Sands of Time

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Toby?’ A face appeared over his shoulder in the glass and he grimaced. The suddenness of its arrival had made his heart thud uncomfortably.

  ‘Serena?’ He turned towards the woman standing in the bathroom doorway.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He nodded. ‘I felt a bit odd, that’s all. Is Anna OK?’

  Serena shook her head. ‘She’s gone, Toby.’

  ‘Gone?’

  Looking down at the towel in his hands as though he didn’t know it was there, he rammed it back onto the rail and took a step towards her. ‘What do you mean gone?’

  ‘After you ran out of the room she stood up, grabbed the bottle and fled out of the front door. She couldn’t cope with Carstairs. I don’t know where she is.’

  Fool!

  Find her!

  Don’t let her dispose of the bottle!

  ‘Fight it, Toby!’ Serena reached out to him.

  He couldn’t.

  He laughed.

  The stupid woman was standing in his way.

  With a violent push he shoved past her and ran for the stairs. In seconds he was out in the street, looking for Anna.

  7

  Anna had grabbed her coat and shoulder bag. She was shaking with fear and horror when she stuffed the bottle, still in its bubble wrap, into the bottom of the bag.

  ‘Anna!’ Serena had followed her into the hallway. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just have to get away. You saw what happened! Why did I ask him to come? I should have known it would be a mistake. I’m such a fool.’

  ‘Let me have it. I’ll take it back to Egypt. Today. I’ll go straight to the airport.’

  ‘No.’ Anna shook her head. ‘No, Serena, I have to deal with this myself.’

  She was gone, running down the steps and ducking across the street before Serena had time to move. At the end of the road she paused and looked back. Serena hadn’t waited. She had stepped back inside and the door was closed.

  Suddenly Toby had become the enemy; whatever happened, whatever she did, for Louisa’s sake, she would not let him get his hands on the bottle.

  The cab dropped her off in Great Russell Street. She stood for several minutes in the forecourt of the British Museum staring up at the huge pillared façade. She wasn’t entirely sure why she had come. It was just one idea; one thing that she could do with the bottle. If she walked around the galleries, looked for other glass artefacts from Egypt, perhaps a solution would present itself. She had not reached any definite decision. She did not necessarily intend to show it to anyone. She didn’t actually have to do anything at all. Slowly she walked towards the main entrance and began to climb the steps.

  The Egyptian galleries were teeming with visitors; children; school parties. She stood, looking round. If someone came up to her. If someone said, can I see your Egyptian bottle, if someone said, may we have it, maybe she would have agreed. Handed it over. Sighed with relief that here it would be safe from Lord Carstairs. But no one knew. There were no Egyptologists patrolling the galleries. They were somewhere behind closed doors, out of sight, poring over ancient artefacts with scalpels and microscopes and computers or whatever it was they used. The attendants were not interested in her. She stopped in front of a mummy case and looked down at it. Somewhere at the end of the gallery a boy let out a shout and small feet pattered as a group of children out of control and bored ducked in and out of the exhibits. She didn’t notice. She was gazing down at the painted wooden face with its wide staring eyes. All she had to do was speak to someone. Ask to see an expert. Hand it over. Get rid of it. Leave the decision to someone else.

  Turning her back on the glass case she looked round wildly. There must be someone she could speak to.

  And there was. She was walking towards Anna down the centre of the gallery. A woman in her fifties, her greying hair neatly styled, spectacles swinging from a chain around her neck, her matching blue skirt and sweater contrasting with the scarlet plastic clipboard file she was clasping to her chest. An identity tag and set of keys confirmed her as member of staff. An Egyptologist. An expert. She would know what to do.

  Clutching her shoulder bag tightly, Anna stepped forward and stood facing her, waiting as the woman moved towards her, her eyes fixed on the floor as she walked, her expression distant, preoccupied, her thoughts clearly far away. As she approached Anna, who was standing squarely in her path, she diverted slightly to miss her. Anna stepped sideways in step with her and at last the woman looked up.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Anna smiled uncertainly.

  The woman gave an apologetic shrug and attempted to walk on. Only Anna’s hand on her arm stayed her. She frowned.

  ‘Please.’ Anna’s hand closed on her sleeve. ‘Please. I must talk to you.’

  The woman stepped back. She was clearly only dragging herself away from her own preoccupations with difficulty. She scanned Anna with pale blue intelligent eyes, obviously trying to place her, to put a name to the face.

  ‘It’s about a bottle. A small Egyptian bottle. I need help. It contains the tears of Isis. It’s haunted. It’s dangerous –’ Anna was grappling with the flap of her bag.

  The woman took another step away. She frowned warily. ‘Egyptian you say?’ She was clearly under the impression that Anna was slightly unhinged. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not the person you should be talking to.’

  ‘No! You will know about it. You will know what to do.’ Anna’s certainty that this woman would take charge, would remove all the responsibility from her, was absolute. ‘Please, let me show you quickly. It will only take a minute. It’s so important.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The woman was beginning to look agitated. ‘I am truly sorry. I don’t work in this department.’ She was glancing round for an attendant.

  Anna stopped dead, staring at her. ‘But you must. I was so sure.’

  Her stark shock and misery were so obvious that the woman almost felt sorry for her.

  ‘You’re not an Egyptologist?’ Anna was incredulous.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I was certain.’

  The woman shrugged again. She was edging away steadily. ‘Abyssinian bas-relief,’ she said apologetically. ‘I was just socialising in Ancient Egypt. May I suggest you go back to the central enquiry desk?’ And turning away, she was gone.

  Anna swallowed hard. The crowds seemed thicker than ever. More children streamed past her to surround the mummy cases, each with his or her small clipboard; more noise echoed beneath the high ceilings. She was beginning to feel disorientated and dizzy.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The man beside her had been watching her for several minutes.

  She focused on him with difficulty. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He frowned at her through the top of his bifocals. ‘Shall I call the attendant?’

  ‘No!’ Suddenly she was hugging her bag more closely to her. ‘No, I’m all right. I’m leaving.’ Had his hand been hovering? Had he been after her purse? He might have stolen the bottle! Suddenly almost overwhelmed with a hysterical desire to laugh she dodged away, leaving him standing watching her in puzzled confusion as she pushed her way back towards the exit.

  Outside the ice cold wind brought her to her senses. The wet London street, the hot-chestnut man selling his wares by the museum gates, the suitcases of tacky souvenirs, so many of them new-minted ancient Egyptian – it was all too much. Stepping out into the road she raised her hand to hail a black cab, climbed in and settled back into the seat with a sigh of relief.

  It had just turned the corner into Bloomsbury Street taking her safely out of sight when Toby appeared, walking fast, heading across the forecourt and up the steps into the museum.

  8

  Toby was standing almost where Anna had encountered her Abyssinian specialist when Carstairs abandoned him with a curse. Sweating with fear Toby stared round. He had no idea how he had got to the museum. He remembered nothing of the journey; he had no idea how he had found
his way to the ancient Egyptian galleries. All he knew was that he was shaking violently and he wanted to be out of there as soon as possible. Obviously Anna was not there, otherwise Carstairs would have stayed with him. Why else had Carstairs brought him here? He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, trying to get a grip on himself. What was happening to him? What was he to do? Where should he go?

  It took him a while to thread his way back to the main entrance. Once outside he too searched for a cab, quickly feeling better in the damp cold air.

  In less than an hour he was sitting across the table from his mother, shaking his head. ‘It was my imagination. It must have been. But the voice was so loud. So real. And Serena and Anna heard it too.’ He rounded on her. ‘Why in God’s name did you have to tell me we were related to Lord Carstairs?’

  ‘I thought that you would be interested, Toby.’ Frances sighed. She was a tall handsome woman with wild grey hair. The resemblance between mother and son was obvious. ‘Personally, I thought it was rather glamorous. I never mentioned it in the past because you weren’t interested in family stuff, but once Anna had showed me that diary –’ She paused. ‘I do see it is awkward for you as far as Anna is concerned. I am so sorry. He does seem to have given her ancestor a very hard time.’

  Toby groaned. This whole sorry mess was all his mother’s fault.

  Here he was, independent, if not entirely back on an even keel after the succession of best-forgotten traumas that had rocked his life, and Frances had managed to bowl him a killer ball – in Anna’s presence – which had slipped under his guard without his even seeing it coming. He smiled tiredly at the explosion of mixed metaphors and clichés running through his brain. He knew he was being unfair but just at the moment it was hard to be anything else.

  And perhaps Anna was right. She usually was. She was a good judge of character. After all, she had not cared for him much at the beginning of their relationship. If it was a relationship. It certainly wouldn’t be now. He sighed. She was so beautiful, Anna. So vulnerable. Her ex-husband had somehow isolated her, kept her prisoner in a glass palace so that when she finally broke free of the marriage she was like an exquisite butterfly, unspoiled, naïve. But not nearly so naïve as he was!

  He groaned again. ‘It is the understatement of the year to say he gave Louisa a hard time!’ He scowled. ‘And this morning, for a few minutes –’ He shuddered. ‘He seemed to be giving me one as well. Do you believe in possession? In life after death? Is it even remotely possible that what I’ve told you really happened, or have I gone stark staring mad?’

  Frances raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think you’re mad. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I believe. I confess I did go and see a medium once – hasn’t everyone? And what she told me was convincing – not guesswork at all. But in this case, I think maybe you’re right. I don’t mean I think you are mad, but I think it may be a hefty dose of over-imagination. Egypt seems to have had a pretty powerful effect on you all.’ She paused. Toby’s anguish was obvious. She bit her lip. ‘It’s hardly surprising when you consider the potent mix of Louisa’s diary, and the legends and myths and ghosts, and on top of all that the death of that poor young man you were travelling with. All that with the magic of the Nile itself.’ Climbing to her feet she put a hand on his shoulder, then went over to switch on the kettle. ‘I’m sure Anna is fine. She’s no fool. She’ll look after herself.’ She paused. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have come down to London. Perhaps after all it would do no harm for you two to be apart for a bit while you both take stock. What did Serena think about all this? Where did she go after Anna left?’

  ‘Home, I presume.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea what she thinks, though I can guess. Oh God, I wish I knew where Anna went. And what she intended doing with that damn bottle.’

  ‘You don’t care what she does with the bottle, Toby,’ his mother said firmly as she made a pot of tea. ‘Do you?’ She glanced up and scrutinised his face sharply.

  He shook his head. ‘Not a fig. No.’

  ‘Good. Then leave it at that. She knows where we are. She knows she can always contact you here, and I am sure she will when she is ready.’

  ‘But I frightened her – ’

  ‘No, from what you have told me you all frightened each other. Don’t go convincing yourself you are a channel of some kind or a spirit medium or even, heaven forbid, the reincarnation of Lord Carstairs! You had never heard of the man a few weeks ago. You have not suddenly turned into a villainous Victorian occultist with swirling black moustaches and a silk lined cloak.’

  ‘He didn’t have moustaches!’ Toby grimaced wryly.

  ‘Well, whatever! From the diary he appears to have been extremely handsome.’ She smacked the cup of tea down in front of him, spilling a little into the saucer. ‘He did seem to have some strange habits, but then a lot of those Victorians were extremely odd. Keep focusing on the solid clergymen in our family, Toby. None of them kept pet cobras which obeyed their every whim like he did. Much more healthy to have a labrador! Don’t let him become an obsession.’ She frowned. ‘Did you go to Carstairs Castle?’

  ‘Of course I did. You gave me the guidebook, remember!’ The guidebook which had spelt out the enigma of Lord Carstairs’ final disappearance.

  They stared at each other. Toby felt a strange chill strike between his shoulder blades. The hairs on his arms were standing on end. ‘It happened there. He was waiting for someone to come along. A patsy. A descendant!’

  ‘No. No, Toby. That’s fantasy!’

  ‘Is it?’ He stared down at his cup without touching it. ‘I’ve painted a portrait of him. That’s how I know he didn’t have moustaches. I know exactly what he looked like. It’s the best thing I’ve ever painted.’ He glanced up at her with a grimace. ‘That’s when it happened. Oh God, what have I done?’

  ‘Toby. This is nonsense.’

  ‘No. It isn’t. It’s happened.’ He stood up. ‘Christ! It’s like being told I might have got cancer! There might be something hiding inside me. Lying in wait. Something I can’t control.’

  ‘Toby! Stop it!’ Frances was terrified.

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘You’re going to pull yourself together. Look at all the problems you’ve come through before, Toby. You’re going to remember that you are a strong, determined fighter. Roger Carstairs is dead. He has to be. Any other idea is a complete nonsense. I doubt if he is even a ghost. Even if he had some kind of weird pseudo consciousness it would be no more than that of a wraith; nothing you couldn’t override. I doubt if he even has that. I don’t think he exists at all in any form.’ She was trying to convince herself. ‘I don’t think he’s anything more than a waking nightmare. Your nightmare.’ She stood up, agitated. ‘For goodness’ sake, Toby. Don’t lose this chance. Anna trusts you – ’

  ‘Not any more she doesn’t.’ The interruption was very bitter.

  ‘She will, Toby. She knows you. She knows you are strong. Look how you took care of her in Egypt. When she was so ill at the end you brought her home. You looked after her. You brought her here.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ He sighed. ‘If only I could guess where she was. Where she would have gone.’

  And suddenly he knew.

  She would have gone back to her Aunt Phyllis in Suffolk. Of course. It was so obvious. It was Phyllis who had given her the bottle when she was a child, Phyllis who had given her the diary, Phyllis who had suggested she go to Egypt, and it was to Phyllis’s house that they had driven – both of them, together – to talk about the horrors and adventures of the trip they had just shared. Phyllis was her mentor and her home was Anna’s natural sanctuary. The first place she would head for.

  9

  Serena was once again sitting cross-legged in front of the small altar in her front room, deep in meditation. Reaching out into the darkness, questing back into Egypt, towards the scented misty distances, she was seeking answers; advice; help for her friends. She could see the stil
l, deep waters of the Nile, she entered the temple, walking across the sand blown courtyard, she could smell the kyphi, hear the sound of distant music, see the shadowed shapes of temple attendants at the periphery of her vision.

  Help me; help Anna. What should we do with the bottle containing thy tears?

  Her prayer wove across the distances, drifting, seeking answer.

  Shall I bring it back to Egypt?

  She was there. She could see. She could hear, but there was no answer. The bottle was not hers to take back. It had gone and she did not know where it was.

  Pressing her palms together she lowered her head in acknowledgment of the goddess, crossed her arms across her breast, hands on shoulders in the time-old Egyptian pose, and opened her eyes. The room had grown dark while she was praying. Standing up with a groan at the stiffness in her knees she blew out the candles, extinguished her incense and went to switch on the light.

  Outside the street was dark. It was still pouring with rain. Serena shivered and, drawing the curtains, bent to switch on the electric fire. The central heating had gone off for the night while she had been praying and now the house was chilly. Glancing at her watch she wondered if it was too late to ring Anna – to see if she had come home yet.

  The phone rang on and on in Anna’s empty house in Notting Hill. Glancing at the notepad beside her on the kitchen worktop Serena saw the second number she had jotted down. Toby’s number – or rather Toby’s mother’s. Toby, who had pushed past her, his face a mask of anger, his head filled with the thoughts of an angry, vicious stranger. Serena hesitated, shivering.