The Watcher and the Mask (Pt 1)

by Steve Shaw

Based on the characters and situations created by David Renwick. 



Prologue - The Face of the Unknown King

The museum was silent and empty. Its dark rooms were filled with the toils of the dead, disparate objects that gathered in the gloom. While the hands that formed them had withered into skeletal remains and crumbled to dust in the soil of ancient Greece, these cold artefacts remained, a legacy left behind by the people of a distant civilisation. 
During the day the museum was always busy, full of visitors contemplatively orbiting the display cases. Perfectly preserved pottery originally crafted for functional usage now served a different purpose, decoratively educating the observer with their cultural and mythological images. Also displayed here were weapons, armour, tablets recording forgotten transactions, wine cups and jewellery, all created from clay, copper, tin or gold, now arranged behind glass and casually waiting for the next thousand years to pass. 
The last visitor of the day had departed over seven hours ago, and now the normally welcoming building had changed in character. Robbed of light, the colours and details which had been preserved for centuries became silhouettes, sending tormented shadows over the walls of the labyrinthine museum. For most, this would be a place to avoid, with enough dark rooms, corners and recesses, inexplicable clicks and bumps to raise the hairs on even the bravest neck. To be locked in here alone could quickly become the stuff of nightmares. 
But on this night any such accidental prisoner would not have be alone.
Walking diffidently down the main 'L' shaped display corridor, past shadowy amphoras and hydrias, the hypothetical captive would gradually become aware of a yellow light radiating from a side door. Approaching the double-door, and looking tentatively into the room within, they would see a single, glass display case at its exact centre. This was the source of the yellow light, its brightness quite brilliant in the otherwise darkened building. 
The illuminated case contained the focal point of the entire museum, the golden burial mask of a Mycenean King, one of only a handful of such masks discovered a hundred years previously. The most famous of these was the Mask of Agamemnon, uncovered at Mycenae by the archaeologist, Heinrick Schliemann. Unlike its more famous cousin, however, this mask was not attributed to any specific noble, and was known only as The Face of the Unknown King. Yet its magnificence was renowned and it was admired world-wide by anyone with a knowledge of ancient history.
The time, talent and quality of metal devoted to the creation of the burial mask was testimony itself to the importance of the wearer. Deep yellow gold depicted the detailed features of the corpse it had once adorned, which even now seemed powerful and regal. This effect was enhanced by the illumination in the display case which had been carefully angled to ensure light poured from the mask, highlighting every feature. Yet as with other examples of this type, time had crushed the buried artefact beneath shifting rock, transforming it into a large, plate shaped disk bearing a fearsome, metallic parody of the human face it had once emulated, although this somehow strengthened the final image, bringing a distorted graciousness to the mask which transcended the centuries it had spent underground. 
Usually any visitor could not fail to be impressed by the Face of the Unknown King, especially now as it shone through the black. But on this particular night not even the mask would have held the interest of our imaginary, nocturnal tourist as they peered into the glowing room. 
Instead, their attention would have be captured by the person standing motionless in front of the display case, staring at the mask with trance-like intensity.


One

Rain streamed down Simon Neltson's office window as he gazed out over the grey town. Outside pedestrians scuttled damply about their business, sprayed first by the clouds and then by the second hand water thrown up by buses and cars. The miserable tableau reflected Neltson's mood perfectly. The next few days were going to be unpleasant. They would see the culmination of a bitter dispute which had tormented his family for over a century, a dispute that he now knew he had lost.
Neltson was in his mid forties and many of those who met him were surprised by his close resemblance to the actor Liam Neeson. He was tall, handsome and charming and his lengthy brown hair flopped around his face giving him a youthful, academic appearance. Usually this was accompanied by an intelligent enthusiasm, which radiated from his deep eyes and infected those to whom he spoke. But today that enthusiasm was tempered, as it had been for the past few weeks, and anxiety lines furrowed his brow.
"Mr Neltson," his PA buzzed over the intercom from the adjoining office, "Ms Morris has arrived."
"Thank you Robert, could you please show her in."
He turned to accept his guest, smoothing his tie, straightening his shirt and smiling to dispel the creases in his forehead. Robert gave his habitual double knock before the entering the office with the visitor, who was an attractive and professional looking young woman.
"Samantha Morris, this is Simon Neltson." Robert introduced the pair as they shook hands, then asked if they wanted coffee or tea before briskly leaving the room. 
"Very efficient," observed Samantha Morris.
"My wife and I think so," Simon replied, "certainly he makes life easier around here. Incidentally, my wife sends her apologies for missing our meeting today. Unfortunately she has to be elsewhere." This was not entirely true. His wife and business partner, Rebecca, had completely forgotten about the appointment and had gone to see their computer supplier in Leeds. Neltson often wondered how someone with such a brilliant mind could also be so chaotically forgetful. It frequently drove him to distraction. "But she has seen your portfolio," he continued, "and like me, was most impressed with your work."
"Thank you," Samantha smiled, "I'm pleased to be involved."
Samantha Morris was a photographer. Her work ranged from corporate publicity to family portraits, and select examples of these had been included in the portfolio she had recently sent the Neltsons. The professionalism demonstrated by her work and its presentation had set her above the other photographers they had contacted, and this competence extended to her appearance now. With her layered, shoulder-length hair and dark, stylish trouser suit she would have not looked out of place in a court or a board room.
Neltson walked with his guest to a group of informal, comfortable chairs at the opposite end of the large office and invited her to take a seat. They made the standard observations about the weather before another double knock signified the arrival of the coffee. After it had been deposited on the coffee table and Robert had once more left the room, Neltson spoke again.
"I'm not sure how much you've been told about the assignment," he began, "so I'll give you some background detail." He stood and walked over to one of the office walls which was adorned with a number of photographs. Samantha leaned forward in her seat to listen.
"This was taken in Greece, in 1876." Neltson indicated to a large black and white picture. It showed a group of men standing on and around an enormous stone gateway, dominated by a carved stone relief of two huge lions facing each other, their front paws raised on a plinth. Neltson pointed to one of the men who, like his companions, wore a bowler hat and an improbably bushy moustache. "My great, great grandfather, Charles Neltson. He was an archaeologist. Part of his career was spent in the company of Heinrick Schliemann, the man who discovered Troy. This photograph shows them outside the Lion Gate at Mycenae. Many of the artefacts you can see in our museum today were found at this site. One of them is the item we would like you to photograph."
Neltson moved to another black and white picture. This time the bowler hat was missing and the moustache had been pruned, but his great, great grandfather was once again clearly visible. Now he was standing next to an immaculately dressed woman in front of a large, country house. In his hands he held the Face of the Unknown King.
"Here Charles has just returned from Greece. His companion is his wife, and they are standing outside Ravenscroft, the family home," Simon explained to Samantha. "I still live there today," he added. "The mask Charles is holding is extremely unusual. Examples of its type were only ever found at Mycenae, and it's one of the most important example of ceremonial burial art in the world today. It currently has pride of place in our collection. We've been privileged to hold it here for so long.
"Unfortunately it is also the focus of a great deal of controversy. I won't bore you with the details Ms. Morris, but this is the reason the mask is being returned to Greece at the end of the week."
Now Samantha perceived a change in Neltson's tone. The obvious passion which had initially accompanied his tale now became underscored with sadness and anger.
"I have been backed into a corner and have left little choice but to return it to Greece," he said. "I consider it ironic that this mask remained crushed in the soil for tens of centuries while no-one gave it two thoughts. Yet ever since my relative painstakingly uncovered it again, there's been nothing but wanton interest in its ownership."
 He suddenly became aware of himself.
"I am sorry Ms. Morris," he smiled, "I can get quite...involved sometimes." He laughed and the atmosphere in the room immediately lifted.
"So you'd like me to photograph the mask, yes?" Samantha asked.
"Indeed. Indeed. What I would actually like is something similar to this," he replied looking at the photograph of his great, great grandparents. "I feel it would book-end our families connection with the mask perfectly." 
Samantha nodded in agreement.
"I have arranged to take the mask back to Ravenscroft in two days time. Hopefully the weather will have improved by then," he said glancing out at the rain. "The forecast says it will be patchy for the next twenty four hours, but it should be fine for the day I have in mind. If you could join my wife and I first thing in the morning we will have a good few hours with the sun at the front of the house."
"Natural lighting," agreed Samantha. "Good."
"In the meantime," Neltson continued, "the museum is relatively quiet at the moment. You could perhaps start with a few shots of the mask here."
"Certainly, Mr Neltson..."
"Simon. Please."
"Certainly Simon," she smiled, "the equipment's in my car."

Fortunately the building's multi-level car park was underground and could be accessed from inside the museum complex, so Samantha's expensive camera equipment did not get soaked by the persistent rain as they fetched it from her car. Neltson then accompanied her around the stairs and winding corridors of the museum, passing guests and guides as they made their way to the room containing the Face of the Unknown King. As they walked he explained how the museum was divided into different sections, each exploring a different aspect of life in Ancient Greece.
 For someone with little interest in the subject area, Samantha was impressed by the collection. Considerable thought had gone into both the appearance and content of the museum. Pottery adorned with satyrs and athletes sat alongside computers, which as Neltson explained, were installed with the most sophisticated interactive databases. 
"After looking at the artefacts, our visitors can use the software to discover how they were created and what they were used for." Neltson was clearly proud. "One recent investment we're very proud of here at The Helladic Experience is a virtual reality unit. It really is quite amazing. Put on a headset and you can stroll around Athens or Cnossus as they were three thousand years ago. It truly is a wonder of modern technology." 
Samantha nodded. "Not like the museums I remember being dragged around as a kid."
They both laughed. 
"So, I guess lot of work's gone into this?" she asked.
"Indeed. Although I have to say it is mainly Rebecca's doing. I merely supplied the antiquities. She was a marketing consultant before we married." 
Neltson thought again of his wife. When they had first met the museum he had recently inherited had been on the point of financial ruin. Although Neltson had continued to build his collection he had neglected both management and marketing, and even the pull of the golden mask was not strong enough to sustain the limping business. But on her arrival Rebecca, and a small army of consultants, had transformed the place from a dwindling, whimsical collection of relics into an essential point of reference for academics, collectors and archaeologists the world over. The injection of technology several years later had also helped tweak the interest of the casual visitor which had continued to surge over the next decade.
"In here, yes?" Samantha broke his train of thought. They had entered the main display corridor on the second floor. The mask was housed alone in the darkened side room she was now approaching. Apart from dramatically emphasising its splendour, isolation meant the artefact was also was easier to secure at night.
His footsteps tapped on the tiled floor as he followed her, keen to glimpse her reaction as she saw the mask for the first time. He was not disappointed. She stopped as she reached the double-doorway to the artificial shrine and saw the burial mask glow from within. Her head nodded with approval.
"Very impressive," she said after a pause.

Samantha spent several hours photographing the mask that day. Different exposures, different lenses, different angles, different lighting. Robert kept her supplied with coffee as she clicked and flashed around the exhibit, and when she had finished Neltson returned with a cheque and thanks and they arranged the second assignment. They agreed to meet at eight o'clock in the morning, the day after tomorrow at Ravenscroft, and she would bring the results of today's shoot for the Simon and his wife to inspect. 
After Samantha had left the museum, Neltson went back to his office to watch the rain.

It was later that afternoon and outside the weather showed little sign of drying. Protected from the elements by the warm air-conditioned building, Robert sifted through a pile of paperwork at his desk. Since the photographer departed there had been no unexpected visitors for his employer, who had remained in his office all afternoon. This had given the younger man a few hours to shift some uninteresting but necessary administration.
A glance at the clock told Robert that the museum's security manger, John Webb, would soon be here to see Neltson. With customary efficiency he felt that a reminder would be appropriate, and rose from his desk to cross the room. But as Robert went to give his signature double knock on Neltson's closed office door, his raised knuckle was stopped by the sound of a voice inside. Realising his employer must be on the telephone, he decided to wait until the call was over rather than interrupt mid-conversation. He was about to sit down again, but something in the tone of the voice filtering through the door caused him to linger a little longer. For such a usually composed person, Simon Neltson sounded extremely agitated. 
Robert was no eavesdropper - this was a pursuit he found most disrespectful - but he nevertheless found himself leaning towards the door. As Neltson was not actually shouting and the solid wooden door was doing a good job of absorbing most of the conversation, Robert could not initially hear word for word whatever drama was unfolding in the office. However, as his ear moved inexorably closer to the door, he caught one fragment of the exchange. 
"...I'll make sure it vanishes without a trace...."
It suddenly dawned on Robert that he was listening in on his employer's private conversation and he was hit by a wave of self disgust. He straightened and returned to his desk, making a concerted effort not to hear anymore of the exchange, as if this would somehow negate his earlier prying. When John Webb arrived five minutes later carrying a large, grey metal case, Robert was tensely typing a letter at his desk and was so resolutely not-listening-in that at first he did not notice the man walk into the room. 
"Alright Rob? Is he in then?" asked Webb, causing the PA to jump slightly.
"Good afternoon Mr Webb," he replied after composing himself, "he's in, but I think he's finishing a call. Do you mind hanging on?"
"OK. Great. No problem." Webb eased himself into one of the chairs ranked by Neltson's office door for waiting visitors to use. He rested the case on the floor beside him. "He'll like this," he said, nodding towards it, "I've just picked it up. One of the most sophisticated security cases you can get, this is. Uses the latest GPS technology."
"GPS," Robert tried to sound interested, "that stands for 'Global Positioning System', no?"
"That's the one. You see, if it gets nicked, you can pin-point it's exact location and track where it goes. All done with satellites. Good stuff." Webb patted the case like a favourite pet. "Good." he said again, his accent betraying a hint of his east London origins.
Webb was in his early fifties with the heavy build of a man who no longer exercised as frequently as he used to. His once solid frame was now softening and the beginnings of a stomach pushed gently against his shirt and hung roundly over his trouser belt. Webb had the duel habit of pushing his glasses back on his nose, even though they were in no danger of falling off, and smoothing his balding head, traits that for some reason irritated Robert. In contrast with his hair free skull, however, the rest of the security manger was generously hirsute. His arms sprouted from under rolled up shirt sleeves, and a greying beard unkemptly disguised his gradually multiplying chins.
Generally, Robert thought, he was a likeable man but unintentionally annoying. He had been with the museum longer than the PA, having retired early from the Metropolitan Police Force. The Neltsons' had hired Webb for his impeccable credentials and he had since provided Simon and Rebecca with some excellent advice on how to protect the artefacts housed at the museum. 
"Well," said Webb after a short wait, "do you think he's finished yet? I can't sit here on my laurels all day, I want to get away early. Go-on, give him a shout."
Robert felt satisfied that enough time had lapsed for the telephone call to have been completed, so he announced Neltson's second visitor of the afternoon over the intercom. The words had barely left his lips when the office door opened and Simon appeared. For a man who had apparently just been arguing he seemed remarkably relaxed, and welcomed Webb with an enthusiastic handshake.
"Good to see you John. Please come in. It looks like your trip was a success." Neltson had seen the case. "Bring us some coffee would you please Robert?" he asked before the two men disappeared into the office. 
Robert saved the document he had been working on and switched on his answerphone. The snippet of conversation he had erroneously overheard soon slipped his mind as he made the latest in a long line of trips that day to the coffee machine.
 
"Come in. Take a seat," said Neltson. He rubbed his eyes with the thumb and finger of one hand before pulling a chair from under the desk for his guest. 
"You look as if you could use some sleep there," said Webb, observing the other man's apparent fatigue.
"Well, with everything that's been happening I haven't been able to relax much over the last two months," said Simon. He did not mention that he had been prescribed strong medication to help him sleep, or that he had purposefully avoided taking all but a few of the tablets. "But never mind. Let's look at this case, shall we?" he smiled.
Webb cleared a space for the case on Simon's desk before setting the sizeable container down next to the papers and post-stick notes.
The reason Simon needed this security device was straightforward. In order to take the Face of the Unknown King back to his house for the nostalgic photo shoot, his insurers had made him jump through hoops, imposing some extremely rigorous conditions regarding the mask's transportation and overnight storage. At first Simon had thought this would not be a problem as Ravenscroft boasted a large wall safe, was installed with an extremely effective burglar alarm and even had a closed circuit television camera covering the front of the house. But the insurance company had still insisted he hire a security case with GPS capabilities to protect the artefact, even stipulating that the mask could only be removed for the photo shoot itself. Neltson was happy to comply with this, even at great personal expense. Returning the artefact to Ravenscroft one last time was an incontrovertible priority. 
His security manager had been an invaluable help, locating a company that hired such cases and confirming with the insurers that this would meet their requirements. Now Webb was explaining how the case worked and Neltson listened attentively.
 "It can only be opened with this," he said, and held up something that looked like a credit card. "Chapel Technologies only issue one card per case. If you lose this bugger we'll have to pay five hundred quid for them to open the sod for us."
"Don't worry John. It won't leave my sight." Neltson assured him.
Webb fed the card into a slot next to the handle of the otherwise featureless case. There was a soft whirring noise, a light adjacent to the card-slit changed from red to green and the lid clicked open.
Neltson nodded as he examined the case's interior. It was certainly big enough for the mask, padded and plain apart from a small control panel set in the right hand side. "What does this do?" he asked Webb.
"Disconnects the security system," came the answer, "generally with this model they're active all the time - so you're safe as houses. Anyone breaks in it sets off an alarm, although they'd have a job. You could drive a tank over this and it still wouldn't crack. But if it's stolen, all you've got to do is contact Chapel and they'll track it down for you. Good stuff."
"And the power supply?"
"It's fitted with a extended life, low output battery. Lasts for weeks, apparently." Webb closed the case again. Green returned to red and the card was smoothly ejected. He passed it to Neltson with a chuckle. "Remember Simon, sleep with it down your boxer shorts. That way you can be sure to have your hands on it all night."
It was fair to say that Neltson did not share his security manager's sense of humour, but he mustered a polite smile anyway. "Like I say. It won't leave my sight." He replied, thinking momentarily of the telephone conversation he had finished just prior to Webb's arrival. Then Robert arrived with the drinks and the conversation turned to other matters.
Outside the weather was starting to clear.

*

The windmill at Briar Hollow was a picture of rural tranquillity. Amidst the trees and fields the wooden mill looked as functional as the day it was built, and few would have realised that its grain grinding days were a thing of the past. Thomas Hardy would have relocated it in Wessex and written dark tragedies around it. Constable would have picked it out in browns and greens, adding a melancholic miller to lean wistfully against the balcony. Vaughan Williams would have scored it as a gentle breeze motif in a subtle, contrapuntal tone poem. But none of these great artistes would have truly captured the simple beauty of the windmill as it stood alone in the English countryside, private and enigmatic in the late September sun.
"Bollocks."
Inside the mill Jonathan Creek sucked his finger. On the desk in front of him stood a cardboard replica of a theatre stage, complete with lights and curtains. He had just accidentally lanced himself pinning back the drapes, drawing both blood and blue language.
Apart from the occasional telephone call, Jonathan had not contacted another person for four whole days. He had even managed to avoid the boy who nonchalantly delivered the paper every afternoon. Yet this self imposed isolation had passed without him realising. He had been too absorbed in designing a new range of illusions for his employer, the renowned American magician Adam Klaus, to notice the time.
Ripley Mill was quiet and out of the way providing the ideal setting for Jonathan to develop new ideas, the most recent of which he was now testing in the scaled down theatre. Once his finger had stopped dripping, he finished pinning back the curtains to reveal a glass, rectangular fish tank in the centre of the stage. It was currently uninhabited, although Jonathan envisaged a couple of docile sharks in the full sized version. 
Creek lowered his head so he could appreciate the spectacle from the audience's point of view, and picked up a small toy doll from the desk next to the stage. It was female, and therefore represented one of Adam's many Lovely Assistants. Next he put the Lovely Assistant into a black draw string bag and dropped her into the tank with a splash. Cue dramatic music, thought Jonathan as she sank slowly to the bottom. After a few minutes he fished the bag out of the tank and opened it to remove the small, wet doll. 
Only now it was male.
"Adam climbs out of the bag. Assistant is brought back on from the side of the stage. Applause, bows and curtain. Then Adam sleeps with the assistant." Jonathan said to himself.
He sat back in his chair and tapped his teeth with the end of a pencil. The trick was not bad, but it needed some refinement. The mirrors in the tank, for example, would perhaps have to be re-positioned if they were going to use live fish in the water. 
Above him the mill's sails groaned quietly in the autumnal wind and outside birds tunefully lamented the passing of summer. These were the only sounds distracting Jonathan, until the shrill trill of his mobile phone broke his concentration. After a quick rummage amongst the wet dolls and cardboard he located the shrieking phone and put it to his ear.
"Jonathan Creek," he said.
"What the hell do you think you're playing at, Jonathan?" Adam thundered from the ear-piece, causing Creek to wrench the telephone a good twelve inches away from his head. "Don't I keep you busy enough or is it just that you think I'm a complete idiot? No doubt you're proud of your recent crime solving escapades, Jonathan, and probably think you're some sort of amateur Sherlock Holmes, but need I remind you that you are employed exclusively as my creative consultant, a position to which I would be grateful if you would occasionally devote a nominal amount of your god-damn time!"
There was an astonished silence from Jonathan while Adam drew breath.
"Moonlighting, Jonathan," Adam continued with temple-throbbing intensity, "is not an activity of which I approve. Especially when it's done so damn blatantly. It appears that not only are you content with abusing my bank balance, but you're happy to insult my intelligence as well!"
"Have you spent too long on the sun-bed again?" Jonathan finally asked.
"Jocose remarks won't get you out of this one, Jonathan. Frankly you've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do, so I suggest you drop the wisecracks and ..."
"Adam!" Jonathan interrupted the vitriolic tirade, "I haven't got the faintest idea what you're ranting about."
"The evening paper," said Adam after an angry pause, "page fifty seven!" And the call was over.
Jonathan stared incredulously at his mobile for a full five seconds before replacing it on the desk in front of him. He looked at the fish tank again and imagined the satisfaction of lowering Adam into a tank of excited piranhas. His employer was not renowned for his equanimity when angered, but this really was something new. Quite what it was on page fifty seven of the evening paper that had sparked this latest outburst was beyond even Jonathan's abilities to fathom, and so he went downstairs to the kitchen where the recently delivered periodical was lying on the doormat. 
As he picked it up and flicked to the relevant page, everything fell abruptly into place.
"Oh, you're not serious," he said.

"I mean, what in God's name were you thinking?" Now it was Jonathan's temples that were throbbing as he foamed down the phone. "Didn't it even cross your mind that perhaps, just maybe, I wouldn't agree to it? Ever? In a million years?"
"Oh come on Jonathan, you know how quiet it's been recently. I haven't had a single story in almost nine months. I've got a new book to start and bugger all to write about."
Madeline Magellan wandered around her cluttered living room, telephone tucked under her chin, looking at page fifty seven of the newspaper she held in her hand. Of course it had occurred to her that Jonathan would never agree to it. Ever. In a million years. Which is exactly why she had "forgotten" to ask him. 
After all the advert was quite difficult to miss. 
'Up the creek without a paddle?' It announced loudly. 'Are you the victim of an unexplained crime? Are the police unable to assist?' Maddy had liked the quiet sarcasm in that bit. 'Then help is at hand. Contact Creek and Magellan, investigators with a proven track record. Discrete and professional! No stone unturned! No problem too baffling. Call now.'
Maddy smiled as she chucked the newspaper onto a nearby chair. She had anticipated Jonathan's reaction and had her response expertly prepared. "OK, so I'm sorry I forgot to ask you," she lied.
"Forgot to ask me! How could you forget to ask me? My name's plastered all over the bloody thing! And since when have you ever been 'discrete'? That's got to breach trade descriptions for a start! Get them to cancel the advert. Now!"
"No way, I paid for a fortnight."
"A fortnight!" Jonathan's voice went critical. "Tell me you're joking." 
"Look Jonathan, why don't you just calm down and think about this for a minute. People won't know it's you. I didn't use your first name!" 
"Adam seemed to figure it out swiftly enough. Now he thinks I'm Judas's less loyal brother!"
"It's OK, it's alright, I'll talk to Adam," said Maddy soothingly, "I'll tell him you knew nothing about it, and that if anyone does contact me..."
"If anyone even considers responding to anything as badly worded as this, they really are in trouble. 'Up the creek without a paddle.' Makes you sound like you're on the hunt for distressed canoeists." 
But despite the sharp remarks Jonathan's voice had lost its edge and Maddy could feel him starting to calm down. 
"Look," he went on after a pause, "I'm sorry things have been quiet for you but I'm actually quite busy. Curiously enough, I don't spend my days waiting for the next corpse to turn up in yet another hermetically sealed room!"
"That's fine," Maddy purred down the phone. "Look, Jonathan, all I wanted to do was let people know that we...sorry, that I...am interested in helping to solve any unusual problems that might have affected them. I only used your name to give the whole thing a more...you know, professional quality." Repentance and flattery, she thought, the winning formula.
"Mmm. Well just so long as you know if anyone is desperate enough to contact you that..."
"...that you're busy and haven't got time? That's really not a problem, Jonathan, after all I was an investigative crime writer long before I met you so I probably won't need your help anyway." Before he had a chance to respond she added. "Anyway, let's forget about all that. How are you? I haven't seen you in ages! Why don't we meet up for dinner one evening next week. This great little place has just opened down the road from me. Tell you what, I'll treat you to apologise for landing you in it with Adam."
Jonathan thought about it for a minute. He was still annoyed about her presumptuous use of his name in the advert, but at the same time this was just another example of the audacious, mischievous side to her character which he really quite admired. It was also true that they had not seen each other for a few weeks and that he could do with a break from trying to invent new and ingenious ways of making Adam look like the Second Coming.
"Jonathan?"
"OK. Look, I'm sorry I got annoyed just then. I guess Adam wound me up. You know what he's like when his brain gets warm. Hopefully I'll have finished the designs for his new show by next week. I've still got quite a few routines to sort out," he looked at the fish tank again, "but that should keep him happy. 
"About the other," he added sheepishly, "yes, I'd love to go for a meal. That would be really great. Thanks."
Maddy smiled to herself again as they agreed a date. If Jonathan had realised quite how well anticipated their conversation had been he would have added 'devious' to her list of qualities. As she had expected he had gone from angry to apologetic in less than five minutes. Plus the advert was still set to run for another two weeks, during which time she would talk him into helping her with any interesting responses.
And best of all she had persuaded him leave his tinkering and come out for a meal.
"Game, set and match," she said after he had hung up. 

*

"It's impossible! I just can't see how it happened!" 
Simon Neltson looked at the wet paperwork on the desk in front of him. Water was flowing over the article he had been drafting for the museum's monthly journal and words written just moments before were slowly dissolving into inky streams. It was only when cold liquid started to drip over the edge of the desk and onto his trousers that he reacted, quickly pushing his chair away from the small waterfall. 
"It's just impossible," his wife repeated.
Despite having sat down opposite him just seconds before, Rebecca Neltson had somehow managed to knock a full glass of drinking water all over his desk. 
She had returned from her business trip on the early train this morning and had then spent several hours with their accountant, finalising the terms she had agreed with the computer supplier in Leeds. After a visit to the local shopping centre at lunchtime she had finally found an hour to discuss the forthcoming photo shoot with her husband. Simon had initially been looking forward to this, but now he was more concerned about his lost work. The article, entitled 'The Role of the Chorus in Greek Tragedy - A New Perspective', had taken several hours to write and now his efforts were illegible. 
He cursed himself for not using the computer.
Rebecca was making a vain attempt to soak up the water with an already sodden tissue. "I can't see how that happened. I just went to pick it up and..." she paused, noticing the wet essay's rapidly dissolving text. "Can you still read that?" she asked.
"It wouldn't seem so," Neltson replied sarcastically, "today of all days this just had to happen."
"Be fair Simon! It was an accident," protested Rebecca.
"Yesterday you missed the photographer's visit, today you ruin a morning's work..." 
"We've had this discussion for God's sake. I had to go to Leeds to finalise the new equipment for the museum..."
Simon leapt from his chair. "We both arranged to meet Morris, not just me. Things are bad enough without your ineptitude to contend with," he snapped. But he already realised his overreaction. Rebecca's impromptu visit yesterday had probably done more for the museum in one day than he had done in months, and her absence had certainly not harmed the meeting with Samantha Morris. Suddenly embarrassed by his childish tantrum he sat down again and put his face in his hands.
"I'm sorry, Rebecca. I shouldn't have...This whole thing is...Oh, I don't know." He looked up at her. "Of course you were right to go to Leeds. I just can't think straight at the moment. Look, after this week everything will be fine."
"The sooner that thing goes back to Greece the better," she replied firmly, "then perhaps we can all get back to normal." Rebecca resumed her efforts to mop up the water and her husband joined in, taking a box of tissues from his office draw. Simon had always been obsessed with the golden mask, more so than any other object at the museum or in his private collection at home. The reason for this fixation, she suspected, was the incessant debate surrounding its ownership. Neltson was a principled man and the suggestion that the mask could have been obtained less than honourably filled him with anger, and eventually the constant allegations about his family's integrity had taken its toll on his patience.
One man in particular was responsible for fuelling this controversy.
Professor Justus Vurt had a great, great grandfather who was also at Mycenae in the 1870s. Like Charles Neltson he had also been an archaeologist. While the expedition to Greece had seemed successful for all concerned, when the two men returned to England problems started to surface. Justus Vurt's predecessor suddenly claimed that he owned the area of the dig where Charles Neltson had unearthed the Face of the Unknown King, and that it was therefore his family who truly owned the treasure. Charles steadfastly denied this accusation and so a rancorous argument developed which quickly got out of hand. The ensuing battle had lasted decades occasionally spilling into the law courts, and had been inherited by Simon Neltson along with the museum. 
It was only now that the wrangling was coming to an end. Five weeks previously an exasperated Neltson had decided to send the mask back to Greece, arranging to return it to the National Archaeological Museum in Athens as a gift. Greece had always expressed an interest in the mask's return, to the point of making several enquiries about it, and Simon had used this to his advantage, checkmating Vurt whom he knew could never expect to wrestle the mask back from its country of origin. 
Justus Vurt, however, was about to start a new court action which he was convinced would result in him winning legal ownership of the mask.  He had therefore been enraged by Neltson's decision and had been threatening all manner of retribution for the past month. He had made numerous vociferous phone calls to the couple accompanied by several abusive letters and on two occasions had even turned up at the Neltson's home.
Throughout all this Neltson had stood by his decision, although the threats coupled with the imminent departure of the mask itself had resulted in marked change in the man's temperament. Rebecca had observed both mood swings and increasingly erratic behaviour from her husband, culminating in his insistence on taking the artefact back to Ravenscroft, an act she found completely unfathomable.
The desk was now dry, and Rebecca watched Simon as he threw the remains of the saturated article into the bin where it landed wetly. He seemed to have quickly shaken his anger and regained his self-control. "Look," he said, "honestly, I'm sorry. The article can easily be rewritten. It was extremely incompetent anyway. Tell me. How did you get on in town?" 
"Quite well I suppose," said Rebecca, "I eventually found a birthday present for Mother, then went to the car wash and posted those letters on the way back here."
"What did you get her?" 
"Oh nothing special. You know how difficult she is to buy for these days. It must be her age. I found her a crystal cut-glass vase...a Waterford...oh, and some vouchers so she can choose a dress or something."
Simon winced. "We, ah...we got her a Waterford vase for Christmas."
"Damn it," she sighed, "my memory's like a sieve at the moment!. Maybe this whole thing has got to me as well." This had been her last opportunity to buy something before her mother's birthday at the weekend.  
"You can always take it back and exchange it tomorrow." Neltson suggested.
"OK," she nodded, "I'll go back to the shop after the photographer's finished. Just remind me to take the receipt home." 
As the afternoon passed the atmosphere between them became more comfortable. Rebecca listened as Simon explained the arrangements he had made with Samantha Morris, recounted his meeting with John Webb and outlined the plan to hand the Face of the Unknown King back to a delegate from the museum in Athens. 
With his mood improving Neltson felt himself starting to agree with his wife's earlier sentiment. It would be good to get back to normal. Or rather, he said to himself, it would be good to be able to pretend everything was normal. The events of the past few months had left him in a lingering state of depressed frustration. It was only now, thanks to the arrangements he had recently made, that things would hopefully start to change for the better.
Of course, those arrangements were not perfect. It had been necessary for him to instigate them without anyone else knowing. Robert and Webb, even Rebecca were all completely unaware.
The arrangements were certainly not perfect. 
But then in an perfect world, he thought, the mask would not be returning to Greece.










Two

The time had come for the Face of the Unknown King to return to Ravenscroft. 
The museum had once again closed for the evening and visitors, staff and cleaners had all departed after another busy day. In response to news of the mask being returned to Greece, the last few weeks had seen admissions treble as people flocked to see the golden artefact one last time. On days like today the sheer volume of aficionados meant that the museum took longer to empty and staff were later leaving. 
Earlier that afternoon, not long after the accident with the water, Neltson had asked Webb to join Rebecca and himself in the office for an informal briefing. 
"This whole process is best done by the book," he had said, "I'm not going to give the insurance company anything to complain about. John will stay and help with things here this evening as we agreed," he told Rebecca before turning to Webb. "If you can deal with the burglar alarm and lock up after we've left, John, I would be very grateful."
Simon had insisted all along that they should be the last to leave the museum as he wanted to minimise disruption to visitors and other members of staff. It was also true that he wanted as few people as possible to see him take the mask. Part of him still felt as if he had lost a long battle, and he wanted to keep the moment as private as possible.
Resourceful Robert had been the last to go home that evening, wishing them well as he went. After the PA had left the office Simon picked up the grey security case and Rebecca collected her handbag and a pile of paperwork to read at home. They turned off the office lights and locked the door after them before setting off down the corridor to meet Webb in the museum.
"I find this place really unsettling when it's empty," said Rebecca as the couple walked through the deserted building.
"Actually, I always feel safe around ancient things," replied Simon, "they've been on this earth, unchanged for millennia. They've seen more than we ever shall in our transient lives. Don't you find that reassuring?"
They entered the main display corridor and approached the mask-room. 
Something in Neltson dreaded entering that room this evening. He knew that the usual fanfare of golden light would no longer announce the mask as he walked through the double-door. He also realised that the full effect of its splendour could never again be felt in his museum.
These maudlin thoughts were interrupted by Webb, who had heard their footsteps approaching. "Nearly finished in here," he called, " just a few more minutes. This display case is a bugger to dismantle, where did we get it again? Bloody DIY shop?" 
Neltson walked hesitantly up to the door. Within the room the glass display case lay in pieces on the floor alongside the now redundant light fittings. For years they had set the face on fire for countless visitors, now their burning had been extinguished. Looking at the artefact itself still standing on its plinth, Simon's pessimism momentarily transformed it into nothing more than a bent piece of metal. He shook the image out of his eyes. Of course it was just as impressive as it had always been. 
It would be worth the trouble.
"Let's get this over with shall we?" he said, setting the GPS case down on the tiled floor.
After arranging the glass in a neat pile to be dealt with at a later date, the three turned their attention to the mask. Rebecca and Webb watched as Neltson produced the security card from his wallet and fed it into the case. Obediently the light changed hue and the lid clicked open. Next he fished a pair of cotton gloves from his coat pocket, slipping them onto his hands. "To protect the metal from the oils in my skin," he explained. 
Carefully he lifted the mask from the plinth, pausing for a minute to savour the moment. Then he placed the Face of the Unknown King into the well padded security case.
"Right," he said, closing the case and returning the card to his wallet, "shall we go?"
The three walked back through the empty rooms and corridors, making polite conversation as they headed for the foyer and the lift that would take them down into the car park. As they did so Webb periodically stopped to shut doors, check locks and turn off lights. 
For the museum owner in his melodramatic state of mind, it felt as if this mundane routine symbolised the building dying behind him as he left with the heart of the collection in his hands.
They reached the lift and waited a short while for it to arrive before descending to level three where Rebecca had parked the vehicle after her lunchtime trip to town. Sliding smoothly apart the lift doors opened directly into the parking bay, revealing it to be completely empty apart from the couple's blue 600 series Rover. After a quick rummage in her bag Rebecca produced the car keys, pressing the remote to disable the alarm before opening the boot. While her husband gently set the security case down in the trunk, she noticed the white plastic bags on the back seat of the car and started rummaging through the paperwork she had brought with her from the office upstairs.
"Damn," she said, not for the first time that day, "I can't find the receipt."
"Receipt?" asked Webb.
"I bought something from town today that I've got to exchange," she explained, indicating to the bags on the back seat. "Have you got it Simon?"
"No," said Neltson, "surely it was amongst that paper work you picked up."
"Well it's not, is it! I must've left it in the office or something." 
Webb seemed to sense the approaching argument. Digging a packet of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket he judiciously interrupted the querulous couple.
"Tell you what," he said, "you go and look for it. I'll stay by the car and have a fag. I've been dying for one for ages. You will insist on no smoking in the museum!" He chuckled before extracting both cigarette and lighter from the nearly empty packet. 
"Right then," Simon shut the boot and Rebecca switched the alarm back on before passing him the keys. "We'll try not to be too long!" he finished, glancing at Rebecca angrily.
"You look for it then," snapped his wife thrusting the paperwork at him as they disappeared into the lift leaving Webb to blissfully fill his lungs with nicotine. Less than a minute later the lift doors opened again and Neltson emerged brandishing the offending receipt.
"God, that was quick!" said Webb looking at his barely smoked cigarette.
"It was on the floor in the foyer," said Neltson tersely wafting the slip of paper and looking pointedly at his wife.
"It must have slipped out of my paperwork when we were waiting for the lift," retorted Rebecca.
Webb exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Married life! I'm glad I'm not sharing the car with you pair this evening!" He laughed again, leaning back on the car and drawing on his cigarette. 
Hell suddenly broke loose. 
The car burst into life, slicing the air with an ear-splitting, oscillating shriek. Rebecca dropped her papers to cover her ears. Webb flew into the air wearing the expression of a man who had unexpectedly sat on something very sharp. "What the..?" he spluttered, spitting his cigarette a good six feet across the car park.
Neltson silenced the deafening car alarm with a deft flick of the remote. Nerve shredding but rapidly fading echoes discordantly bounced around the empty car park. Now it was his turn to chuckle.
"They're nothing if not sensitive these days" he smiled, "are you alright John?"
 "Bloody hell! And I thought these were bad for your health!" said the security manager retrieving his fallen cigarette, and they all laughed.
After helping Rebecca gather her papers and checking they still had the receipt for the vase, Simon shook Webb by the hand. "Thanks again for your help John. Don't stay too late." He said.
"Not likely. Soon as I'm done I'm on that bus home for a stiff drink. My heart's still breaking records here!" They exchanged a final laugh before Neltson climbed into the car and turned the key in the ignition. With a wave Webb headed back to the lift and the dark museum above.
"At least that helped make a difficult evening more interesting!" said Rebecca as they drove up the spiral ramp towards the exit. 
Simon looked at her and smiled. 
"Let's get this mask home," he said.

Without daytime traffic to congest the roads, the thirty mile drive passed quickly and a red glow in the clear night sky was soon the only reminder of the urban sprawl they had just left behind. Dual carriageway soon gave way to narrow lanes which wound darkly through the countryside proffering a variety of startled animals at irregular intervals. Fortunately Neltson was a careful driver and they all survived their moment in the headlights as the couple drove home to Ravenscroft. 
Conventional chatter accompanied by reassuringly ordered concertos drifting from the radio helped pass the journey, and when the conversation dried at one point to make way for Bach, Rebecca yawned lethargically.
"You must be tired," said Simon.
"It's been a long day," she replied. "Mind you, when was the last time you got a good seven hours? You'll look ten years older on those photos if you don't sleep well tonight."
Just half an hour after leaving the museum the car approached Ravenscroft which was located a mile away from the small village of Upper Heyforth.
Neltson turned into the gravel drive which wound up through woods to the front of the building. The house loomed blockishly through the dark as they approached. It was a solitary building, large but not grandiose and set in its own land complete with a river running past the back of the house. An estate agent would no doubt describe the six bedroom house as 'an elegant early Georgian property standing in a charming secluded situation.' The front of the building was bisected by a deep brick porch sheltering the front door. This was symmetrically framed by five, high rectangular windows, one either side and three above the entrance.  Ravenscroft had been owned by the Neltson family from the time it was constructed, and apart from some recent internal modernisation had hardly changed in all that time. 
"I must check to see if the camera's working," said Simon, parking the car on the large expanse of gravel at the front of the house. "I'll put this in the garage tomorrow when it's light," he added silencing the engine and lifting the handbrake.
Rebecca collected her paperwork and the notorious vase from the back seat. Simon opened the boot and reverentially removed the security case. After locking the car they headed for the front door and Rebecca shivered in the porch as her husband dug around in his pockets for the house keys.
"God, it's certainly autumn!" she said.
Once inside Neltson flicked on the lights while Rebecca dashed up the stairs to disable the burglar alarm. This was a recent addition to the house which rather than triggering a bell or siren - pretty useless in such an isolated location - sent a message via the telephone line to an external security company who in turn alerted the local police. After her earlier mishaps that day the last thing Rebecca wanted was a carload of eager police officers screeching up the drive. 
By the time she had keyed in the code and come downstairs again, Simon had already put the case into the large wall safe in his study. 
The study was in some ways an extension of the museum. Alongside a desk, the safe and shelves of dusty books, the large windowless room was filled with select remnants of Ancient Greece. Simon sometimes rotated objects between his public and private collection, although there were several artefacts that never left the museum. The Face of the Unknown King had been one such item as until now insurance requirements had restricted the mask's travel arrangements. 
"You'll be pleased to hear the camera's working," Neltson said as he jumbled the combination lock on the safe door.
Rebecca looked at the shelf unit at the side of his desk which housed a monitor and video recorder. These were linked to the camera mounted discretely outside which covered the drive and the front of the house. Anyone approaching tripped a sensor which activated the video recorder capturing their activities on tape. The device was even fitted with a night-filter so that nocturnal guests would not go unseen. Currently a small light was flashing on the machine and the tape was rolling, indicating the system had been triggered by their arrival minutes earlier.
Simon rewound the tape and pressed 'play'. On the monitor the crystal clear image, complete with a small readout displaying the time of day, showed the Rover driving up to the house before the couple got out and passed out of sight into the covered porch. 
"Perfect," he said resetting the machine and ushering her out of the room.
Security was only slightly less of an obsession for Simon than Greece, thought Rebecca. She sometimes wondered if as a school boy he had kept a guard dog in his sandwich box. But with the mask in the safe, the camera working and the door to the study now locked he started to relax again, and after making them both a drink, they spent the next half hour catching up with the late news on television. 
"I think I could sleep for a decade," Rebecca said finally, signalling it was time for bed.
After checking the front door was locked they headed upstairs. Their en-suite room was the only part of the house not fitted with an alarm sensor. This meant that before they went to bed, they could set the alarm and leave it on until morning without worrying about triggering a surprise visit from the police.
It was nearly midnight by the time Rebecca finally climbed under the sheets of their double bed. As she started to drift in and out of sleep she watched as her husband emerged from the bathroom with a tumbler of water and a small glass bottle. He set these on the bedside cabinet before checking his wallet to ensure the swipe card was safely inside. Convinced it was, he shut the wallet in a draw in the bedside unit. 
He then unscrewed the lid from the bottle and shook a sleeping tablet onto his open palm. For a long moment he looked at it resentfully.
"I hate taking these things," he finally said, and knocked it back with a swig of water.
With the light finally out Neltson felt chemical tiredness talking hold, but without the tablet he knew he would have spent the night like so many other nights this last month, awake and fretting about the mask. 
"At least it's finally home," he said to himself. 
And this was his final thought of the day.

*

Early morning. A full moon hung low in the dark sky. Sinuous white mist clung to hollows and seeped from the trees surrounding the house, incandescent with white light leeched from the moon. At the top of the drive the black bulk of Ravenscroft sat like a tomb in its own necropolis, its pallid brickwork as cold in appearance as it was to the touch. 
Four dull chimes sounded through the night from the direction of Upper Heyforth. The church bell promoted a solitary bark from a far-off dog before near-hush resumed. Ambient noise was once more gently emphasised by the still of the night. The steady burbling from the nearby river. The occasional call of a young tawny owl, exploring life as an adult in the nearby wood. The rustling and snapping of foliage by small, unseen creatures. All familiar sounds around Ravenscroft as nature went about its business in the dark. 
Suddenly the nocturnal fauna froze, sensitive ears pricked in alarm. 
Something was walking through the woods. 
It seemed to drift between the sycamores and oaks without a sound, passing like an apparition through a dense bank of mist before emerging from the trees and onto the drive. Then it started towards the house, accompanied only by the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. 
Nearing the building it stopped for a second. 
Then it approached the front door.

*

Dawn chorus piped from the trees, trumpeting the start of a new day for all those willing to listen as sun streamed from the clear blue sky. The arrival of daylight had transformed Ravenscroft, warming the stone and chasing away baleful shadows to reveal the house at its best. 
Inside, Simon Neltson was unlocking the door to his study. 
He had woken with a splitting headache just over an hour ago. At first he had blamed this on the sleeping tablet, but when moments later Rebecca groaned into life also suffering with a headache, he decided their joint condition must be stress related.
A cup of tea and two pain killers later he was feeling much more alive. Rebecca had just climbed out of the shower and was choosing clothes for the morning's photo shoot with the mask. Samantha Morris was due in just under an hour and so he was going to spend a few quiet minutes trying to re-write 'The Role of the Chorus in Greek Tragedy - A New Perspective'. Fortunately he had been mentally developing the article for sometime, so despite loosing the first draft to Rebecca's glass of water, the essence of the hypothesis was still firmly rooted in his mind.
He sat down behind his desk with a pad and pen. Barely a sentence had been written, however, when Rebecca walked into the room. She was wearing a long-line charcoal skirt with a matching jacket that perfectly complemented her tall frame and short dark hair. Holding her palms upwards she performed a graceful pirouette in front of the desk, completing the routine with a bow.
"Well," she asked, "will this do?"
"I think it looks extremely appropriate," Simon nodded, "it'll really..."
He broke off mid-sentence. Out of the corner of his eye he had just noticed something puzzling.  The light was once again methodically blinking on the video recorder. "Didn't I reset that last night?" he asked his wife.
"Yes, I stood here and watched you do it." Rebecca walked around the desk to look at the machine. "Has the post been delivered yet?" she asked. "He could have set it going again."
Simon shook his head without replying. He stopped, then rewound the tape, glancing at his wife from under a furrowed brow before pressing the play button on the machine.
The monitor lit up. The digital readout in the corner of the screen reported the time as three minutes past four. Although it should have been dark outside at this time, the night filter rendered the image as clear as day. 
And it showed someone walking up the drive towards the house. 
Whoever it was moved with an assured lack of urgency. Dressed in black from head to foot their features were hidden by a balaclava mask, their hands covered by gloves. Nearing the house the figure paused to remove a small torch from a pocket. They switched it on before disappearing out of sight into the porch. 
"Who the hell is that?" said Neltson, struggling to take in what he was seeing. 
Rebecca had disappeared from the office and he heard her vigorously rattling the front door. "Thank God. It's still locked," she called from the hall 
Nothing happened on the tape for a long time. Whatever the intruder was doing in the porch was out of the watchful gaze of the camera. Leaning forward Neltson scrutinised the monitor with darting eyes, running one hand repeatedly though his hair. 
Seconds passed slowly.
Rebecca returned to stand behind her husband. "Wind it forward," she urged. 
A shaking finger stabbed the control. Time accelerated, minutes speeded and the counter reached four twenty five.
Finally there was movement on the tape.
Simon halted the fast forward with another jab at the machine. Rebecca leaned over the back of his chair peering fixedly at the screen as normal time resumed.
What they saw next was beyond belief.
The black clad figure had emerged from the porch. 
The clarity and brightness of the picture left no doubt as to what was held in their hands.
Simon leaped from his chair and scrambled across the room to the wall safe, rummaging in his pocket for his wallet which he then threw at Rebecca.
"Find the card. Quickly!"
He twisted the combination lock back and forth and wrenched the safe door open. The case was still sitting on the shelf. The red light next to the handle was still glowing. 
Snatching it from the safe he crashed it down on the desk sending papers flying.
Wide eyed, Rebecca passed the security card to her ashen faced husband. He took it from her and fed it into the case. 
Mechanisms whirred. The light changed from red to green. The lock clicked. 
For a long moment he could not move.
"Open it!" Rebecca's voice was verging on the hysterical
His head swimming Simon lifted the lid, and confirmed the madness of what they had already seen on the video tape.
The case was empty.

On the monitor screen the figure walked away, carrying the Face of the Unknown King.


*

"I'm sorry love, you can't come in here."
Samantha Morris looked up at the police officer through the open window of her red sports coupe. 
"I've actually got an appointment with Mr and Mrs Neltson. They do live here, yes?" she asked.
The constable fished out a pocket book and casually flicked though it. Locating the relevant page he read something to himself then looked down at the young woman. Then he flipped the book shut and returned it to his pocket in a well rehearsed manoeuvre.
"Samantha Morris?" he asked.
"Yes."
"If you could please make your way up the drive to the house. Detective Inspector Flint is waiting for you."
Samantha had gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure she reached Ravenscroft on time. She had set her alarm nearly two hours early in anticipation of the long drive to the country house and had arrived at her destination with ten minutes to spare. Knowing the importance of the assignment to her clients she had not wished to hinder proceedings by being late. The presence of the police officer, and the fact he had flagged her down as she pulled into the drive, had been a surprise. But discovering that a senior detective had been waiting for her to arrive now turned that surprise into concern. 
"Really, and why is that exactly?" she asked.
"You are here to photograph a mask, Ms Morris?" the police officer asked.
"Yes."
Glancing around the man crouched down so his face was level with Samantha's. His manner instantly changed from authoritarian to conspiratorial.
"Well, if you ask me, love," he said, "it's all a bit strange. This mask thing's been stolen. Seems there was a break in last night."
"You're serious?" asked Samantha. "Did anyone get hurt?"
"That's the really weird thing," came the reply, "apparently the thief managed to get in and out of the house without a trace. Didn't even set the burglar alarm going." He glanced around again then straightened up. "I'll radio DI Flint, let her know you're here," he said.

Rebecca Neltson had called the police the instant her husband had opened the case and found the mask gone. Simon however had been virtually incapable of thought let alone action, and for some time sat glassy eyed behind the desk staring numbly at the empty container. Then turning to the video recorder he rewound the tape and re-played the departure of the mysterious intruder, only to repeat the process and watch the whole thing again as if he could not really register what he was seeing.  
"That's just impossible," he muttered as the figure disappeared into the night for the third time.
A distressed Rebecca had fetched them both a glass of nerve soothing whisky. "Just the thought of someone in our house, without us even knowing," she shuddered. "And why did neither of us hear anything? I know our room's at the back of the house, but even so..." 
Sirens and blue lights heralded the arrival of the police moments later. A tall woman with blonde hair tied in an officious looking bun, wearing a long brown coat and a no-nonsense expression had been the first to emerge from one of the squad cars and introduce herself. Detective Inspector Caroline Flint had then listened as the couple reiterated the mornings events and watched as Simon, who was now coming out of his dazed state of shock, re-played the burglary on tape.
"Well, whoever our friend is certainly did their homework," observed the DI. "The balaclava suggests they knew about the camera, and they obviously knew where the mask would be and how to acquire it."
Sending one of her deputies to find the Neltson's kitchen and make some coffee, Flint had then accompanied the couple into the more informal of two sitting rooms, leaving scenes of crime officers to start their methodical business of dusting for unfamiliar prints in the hall and study. 
"Could either of you tell me the approximate value of this mask?" she asked after removing her cape like coat and sitting down opposite them.
Rebecca had been ready for this question and handed the DI some papers.
"Insurance details," she explained, "the most recent evaluation is on the front."
Flint looked coolly at the amount on the page, suppressing the desire to utter an expletive.
"Money's not the issue here." Neltson's usually expressive voice was flat.
"Right," Flint looked up at him, "so you would say the issue is...what, sir?"
"The mask was supposed to be handed over to Greece tomorrow. It was a gift...and although contacts have been signed, there was no profit involved." Rebecca explained on her husbands behalf. 
"They were going to want it back at some point anyway, you've only got to look at the controversy over the Elgin Marbles to know that." Simon added. "Giving it back now...well it was supposed to solve a lot of problems." 
The DI nodded and flicked quickly through the insurance papers. "How many people knew you were bringing the mask here?" she asked the couple.
"I didn't make a secret of it," replied Simon with a shrug. "Most people knew. But we went to extreme lengths to ensure that it was protected using the best security equip..." he suddenly broke as the incredulity of the situation overtook him. "I mean, what is going on?" he exploded. "This is just not happening! How the hell did he get into our house? How the hell did he get into my safe? I'm going to sue the manufacturers of that bloody case. And what happened to the burglar alarm for Christ's sake?" 
Rebecca placed a consolatory hand on his shoulder. A single tear ran down her cheek.
"Mr Neltson," DI Flint said calmly, "I realise this is an...unusual situation, but rest assured I will be investigating every possible angle. Now, I will have our people examine the case and the burglar alarm to ascertain whether they are functioning properly. In the meantime it is very important that I get as clear a picture as possible of what has happened here." She paused to let the sedimentary tension in the room settle. "Right," she continued, "you said just now, 'how the hell did he get into our house'. Do you suspect who might be responsible for this burglary?"
Simon sighed and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "I suggest you contact Professor Justus Vurt," he said wearily. "For the last month he's been making idle threats about getting his hands on the mask. I've even got letters to prove it. I would be very surprised, Detective Inspector, if he couldn't help you with your enquiries."

It was at this point that Flint's radio crackled and announced the arrival of Samantha Morris. Neltson had already explained that they were expecting her, and that she would have some professional photographs of the mask which might be useful to the police. 
One of the other officers appeared at the door a few minutes later with Samantha, who looked confused and concerned. She barley recognised the person who rose from the sofa to greet her as she walked into the living room. The attractive, enthusiastic version of Simon Neltson she had met two days previously had gone and a hollow, tired looking man now stood in his place.
"Ms Morris," he said, "I can't apologise enough for this. Please come in. This is Detective Inspector Flint and of course you haven't met my wife, Rebecca." The elegantly dressed woman on the sofa tried to muster a smile, although her eyes betrayed the fact she had recently been crying.
The DI also rose from her seat. "Yes, do come in Ms Morris. I won't keep you long. You'll have been told what's happened here?" Samantha nodded and looked uneasily at the Neltsons. "And I've been told you have some pictures. Of the mask."
The photographer's confusion disappeared and her face relaxed into a smile of relief. "Sorry," she said, "for a minute I thought you might think I had something to do with...so stupid of me. You just want the photographs from the other day, yes?"
"So I have a better idea of what I'm looking for," nodded the police woman.
From her attaché case Samantha produced a file of photographs and fanned them out on the coffee table. The mask stared two dimensionally up at them in a dozen different styles, black and white adding dignity, colour adding splendour. "These are just a few examples," she explained picking out a portrait of the dead man. With quiet pride she admired the way negative exposure had infused the face with an unnatural, ethereal life which glowered from the paper. "If there's anything else I can do to help..." she added obligingly.
Flint took the younger woman's details in case they needed to speak again. That would be all for now, she told her, and so after expressing her sympathy to Simon and Rebecca, Samantha returned to her car. 
Driving away from the house she glanced at her rear view mirror. 
Ravenscroft stood there defiantly, surrounded by police cars, swarming with blue uniforms.
Something very strange happened there, she decided with a shudder. The sooner she was back in her studio the better.

The next few hours blurred in a stream of telephone calls, questions and revelation.
After Samantha had departed, Neltson telephoned John Webb who was stunned by the news and offered to get a taxi over to the house. Simon was grateful for the support, but suggested it would be more productive for the security manager to contact Chapel Technologies, the firm who had supplied the case. "I want some answers from them," he said.
Flint had then resumed her discussion with the couple, only to be called out of the room by a scenes of crime officer. 
"Sorry to interrupt ma'am," he said, "but something's turned up. Whoever that is on the tape is bloody good. There's not a print in the house, no sign of any locks being forced and the case seems to be working fine, although I'll have to get that confirmed. I've also checked with the company who monitor the house. Apparently their computer shows the burglar alarm was switched on at just before midnight and switched off at about half six, so everything's in order there. The motion detectors are all working perfectly as well." He pointed to a couple of small white boxes mounted high on the wall, which blinked a yellow light with every gesture they made. "How anyone moved around in here without setting it off... but I think I've just found proof that somehow they did."
"What is it then?" asked Flint impatiently.
The verbose SOCO led her over to the study and squatting pointed to an area on the door frame next to the lock. Squinting, the Detective Inspector leaned forward to examine the frame. Caught on tiny splinter of wood protruding slightly from the surface were a number of tiny black fibres. "Now, we'll have to run the usual checks," he said, "but I'm willing to bet those are from our friend's gloves. Probably snagged there while he was working on the lock."
 "Wasn't as meticulous as we thought then," Flint smiled coldly, "although let's make sure they're not from anyone in the house before we jump to any conclusions."
She repeated this to the Neltsons moments later. 
"Check every item of clothing we own if you have to," replied Rebecca, "anything that helps has got to be worth it."
Finally managing to pick up where she had left off, Flint now resumed her dissection of the previous evening's events, running through a checklist of questions she had prepared in her mind. "Remind me, Mr Neltson, once you were in the house you put the case in the safe and Mrs Neltson went upstairs to switch off the burglar alarm before it activated."
"Correct."
"Why that way around in particular?"
"Sorry?"
"Let me rephrase that. Was there any particular reason why you, personally, had to put the case in the safe instead of dealing with the alarm?" Flint took a mouthful of her rapidly cooling coffee.
It was Rebecca who answered. "Yes. I don't know the combination to the safe," she said.
"The combination is known only by yourself, Mr Neltson?"
He nodded. "Yes. Yes it is. But it didn't stop that bastard from getting into it, did it?"
Flint nodded and continued her checklist. The couple had not seen anyone suspicious lurking around the house, neither had they received any strange post or telephone calls - other than from this man Vurt. When Neltson produced the correspondence in question she had to agree the letters were incriminating. Yet this alone was not enough to convict Vurt in her own mind, something Neltson seemed to be trying to persuade her to do at every opportunity. 
She was just about to raise this issue with him when her mobile phone rang.
 "DI Flint," she answered. And then, after a short while, "OK, thanks."
Wearing an enlightened expression she put the phone down on the coffee table and looked directly at Neltson. That was a very timely phone call, she thought. "Some news you'll be interested to hear, no doubt," she said. "That was my colleague, Detective Sergeant Livingston. He's been to pay Justus Vurt a visit."
Simon looked at his wife confidently before turning back to Flint.
"Please appreciate that I do not reach definitive conclusions based on one call," continued the DI. "However, Professor Vurt appears not to be at home. Of course that might be coincidence. But what's even more interesting is the fact he's not been seen for a couple of days. Vanished without a trace. Just like your mask, Mr Neltson."
Neltson nodded. "Detective Inspector," he said evenly, "I can guarantee that when you find that man you will find my mask."
"You seem extremely certain of that," said Flint.
"I am," he replied simply. "So I suggest you start looking."

*

Light from the television screen flickered on the walls of the dark room. The dancing blue glow reflected in the eyes of the person who sat alone, watching as an even-toned news reporter informed viewers of the day's events. Most passed without interest, but when the image behind the reporter was replaced by a golden metallic face, the watcher leaned forward in the chair and reaching for the remote control increased the volume.
"Next this evening, a story worthy of the X-Files. Police investigating a burglary at the home of museum owner Simon Neltson, were tonight at a loss to explain how the incident took place."
Cut to video footage.
"The burglar, caught here on a security camera, broke into the Neltson's house early this morning and stole a unique, three thousand year old Athenian mask. Foiling a house alarm, the burglar passed through two locked doors before removing the mask from a sealed wall safe."
Cut back to reporter.
"Despite a small amount of forensic evidence found inside the house, the identity of the thief seems as mysterious as their almost supernatural abilities. Speaking earlier, a police spokeswoman said that while no explanation was immediately forthcoming, the incident would be clarified in due course. The mask was to be returned to Greece at the end of the week. Mr Neltson is said to be distraught by its disappearance."
The report over, the volume was decreased again and the watcher leaned back smiling.
On the table next to the television lay the Face of the Unknown King.