bedroom wall?” This time Laura really was astonished.
“I don’t know,” mused Rupert, “but it does make me want to check up on a couple of things. I’ll put in an appearance downstairs – I think they have sorted out their own breakfasts – and then try and make sense of this. We don’t need to call anyone in straight away, do we? – after all, I might not have noticed that Floyd was dead.”
“To be honest, no one would question Floyd Bailey’s non-appearance, even if it was his own exhibition; not even his current wife. No, you do what you like and sort it out,” said Laura briskly. “I must see to things outside. And, anyway, if anyone can make sense of hieroglyphs, it would be you.” Suddenly Laura paused and then added, with some show of real feeling, “I actually rather liked Floyd.”
After Laura had left Rupert started to act with some purpose. First he went down the stairs and quietly into his study. He could hear the rumble of voices from the kitchen, but was intent on finding something in his desk, indifferent to the summer’s morning sun which filled the room, winking off two silver andirons in the fireplace and illuminating an elegant room furnished in an eighteenth century style. Soon he had found the notebook and pencil which he had wanted and made his way back up the stairs and into the cool gloom of Floyd’s room. There was an uncomfortable feel to the bedroom, not least because the light through the green curtains created an eerie glow, but also because the inscriptions on the wall had been written in gold and seemed to gleam ominously. The presence of the corpse with its staring eyes fixed on the ceiling didn’t help. Although it would have been both helpful and reassuring to open the curtains and let in some daylight, Rupert was determined to disturb nothing. Instead, squinting a little, he started to copy down the hieroglyphs from the wall.
As a Cambridge graduate in Archaeology and Anthropology, Rupert was not a complete stranger to the forms in front of him, and it helped that they were often illustrative of their meaning. A circle with a dot in the middle was clearly a sun disc. The profile of a bed with a shape on it was a mummy on a bier – or was it Floyd on his bed? A set of legs walking backwards – someone running away? Sometimes the symbols could represent sounds, but what he was looking at seemed quite rudimentary – pictures to tell the tale. He took them down quickly into his little book and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
When Rupert reached the kitchen he found the Hawkes’ still there.
“Not much left for you,” apologised Conran. “One sausage I think. Your good wife just popped in for coffee and a croissant. Any sign of Floyd?”
“I did call in to him, but he wasn’t very responsive,” said Rupert with complete honesty as he popped a sausage between two slices of bread.
“He’ll probably emerge mid-afternoon; we’ll go and help Jinny set up his stall. I think he has some prints to display.” He stood up and Delilah followed him out of the room.
Rupert dispatched the sausage in no more than two bites and headed through the Great Hall and out of the double doors at the front of Claresby Manor. The sun was full on the eastern side of the medieval building and the lawns stretched away to where the fair was taking shape. Stalls, awnings, tents, canopies and gazebos were being erected and he could already see woven baskets, dried flower arrangements and other craft works being unloaded from the boots of cars and backs of vans. He saw Bill Smith of Claresby Art Club setting up boards on which to mount the display of paintings under a striped gazebo. Bill, a diminutive, rotund, rosy cheeked man in his late sixties who reminded Rupert of a robin redbreast gave a cheery wave which Rupert returned. He could see Laura’s pretty flowery dress and despite preoccupations a smile rose to Rupert’s face at the sight of her.
“I don’t know,” mused Rupert, “but it does make me want to check up on a couple of things. I’ll put in an appearance downstairs – I think they have sorted out their own breakfasts – and then try and make sense of this. We don’t need to call anyone in straight away, do we? – after all, I might not have noticed that Floyd was dead.”
“To be honest, no one would question Floyd Bailey’s non-appearance, even if it was his own exhibition; not even his current wife. No, you do what you like and sort it out,” said Laura briskly. “I must see to things outside. And, anyway, if anyone can make sense of hieroglyphs, it would be you.” Suddenly Laura paused and then added, with some show of real feeling, “I actually rather liked Floyd.”
After Laura had left Rupert started to act with some purpose. First he went down the stairs and quietly into his study. He could hear the rumble of voices from the kitchen, but was intent on finding something in his desk, indifferent to the summer’s morning sun which filled the room, winking off two silver andirons in the fireplace and illuminating an elegant room furnished in an eighteenth century style. Soon he had found the notebook and pencil which he had wanted and made his way back up the stairs and into the cool gloom of Floyd’s room. There was an uncomfortable feel to the bedroom, not least because the light through the green curtains created an eerie glow, but also because the inscriptions on the wall had been written in gold and seemed to gleam ominously. The presence of the corpse with its staring eyes fixed on the ceiling didn’t help. Although it would have been both helpful and reassuring to open the curtains and let in some daylight, Rupert was determined to disturb nothing. Instead, squinting a little, he started to copy down the hieroglyphs from the wall.
As a Cambridge graduate in Archaeology and Anthropology, Rupert was not a complete stranger to the forms in front of him, and it helped that they were often illustrative of their meaning. A circle with a dot in the middle was clearly a sun disc. The profile of a bed with a shape on it was a mummy on a bier – or was it Floyd on his bed? A set of legs walking backwards – someone running away? Sometimes the symbols could represent sounds, but what he was looking at seemed quite rudimentary – pictures to tell the tale. He took them down quickly into his little book and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
When Rupert reached the kitchen he found the Hawkes’ still there.
“Not much left for you,” apologised Conran. “One sausage I think. Your good wife just popped in for coffee and a croissant. Any sign of Floyd?”
“I did call in to him, but he wasn’t very responsive,” said Rupert with complete honesty as he popped a sausage between two slices of bread.
“He’ll probably emerge mid-afternoon; we’ll go and help Jinny set up his stall. I think he has some prints to display.” He stood up and Delilah followed him out of the room.
Rupert dispatched the sausage in no more than two bites and headed through the Great Hall and out of the double doors at the front of Claresby Manor. The sun was full on the eastern side of the medieval building and the lawns stretched away to where the fair was taking shape. Stalls, awnings, tents, canopies and gazebos were being erected and he could already see woven baskets, dried flower arrangements and other craft works being unloaded from the boots of cars and backs of vans. He saw Bill Smith of Claresby Art Club setting up boards on which to mount the display of paintings under a striped gazebo. Bill, a diminutive, rotund, rosy cheeked man in his late sixties who reminded Rupert of a robin redbreast gave a cheery wave which Rupert returned. He could see Laura’s pretty flowery dress and despite preoccupations a smile rose to Rupert’s face at the sight of her.
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