“Rubbish! rubbish! rubbish! My mummy wasn't stolen by a woman. What the devil would a woman want with my mummy?”
“Be more respectful, Professor.”
“Then talk sense, doctor,” and the two glared at one another.
After a moment or two the situation was adjusted in silence, and the Coroner asked a few questions, pertinent to the matter in hand.
“Had the deceased any enemies?”
“No, sir, he hadn't, not being famous enough, or rich enough, or clever enough to excite the hatred of mankind. He was simply an intelligent young man, who worked excellently when supervised by me. His mother is a washerwoman in this village, and the lad brought washing to my house. Noting that he was intelligent and was anxious to rise above his station, I engaged him as my assistant and trained him to do my work.”
“Archaeological work?”
“Yes. I don't wash, whatever Bolton's mother may, do. Don't ask silly questions.”
“Be more respectful,” said the Coroner again, and grew red. “Have you any idea as to the name of anyone who desired to obtain possession of this mummy?”
“I daresay dozens of scientists in my line of business would have liked to get the corpse of Inca Caxas. Such as—” and he reeled out a list of celebrated men.
“Nonsense,” growled the Coroner. “Famous men like those you mention would not murder even for the sake of obtaining this mummy.”