DEATH OF A CHIHUAHUA
Author's disclaimer : Characters and places portrayed in this story that appear in episodes of "Midsomer Murders" and/or in novels by Caroline Graham are the property of their respective copyright holders. I assert copyright of such characters, scenes and situations as are not already copyrighted. This story is written purely for enjoyment and not for profit.
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Chapter One
The Midsomer Art of Ancient Civilizations Society had never seen such a turn-out for one of their lectures. All forty-eight places in the little converted Baptist Hall in Causton had been taken. The Baptists had vacated it when their numbers dropped to under ten and the local Council had taken it over, renting it out for a few pounds a night to various worthy bodies that claimed to provide educational programmes for adults.
Joyce Barnaby had been one of the first to enrol. Her knowledge of ancient civilizations was hazy, but her appetite for expanding her mind was immense, if sporadic. Tom, who was happy to see his wife engaged in some new social activity, had happily endorsed her new venture, well aware that the hum-drum drudgeries of life in Causton's C.I.D. did not satisfy her enterprising spirit. She chose a desk at the front, while the less enthusiastic attendees, most of them middle-aged ladies, chose seats further away from the lecturer's rostrum.
There was a buzz of excitement as the eminent Professor Stankiewicz strode into the room. He was a silver-haired gentleman in his forties with a thin face and long nose whose claim to fame was the concise "Problems in the Interpretation of Babylonic Cuneiform", which had sold several hundred copies, mostly to university libraries, and which had earned him his professorship at Oxford.
Professor Stankiewicz sat down, smoothed his already smooth grey jacket and spotted tie, and took a sip of water from the glass provided on his desk, while some of the late arrivals now made an appearance, rather out of breath, including a woman of about thirty-five with red cheeks and dishevelled hair, carrying a plastic carrier bag, who chose the desk next to Joyce, as it was about the only desk left unoccupied.
"Only just managed to get here," she said breathlessly to Joyce as she swung the carrier bag onto the desk, where the contents made a loud clunk.
"Hello," said Joyce with her wide smile, "I'm Joyce."
"I'm Arleen," said the new arrival, trying to brush some of her hair behind her ears, where it did not stay, "What a lot of people!"
"It's very popular," agreed Joyce. "Do you live in Causton?"
"Oh, no, far too much traffic!" said Arleen. "Philip and I live in Midsomer Worthy. We like village life."
"So do I," said Joyce reflectively, "but Tom - "
Professor Stankiewicz stood up and said in a heavy Polish accent "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Midsomer Art of Ancient Civilizations Society, lecture number 24. This evening I am going to discuss the art and architecture of ancient Babylonia. There are slides provided" - and he looked hopefully towards Bill, the projectionist at the back - "and afterwards I will take questions."
"Thank heaven for the slides," said Arleen with a giggle.
The professor's lecture was interesting, if not entirely captivating. Joyce found it difficult to keep her eyes open, not least because she did not understand a lot of the words that the professor used. She opened her eyes wide when the first of the slides was shown, but after ten views of the Hanging Gardens from different angles she found that even the slide-show had a strangely mesmerising effect. Glancing at Arleen, she noticed that she appeared to be asleep and even to be snoring slightly. On the other side of her was a young man with long black hair who was drawing what looked like architectural plans on his notepad, embellished with various doodles.
Suddenly the monotone stopped abruptly and all the lights went on.
"Are there any questions?" asked the professor.
Everybody looked down and a few people coughed uneasily.
"Oh, I've got one!" said Arleen, who had woken up with a start. "Do you think this is worth anything?" and she drew out from the carrier bag on her desk a large metal pot with curious protruding wings around the sides.
"If you want me to value something," said the professor with distaste, "I suggest you talk to me afterwards."
"Oh, right-oh!" said Arleen and was cheerfully stuffing the object back into the carrier bag when Joyce asked "Where did you get that?"
"Philip got it at a jumble sale," said Arleen. "Two pounds it was. I reckon it would make a good vase."
"It's certainly very pretty," said Joyce.
"Philip thinks it might be worth something. That's why I'm here, really. The professor will know if it's complete rubbish."
A gentleman from the Midsomer Art of Ancient Civilizations Society stood up from the rear of the hall and made a short speech thanking Professor Stankiewicz profusely for his fascinating talk, at which the assembled art-lovers clapped loudly and started to disperse. Arleen and Joyce approached the eminent academic somewhat hesitantly and found that a group of five or six, including the doodler from the other side of Joyce, had also stayed behind out of idle interest in the possible value of the curious metal pot, which Arleen now placed in front of the lecturer.
"It weighs a ton!" said Arleen to Joyce.
"Good gracious me!" said Professor Stankiewicz. "May I take a look?" His tone had become decidedly more deferential. He picked up the pot delicately and turned it over. "If I am not mistaken" - and he peered at some hieroglyphics on the base - "yes, I am certain. This is a bronze mortar and it is Hittite."
"Hittite?" asked Arleen, non-plussed.
"From what is today Turkey. I would date it at about 1400 B.C. It is extremely rare."
"Goodness," said Joyce, "you're in luck, Arleen."
"Is it … worth anything?" asked Arleen, her breathlessness returning.
"I could not put a figure on it. But I think you should insure it for at least twenty thousand pounds."
There were some murmurs of surprise and appreciation from the on-lookers and Arleen looked as if she was going to faint.
"There's a good bit of zinc in that," said the young man who had been doodling.
"Really," said the professor, "it should be in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. They would be very interested in acquiring it from you, Mrs - ?"
"Arleen Reece," said Arleen. "Oh, thank you, Professor, and your talk was absolutely riveting!"