His secretary-come-assistant struggled over the loose ground toward him. She was a large woman of 55 years. Despite the relative coolness of the morning, Beatrice Blakely’s clothes were damp with the effects of exertion. Over the final few meters of approach, the professor could hear her labored breathing and, lastly, a startled gasp coming with the recognition of the dead body before them.
“Oh my goodness!” She cried, shielding her face with her hands.
“Bea, I think he was murdered,” Raynard said solemnly.
The typically jolly woman began to cry and tremble uncontrollably. Having never laid eyes on the dead, Beatrice was unprepared to deal with seeing one of her own beloved colleagues’ lifeless bodies.
“Oh, heavens! Sweet Jehosaphat!” She cried, “I thought that was just another one of those coffins of yours, but it’s Peter! It’s PETER!”
“I didn’t recognize him at first, either,” Raynard said softly, as he knelt down to sweep the light covering of sand away from the corpse, “What’s Peter doing in Egypt? He’s supposed to be back home meeting with the curator this morning.”
Professor Peter Riley usually accompanied them on digs; his enthusiastic personality made what was normally laborious work exhilarating. After the discovery of what could possibly be the most significant find of the century, Peter had returned to London to meet with the curator of England’s most prestigious museum, The British Museum. Their collection of ancient Egyptian artifacts was second to none, and Sir Henry Goldsworthy had been eager to see the veritable treasure trove they’d recently unearthed. Now, Peter was dead, gravely overshadowing any triumph they’d shared for their discovery.
As Professor Raynard revealed the last of Peter’s rigid body, his eyes focused on a piece of fabric poking out of the ground a meter away. The small green fragment had been obscured by sand and well camouflaged by the surrounding vegetation. As he plucked it from the grainy soil, he noticed the dark, crimson stain smearing its frayed edges.
“Look at this, Bea,” He said, holding the torn fabric up to the rising light.
Beatrice looked horrified to see the bloodied material. Peter’s body, although lifeless, had no apparent wounds.
“Could it.. could it be his blood?” She asked with fresh tears welling.
“I don’t know, but the fabric certainly isn’t from Peter’s clothing. He’s wearing a blue shirt and white trousers!”
Raynard again knelt down at his friend’s cadaver and slowly rolled it on its side. That’s when he saw the cause of Peter’s demise. A gaping gash sliced across the back of his balding skull, revealing the cranial bone it had once clung to. At the head of the trench below, the sand was sodden with Peter's blood.
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