Free The Egyptian Curse by Dan Andriacco, Kieran McMullen Page A

gain his sympathy, it would come naturally to her to appear hurt that he’d been with another woman that day.
    â€œUnfortunately,” he added, “I don’t know who the woman is.”
    The next day, the day the Open began, found Hale at the British Museum when he was supposed to be back at the Royal Liverpool Golf Club for another feature story. Since Rollins and his men still hadn’t found her, he was convinced that “Prudence Beresford” had been a false name dreamed up by a bored wife in search of adventure and romance. And yet... her flirting - and there was some flirting - had been quite tentative, which didn’t seem to fit. But that mystery could wait. First he had to find her. He had just one hope. If it didn’t work out, he would be forced to place an advert in the newspaper agony columns.
    Unless she had been lying to him, Thursday was the day she often went to the world-famous museum, just two blocks from Sarah’s home on Bedford Place. Sherlock Holmes had also once lived near the British Museum, in rooms on Montague Street, in his early days as a consulting detective with few clients. Holmes! Hale should have called the old man days ago, retirement and those infernal bees of his be damned.
    Based on the collections of Sir Hans Sloan, the vast, temple-shaped Museum was like the attic of the Empire in terms of the depth and diversity of what was to be found there. But “Prudence” had mentioned the Rosetta Stone, that ancient Egyptian stele inscribed with the same message in hieroglyphs, Demotic, and ancient Greek. It had been on display at the Museum since 1802, just three years after its discovery by a soldier with Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt.
    Hale stood in front of it, wishing that it held the key to Alfie Barrington’s murder as it had held the key to Egyptian hieroglyphics. He went back to his wild idea that “Prudence” had been part of a plot to frame Sarah - and him. Who would do such a thing? Cui bono? The real killer, obviously, would benefit by throwing the suspicion on someone else, but why them? There had to be a reason to frame them in particular. If Sarah were convicted of Alfie’s murder, she couldn’t inherit his money. Where would it go then?
    It’s always startling, and at first almost unbelievable, to see in the flesh a person you’ve been thinking of. So that was Hale’s first reaction when he realized, after half an hour or so in front of the granite-like rock, that the woman standing a few feet to the right of him, with a few other gawkers in between them, was “Prudence Beresford.”
    Moving slowly, he stepped back from the Rosetta Stone and approached her from her left.
    â€œHello, Prudence,” he whispered in her ear, dripping sarcasm on the name.
    Curiously, she didn’t seem surprised.
    â€œI knew I shouldn’t have come today,” she said, resignation in her voice. “I was fairly sure I mentioned my Thursday habit to you, and of course you would remember that. You’re no Captain Hastings, Mr. Hale. You’re no fool.”
    He didn’t know who she was talking about, and he didn’t care. “That remains to be seen. Listen, I’m in a spot of trouble and I need your help.”
    â€œI know. I read about it in The Times . Scotland Yard is looking for me.” She started walking slowly away, with a nod to indicate that he should follow. Walking through the vast halls of the museum, they could avoid other people and make sure they weren’t overheard.
    â€œIf you know that, why didn’t you come forward?” Unless that was part of the plan.
    â€œI’m afraid that doing so would put me in an embarrassing position that I wish to avoid. That’s very selfish of me, no doubt, but there it is.”
    Hale felt his pulse rising. “My situation is a little more serious. A Scotland Yard inspector gives every indication of wanting to measure