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Mystified, Edwin padded over for a closer look. The gilded surface that surrounded one of the keyholes bore several deep gashes. "Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's the mark of someone who is utterly lousy with a pick, then yes." Robert rubbed the scratches carefully with a pawpad. "Yes. Remember Peter Morris, my roommate at the University? His flat got broken into, and they left the same marks."

For whatever reason, Edwin chose this particular time to practice his Devil's Advocate. "Maybe these were there before."

Robert shook his head. "I remember watching my reflection in this plating as I locked up today and thinking about how lucky I was to have snagged these locks for such a good price when Trentin's closed down last month. I would certainly have noticed the scratches."

"Alright, so someone broke in, or tried to break in." Edwin tapped his holster nervously. "What now? Can we report it?"

"We can." Robert stood and shut the door. "But we won't. No point. Let's wait until tomorrow and see what the bobbies find at Trout's house. If they catch him, we can add this to the list of charges."

"Fair enough." Edwin stopped himself from saying anything more. He was in a strange humor and did not intend to spread it around. "How about some supper?"

It was only five, but Robert did not object. He retreated into the kitchen and quickly cooked up a hearty meal of chicken and oven-baked potatoes. He served them in the sitting room along with a vintage bottle of red wine. "Bon apetit."

Supper, as it tended to be in the Fowler household, was a quiet affair. The brothers ate quickly, having had entirely skipped lunch that day, and no topics of conversation appeared important enough to interrupt the mastication.

Edwin popped the last bit of chicken into his muzzle seconds before the doorbell rang. "What fantastic timing. Now we shan't have to invite whoever that is to dine with us." He washed the food down with some wine and stood.

A thought occurred to Edwin as he left the dining room and padded slowly towards the door. Could it be Trout again? It was unlikely the weasel would bother with doorbells, but paranoia was persuasive, and Edwin answered the door with his pistol drawn. "Yes?"

Two police officers stood on the porch. Edwin recognized one of them as the constable from the police station. "Good evening, officers." He hurried to holster his weapon. "May I help you?"

The constable's partner, a tall, well-groomed wolf, stepped forward. "Mister Fowler? My name is Detective Smith, and I believe you have already met Constable Roberts."

"Yes, I have." Edwin remembered his manners in time and stepped aside. "Won't you come in?"

Roberts shook his head. "That won't be necessary, thank you. We have come to summon you."

"Is something the matter?" Edwin knew the answer was yes, but the what still eluded him.

"Quite." Smith cleared his throat. "The weasel you reported this afternoon, Mister Patrick Trout... he was found dead in his flat an hour ago."

Edwin forgot his manners once more. "So wait, do you mean dead as in 'dead of natural causes,' or murdered?"

"Technically, we would not be at liberty to discuss this at present..." Roberts scratched an itch underneath his police helmet. "But I can honestly say we haven't a clue at this point. We are hoping an autopsy can uncover something, but that won't be for some time. At this point, we need you to identify the body and the item you claim he stole."

"You found the canopic jar?" Edwin brightened up immediately.

"Yes we did, it is at the station." Smith gestured to the police carriage, its mounts drawn up, awaiting by the sidewalk. "Shall we?"

"Of course. Let me just call my brother." Edwin left the door ajar and ran to the dining room. "Rob, the bobbies are here. They found Trout dead in his flat, but they also found the canope. They're taking us down to Scotland Yard."

Robert forced down the last of his potatoes and hurriedly wiped his muzzle on a napkin. "Let's go, then."

The police growler, despite probably being one of the nicer ones, had very clearly been used in some very messy arrests. A distinct scent of feces hung about its interior, and the occupants spent the ride with their noses as close to the windows and the modestly-clean London air as they could manage. Thankfully, the trip wasn't long, and the Fowler brothers soon found themselves in front of Scotland Yard once again.

The officers led them past where they had filled out the forms and into a private room. There, covered with a white tarp, lay the fresh corpse of Patrick Trout. The stench made Edwin wish he were back in the police carriage. "Well, he is most certainly dead." The Scotsman held his nose and averted his eyes. "Is there anything else we need to see?"

Robert remained completely unphased by the smell of rotting meat. "Now, hold on just one minute." He approached the body. "I am a medical doctor. May I?"

Smith shrugged. "If you wish."

Robert lifted the tarp and carefully examined the corpse underneath. He felt around the arms and then the neck. "This weasel has been poisoned." He helped himself to a magnifying glass that lay on the examination desk. With it, Doctor Fowler took a closer look inside the deceased weasel's muzzle. "Hm, no sign of ingestion. That is most certainly curious."

Edwin had more than enough curiosity to approach, but he simply lacked the stomach. "What do you think it is, then?"

"Snakebite." Robert ran two fingers down the fur of Trout's short neck. "Not sure which snake, but it is most certainly a snakebite. Ah, here we are. See these two bumps? They're swellings from where the poison had entered the bloodstream." The raccoon waved them over, but neither Edwin nor the two officers approached. Robert shrugged, rinsed his paws in a nearby basin and covered the body once more. "Nothing more to be learned from him, I'm afraid. Let's adjourn and go see that canope."

Smith showed them to another room, where a similar table stood. On it, lay several dozen items and the canopic jar among them. The constable picked up the jar and handed it to Edwin. "The rest are belongings we believe may help with the case." He moved several of the items around. Most were Egyptian artifacts, but that did not mean much. Trout had been a collector, just like Edwin. The raccoon looked over the trinkets. "I doubt these will help you much. They are just antiques." He tucked the canope under his arm. "Good day. Let us know if you need anything else. And thank you once again."

After getting the two brothers to sign several police forms, the officers wished them a pleasant night and accompanied them outside. There, Edwin and Robert caught a cab home.

As the nighttime London streets sped by, Edwin decided to open the canope. "Let's put everything back where it belongs, shall we." He grasped the falcon-headed stopper and pulled. The lid dislodged much easier than it had after having been sealed many millennia ago. The cab was dark, but even in the passing glow of the gaslights, Edwin could make out a neatly-folded sheet of paper. "Looks like someone else has also opened it." The fact was far from unexpected, but Edwin was surprised to find that the paw in which the note was written did not belong to Patrick Trout. While the weasel's paw was as harried as the rest of him, the words on this page were long and flowery, each curve as precise and careful as the next.

My Dear Mister Fowler,

_ _

_ You have come into possession of a certain item which I value greatly. I understand that you are the smart sort, and that you would not part with it willingly. Under normal circumstances, I would do a spot of arm-twisting or bribery, but I feel like I may need your help with this. Having read over your dissertation and other works, I can see that you are quite proficient in the newly-emerging field of Egyptology. Perhaps you should like to accompany me on a mission. I shall speak no more of this in writing. Come see me tonight around eight o'clock at the Queen's Head pub on Acton street. Feel free to bring your brother, but do not bring the police._

_ _

_ Signed,_

_ _

_ An Admirer_

_ _

_ P.S._

_ That is a very nice revolver you have. I own several such models myself._

_ _

_ _ Edwin read the letter aloud and folded it once more. "What do you think?"

"A trap, surely." Robert opened the satchel, removed the relic and placed it inside the canope. He then resealed the lid and tucked both back into the bag. "But it could also be an invitation." He fastened each of the latches, giving them his full attention as he spoke. "Whether we go or not is up to you; but if you are, I am coming with you."

Edwin checked his revolver and took a deep breath. "Let's go."

Robert nodded and opened the driver's window. "Take us to the Queen's Head on Acton, please."

Whoever had written that note had to have been watching quite closely. There was less than an hour to spare. Edwin knew, or rather hoped he knew, that their so-called admirer wouldn't try anything in a pub, much less one as popular as the Queen's Head.

The Scotsman kept that theory in mind as part of an effort to stay more or less unafraid as he and his brother disembarked the cab and walked through the door of the Queen's Head pub.

This had long since been known as a popular underground boxing establishment, but all the illicit action went on in the cellar. As a result of the pub's nature, it catered to a mix of both the wealthy and poor, all brought together in their love of watching two fighters beat one another to a bloody pulp.

When the two brothers entered, the sheer number of patrons overwhelmed them. Fortunately, their admirer was kind enough to wave them over.

He was a hare, and by the cut of his fine coat and his ten-pound cigar, it was not difficult to discern just how wealthy he was or pretended to be. "Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Dobbs, Lord Charles Dobbs." He extended a perfectly-groomed, white-furred, paw.

Caught between manners and potential disdain, Edwin hesitated but ended up indulging the hare. "Good evening." He shook paws and took a seat.

Robert did the same. "So, what is all this about?"

"About?" Dobbs removed his pince-nez and wiped it carefully on a silk kerchief. "Why, my dear fellow, it is about one of the greatest treasure-hunts of all time!"

Edwin had no love for Patrick Trout, but even a weasel such as he did not deserve death. "Is this a treasure hunt worth killing over?"

Dobbs's demeanor soured but only before he covered it up with a fresh smile. "Oh, almost certainly. But if you think I had anything to do with Mister Trout's unfortunate death, you are gravely mistaken. I arrived at his home several hours before it happened. I knew you would come to reclaim your canope, however, so I left a note."

The story made perfect sense, as did all good alibis. Robert merely nodded. "Of course, Lord Dobbs."

Edwin could plainly see that his brother was satisfied, but for his own part, the raccoon was not willing to be so quickly cajoled. "If you did not kill him, and you just happen to know when the murder occurred. Would you happen to also know the murderer?"

"His identity, no." Dobbs perched the pince-nez at the tip of his short muzzle. "But I have felt his presence. He has sent me numerous letters, most rather threatening. But I, much like yourself, am a fellow of science. I believe in fact, I believe in eye-witness accounts. What I do not believe in are myths and spook stories of phantasmagoria."

Having read only a brief paragraph on the subject of the four canopes, and with such tantalizing knowledge floating just within reach, Edwin put aside any prejudices he held against the peculiar hare. "What sort of myths?"

"Very uncommon ones. Most of the writings on the subject have been mysteriously wiped clean from the slate of history. Notice, however the key word in that sentence: Most. Some did, in fact, survive to this very day." Dobbs took a sip of his warm gin. "I happen to own a number of them. Very fascinating, too, those writings. Sadly, many of them are mistaken for the mere foibles of the untamed imagination."

Edwin nodded. "Go on."

"Well, according to the legend, these canopic jars will unlock the Tomb of the Teacher, which holds the body of Osiris." He guffawed. "'And there is your poppycock right there,' most would say. 'That isn't how the legend goes. Osiris's body was broken into twenty-six pieces by the god Typhon.'"

Edwin expected another hearty laugh. Instead, Lord Dobbs leaned closer. "But my passion is to weed the facts out of the myth. And trust me, the facts that crop up will astound you."

Tune in Saturday (10.13) for the next chapter!

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_ Streets of His City and Other Stories - _ Now available from Rabbit Valley! Featuring Streets of His City, Their Labors of Love, Just Like That and the never before seen Looking War! If you like adventure, heists, friendships and a bit of romance, be sure to pick up your copy today!

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