The Cleopatra Caper

By John Amos

“I want to present Cleopatra to the World,” Lady Stanhope sighed and reached for her purse. Two very young and inexperienced detectives, Flinders Petrie and Thomas Pettigrew, were unexpectedly presented with the case of a lifetime. Flinders and Pettigrew, recent graduates of Oxford and rivals of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, suddenly find themselves confronted with the task of finding Cleopatra’s tomb. The tomb’s location, as they quickly discovered, was protected by the adherents of an ancient cult. Their quest leads them to Cairo and Alexandria. They meet a mysterious woman, who is possibly the descendant of Cleopatra. Their story weaves between the ‘City of the Dead’ in Cairo and the ‘Mound of Shards’ in Alexandria. They discover that becoming a detective is more difficult than they imagined as students. Set against the background of the River War in the Sudan and written by an expert in archeology and Middle East history, readers will find this story a worthy successor to the Conan Doyle legacy. “Find me Cleopatra, and I will pay for all this….”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035812653

John Amos

John Amos holds a PhD from the University of California at Berkeley and a JD from the Monterey College of Law. He has taught at university level for over 25 years in the fields of Middle Eastern Politics, Political Sociology, and Political Behaviour. His academic publications include two books, Arab-Israeli Military-Political Relations: Arab Perceptions and the Politics of Escalation, and The Palestinian Resistance; Organization of a Nationalist Movement as well as numerous articles in major academic journals. He has also edited Gulf Security into the Eighties: Perceptual and Strategic Dimensions. He has lived in the Middle East, most notably in Egypt, Lebanon, Libya, and Turkey. He currently practices law.

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About the Author

John Amos holds a PhD from the University of California at Berkeley and a JD from the Monterey College of Law. He has taught at university level for over 25 years in the fields of Middle Eastern Politics, Political Sociology, and Political Behaviour. His academic publications include two books, Arab-Israeli Military-Political Relations: Arab Perceptions and the Politics of Escalation, and The Palestinian Resistance; Organization of a Nationalist Movement as well as numerous articles in major academic journals. He has also edited Gulf Security into the Eighties: Perceptual and Strategic Dimensions. He has lived in the Middle East, most notably in Egypt, Lebanon, Libya, and Turkey. He currently practices law.

Dedication

To my wife, Sue, who watches me typing away at my desk, morning, noon and night, and sometimes in the middle of the night, and still manages to love me.

To the detectives, with their deerstalkers, clerical collars, moustaches, pistols and armchairs, may their clients never cease coming, may they solve all their cases with audacity and with elegance, and may their readers always delight.

And to Cleopatra, may her beauty and passion continue to uplift and haunt us, and may she always remain a mystery.

Copyright Information ©

John Amos 2023

The right of John Amos to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035812646 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035812653 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Acknowledgement

I am indebted to three people who helped me learn to write: Jane Friedman gave me no-nonsense guidance about the craft of writing. Britta Jensen read my work and marked all over it until I got it right. Kitty Walker guided me through the final revision with patience and wisdom. The mistakes are mine; any excellence is due to their efforts.

This is a story about two young men who wanted to become great detectives, and then discovered that they had to grow up to do so. They were children thrust into a world of adults. It is also about a Great Queen whose persona looms over the ages. A Queen who was more than just a famous woman. It is not a history: persons and events have been altered to suit the needs of the narrative. As Holmes would say, Whenever you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

I

To Become a Detective

The swirling grey fog was not ominous. But it was a nuisance. Flinders Petrie energetically wiped the window glass to get a better look. He was annoyed. He could not clearly see the shadowy figures on the street below. He put down the penny dreadful that he had been reading to use both hands: Its title read The Riddle of the Sphinx and it had a lurid red and green cover. Penny Dreadfuls were Flinders’ passion. He read them day and night, and imagined the world through their lenses. This particular dreadful was a story about an ancient Egyptian pharaoh whose reincarnations descended through the centuries. Interesting, but fanciful. Usually, Flinders would have thrilled to such a tale, but not this morning.

Damn this London fog. I cannot see anything. Then he saw a cab pull over to the curb across the street; its top glistened in the wet. The sky was growing brighter but the cab’s lamps still glowed; their lights slanted yellow tunnels through the whirls. Two men were getting in. Flinders put the book down and scrubbed the window; its glass was cold and damp to his fingers. He peered earnestly between the drawn curtains a moment and then turned away to address his roommate and business partner Thomas Pettigrew.

There they go again. Just look at them.

There go who? Pettigrew looked up from his newspaper. What do you want? I was reading about the war in the Sudan. It’s spreading. Whole villages are being massacred. Christians in the south are fleeing to Ethiopia. An expeditionary force has been destroyed. Cairo itself may be put on a war footing. Now who is it that you think you see?

Holmes and Watson. Who do you think? They are getting into a hansom cab.

Flinders left the window and waived the book, I cannot for the life of me think why anyone would hire them. His paisley and brocade smoking jacket fluttered as he bounced across the sitting room. Flinders Petrie was a self-satisfied young man who had just discovered that dreams of greatness require both time and hard work. He and Thomas Pettigrew were partners in a newly formed detective agency: PETRIE and PETTIGREW.

The partners were an unlikely pair.

Flinders was the nephew and namesake of Sir Flinders Petrie the famous archaeologist. Flinders mother was Irish, and Flinders junior spoke with a slight brogue that titillated the ladies. Thomas was the son of Thomas Pettigrew the prominent anatomist and founder of several Medical colleges and the purveyor of mummy ‘unwrappings’. Consequently, Thomas senior was known as ‘mummy Pettigrew’, a nickname that embarrassed his son. Thomas junior spoke with a flat London accent: the ladies did not appreciate it.

Look at them, Flinders returned to the window and watched the tall, slightly stooped figure of Sherlock Holmes and his companion Dr John Watson in the street below, why does Holmes wear that silly hat?

It’s called a ‘deer stalker’ and he wears it for effect: He is going bald, you know, Pettigrew folded his paper. He straightened his grey dressing own with its wide indigo lapels: its sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and its sides were stained. They are both getting older.

There are no deer in London, Flinders turned and snorted, What is he supposed to be stalking?

Criminals, of course; that is the idea.

Petrie was not helpful. He carefully rolled up the newspaper. It is brilliant advertising. He continued, "Remember all that nonsense about ‘the game’s afoot’? Holmes barrowed that from Henry V, but it goes perfectly with the funny hat."

But just look at that Watson; he is so fat he can barely walk, Flinders returned to the window stared at the pair below.

Well, I would not say he was that fat, just a little overweight; portly, you might say, Pettigrew put the newspaper on a small table. He is still quite mobile, you know.

Look, Flinders tapped his fingers on the window sill, these two bumblers get all the good cases, and we are starving. Clearly frustrated, Finders asked, "Should I advertise more? I have already put big ads in the Pall Mall Gazette; what more can I do?"

It is not about advertising. It is about connections, Pettigrew responded, Holmes has the connections and we do not. He continued, "Think of it: Holmes has a writer who glorifies everything he does: The Hound of the Baskervilles is about a nasty dog; a dog mind you; the Silver Blaze is about a stolen horse; a horse for God’s sake. Holmes takes these cases, milks them for large fees, and then gets his writer friend to pump them up. Holmes claims that all these ‘memoirs’ are written by Watson, but I’ll bet that he’s got somebody else on his payroll."

Flinders gave the window a last scrub and muttered to himself about the difficulties of competing with his firm’s famous rivals, They are both old and out of date. We know everything that they know and we are much younger. I don’t understand why anybody hires them. He threw himself on the rose embroidered sofa that served as the sitting room’s centrepiece and reflected on how he and his partner and friend had gotten to this state.

The two had met at Oxford and immediately became comrades. Their meeting was quite by accident as Flinders remembered. He had begun the quarter without a roommate and was hoping to find one. But so far he had no luck.

One morning, early on, he was running to class. His hair was still wet from the rain outside. His shoes left puddles on the hallway floor. He was always late to this particular class. It was a class in digging techniques, and Flinders found it insufferable: No excitement here, no grand theories to awe the intellect, just shovels and dirt, and endless leger entries about pot shards. Nothing to engage my mind. He muttered to himself. Just details. Details. Details without any coherent thought. Where is the romance, the adventure of archaeology? The hallway was narrow; its ceiling was covered with carved mullioned arches which flew past him as he ran. He rounded a corner and pulled up sharply. So sharply that he skidded and almost dropped the books that he was carrying. There was a stooped figure in front of him. The figure was kneeling and studying the wall in front of it.

What are you doing down there?

The figure looked up. It had blonde hair and a slight frown. I am examining these ants on the wall. They are curious.

Flinders watched in astonishment. Why are they curious?

Because I said so, the figure stood up, look at all the tiny anatomic details about them, the bodies, the legs, and the antennae. I am a medical student. I like to examine things for details. The world is made up to details, but nobody ever observes them.

The figure reached out and touched an antenna. The entire ant column moved away in unison. Look. They think, they communicate, and they react. They are beautiful. The figure stood up and scratched its head. Curious don’t you think? I am always curious.

Who is this strange person who plays with ants? I think that I like him. Flinders knelt to look and put a hand on the wall. You are right, they are very curious: especially so if you imagine them marching to some grand plan. He arose and held out his hand. My name is Flinders, what is yours?

Thomas, Thomas Pettigrew.

I need a roommate.

I do as well.

So they became roommates. It was the start of a very long partnership which evolved over time. In the beginning both were students, but with very different personalities and academic interests.

Flinders had taken up the study of archaeology at the behest of his uncle. Flinders had laughing brown eyes and wavy brown hair. He inherited his good looks from his Irish mother. But she died when he was a boy; and he was raised by a doting father. He was outgoing and romantic in nature, and emotionally engaged: he had a ready smile and an energetic manner. He read voraciously: books of Greek and Roman classics littered his room. He led his class in the study of archaeology: his knowledge of the subject was the talk of Oxford. His ‘charm’ was the talk of the local girl’s school.

Pettigrew had followed his father and studied both at Oxford and a nearby medical school. He was the taller of the two, with strait blonde hair and periwinkle blue eyes. His demeanour was shy and he rarely talked. Social skills eluded him. When he did talk, all he spoke about medicine. As a result, the ladies considered him plain looking and uninteresting. He was serious and kept largely to himself: detached and clinical, he was very much the forensic physician along the lines of his father. His room was filled with medical books, journals and (often decaying) anatomical specimens. Bottles of specimens in cheap cognac were neatly lined up on its floor its floor. Because of his father’s nickname, ‘mummy Pettigrew’, other students sometimes referred to him as ‘mummy’s boy’.

The pair was somewhat better than average students: but they preferred to read Gothic horror tales rather than study. In particular, criminology became their passion. They poured over The Newgate Calendar’s lurid biographies of famous criminals. In particular, they were entranced by the works of the American writer Edgar Allen Poe. They were impressed by Poe’s fictional detective C. Auguste Dupin. They read and reread The Murders in the Rue Morgue and studied Dupin’s theory of ‘Ratiocination’. They practiced Dupin’s technique of ‘abduction’, a technique of reasoning backwards from an event or observation to the motive behind it, on everything they saw.

But alas their results were unimpressive. The art of deduction escaped them. They clearly needed more advanced guidance.

And then it happened.

One sunny morning Flinders slammed open the door and rushed into Pettigrew’s room waiving a circular and proclaimed, Joseph Bell is giving a series of lectures! He is most renowned criminologist in England. We must go!

Pettigrew put down the frog that he was about to dissect and carefully read the flyer, These lectures are in Edinburgh. How are we to get there?

You worry too much, Flinders would not be denied, we will find a way.

In the end, they decided to go. They found the money and took the train. And their lives were changed.

They met Bell and became his avid students. On weekends, they would steal away from Oxford go up to Edinburgh to meet with him. Bell was not much older than they were. He had just begun a teaching career at the University of Edinburgh. He instantly liked the two and began training them in his techniques of forensic observation. After a weekend with Bell, the two would return to Oxford to practice their newfound deductive methods on annoyed fellow students.

Upon graduation from Oxford, they decided to become private detectives. But how to do that? Flinders was optimistic and expansive, We should find a large office in downtown London, something with a flourish, maybe something close to the Palace where we will be seen. The Queen herself may come by.

Pettigrew’s response was more cautious, and how do you expect to pay for all that? Let us start with something smaller. We must be practical in these things.

In the end, sweet reason prevailed and they rented a flat on Baker Street just opposite the digs of Holmes and Watson. It was a choice that would prove problematic. Nevertheless, they proudly put on a bronze plaque with the name, ‘PETRIE AND PETTIGREW’ Detectives, in bold type with Grecian embellishments. Now that is more like it, Flinders had said with great approval as he stepped back to get a better view. Those classical ornamentations give us a timeless image. He polished the plaque every morning; and would often walk out into the street to get a better look at it, turning his head from side to side to see it from different angles. The sign was his pride and joy.

The flat had two stories, a black front door, and three steps leading from the street: inside were two bedroom and baths, and a large sitting room above; and a kitchen, dining room, and housekeeper’s quarters below. It also had a small solarium, a rose garden in the back, and came furnished with slightly worn furniture. Flinders had added a few pieces for the sitting room: a couple of maroon bergères with gold arms, these chairs are worthy of Louis XV himself, and a dusty rose sofa with gold feet. This furniture makes for an elegant touch like an old chateaux.

He surveyed the furniture with proud smile. "Thomas, we must present ourselves as great detectives.