Page 67 of Disturbing the Dead
“Yes, yes, dear boy,” he says, slapping Gray on the shoulder. “It is admirable that you wish to deflect credit to your associates, but see that you do not become too adamant about doing so.” He meets Gray’s eyes. “The world will be quick enough to take credit from you, on account of your background. Do not allow that. You deserve better.”
Huh. Well, that wasn’t what I expected. Muir had made his stance on higher education for women clear, and so I presumed his bigotry would spread further. That’s not always the case, though. Someone can support equal rights for one group while denying it for others.
For Gray’s sake, I’m just glad Muir isn’t as quick to dismiss him as he’d been to dismiss the Edinburgh Seven. If only that opinion hadn’t come at the expense of denigrating McCreadie and the working class.
“I appreciate that you have faith in my competence,” Gray says carefully. “I have still summoned Detective McCreadie to join us. In the meantime, though, I will respect your time by beginning the investigation along with my assistant here.”
Muir smiles. “The lovely Miss Mitchell. I apologize for not having understood who you were before now. My daughter has schooled me most soundly. She is exceedingly fond of your character in the stories and says you are very charming.”
Yeah, we definitely need to see those stories. Many words have been used to describe me. “Charming” is never one of them.
I return the smile with a half curtsy as I murmur, “I do my best, sir.”
“You said artifacts are missing,” Gray says, looking about. “I fear that is rather unwelcome news. It does put another spin on the case entirely. The staff seemed confident they were all accounted for.”
“They were. That is the problem.”
I take out my notepad and pencil.
“The artifacts were all here after the murder?” Gray says.
“Yes. I have done a little sleuthing of my own.” Muir’s blue eyes sparkle. “I knew you would need to question the servants again about the missing pieces, presuming they had somehow been overlooked in the inventory. They were not. The two footmen who checked were using a list. Alastair was very particular about that. He had a list of all artifacts in this room, and he made a note of which ones were to be placed on display last night. The footmen had to mark those removed and returned. Alastair was most particular.”
Muir crosses the room and brings us a sheet of paper. All the artifacts are catalogued, and there are notes beside each showing when they have been removed and returned, like proper museum exhibits. Whoever moves them must sign them in or out. Even Sir Alastair’s own signature is there when he was the one doing the moving.
“The final column was added last night,” Muir says. “The footmen documented each artifact as it was returned, as well as checking the others. They are all clearly accounted for. I took the list to the footmen, who insist the missing artifacts were here when they shut the door last night.”
“Shut it but did not lock it?” Gray says. “As the key is still missing.”
“Correct. I believe, with the door being opened and closed so often, the thief took advantage of the household’s grief and distraction to steal the artifacts, presuming the crime would be blamed on the murderer.”
Muir looks almost shyly pleased with himself, as if envisioning his own portrayal in the next installment of Gray’s adventures. The venerable Lord Muir, secret sleuth. I’m not inclined to like this guy, but I have to wonder how much of my dislike is based on his title and entitlement, rather than the man himself. Yes, one could argue that the sense of entitlement is part of his personality, but it’s also the times and its classism.
“That seems a very solid conclusion,” Gray says.
Muir beams.
“What can you tell me about the missing artifacts?” Gray asks, and here, Muir falters, looking like a boy who proudly stood up in class with the answer, only to realize he’s missing half of it.
“No matter,” Gray says without waiting for an answer. “I was unsure how well versed you are in Egyptian antiquities yourself.”
“Not at all, to be truthful.” Muir relaxes, seeming more human with each passing moment, first in his enthusiasm and now in his honesty. “For me, sponsoring Alastair’s work was a philanthropic investment in the pursuit of knowledge. I find all this”—he waves at the room—“beautiful and fascinating, but the importance of it is an abstract concept to me, as with most art.” An almost self-deprecating smile. “My wife and I buy art that we like and must rely on others to tell us the meaning of it.”
“My view of art would be the same,” Gray says. “I only know what I like.”
“Precisely.” Muir looks about the room. “That is why I sponsored Alastair. He was doing worthwhile things. First a surgeon and then an Egyptologist? He makes the rest of us look quite indolent, sitting in our country homes, having our little parties.”
Muir says this with a smile, his tone light and jovial, but there’s a wistfulness in his eyes, and I’m reminded that in this time, having a title often meant you couldn’t do much else. The title and its responsibilities were your job.
Muir clears his throat. “I can tell you that the thief did not make off with what I would consider the most beautiful of the artifacts—the jewelry and masks are still here. I believe those to be the most valuable, but the sale value and the historical value could be very different.”
“They could be,” Gray says.
Muir perks up. “And knowing which ones the thief took might tell you why he could have taken them. To sell to a private collector or to sell to a museum. All that would help you find the thief.” He hesitates, his enthusiasm faltering. “Except you do not need to do so, as I know very well who stole the artifacts.”
Right. He’d mentioned that in his note.
“It is young Mr. Awad,” he says. “Lady Christie’s brother.”
