She seemed to be holding a heated discussion with two men, both of whom towered over her. Nonetheless, he could tell from the body language of the players that it was his wife who was exerting her authority. In one corner of the grounds, he could see Jinny Bailey setting out Floyd’s stall and his stomach seemed to twist within him. Laura had caught sight of him and came over.
“You would think that two grown men could agree to share the sale of ice creams between them without my having to threaten to bring in the UN,” she sighed. “How are you doing?”
“All right. Did you want an update on the Floyd thing?”
“Yes. Is it bad news?”
“Not really. I took down a note of the hieroglyphs; let me show you.” Rupert displayed the little drawings.
“Not any the wiser,” commented Laura as she glanced at them “What are these things, and who drew them on the wall?”
“Well,” began Rupert, with something of a scholar’s enthusiasm, “this one is the best.” He pointed to a cluster of hieroglyphs which looked to Laura like a feather, saw, wave, circle, line and crouched figure. “This is Amun-Ra, kind of top Egyptian god. The circle and dot represent the sun. This one I don’t get,” he pointed to a horizontal shape. “It is a mummified crocodile.”
“Rupert, what are you talking about! A mummified crocodile! Why would Floyd be drawing these things on the wall? And what do they have to do with his death?”
“Well,” hesitated Rupert. “I wonder if he did draw them. You see Floyd, Sebastian and I ended up in the junk room last night – Floyd wanted to borrow an easel as Sebastian was trying to get him to paint today and...” Before he could say more, one of the ice cream men advanced on Laura and she was obliged to turn away. Rupert gave her a sign to mean that he would try and talk to her later and then headed back to the house.
In fact Rupert’s memories of the previous night were coloured by the fact that he and Sebastian had been helping Floyd in the matter of the bottle of Armagnac. They had been in the Great Hall when the banter between the two rival artists had resulted in Floyd agreeing that he too would make an alla prima painting of Claresby Manor in full view of the fair-going public. All he required was an easel and Sebastian would allow him to use the paints and brushes that he had brought along for the purpose. This led to the three men repairing to the junk room of Claresby Manor. The contents of that room did fit the category of “junk”, virtually everything worthwhile having been sold to pay death duties in the past. Somehow the Armagnac had made its way up with them, and Floyd and Sebastian had rifled through the artefacts, crockery, old prams and discarded paintings that filled the room.
“Some abominations here,” commented Floyd of the paintings. “Now Laura has some money she should stock up on some real artworks for Claresby,”
“Well, she tried,” responded Sebastian acerbically, “with my Pickled Toad with Diamonds ; but some drunken fool consumed it!”
“Oh, you heard about that,” said Floyd, sheepishly. “Well I did replace it with my lovely portrait of the fair lady, so all’s well.”
“You robbed posterity!” exclaimed Sebastian, but without any real rancour.
At this point Floyd had yanked an old suitcase out of a corner. It had a brown leather strap around it and the initials T.M. embossed on it. Floyd proceeded to pull out some clothes and papers. Amongst the papers was a leather bound sketch book which Floyd flicked through.
“These aren’t half bad,” he commented showing the other two men a series of sketches of Egypt. “Nice watercolour of the Sphinx at Giza; oh, and someone went to the Valley of the Kings too – typical nineteenth century English tourist: I’m surprised he didn’t bring a mummy home with him, bandages and all.”
“Who was the owner of the case?” asked Rupert, with some interest in
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