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  Luckily the head peeking round the door isn’t Simon’s golden one but belongs to Dawn, the department’s assistant and all-round dogsbody, who has the unenviable task of conducting school tours around the department dressed as an Egyptian. Today she’s in full Cleopatra mode, complete with a jet-black wig and white robes that almost conceal the billowing body underneath.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Cleo. I did try calling but your phone isn’t working again.”

  I glance across the office to the black Bakelite phone which, according to rumour, once belonged to our museum’s founder himself, Henry Wellby the renowned Egyptologist. The phone is certainly old, like most of the furniture and fittings in the Wellby, but I don’t believe this story for a second. Henry Wellby, famous for his archaeological work in the 1920s when he discovered the famous lost city of Nephet, surveys us all from the portrait hanging in the museum’s entrance concourse. A portly gentleman with a bushy ginger moustache and shrewd blue eyes, he looks to me like the type who’d have the good sense to bin a phone with a receiver that continually falls off the hook.

  “The phone must be on the blink again.” Leaving my desk I replace the receiver in the cradle. “I don’t know why it always does that.”

  Dawn’s eyes flicker nervously. “It’s the cursed phone, isn’t it? The one Mr Wellby used? Is it true it’s cursed because of Tutankhamun?”

  Oh Lord. Here we go again. What I should mention about Dawn is that she’s utterly credulous, falling hook, line and sinker for all the museum myths about moving exhibits and pharaohs’ curses, which I once overheard her repeating to a group of open-mouthed visitors. I had to have a sharp word with her about that. The Wellby might be smaller than the British Museum or the Ashmolean, but it is a highly respected place of learning and discovery, not the latest setting of Totally Spooked.

  “Dawn,” I say patiently. “Henry Wellby was nothing to do with Tutankhamun. He found a lost city, not a lost tomb.”

  “I knew he’d found something lost,” says Dawn as though two of the greatest archaeological discoveries of the last century are interchangeable. Above the rumbling traffic outside I swear I can hear Henry Wellby spinning in his grave. Then she frowns. “But you must admit it’s a bit weird that the phone is always off the hook.”

  God give me strength. “I’ve knocked it off the hook, that’s all. It’s nothing sinister.”

  She doesn’t look convinced. “It’s really cold in here though, isn’t it?”

  Is it cold? I suppose so, but it is November after all and – unlike Dawn, who usually sports short-sleeved crop tops from beneath which her pallid midriff ripples like Viennetta – I’m wearing a polo neck.

  “We’re in a building that’s over two hundred years old,” I point out. “When Henry Wellby’s family purchased it to house his private collection they weren’t really thinking about whether or not it was centrally heated.”

  Dawn rubs her arms. “But your office is way colder than all the others.” She huffs a great lungful of air at me. “I can see my breath!”

  “Dawn, was there a reason you’re here? Or do you just want to chat about the lack of central heating?”

  “I do witter on, don’t I?” Dawn giggles. “Natter, natter, natter! That’s me!”

  I fix her with my sternest stare, the one that usually makes Susie confess to eating my chocolate/using up the milk/borrowing my perfume. It’s never failed yet and Dawn instantly pulls herself together.

  “Anyway… Look, I’m really sorry, Cleo, but I’ve just had a call from my Gary. He’s caught in a big traffic jam on the Westway and there’s no way he’ll be on time to pick our Ellie up from school. I’ll have to leave now or I’ll never make it.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s one fifty. “But aren’t you supposed to be doing a school tour at two?”

  She nods. “There’s thirty Year Eights downstairs and they’re really excited.”

  “You’ll just have to let them down gently,” I tell her.

  Dawn looks shocked. “We can’t do that; they’ll be gutted! And anyway we’ve got that reporter joining us, remember? He’s waiting too.”

  I do remember because I was the genius who organised this. It seemed like a good idea at the time, in the abstract way that these things always do. It would raise our profile, tick all the right boxes for funding initiatives and hopefully generate lots more educational visits. There’s no way we can put today’s tour off. I need to find another sucker, I mean volunteer, to dress up as an Egyptian and do battle with stroppy teenagers.

  “We’ll have to find somebody else then,” I say. “But who?”

  Dawn starts to unwind her costume. “You’ll have to do it.”

  “Me?”

  I’m an academic. There’s no way I’m dressing up and parading around the museum. No way at all. Nobody will ever take me seriously again. But by the time I open my mouth to protest Dawn is down to her knickers, tugging off her wig and pulling on her leggings.

  “You’ll be brilliant, Cleo!” she insists, two-thirds dressed now and on her way to the door while I stare at her, appalled. “Nobody knows more about ancient Egypt than you do. You’ve even got the right name!”

  The robes are shoved into my arms, followed by the wig and a bag of grotty make-up. I’m beyond horrified.

  “Dawn, I can’t!”

  “Of course you can,” says Dawn cheerfully. Of course she’s looking cheerful; she’s halfway out of the door isn’t she? “Just remember to stay in role and have fun! Bye!”

  Stay in role and have fun? I stare after her, lost for words. Fun? I hated drama at school and, as I recall, I didn’t much like the other kids either. I can’t imagine anything has changed significantly since then. There’s nothing else for it: I’ll have to cancel the journalist and the tour.

  I pick up the phone, which is somehow off the hook yet again, and dial down to reception.

  “Dr Carpenter! Thank goodness!” The receptionist sounds stressed. “We’ve been trying to ring up for ages! There’s a journalist here who says he’s supposed to be having a tour of the department.” She lowers her voice. “He’s really irate.”

  Great. This is all I need. There’s nothing else for it. I’m going to have to do this tour myself and pray nobody I know ever finds out.

  Dawn’s right, my office is Baltic – so I don’t waste any time getting changed. In seconds my polo neck and black trousers are folded up on the chair and I’m wearing nothing but my underwear. What a day to have chosen to wear my big red and white polka-dot pants! That’s what happens when you share a flat with a girl who constantly breaks the washing machine – and until we get it fixed I’m down to the last few random odds and ends of underwear that I’d never normally dream of wearing. Today’s beauties were bought by a well-meaning ex who never did grasp the fact that I prefer white undies. Or quiet nights in to being deafened in crowded pubs. Or Radio Four over Radio One. Coloured pants aside, it’s easy to see why we didn’t go the distance.

  Anyway, I really hope the pants don’t show through the robes. Luckily Dawn’s quite a bit bigger than me, so the costume wraps around several times and covers everything. I can’t find the brooch she uses to fasten it and I haven’t got time to search either, so I improvise with some unravelled paperclips and tuck the surplus fabric under my bra strap. It’s not a great look but it’s just going to have to do.

  Right: make-up time. I don’t tend to wear a lot of make-up, so my attempt at Cleopatra eyes is more Alice Cooper than Elizabeth Taylor. Still, too late to worry now. I’ve just about got enough time to shove on my black wig and grab the golden staff before dashing downstairs. I glance in the mirror and a drag queen peers back. Not a good look. My only consolation is that nobody will recognise me like this.

  There’s no mistaking which group is waiting for me downstairs. Kids in school uniform are running around, scattering through the crowd like mercury beads. Others are sprawled on the floor, a few are having a scrap on the staircase, Jane from the Wellby
Museum shop is evicting a couple more and the rest are waiting in a huddle, snapping gum and texting while their teachers look increasingly nervous. That sour-looking guy, scribbling notes and glowering, must be the journalist. He looks about as cheesed off as I feel, which is saying something.

  I’ll just think of the children and remember that nobody knows it’s me underneath the wig.

  “Hello, everyone!” I say brightly, “Welcome to the Wellby Museum. I hope you’re all ready to come back thousands of years in time with me?”

  “Is that why you took so long to get here?” asks the journalist. All the kids snigger and I feel myself turn red. Not a great start.

  I’ll stick to the script. Things can’t go too wrong if I do that.

  “My name’s Cleopatra,” I begin, “I’m the last of the pharaohs.”

  “And I’m Prince William,” sneers the journalist. “Call that a costume?”

  Sod this. I’m standing in the lobby of one of the nation’s most established museums wearing what is in essence a bed sheet, plus a comedy wig. My reputation as a serious academic is hanging in the balance and I’m freezing cold. I’m not in the mood for this smart Alec, even if I do want him to give us a fantastic write-up. Time to get into role...

  “Listen, peasant,” I hiss, pretending to prod him in the chest with my staff, “I’m Cleopatra the seventh, Thea Philopator and incarnation of Isis, and if I say my name is Cleopatra then you don’t argue with me. Any more disrespect and I’ll have you mummified alive! Or boiled in oil and fed to locusts! Maybe I’ll even bury you in the sand?”

  “Cool!” says one of the kids.

  “It’s like Horrible Histories!” gasps another.

  “Perhaps your eyeballs can be plucked out and fed to scarabs,” I improvise. “Or your brains hooked out through your nostrils. If, indeed, you have a brain?”

  The journalist steps backwards hastily. “Sounds painful! Sorry, Your Highness!”

  “You will be,” I threaten. “I have a thousand agonising ways to kill you, worm!”

  Well, this does it: the kids are riveted by the gory details of Egyptian torture and want to know about all of them. As I shepherd them around the museum I tell them as many gross-out facts as possible. By the time we exit the Ancient World Gallery they all look a little green and I don’t think it’s down to the lighting, either. They ask questions, take pictures and seem utterly fascinated. I’m actually quite enjoying myself. Even the grumpy journalist has cracked a smile and told me how much he likes the tour. I’m just leading them all back down the stairs before finishing, and congratulating myself on surviving, when somebody calls my name.

  “Cleo? Dr Carpenter? Is that you?”

  Please, no, anything but this…

  I turn around slowly. Simon Welsh is standing at the top of the staircase and looking down at me in absolute amazement. Of all the people to spot me it has to be him, doesn’t it?

  “Dr Carpenter?” Simon is descending the stairs now, his blue eyes crinkling with mirth. “Is that really you underneath that cunning disguise?”

  They say that life is comprised of choices and I have one now: to stay and brazen it out or to do a runner. Actually, that’s not a choice at all. I haven’t even been able to face Simon when I’ve been at my professional best. I double my speed on the stairs, figuring that once I’m in the concourse I can dive into the crowd and lose him. I’ll just deny everything when I see him next – if I don’t die of embarrassment first, that is.

  Unfortunately, in my haste to escape I catch my heel in the robes. There’s a sharp jolt as I stagger forward. For a hideous moment I teeter on the step before somehow recovering my balance and continuing my descent with my head held high, even though the bloody kids are shrieking with mirth. How on earth do teachers cope with this on a daily basis?

  It’s strange, though; either I’m super paranoid or something very strange is happening. The concourse is the beating heart of the museum – a busy, noisy hub of excited visitors and enthusiastic staff – and my ears normally ring for ages if I spend too much time here. Yet today the place is unusually quiet, and the further I get down the stairs the more a hush descends. Everyone seems to be looking at me.

  Is my costume really that interesting?

  I glance down just to check it and this is when my day lurches from bad to horrendous.

  I don’t seem to be wearing my costume.

  It’s like one of those awful nightmares when you suddenly find yourself naked in a shopping centre, only worse because I’m not dreaming. No, I’m wide awake and I really am standing on the staircase wearing nothing except my big polka-dot pants and bra! Turning slowly I see my robe abandoned halfway up the stairs.

  The school kids are practically wetting themselves while below me people are staring and pointing. Laughter spreads through the place like ripples on a pond.

  With a wail of horror I sprint for the robe, but Simon is quicker. He leaps down the stairs three at a time, snatches up the fabric and seconds later is draping it around my shoulders. An hour earlier the idea of Simon touching me would have been enough to make me feel giddy but now I’m just mortified. The guy has seen me in my pants. My big spotty pants! And when did I last shave my legs? Far too long ago for me to remember, that’s for sure.

  What must he be thinking?

  Clutching the robe around me I tear up the steps towards the safety of my office. En route I spot school kids snapping away on their mobile phones and the journalist grinning from ear to ear as he jots down what’s probably going to be a highly amusing story. I’ll be a hashtag on Twitter by the time I reach my office door. My professional reputation is ruined.

  And, almost worse, how can I ever face Simon Welsh again?

  Chapter 4

  Once in the safety of my office I slam the door shut and lean my back against it. I don’t think I’ll ever leave again, at least not in daylight.

  My skin is crawling with mortification. I can’t believe what just happened. As soon as my computer boots up I’m off to surf Cairo Uni’s website to look for vacancies. It’s just a shame the ancient Egyptians never lived on the moon, although the way I feel right now even that wouldn’t be far enough…

  I’m pulling on my clothes when there’s a knock on the door.

  “I’m busy,” I call. For the next millennia or two. “Come back later.”

  “Cleo? It’s me, Simon. Can I come in?”

  Simon? What on earth does he want?

  “Please go away,” I say.

  “Not until I know you’re OK.”

  “I’m fine,” I reply. I’m trying to scrub off the eyeliner, which is easier said than done. What on earth is it made of? Indelible ink?

  “I know you’re embarrassed, but it really isn’t as bad as you think,” Simon says kindly.

  Embarrassed doesn’t even come close. I could be in therapy for a year and still have issues after today. And as for not as bad as I think? I just paraded through the Wellby Museum in my smalls! It doesn’t get any worse than this.

  “You’ll look back on this and laugh,” he adds.

  Yeah, right. That’s about as likely as Susie becoming a neat freak.

  “I’m absolutely OK,” I fib. “Honestly. I’m just getting changed.”

  “Well, if you’re really sure, I’ll leave you in peace,” Simon says doubtfully. “But just for the record, I thought you looked amazing. Easily the best exhibit in the entire place.”

  His footsteps retreat down the corridor leaving me stunned. Did Simon Welsh just tell me that I looked amazing in my underwear? Seriously? Did he just flirt with me?

  I’m trying to get my head around this when the phone shrills. Oh great. It’s probably the Museum Director wanting an explanation. With a heavy heart I lift the receiver.

  “Dr Carpenter? It’s reception. There’s a call for you. It’s the police.”

  The police? I feel the colour drain from my face. My robe fell off. It was an accident. Surely the police don’t need to be
involved? Or has something awful happened to Dad or Tolly?

  “Hello? Cleo?” The disembodied voice of the receptionist crackles through the receiver. “There’s a WPC Moore on the line for you. Shall I put her through?”

  “Please,” I say. I take a deep breath and wind a coil of my hair around my finger.

  “Dr Cleopatra Rose Carpenter?” The voice on the end of the line doesn’t sound as though it’s about to impart bad news, but you can never be too sure.

  “Speaking.”

  “Hello, Dr Carpenter, thanks for taking the time to speak to me. I’m WPC Moore. I’m hoping you may be able to help us with an investigation.”

  I’m taken aback. “Me? How can I help?”

  I hear papers rustle. “I believe you were at Museum Tube station at approximately 9.20pm last Saturday? You caught a westbound train?”

  “I don’t know whether to be impressed or scared,” I say. “How on earth do you know that?”

  “A mixture of CCTV and good detective work, Dr Carpenter. Sometimes the Big Brother culture does come in handy. We’ve been able to trace most people who passed through the station that evening.”

  “In that case I’m impressed! But what’s all this got to do with me?”

  There’s a soft intake of breath at the other end of the line. “Dr Carpenter, this may come as something of a shock but there was a violent attack that night, not far from the station. A brutal assault on a young girl. She was left for dead.”

  “That’s awful.” I twirl another spiral of hair around my forefinger. Would you believe it, another sheaf of papers has slipped to the floor. What is it with this draught? “I’m afraid I didn’t see anything. The CCTV must show that.”