I shook his hand and explained. “My friend Simon Ark is working on a book of legends and superstitions. The vicar told us about the Gravesend trumpet."

  "That's certainly a misnomer. It could more accurately be called the Luxor trumpet, because that's where Naomi's great-grand-father found it."

  "And this was in nineteen twenty-one, a year before the opening of King Tut's tomb?"

  George Swift nodded. “Some of the same people worked on both excavations. The area around Luxor was rich in treasures."

  "Here comes Ruth,” Naomi said as the dark-haired woman came up the walk. “She wants to come along on the house tour."

  The five of us entered the place with Swift leading the way. The weather had made it gloomier than on our previous visit, and he quickly snapped on the lights as we climbed the wide staircase to the second floor. “This is my floor,” Ruth Russell explained. “I give a little talk for every room. This is the master bedroom at the top of the stairs. Interestingly enough, Joshua Hamstitch's widow never slept here after his death. She used one of the smaller rooms."

  "As if she feared his ghost might come?” Simon asked.

  "Who knows?"

  I felt some historical perspective was called for. “It's not such a bizarre practice. After George Washington's death, his widow Martha moved to a smaller bedroom. I believe there were other presidential widows who did likewise."

  We moved on to the next room, an upstairs parlor filled with Victorian memorabilia. Naomi drew a sharp breath as we entered the room, and went at once to a broken window that looked out on the rear of the house. The rain was coming down harder now, soaking the curtains and the carpet below them. I could see a rock about the size of a golf ball on the carpet. “The neighborhood children know the house is empty. This isn't the first time they've used our upstairs windows for target practice."

  George Swift quickly found a piece of cardboard to keep out the rain until the pane could be replaced. “That's why we barred all the downstairs windows, to keep them out. We have an alarm system for the downstairs, too, of course. Some of the items in the museum are quite valuable."

  Naomi carefully picked up the rock and the pieces of broken glass. Simon and I helped her carry them to a wastebasket in the adjoining bathroom. Then she soaped and washed her bare hands in the sink and dried them on a towel. “Ugh! Sometimes I think George is right about selling this place. The upkeep can be a nuisance."

  Ruth showed us the rest of the upstairs rooms, including the bedroom used by Mrs. Hamstitch following her husband's death. “Musty,” Simon commented to me as we left it. “This whole house has the odor of death and decay about it."

  "I suppose that's not surprising, since Hamstitch filled it with relics from Egyptian tombs."

  We ended at the museum room again. It was unchanged from the previous day except that the lack of sun cast a dimness over it that even the overhead lights could not fully dispel. Naomi grinned at her husband. “Is this the day you're going to blow the trumpet, George?” She'd lifted the protective plastic lid.

  "And drop dead of old age? After you, my dear.” This was obviously a familiar topic between the two of them.

  "Well, let's close it up,” Ruth Russell urged after we'd looked over everything for the second time.

  We strolled back into the foyer and Naomi was pulling the doors shut when she suddenly remembered, “I didn't put the lid back over the trumpet.” She hurried inside, leaving the doors ajar.

  George Swift glanced after her with something like concern. It was a moment later, when we heard the first high notes of the trumpet sound through the house, that his expression turned to panic. “Naomi!” he shouted. “Don't—"

  By the time the four of us were through the door, the trumpet was silent. It lay on the floor next to her fallen body. It was Simon who reached her first and turned her over. But even before I had a glimpse of her face I realized that her hair had turned gray. “She's dead,” Simon Ark said.

  Ruth Russell screamed. “That's not Naomi! It can't be Naomi!"

  For the body on the floor before us, wearing Naomi Swift's blue dress and silver belt and wedding ring, was that of an elderly woman.

  * * * *

  Ruth was hysterical by this time, and we took her to a nearby room to calm her while Swift phoned for the police and an ambulance. But it was much too late to do anything for Naomi, except determine the cause of her death. The police, in the person of PC Higgins, had serious doubts about the story we told. He was a young man, no more than thirty, and he ceased writing in his notebook almost at once. “Sir, you are the husband of the deceased?"

  "I am,” George Swift said, his voice grim.

  "And you claim that Mrs. Swift entered this room alone, blew on this trumpet, and died?"

  "That's what happened. The four of us were standing in the foyer, just outside the door. There is no other way into or out of the room, and not even a closet in there. All the exhibits from Hamstitch's archaeological digs are displayed on open shelves."

  "Well, the lady's fingerprints should determine her identity."

  "I'm not certain my wife's fingerprints are on record anywhere. We may be able to tell something from her teeth, though. Naomi had all her teeth out while still in her twenties."

  The constable knelt by the body on the floor, feeling gently between her lips. “I believe these are false, too, but I'll leave that for the pathologist. There are no obvious wounds on the body. Unless the autopsy turns up something, I'll report it as a suspicious death due to the circumstances, but apparently natural."

  "Natural!” Ruth Russell had joined us from the other room where she'd been resting. “Nothing could be less natural! It was supernatural if it was anything! She wasn't out of our sight for more than thirty seconds. The door was open all the time. She'd been kidding with George about blowing on the trumpet to dispel the myth of Joshua Hamstitch's death."

  "Yes,” PC Higgins said. “I'm familiar with the local legend. Nobody believes that, do they?"

  "We didn't until now,” Swift replied. “But if there's not a curse on that trumpet, please tell me what happened to my wife."

  The constable stared down at the body. All he could say was, “She died."

  * * * *

  It was obvious that Simon Ark had no intention of leaving Gravesend until the mystery was solved. We saw no more of Swift that day as he returned home to make funeral arrangements. His parting words to us were, “I wish I had never seen that damned trumpet. When this is over, I'm going to destroy it."

  Ruth Russell, still buried in her grief, left the house when we did. Since there was no evidence of an actual crime, the police did not seal the place. The rain had let up a bit, but it was still a foul day. As she was getting into her car, Simon called out to ask her, “How would I get in touch with the psychic, Lydia Neary?"

  "Stay away from that woman,” Ruth warned. “I told you she's a fraud. Naomi hated her and so do I. There's no communicating with the dead.” She closed the door and drove off.

  "The vicar must know how to reach her,” I suggested.

  "I suspect his reaction might be the same as hers. The phone book might be a more likely source."

  Naomi's tragedy, whatever it was, preyed on us throughout the day. When word reached Vicar Neims, he came at once to our hotel seeking details. “PC Higgins told me you two were on the scene. What sort of monstrous thing is this?"

  We'd come downstairs to meet him in the hotel's small pub. I was aware that the bartender and a few customers kept their eyes on us while we talked. Simon told him what little we knew. “Perhaps the autopsy will clear everything up,” I suggested.

  "How can it be cleared up?” the vicar wondered. “If the body is not that of Naomi Swift, where could she be? If the body is hers, what devil's work could have done this to her?"

  "We understand the trumpet is being examined,” Simon told him.

  "It was examined many times over the years."

  "Something new might have been added.” He told the vicar about the broken upstairs window.

  "You believe someone gained entrance to the house through that window? Don't they have an alarm system?"

  "Only for the downstairs, apparently,” I told him.

  Vicar Neims shook his head, still unable to comprehend it all. “And you both actually saw her die?"

  "She went back into the room, picked up the trumpet, and blew it. She was out of our sight for less than thirty seconds,” I told him.

  "What did it sound like?” he asked. “I've always imagined it would have a special sound, something to summon the demons of Hades."

  "It may have done that,” Simon agreed, “but it sounded like an ordinary herald's trumpet, announcing the arrival of a king. She only blew it for a few seconds, then there was silence. We ran right in, but we were too late for her."

  The vicar slowly let out his breath. “What do you think it was, Mr. Ark? What did this to her?"

  "A powerful evil, certainly. I believe it's important that we try to contact her."

  "Contact?"

  "Through Mrs. Neary, if necessary."

  Surprisingly, the vicar's reaction was not nearly as negative as Ruth's had been. “The woman is a charlatan, of course, but if you wish to consult her I'll consider coming along."

  Simon spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening at various odd tasks. I accompanied him to the hardware store, where we'd encountered the vicar with his stepladder. He wondered if another purchase had been made, perhaps a taller ladder that had to be delivered, but the clerk was of no help. By this time, the rain had all but stopped, and we went next to the local newspaper office where he requested papers for the past two months. He pored over the columns with interest, but if he found anything relevant, he did not communicate it to me.

  In the morning, PC Higgins called and joined us for breakfast. He wanted an official statement of our version of events at the Hamstitch Museum. During the conversation we learned that the autopsy had been completed. “Rigor mortis had not set in and preliminary tests showed no trace of poison. There was none on the trumpet, either. Death seemed to be due to heart failure, but our pathologist wants to run more tests before he releases the body. He did say that her height, weight, eye color, and false teeth are all consistent with Naomi Swift, but he insists the body is that of a woman in her seventies."

  Simon Ark nodded. “I believe I may be able to help with this investigation. Let me contact you later today."

  After that, Simon and I sought out the psychic, Lydia Neary. She was a stout Irish lady with graying hair and a brogue. Her little house on the outskirts of town had lace curtains and a scent of lavender. “I do séances,” she told us. “A lot of people don't approve, but I do them anyway."

  "Do you ever use Pocahontas as an intermediary when contacting the other side?” Simon asked.

  "Frequently. She has a special affinity for Gravesend, since she died here."

  "I would like you to hold a séance this evening to contact the recently deceased spirit of Naomi Swift. There would be six people, counting yourself."

  "A good number, a proper number. If there are too many brain waves in the room, sometimes contact cannot be made."

  I asked, “Who would these people be, Simon?"

  "The three of us, plus George Swift, Ruth Russell, and Vicar Neims."

  That brought a snort from the Irish lady. “Vicar Neims wouldn't be caught dead here."

  "I may be able to persuade him. What time is good for you?"

  "Not before eight. We need darkness."

  "Fine. Eight it will be."

  "My fee—"

  Simon waved it aside. “We will talk of that later."

  We returned to our hotel to make the necessary phone calls. “What are you trying to do, Simon?” I asked at one point. “Have you become a believer in the supernatural?"

  "I always have been, if you include the labors of Satan in your definition."

  "Then you believe it really happened?"

  "We shall see, my friend."

  On the phone, Swift was reluctant, Ruth downright hostile, and the vicar hesitant. “I still don't know what good that woman can do,” he told Simon.

  "She can tell us if Naomi Swift is dead or alive."

  "Highly unlikely."

  "Take my word for it, Vicar. You promised to help out."

  "And I shall. Are Swift and that Russell woman coming?"

  "They are, reluctantly."

  "Very well. I will see you there at eight."

  * * * *

  Lydia Neary's husband met us at the door and ushered us into the parlor. Simon had spoken to PC Higgins on the phone while I was downstairs, and I'd half expected him to be present, too, but at eight o'clock there were only George Swift and the vicar in attendance. While we waited for Ruth, Vicar Neims spoke to Lydia Neary. “One can find more contact with the hereafter in my church than around this table listening to your bells and trumpets."

  "I offer a choice, Vicar, for those unsatisfied with organized religion."

  Swift was growing nervous. “Let's get on with this before I'm sorry I came."

  Ruth arrived just then, escorted into the room by Mr. Neary. She took the only empty chair, opposite Lydia, and the medium ordered us to hold hands. “This is sheer bunk!” Ruth grumbled, but she grasped my hand with one of hers. To my left was the vicar, then Lydia and Simon and Swift, on Ruth's right.

  "No speaking,” Lydia Neary instructed us, “and do not break the circle. The lights will now be dimmed.” Obviously her husband was working the switch, and darkness descended on us.

  All was silence for a moment and then Lydia's dreamlike voice reached us. “We are gathered here to contact the recently deceased spirit of Naomi Swift. I call once more upon the spirit guide Pocahontas for aid."

  After another moment, she repeated the message. This time there was a glow of undulating phosphorescent cheesecloth above our heads, bringing a distasteful grunt from the vicar. “Silence, please!” Lydia said at once. After a moment, her message was answered by a distant female voice, undoubtedly a recording, speaking in a strange tongue. “Can you talk to us in English?” Lydia asked.

  "Yes,” the voice responded.

  "What is your name?"

  "I am Pocahontas, daughter of Powhatan, ruler of the Algonquin tribes."

  "Pocahontas, I seek the recently deceased Naomi Swift."

  "Naomi Swift..."

  "Can you guide her to us? Her husband and friends are awaiting word from her."

  "Naomi..."

  I felt Ruth's hand squeezing mine.

  Then a familiar voice was heard. “I am here. I am with you!” It was the voice of Naomi Swift, and suddenly the door opened and she stood there bathed in light.

  "No!” her husband yelled out. “It can't be! You're dead!"

  He broke the circle and leaped to his feet, but before he could reach her PC Higgins intercepted him. “Sir, I am arresting you on a charge of attempted murder. You are not obligated to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence."

  * * * *

  It was Simon Ark who sorted the whole thing out, later that night. The vicar was still there, and PC Higgins had returned to Lydia Neary's house after taking George Swift into custody and recording Naomi's statement at police headquarters. “It was a remarkably clever plan,” Simon told us.

  "Clever and diabolical,” the constable agreed.

  "They only made one slip-up, but that was the one I noticed. Naomi was wearing a wedding ring the first time we met her, and the body in the museum was wearing it, too. But when she cleared up the broken glass and then washed her hands, she wasn't wearing the ring. Her hands were bare. What had happened to it? There was only one possible explanation. The entire scene was set up in advance, and Naomi had to substitute the dead body for herself as quickly as possible, in less than thirty seconds. A duplicate dress and belt and shoes were no problem, and they put her ring on the dead woman in advance, to save precious seconds."

  "They just happened to have a dead woman of the right height, with brown eyes and false teeth,” I remarked sardonically.

  "You're forgetting that George Swift is a funeral director. I assumed that some time in recent weeks he handled the funeral of this nameless woman, no doubt with a closed coffin and few if any relatives. He noticed the general resemblance to his wife and decided on his scheme. The coffin was buried full of sand or stones and the body was kept in his freezer. I spent some time at the local newspaper office yesterday looking over recent death notices. The woman had to be someone not well known in Gravesend whose funeral had been handled by Swift. I found two possibilities, both women in their seventies from nearby villages."

  PC Higgins took up the story. “Mr. Ark gave me their names and addresses over the phone and asked me to show their neighbors a picture of the dead woman. It was the first woman I checked on, one Rosemary Watkins who died a month ago at a nursing home in Cooling. She had no family, and the home made funeral arrangements with George Swift."

  Vicar Neims was still doubtful. “What in God's name did they hope to accomplish by such bizarre trickery? And how was Naomi able to make the substitution? You were right outside the open door."

  "Swift's supposed motive was publicity that would increase the value of that ancient trumpet and the house and museum themselves. Strange as it might seem, a notorious history does not scare off modern buyers, and he admitted to wanting to sell the place. But he had another motive as well—to kill his wife in a safe and foolproof manner that would defy detection. The reason for that can only be surmised, but one might question his relationship with Ruth Russell for a beginning. With Naomi dead, the valuable house would be his and he'd be free to marry again."

  Lydia Neary and her husband had listened to all this with something approaching awe. “Why did you come here to my place?"