Canterbury Tails: Empress
As Emerson Trescott walked down the main street of Canterbury, Massachusetts, he was amazed at the number of people he passed. For a town where the big news during the past year was that Doctor Fordham Livingston cut down the chestnut tree in his front yard, the sidewalks were overrun with tourists. On the corner opposite the spot where he stood, was a steepled church, typical of small New England towns. A crowd of people were gathered outside the entrance through which a bride and groom soon emerged.
Look at those damned fools, the history professor thought. Marriage is no cause for celebration.
More than two decades earlier, he donned a tuxedo and walked down the aisle with a woman in a white dress. Like the naive young man across the street, his head was filled with romantic notions. The dreams of a happy future he had that day eroded over time until nothing remained but anger and regret. In theory, divorce should have solved his problems. In reality, it only caused more. Thanks to her shrewd lawyer, his ex-wife got the lion's share of the couple's assets in the settlement, including their Boston brownstone. It was his lack of residence that brought him to Canterbury that day. He could no longer afford to live in the city and was looking for a domicile in a less expensive area.
Unsure of where the real estate agent's office was, he read the signs above every building he passed. There were few businesses in Canterbury: a country inn, a gas station, a post office and a dentist. At the corner, he crossed the intersection. On the opposite side of the street were a small, family-run pharmacy, a dry cleaner and, directly across from the Canterbury Inn, a bookstore.
"The Canterbury Tails?" he read the sign above the door aloud. "Clearly, the owner of that business doesn't know how to spell."
Curiosity, coupled with a desire to escape the noisy tourists that seemed to take pleasure in bumping into him, made him enter the shop, which specialized in used and rare books. Emerson entered the store, intending to ask the shopkeeper where the real estate office was located. The young woman with closely cropped ebony-colored hair and semi-gothic attire, who was entering data into a Dell laptop, would be more suitable for a Wiccan store in Salem or the Hot Topic in Braintree.
"Hi, my name is Jerusha," she announced. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I was wondering ...."
The words died on his lips when he saw an unusual animal jump up onto the counter and rub its head against the Dell's screen.
"What is that?" he asked.
"You mean my cat?"
It looked like no cat Emerson had ever seen before. Its body was long and skinny, and the almond-shaped eyes and triangular head resembled those of a Siamese. The most unusual feature was the animal's ears. They were huge and shaped like bat wings.
"Is that what it is? It reminds me of one of the creatures from that movie Gremlins."
"Empress is an Oriental shorthair, a close relative of the Siamese."
Two more cats, a white Persian and a Russian blue, were roosting on nearby bookshelves, and a third, a garden variety tabby cat, was stretched out in the windowsill.
"You must like cats."
"My shop has become a haven for them. These are only four of them. I have three more somewhere around here."
"Now I get it," the professor said. "The Canterbury Tails. It's not a misspelling."
"No. T-A-I-L-S is the correct spelling."
"Cute."
"You said there was something I could help you with," Jerusha reminded him.
"Oh, yes. I was looking for the real estate ...."
Again, Emerson was distracted, not by a cat this time but by a book—specifically, the one on which Empress, the Oriental shorthair, was sitting.
"Is that what I think it is?" he asked rhetorically since the shopkeeper could not possibly know what he thought the book was.
"This?" Jerusha asked, gently moving the cat aside. "It's an early nineteenth century German translation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead by Dr. Karl Richard Lepsius."
Although he was certain he could never afford such a treasure, the history professor still tried to maintain a poker face when he asked the price.
"Twenty-five," the proprietor answered.
He wondered if she meant twenty-five hundred or twenty-five thousand.
"With tax, that would make it $26.57."
Emerson did not believe such a treasure could be had for such a low price.
It's probably a fake, he thought suspiciously.
"Mind if I take a look at it?"
"No, not at all," Jerusha replied and handed him the heavy volume.
Empress jumped down off the counter and rubbed up against the professor's legs as he examined the book. Normally, he did not mind cats—not that he really cared for animals much. Dogs, cats, parakeets: he could take them or leave them. But this anorexic-looking feline with the batwing ears and the slanted green eyes made him uneasy. He even found its purr disturbing.
Ignore the damned cat! he told himself. Concentrate on the book.
The yellowed pages looked old, and the volume had that "old book" smell. He knew enough German to get the gist of what the book contained. All appearances pointed to its being authentic.
And if it's not? Then I'm out twenty-six bucks. But if it is ....
He could easily sell it to a museum or a private collector. It would not cure all his financial ills, but it would help a great deal.
"I'll take it," he announced, reaching for his wallet and hoping he had not reached the limit on his Visa card.
As Professor Trescott headed toward the door with his purchase in a blue plastic bag, Empress let out a plaintive meow. He turned and saw the cat's green eyes, little more than narrow slits on its coal-black face, peering at him.
* * *
Despite being strapped for cash—a chronic condition since his divorce—Emerson drove from Boston to Washington, D.C., to consult with a former college classmate who worked at the Smithsonian. Marissa Acker, an expert in Egyptology, would no doubt be able to authenticate the book he purchased at The Canterbury Tails.
"It's fortunate you brought this to me now," she said, when they met in her office at the museum. "We're about to open a new exhibit entitled 'Eternal Life in Ancient Egypt,' so I've been going through a sort of refresher course on the funerary practices."
"I'm afraid the book is written in German," he said apologetically.
"Sprichst du Deutsch?"
"Not very well, I'm afraid."
"Lucky for you, I'm fluent in the language."
"I had a feeling you would be. You were quite the overachiever at Princeton."
"This is incredible!" the Egyptologist exclaimed after only a cursory examination. "I've seen excerpts of this book but never a complete volume. We don't even have one here at the museum. What I wouldn't give to own this book."
"How much do you think it's worth?" Emerson asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
"It's priceless! Are you actually willing to sell it?"
"Hell, yes! I'm living in a one-room studio apartment with roaches as roommates and existing on Ramen noodles."
"Sounds like college all over again," Marissa laughed.
"Ballpark estimate. What do you think the Smithsonian would be willing to pay for it?"
"I don't know, but I'm sure it would be enough to get you a better class of roommate."
Joni Hixon, the Egyptologist's assistant, an unpaid intern from William & Mary, brought two cups of coffee into the office while the former classmates continued to peruse the two-hundred-year-old book.
"Chapter 6 is interesting," Dr. Acker announced. "It deals with the creation of shabtis."
"What's a shabti?"
"Sorry. I forgot that you majored in American history."
The Egyptologist got up from her desk, went to her bookcase and took down a figure, made of blue glazed faience, roughly eight inches in height, that resembled King Tut's mummy.
"This is a shabti. It's an Egyptian funerary statuette that was placed in the tomb along with the other grave goods. A spell would be cast over the shabtis to bring them to life to do their master's bidding once the deceased entered the afterlife."
"And the spell is in the book? Actual instructions on how to make them?"
"No. The spell is supposed to activate them."
"Go ahead and read it aloud," Emerson suggested. "Let's see what happens."
Marissa read it first in German and then translated it into English. Neither historian was surprised when the words had no effect on the earthenware figure.
"It was worth a try," she laughed, closing the book. As she walked her guest to the door, she added, "Let me speak to the board of regents and see if they're willing to make you an offer."
"I'd appreciate that, but I have to warn you. I'm going to get in touch with the Museum of Natural History, the British Museum and the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities in Cairo, as well. The book will go to the highest bidder. Hell, I might even try Bill Gates and see if he's interested. He paid more than thirty million for da Vinci's notebook."
"Don't get your hopes up. Your book won't bring in as much as the Codex Leicester."
As he made his way to the exit, Emerson walked through the Egyptian exhibit, which was just days away from opening. He passed a statue of Bastet, showing the goddess in the form of a black cat. For a moment, he had the ridiculous idea that Empress, the Oriental shorthair from The Canterbury Tails, had followed him to Washington.
* * *
After leaving the Smithsonian late in the afternoon, Professor Trescott checked into a Motel 6 rather than drive the four hundred miles back to Boston. He knew from experience that traffic on I-95 on Friday evenings was horrendous.
Once I sell this book, I can afford to stay at the Four Seasons, he thought as he took a single cheeseburger out of the Burger King bag—no fries or soda; he would have to drink water from the bathroom tap.
Emerson was just finishing the last of his burger (he ate slowly, savoring every bite) when his TracPhone—the cheapest alternative to an iPhone—rang.
It's probably Marissa. She must have spoken to the board of regents right after I left.
"Hello," he answered. "How much are they ...?"
"You've got to get over here right away!" the Egyptologist screamed into the phone.
"Why? What's up?"
"The spell ... it worked. It brought the shabti to life."
"That's fantastic!" he exclaimed, thoroughly convinced that his book ought to bring in at least thirty million.
"No, it's not! That thing just killed my intern."
When Emerson arrived at the museum, Marissa was waiting at the entrance to escort him through the police line.
"What happened?" the professor asked.
"After you left, I went to see one of our regents to tell him about your book. When I got back to my office, I found Joni lying dead on the floor. I caught the shabti, who somehow grew to a height of six feet, in the act of putting her liver in a canopic jar." Seeing the look of confusion on Emerson's face, she explained, "During the ancient Egyptian mummification process, four of the body's organs were removed and stored in canopic jars for preservation: the stomach, intestines, lungs and liver. These canopic jars were then placed in the tomb with the deceased since it was believed he or she would need them in the afterlife."
"So, let me get this straight. This shabti we brought to life by reading a spell from the book killed your intern and plans on mummifying her remains?"
"Not exactly," Marissa replied. "You see, when shabti figures are cast, they are inscribed with the name of the deceased they are to serve. That particular statuette was made for and found with the mummy we have in our display, that of a little known Second Dynasty pharaoh by the name of Akhen-Ra. His canopic jars were stolen when his grave in the Valley of the Kings was broken into during the early nineteenth century. I believe, although I have no proof, that the shabti is in search of organs to replace the ones that are missing."
"You say it removed the girl's liver. What about the stomach, intestines and lungs?"
"He must not have gotten to them yet because the other three canopic jars were sitting empty on the floor."
"So, you interrupted the shabti before it could complete its task."
"Yes, when I entered my office and saw it looming over the body, I screamed. It immediately shrank back down to size."
Despite the college intern having lost her life, all Emerson could think about was the financial windfall that was about to come his way. Not only was the book authentic, but the spells it contained—at least the one that brought the shabti to life—actually worked. In addition to selling the book for a small fortune, he could sell his story to the media as well.
Forget about finding a home in the Boston area! I'll be able to quit teaching and enjoy my life. I might write a book or sell my story to Hollywood.
But first, he needed to get his hands on that shabti. It was worth every bit as much as the book, if not more. Marissa also wanted to retrieve the statuette from her office but for an entirely different reason.
"We've got to get it and destroy it," she announced.
"Destroy it? Are you insane? It's a priceless piece of antiquity," Emerson argued, appealing to her love for Egyptology.
"It's deadly. It killed an innocent young girl, and it is bound to kill again."
What to do with the shabti was a moot point at that moment. The police had sealed Dr. Acker's office, and no one was allowed inside.
"I'm baffled by this case," Detective Dalton Boyett admitted when he questioned the Egyptologist. "We examined the video from the security camera in the hallway outside your office. It shows you unlocking the door at eight in the morning. I assume there was no one in there at that time?"
"No. The room was empty."
"Throughout the morning, the only two people to enter and leave were you and the victim. Then at 3:15 in the afternoon, you had a male visitor."
"Yes, Professor Emerson Trescott. He was a classmate of mine at Princeton."
"And what did he want?"
"He purchased a very old book in Boston, one about ancient Egypt, and he wanted my opinion on its authenticity."
Thankfully, Dalton did not think the tome was relevant to his investigation and asked for no details about it.
"When Miss Hixon brought coffee to you and your visitor, did Professor Trescott show any undue interest in her."
"I doubt he even noticed she was there. He was only interested in my opinion on the book."
"Okay. Let's get back to the security video. The professor leaves your office"—the detective stopped momentarily to consult his notes—"at 4:15. Roughly seven minutes later, you take your handbag and coat and leave."
"That's right. I wanted to talk to the head of the board of regents of the museum about purchasing Professor Trescott's book."
Again, Dalton saw no connection between the book and the murder.
"At 6:05, Miss Hixon entered your office and never came back out. You returned at 6:40 and discovered her body."
"That's right."
"You saw no one in the room other than the victim. Correct?"
"Yes."
"You can see why this case perplexes me. The girl didn't commit suicide. Someone killed her. How did he—or she—get into and then out of your office? We checked every inch of that room. There was no way in or out except the door."
"The window?" Marissa suggested.
"Locked from the inside."
"I don't know what to say, Detective. I wasn't in the building when Joni was murdered. I just had the misfortune of finding her body."
"There is one more question I have. Was it customary for your intern to work such long hours? Shouldn't she have gone home by six?"
"Normally, yes, but the museum was to open a new exhibit in two days' time. There were a lot of last-minute details to see to, and Joni was dedicated to her job."
"That will be all for now, Dr. Acker. I'll get in touch with you if we need further assistance from you."
"I have a question for you, Detective. When will I be allowed to use my office? We have that exhibit that will open soon, and I need access to my files."
"Not yet, I'm afraid. We still have a crime scene team collecting evidence in there."
"Evidence? What kind of evidence?"
"Do you mean you've never watched an episode of CSI?" Dalton laughed. "They're looking for prints, blood spatter, hairs, fibers—all the usual forensic stuff."
Since none of the crime scene investigators was attacked, Marissa assumed the shabti was no longer dangerous. Perhaps the spell that had brought it to life was temporary. Still, the only sure way to prevent another murder was to destroy it. In order to do that, she had to retrieve the statuette.
* * *
The Egyptologist was temporarily working out of the office of a colleague at the museum who was out on maternity leave when she received word from Detective Boyett.
"You'll be happy to know we're done going over the crime scene," he told her.
"Does that mean I can move back into my office?"
"Yes, it does. But you might want to hire someone to go in and clean up the place. When there is that much blood involved, it's often wise to find a company specializing in biohazard cleanup."
"I'm sure the Smithsonian will take care of that. There are some things I need in there right now, though. Files and such."
"Feel free to go in and get them."
At last, the yellow crime scene tape was removed from her door. She took out her key, unlocked it and stepped over the threshold. The bloodstains on the carpet and the spatter on the wall were brutal reminders of the violent nature of Joni Hixon's death.
I can't think about that now, she thought, steeling herself for the ordeal that lay ahead of her. I need to find that shabti. I only hope the police haven't taken it.
After searching for more than twenty minutes, she found the small blue statuette in the corner of the room, behind a wing chair. It was as though it had been deliberately hiding from the police. When she reached out her hand to pick it up, she felt a mixture of relief and revulsion. She quickly tossed it into a Ziploc bag, sealed it and tucked it inside her purse. Now in possession of the shabti, she returned to her temporary office and phoned Emerson Trescott.
"I've got it," she announced when he answered.
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Destroy it. What else?"
"I don't think you should."
"It's dangerous."
"Look at how many deaths there were after Howard Carter opened Tut's tomb. Yet he didn't destroy the mummy."
"That wasn't the same thing. The so-called curse was superstitious nonsense. Any deaths attributed to it were accidents or illnesses whereas Joni was deliberately murdered by a shabti, one that will undoubtedly kill again if it should come back to life. I can't risk that."
Although he knew he would make a good deal of money selling the book, Emerson believed he would make a considerable amount more if he could bring the shabti to life in front of an audience of skeptical scientists and historians.
If I play my cards right, I could become one of the richest men in the world.
But, first, he had to prevent Marissa from destroying the shabti.
"Don't do anything until I get there," he said. "I'll leave now. I can be in Washington by late afternoon or early evening, depending on traffic."
"All right," she reluctantly conceded. "But come to my house, not my office. And be sure to bring the book with you. We might need it."
After giving her former classmate her home address, she ended the call and waited. For eight hours, she alternately paced the floor and sat in front of her window, anxiously watching for Emerson's arrival. It was nearly six when his twelve-year-old Subaru pulled into the driveway.
The history professor no sooner walked through her front door than she reached for the translated Book of the Dead.
"What are you doing?" he asked, reluctant to let his meal ticket out of his hands.
"I need to find a spell we can use to destroy the shabti," Marissa explained.
"I think I already found one," Emerson lied, still holding on to the book.
"But I thought you didn't read German."
"Not fluently, but I understand enough to get the gist of the subject matter."
He had inserted a slip of paper to mark the start of Chapter 6 and turned to it now.
"Here it is," he announced and then began reading the same spell Marissa had used to bring the shabti to life.
"Wait!" she cried. "That's the wrong one."
Her warning came too late. The Ziploc bag suddenly burst at the seam, and the shabti, who had grown to an incredible height of six feet, chose the frightened Egyptologist as his next victim.
"Help me!" Marissa screamed, as the blue effigy neared her. "You've got to kill it."
However, Emerson did nothing. He simply stood there, with the open book in his hands, and watched as his former Princeton classmate was strangled and then disemboweled. Not even the sight of her stomach and intestines being removed and placed into canopic jars changed his mind about the prudence of his proposed course of action. In fact, the only thing that did bother him was the sudden appearance of the dead woman's cat.
"Empress?" he said, a chill of fear gripping him.
What he first thought was a black Oriental shorthair was actually a gray-striped tomcat with normal-shaped ears.
What's the matter with me? he wondered. Why now, of all possible times, would I think about that damned cat from Canterbury?
"Scat!" he shouted, but the cat would not leave.
Emerson's attempts to scare off the animal did, however, interrupt the shabti in its gruesome task. It turned at the sound of Trescott's voice, and its eyes fixed on him. As the ancient slave to the dead rose to its feet, the bloody dagger grasped tightly in its hands, Emerson saw the canopic jars on the floor. The first contained Joni Hixon's liver, the second contained Marissa Acker's stomach, the third her intestines and the fourth ... was empty!
As the ancient Egyptian dagger pierced his chest, the American history professor from Boston realized his greed was to be his undoing. With no hope of destroying the six-foot-high, lifeless blue monster, he put up no fight. The last thing he saw before death robbed him of his vision was a long, skinny, black Oriental shorthair cat with bat-like ears, staring at him with its almond-shaped green eyes.
* * *
Jerusha Bromwell sat on a stool behind the front counter of The Canterbury Tails, posting the titles of newly acquired books into the shop's inventory. As she typed, her seven cats were nearby. Sorceress, Enchantress and Duchess were sound asleep. Princess and Baroness were at their bowls, eating, and Countess was playing with a toy mouse. Empress, the Oriental shorthair, was on the counter, sitting atop a large book.
When the shopkeeper moved the purring animal, she read the volume's title and smiled.
"I see Dr. Lepsius's book has come back."
In response, Empress batted her almond-shaped green eyes and uttered a self-satisfied meow. Then she jumped down from the counter and scampered off toward her food bowl.
When he was a kitten, Salem cast a spell to turn himself into an Oriental shorthair. When a strong wind came along and blew him off his cat condo, he quickly reversed the spell.
