calm.

There was a tentative tap on the door behind him. Excuse me please... The boy had the envelope, now decently presented on a tray. Schneemann took it, replacing it with a tip. He then shooed the boy and the maid out and locked the door.

Dear Herr von Schneemann,

I am pleased to invite you to the Museum of Ancient and Oriental Artefacts in Bonn. As you are aware the Museum is a private research institution not open to the public. However your letters of introduction and recommendation make it clear that exceptions in the case of you and your companions are appropriate. I would be grateful if you could make an appointment to discuss the details as soon as possible.

Yours Sincerely,

Professor Franz Maier.

Good news if not unexpected. A complex web of favours and friendships had procured two letters from generous patrons of the museum, and another pair from leading experts in the field.

Now all he had to do was complete his reading so that he could give off an air of not-quite-complete-ignorance, discover if the artefact was indeed the bait he hoped for his trap, then somehow release its spore and find a way to capture his quarry.

All while keeping his companions from creating more chaos and avoiding any more family entanglements.

A quiet autumn holiday in the Rhineland then. He smiled and lit a cigarillo.

Chapter 2

Oh Mr von Schneemann! Mr von Schneemann! The call was completely unnecessary. As they had swung into the courtyard of the inn the driver had honked the horn of the auto-mobile – he mentally stuttered on the neologism, sounding out each syllable. He was already walking over to the ladies.

Good... he began.

I must apologise Mr von Schneemann, but can I prevail upon you to speak to the driver? He is quite insistent on something and as you know I speak no German. Miss Amy Straight, eccentrically dressed in a long robe-like dress with a turban on top her head. It did not flatter the young woman.

Behind her Miss Charlotte Stoke, much calmer and more sensible-appearing, was climbing out of the car. She wore a dark blue travelling outfit and slightly worn brown boots topped with a sloppy-brimmed black hat that concealed her severely drawn back hair.

Schneemann attempted to greet her. He was interrupted by the driver. He listened for a while, then cut him off, barking a reply. When he tried again, Schneemann made a curt gesture and turned his back.

What on earth was that about? asked Miss Straight. He seemed quite agitated.

Schneemann looked her full in the eye. He objected to being given instructions on when and where to pick you up by Mr Malenko. It seems he thinks it is inappropriate for him to be ordered about by an African gentleman. As though the subjects of the Kaiser’s colonies, the pride of Germany, were beneath his notice.

Oh, well. Your assistant. Quite. She looked away. Well we got here fine. Just fine.

Schneemann nodded. He is being paid to convey us during our time here, so it should not matter in the slightest if the directions are delivered by myself, or are passed on by the lowest chambermaid of the Inn. Or, as Schneemann had put it more pithily, he should simply be glad he wasn’t being instructed by a Pole. He continued. Also he was concerned about the dog.

The canine made his appearance, trying to leap from the vehicle and escape into the bushes. Wise to his antics after the last few days, Miss Stoke had a good hold of his leash and he was stopped in his tracks. He began to bark franticly.

Johnson! Will you be quiet sir. Schneemann ignored Miss Straight’s attempt to admonish the young terrier. He directed the bellboys to take possession of the luggage and after frowning once more at the driver led the party in.

What a wonderful inn you have found us Mr von Schneemann, she said as they entered the hall. With a glorious view, and so quaint and Teutonic. I had been concerned at the distance from the city but now I see that this is much the better location.

The staff scampered around, urgently preparing for the guests and searching for the host. He turned to look at her. Knowing that you are not a native city-dweller I thought this would be more pleasant than the hurly burly of a large town, even one so provincial as Bonn. The road is good and with an automobile and driver at our disposal we can travel back and forth whenever we wish.

Miss Stoke was studying a menu fixed by the doorway to the dining room. Is your German improving Miss Stoke? he enquired.

She unconsciously shifted the leash from one hand to the other as Johnson bounced around to inspect him. Perhaps a little. Unfortunately it seems I have a greater aptitude for dead languages than living ones.

He shrugged. In this way we form a fine fellowship. Your scholarly understanding, my local knowledge, Miss Straight’s connections and influence, combining to attain our goals. All underpinned by Mr Malenko’s hard work in scheduling and arranging our activities.

She frowned back at him. You underestimate your abilities sir. Something I thought an English characteristic rather than that of a European. He gave a quick bow, not quite clicking his heels. And there you are, so very German, a veritable chameleon. Yet what I said stands. That affair with the gray lady of Norton-On-Sea where the three of us first met. You solved that conundrum with both knowledge and daring.

Schneemann shook his head. Discourteous as it is, I must disagree with you. It was your mentor, Mr Cutangle...

She interrupted. Who was incapacitated by mysterious forces despite being protected by his aetheric hexangle and hence had to be rescued by you. Then you found the source of the uncanny influence...

He deftly slipped his words into her pause. Miss Bedford did that. And then you and she dealt with the remaining tasks...

Following the instructions of yourself and those of Mr Cutangle from his sickbed. She stopped. Well, perhaps we might take some credit. Yet your quick thinking – and quicker action – prevented an accident becoming a disaster.

He nodded, seeing the manager arrive. "Well I do not disclaim all responsibility. Ah Mein Herr!"

He ignored the man’s apologies, simply confirming the ladies’ room was ready. They were swept away in a cloud of staff and hatboxes.

Herr von Schneemann. He had seen Serge Malenko arrive while registering his companions, the black man wearing a very smart suit. It was perhaps as good as Schneemann’s, though the shoes were blocky and under-polished.

Herr Malenko, he replied.

Might we speak? Privately?

Schneemann indicated his intentions to a discreetly waiting boy, who ushered them into a small salon – not the same one in which he had been ambushed by Fraulein Bauer earlier. He moved a stool to block the door, gestured to Malenko to sit down and offered him a cigarillo. The other man refused.

Heinrich, why are we wasting our time here?

Schneemann lit up and took a long drag. First the driver, now this. He leaned back in his chair to relax, looking at the ceiling.

Well Serge, you came to me asking for my help in finding Professor Roth.

I am aware of this. Quite aware of this. So why are we in provincial Germany, nursemaiding two dilettante scholaresses with an unnatural affinity for ancient corpses? Our last report had him in Milan. Why are we not in Italy?

Schneemann glanced back at the other man’s face. His usually cheerful-looking visage with broad nose and bright smile was currently clouded. A little frustration, perhaps some suspicion, whatever it was it did not improve his looks. In the Congo, where you were my guide in our hunt for a man, I followed your lead, did I not? And rather than follow where he had been, always behind on the trail, instead you took us ahead and we waited at a place where you knew he would come. And then... He stabbed the air, leaving a trail of smoke.

I do not see how this applies here.

Schneemann sat upright. I apologise. In my efforts to make my man-trap invisible to Professor Roth I have obfuscated it to you. Allow me to explain.

Malenko assented silently. Schneemann gathered his thoughts, turning his half-built web of plots into a firm plan.

Professor Roth is Europe’s most notorious renegade Egyptologist. He flits from place to place, giving lectures, publishing papers, making incredible breakthroughs. He knows more Ancient Egyptian lore, and reads Hieroglyphics more fluently, than any two other men in the world. He is also a notorious tomb robber, under sentence of death from the Khedive in Cairo.

Malenko looked on impassively; the details of Professor Roth’s career might be generally obscure but in outline were well known.

"Although our intentions are somewhat more benign than those of the agents of the Egyptian government, his efforts to stay one step ahead of them will make it equally difficult for us to catch up with him. Instead we have arranged to place ourselves here, where a newly discovered mummy is about to be revealed to the world as a previously unknown link between the XVIth and XVIIth dynasties."

Malenko leaned forward. Pardon me Heinrich. Much as I hesitate to criticise your expertise, I must ask; having received only the vaguest of descriptions and no direct knowledge of the mummy, how can you know the providence of the body?

Schneemann allowed a grin to creep across his face. "Of course I have no idea. I am no expert on Egyptology. I am all but certain that there are no intact treasure rooms in Egypt, only the scraps millennia-old robbers have left behind. So this might be the greatest find of the ancient world ever discovered. More likely it is some noble or priest, left forgotten in a side chamber while tomb raiders took the great artefacts from the main spaces. None of that matters.

"What does matter are the rumours being distributed through the community of Ancient Egyptian Scholars across Europe. Scraps of hieroglyphs, stories of what was found, half-legible sketches. We shall feed these to the rumourmongers. The stories will whet their appetites for more, so they will ask their correspondents, who will question their colleagues... He shrugged, spreading his arms wide. The news will reach Professor Roth. He has an especial interest in the Second Intermediate Period. He will wish to come and see for himself. And we shall be waiting."

Malenko folded his arms. I suppose this will work as well as any other plan.

Ah Serge, I apologise. I too would rather tour Italy, especially now that the autumn is upon us and cold weather threatens here in Germany. But this is my homeland. I know this place. In Milan – or Turin, Genoa, or the other cities of the region – he might slip away. Here... he stabbed again with the cigarillo, putting it out. Here he will not escape us. He pulled out his matches and lit up again.

Your country is cold, but I am no stranger to Europe. Nor to the general European attitude to Africans. He stood up, and Schneemann joined him. I suppose we can wait here a while.

Schneemann nodded. I apologise for putting you – an educated man, who speaks the language as well as I – in the subservient position as my secretary. Yet without expert knowledge on ancient artefacts your presence would otherwise be hard to explain. Two dilettantes in the party – myself and Miss Straight – is difficult enough. Three would stretch all credibility.

Quite. He paused at the door, moving the chair aside. "As a mere clerk my presence is accepted, though not noted; I do not count as a principal."

Schneemann smiled. Exactly so. I think you are starting to understand the methods of manhunting I use in the, ah, terrain of European society and academia. We should talk further on this. After I settle the ladies perhaps we might meet for a drink before dinner.

I would be pleased to. Malenko shrugged slightly, adjusting his stance to one of somewhat lesser prominence. We have been invited to the museum to make the acquaintance of the staff tomorrow. I shall reply accepting their offer, unless you wish otherwise? Schneemann did not and he opened the door.

In burst the terrier. He ran around the room twice then back out before the men could move. A banshee voice howled throughout the hotel.

Johnson!

Chapter 3

The museum entrance was a large tiled room, self-consciously stuffed with statues, pillars, busts and other sizeable artefacts. Roman emperors were indiscriminately placed next to Ming vases, Greek philosophers by Indian goddesses. A tiger-skin hanging from the back wall, added a discordant barbaric note.

The others seemed impressed so Schneemann faked an interest in a set of Phoenician jewellery. Talking of faking, unless he was mistaken that gem was a fire citrine from Brazil, making this a modern copy.

Of course, it might be evidence that far-sailing Phoenicians had crossed the Atlantic before the birth of Christ, returning with gemstones from the centre of the Western continent...

His musing was interrupted by the arrival of their hosts. They were a mixed group; a tall dark-bearded man; a short clean-shaven one; a lady pushing a wheeled chair; and in the chair a man with a moustache that rivalled the Kaiser’s. Schneemann recognised him and strode forward.

Johannson. It has been a long time.

The man nodded and held out his hand. They shook. Schneemann. Yes. We were young rake-hells, cavalry officers riding about Silesia like lords. And now here we are, older and wiser, and in my case somewhat lesser in stature. He indicated the missing leg.

Schneemann looked grave. I was sorry to hear about the accident. I hope my appearance here does not bring back any bad memories.

****

Poland, Winter 1885

What a magnificently ugly horse.

Schneemann could only agree with his companion. The dark stripes made the animal look distinctly unpleasant to the eye. On closer inspection it was of excellent conformation; legs in proportion to body, head and eye alert, stepping cleanly as it was lead by the groom. Both magnificent and ugly. Who would own a horse like that?

Belongs to Haller I imagine, he replied.

Johannson turned his head slightly. Ah, you’ve heard.

No, not at all. It is a simple matter of deduction. Schneemann held up his gloved hand and raised a finger. "No purchasing officer would buy the horse for a trooper, no matter how fine it was; he would be laughed out of the regiment. And indeed, I would say that he is too fine for a private soldier. This is the mount of an officer."

He held up another finger. To overlook the grotesque markings on the coat to see the quality of the beast beneath requires knowledge; this is a light cavalry regiment and our officers are better informed than the usual run of gentlemen as to horseflesh. Yet I fear that at least half would dismiss the animal for the superficialities at a glance. Those may be neglected from our list of candidates.

Another finger. "A senior officer would be too concerned with their dignity to ride such a horse, and most of the lieutenants are too, ah, conventional to introduce a horse like that to the regiment, even if they might consider it for personal use."

He brandished the three upraised fingers. Of the junior officers in the regiment who recognise quality in their horses, have money to spend at this moment, and are willing to outrage opinion I number but three; myself, yourself and the good Haller, who I see has appeared to take charge of his monumentally unpleasant looking steed.

The two men strolled over to where Haller was looking the horse up and down, absent-mindedly berating the groom who stood silent. As the man had only taken the horse from the gate into the yard Schneemann felt this somewhat over-enthusiastic; Haller would do better to contain himself until there was at least the possibility of the servant having done something wrong. Anything else would be exerting himself unnecessarily.

Schönberg joined them. Good God. That horse is revolting. In Schneemann’s opinion Schönberg had only one of the characteristics he had enumerated for the owner of the horse, namely money. Of other attributes required for a good cavalry officer – for example swiftness of thought, decisiveness, a sure grasp of the situation, and the trust and respect of the troops – he rode well. Can’t think what the Colonel is going to say about that.

"Does it have bottom, probably," said