Waking the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  Stefan’s eyes grew wider. He was about to speak when they heard the scrape of a key in the kitchen door as Anna arrived. She took one look at the mess and gasped. “Whatever has happened?”

  Paula told her. All the while, Anna looked hard at the estate agent.

  “Have you told her? About Fräulein Zimic? About what happened to her?”

  Stefan shook his head.

  “Zimic? Wasn’t she the one who visited Adeline Ogilvy in the care home?”

  Anna nodded. “There was more to Gerda Zimic than met the eye. Her family had some criminal connections and I don’t even know whether she lived here legally or not.”

  Stefan cleared his throat. “She bought the house from Markus von Dürnstein in 1977.”

  Anna nodded. “Yes, but isn’t it true that the purchase wasn’t in her name?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Stefan said, and to her amazement, Paula saw his hands were trembling. He stared at the floor. Now he couldn’t deny it. Stefan knew far more than he was letting on.

  “If not in her name, then whose?” Paula asked.

  Next to her, Dee made a tutting sound. “This gets more convoluted by the minute.”

  “I don’t know.” Stefan looked as if he would rather be anywhere than here right now.

  “I think you do know,” Paula said. “And I have a right to know, too.”

  Stefan considered this. From his expression, some battle was being conducted in his mind. He moistened his lips. “I have not seen the papers. The family has them.”

  “Can’t you ask them? Surely they wouldn’t mind their tenant knowing the name of a previous owner of this house. What harm could it do? It’s not as if the owner is still alive. Didn’t she die in some fire?”

  Stefan looked surprised. “Who told you that?”

  Paula nodded toward Anna.

  “I only repeated the stories I had heard,” she said.

  “The story is not quite true,” Stefan said, at last. “Fräulein Zimic may or may not have died in the fire. The truth that I know is that she disappeared that night and was not seen again. But her body has never been found.”

  “That seems to be something of a habit with people who live here.”

  Dee put her hand on Paula’s arm. She must have sensed her sister’s unease. “Look at it another way, Paula. The von Dürnsteins weren’t affected. They managed to live here undisturbed for years.”

  Paula couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Dee had been as scared as she. More so, maybe. Now she was behaving as if nothing was wrong. “Dee, they left, never to return. All because Markus von Dürnstein tampered with the building and disturbed whatever malignancy infests this place. Now, for some reason we cannot understand, this…this…thing has woken up again, and God knows what’s going to happen next.”

  The doorbell rang and Paula jumped.

  Dee made her way, with difficulty, out of the kitchen. “It’ll be the carpenter. I’ll let him in.”

  “I’ll start to clear up,” Anna said. “He’ll need more room to work.”

  “Good idea,” Paula said. “Thank you. Stefan, we’ll go into the library and you can finish telling me what you know. Anna, tell Dee where we are.”

  Anna nodded, already picking up larger pieces of crockery and putting them in a heavy-duty garbage bag.

  In the library, Paula faced the agent. “You may as well tell me the rest of it, because I will have my answers, even if I have to go over your head to your boss, or the family.”

  “Mrs. Bancroft, you put me in a very difficult position. There is confidential information. I am not permitted to tell you things the owners of this house prefer to keep to themselves.”

  “I am hardly going to tell the world, broadcast it on the Internet or whatever. I need to know because, for the time being at least, we have to live in this house. I need to know what I am up against.”

  “I can say that I do not believe you are in personal danger. You, your husband, or your sister.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Stefan shifted from one foot to another. “Because you are not, I believe, related to Cleopatra.”

  Paula stared at him. “Cleopatra? You mean the Cleopatra?”

  “Yes. Don’t ask me anything more about that, because I know so little.”

  His eyes strayed up to the painting.

  Paula followed his gaze. The young woman on the bank still held her dagger. She wondered what Stefan saw.

  “So this is all to do with the infamous Dr. Quintillus,” she said. “This house is infested with him.”

  “Yes,” Stefan said and Paula wished he hadn’t sounded so definite.

  She tried a different approach. “You said Fräulein Zimic didn’t sign the papers purchasing this house?”

  He shook his head.

  “Who did?”

  “I do not know the name.”

  “But you know something about the buyer. I can tell.”

  He blinked at her. “I know the buyer wasn’t Austrian.”

  Paula now had an image of wringing out a particularly heavy, awkward blanket. “Come on, Stefan. Tell me. If the buyer wasn’t Austrian, what were they?”

  “British. I believe the buyer was British.”

  “I need a name, Stefan. I need you to get me the name and as much information as the family will let you have.”

  He shook his head.

  “Look, if you don’t give it to me, I will get it from somewhere. You might as well tell me. Take my word for it that I will share it only with my husband and sister, who won’t tell anyone, and let’s save ourselves a lot of time and effort.”

  A lengthy pause followed. She almost felt sorry for the man, but she couldn’t back down. Not now she had come so close.

  “I heard that there was something…irregular…about the purchase. About the buyer.”

  “Irregular? How?”

  At that moment, Dee returned and slipped into the room, careful not to interrupt.

  “My manager told me that, after the fire, checks were made on the identity of the buyer, and they even checked the handwriting on the signature. It matched with known signatures of that person. But it couldn’t have matched.”

  “Why not?”

  Stefan took a deep breath. “Because the person who appeared to have signed the documents had been dead for over seventy years.”

  Chapter 6

  Hereford College, Oxford University, February 1908

  The clock in the quadrangle chimed the quarter hour. Professor Andrew Charters smoothed his moustache and lit his first cigar of the day. He leaned back in comfort in his worn armchair and contemplated the flames crackling in the small fireplace. Smoke curled upward as he puffed his cigar and stretched stiff legs, feeling every one of his sixty-three years. Damn that Quintillus. He would have to demand to see him at this hour. Demand indeed. The man had ideas well above his dubious station. Who was he, anyway? Nobody seemed to know where he even hailed from. Hungary? The Balkans? The only Quintillus Charters could remember had been a somewhat obscure third-century Roman emperor, but he couldn’t believe that this man—already ten minutes late—had been born an Italian. Emeryk. That name sounded Eastern European. The man spoke half a dozen languages, so no clue there, and as for his style of dress… Charters clicked his teeth and then wished he hadn’t. The troublesome molar announced its presence again. He would have to make a trip to that sadistic dental surgeon. The thing would have to be extracted.

  The door opened and the tall figure of Dr. Emeryk Quintillus strode in. Didn’t the man ever knock? Charters struggled to his feet, wincing as his knees cracked. “Quintillus,” he said.

  Quintillus nodded to him. “Professor.”

  “Will you have a cigar?”

  “Thank you, no. I have my own.” Quintillus extracted a silver ci
gar case from the pocket of his deep violet coat and lit up a long, thin, black cheroot. His movements were quick, almost cat-like. It seemed to Charters he was standing one moment and a split second later had settled in an armchair opposite.

  Charters took a couple of puffs of his cigar and knocked some ash off into the fire. He became aware of the archaeologist’s penetrating dark eyes boring into him. For once, Quintillus had removed the omnipresent stovepipe hat, and his luxuriant black hair streamed over his shoulders. His neatly trimmed beard and high cheekbones added to his exotic appearance. Charters supposed women would find him attractive. But to him, the man had an air of such menace about him as he had never previously encountered.

  Charters cleared his throat. “You asked to see me?”

  “I need to return to Egypt to resume my research into the missing tomb of Cleopatra.” Quintillus’s baritone voice held the faintest of accents.

  “And when are you proposing to make this trip?”

  “In the summer. June.”

  “Won’t it be fearfully hot then?”

  “The heat doesn’t trouble me.”

  Charters looked at him. No, the heat would never dare trouble this cold man.

  “And who is funding this expedition?”

  “I have my own funds, and the Lorenz Museum in Berlin. I have worked with them before.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that. They acquired a number of artifacts that arguably should have stayed in Cairo. Your doing, I presume?”

  A slow smile twitched the corners of Quintillus’s mouth. “I have my methods,” he said.

  Charters had the sudden urge to throw the man out of his study. He seemed to contaminate it simply by being there. Nevertheless, he pressed on. “And how long do you anticipate being away?”

  “Until September, maybe not quite so long. It depends on my findings.”

  “You have commitments here, Dr. Quintillus. I need a more precise answer.”

  “I am not able to give it.”

  “Nevertheless…”

  “I am not able to give it. I shall, of course, provide regular updates on my progress.”

  “And where is this venture to take place?”

  “Taposiris Magna, as before.”

  Charters exhaled loudly. “Not again. We have discussed this at great length. You’re wasting your time there. If Cleopatra’s tomb exists, it is almost certainly at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Alexandria, along with the rest of her palace.”

  “That is where you are wrong, Professor. She took refuge in the great temple of Taposiris Magna and there she died, by her own hand. And there she is buried.”

  “So you say, but I simply cannot agree.”

  Quintillus spread his hands wide, palms facing upward. “Then we shall have to disagree,” he said.

  The silence hung like a shroud, clinging to the atmosphere, while the smoke from Charters’s cigar and Quintillus’s cheroot mingled and swirled together. Finally, Charters spoke.

  “Why are you so convinced, despite all the evidence to the contrary?”

  “I have my reasons, which I am not prepared to discuss with you at this time.”

  “But you still expect me to grant you the time you need for your fruitless quest?”

  Charters had to stop himself from flinching at the change in Quintillus’s expression. His face seemed to darken, in a way no mortal flesh should be capable of. In that moment, Charters could have believed he had the devil in him. He pushed the thought aside and waited for his adversary to respond. He didn’t. The quadrangle clock chimed the half hour and still the two men stared at each other. Charters felt increasingly uncomfortable. He wanted the man out of his room. Give him what he wanted, for heaven’s sake, and be done with him. At least if he went to Egypt he would no longer be Charters’s responsibility. Until he returned.

  “Very well, Quintillus. June to September. Final dates to be agreed.”

  Quintillus almost jumped to his feet. He threw his half-smoked cheroot into the fire, retrieved his incongruous hat, and nodded at Charters. “Good day, Professor.”

  Charters mumbled something incoherent as the door closed behind his unwanted visitor. He threw open the window, glad of the cold air that rushed in and cleansed the atmosphere. Below, he watched Quintillus stride across the lawn. A small group of students turned to watch him go by before huddling together, no doubt exchanging their opinions on the most controversial character at Oxford.

  * * * * *

  “It’s not as if he has any evidence for his ridiculous claims.” Charters said to his dinner companion, Professor Michael Sullivan, a fellow historian. Charters felt grateful for his company. Sanity restored. The two old friends sipped vintage port and leaned back in their chairs.

  Sullivan lit a cigar. “I heard a rumor he had stolen a scroll from the archives, but I don’t know how true that is.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”

  Professor Sullivan wandered over to the fireplace and warmed his hands. At fifty-eight, he suffered from poor circulation and always had trouble keeping warm. “I don’t know how he keeps his position here.”

  “Nobody seems to know the answer to that. It’s not as if he’s published many papers. Those he has aren’t up to snuff. And to cap it all, the man’s obsessed with Cleopatra. He barely talks of anything else.”

  “Have you noticed the way he talks about her?” Sullivan sat back down. “It’s as if he knows her personally. Quite strange.”

  Charters shuddered. “Unhealthy. I shall be glad to see the back of him for a few months.”

  “Yes. I’m sure we’ll all be a little easier with him out of the way for the summer. I shall look forward to it.”

  “Indeed.”

  * * * *

  The moon cast silvery beams across the bedroom as Charters opened his eyes. Something had woken him. A noise. He had fallen asleep reading and his book had fallen on the floor, face down, while the oil lamp still burned on his night table. He rubbed sleep-befuddled eyes and climbed out of bed. Padding over to the window, he pulled the curtain aside. The silvery glow of a full moon lit up the quadrangle; frost glittered on the grass below. Then he caught a slight movement. There, on the lawn. Someone standing, looking up, watching. That hat.

  Charters dropped the curtain, stepped back, and narrowly escaped losing his footing. Why the devil would Quintillus be out there in the middle of the night, staring up at his window?

  Charters shivered and retrieved his dressing gown from behind the door. He wrapped it around himself, glad of its woolen warmth. Returning to the window, he gently tweaked the curtain, hoping Quintillus wouldn’t see him. But he needn’t have worried. The quadrangle was empty.

  “Extraordinary,” he said out loud, and turned back to the room.

  Behind him, Charters heard a loud hiss. He turned and saw a cobra as it reared its head. He let out a cry. The snake hissed again, its forked tongue darting in and out of its mouth. The professor dared not move. Someone must have brought it in while he slept, but who would possess such a reptile? And why target him?

  Quintillus. He was vindictive enough. But Charters had given him what he asked for. Surely there could be no reason for the man to want to harm him. If he had refused, maybe, but not now.

  If not Quintillus, then who? And how could he dispose of this lethal snake?

  Its lithe movements gave the impression of dancing, its upper body swaying to some music only it could hear. Strangely beautiful, in a hypnotic way. If it hadn’t been so deadly.

  Taking care to avoid any jerky moves, Charters edged around the walls, keeping as far from the snake as possible. He reached his wardrobe and, never taking his eyes off the cobra, quietly turned the key. The door opened smoothly and the professor bent down, wishing his knees didn’t creak so loudly. The
snake continued its dance, but returned its adversary’s stare.

  Charters found what he was searching for. An antique samurai sword he had picked up in Japan years earlier. His mouth dry and his heart pounding, he slid it out of its scabbard. He would only get one chance at this. If that. As a student, Charters had won fencing competitions and played for his college at Oxford, but that had been forty years ago, and he had long since hung up his mask and sheathed his rapier.

  He put one tentative foot closer to the snake. The snake did not react. Maybe he could do this after all. He took another small step, and another. One more and he would be within striking distance. The cobra hissed. Sweat broke out on Charters’s forehead. The palm of his right hand felt clammy against the sword hilt. He gripped it hard. Mustn’t lose his nerve. He and the cobra stared at each other. Charters prayed the sword was still as sharp as he remembered. The snake must be a good ten feet long, more than half its body coiled. He would need to kill it with one fast strike or it would have him. On his travels, Charters had encountered a number of species of snake. If he was to succeed in killing this one, he needed to distract it. He untied his dressing gown and shrugged it off, moving the sword into his left hand as he did so. The snake’s upper body tilted forward and Charters instinctively stepped back.

  He moistened dry lips and gritted his teeth. Concentrating hard on making every move silent and nonthreatening, he slowly placed the dressing gown on the floor. The cobra followed his movements with its eyes and focused on the discarded robe.

  Now. It must be now.

  Using both hands, Charters raised the sword high above him and slammed it down hard on the cobra’s neck as the creature struck. Its head flew to the floor, blood gushing from the wound. Charters dropped the bloody sword and sank down on the bed, panting.

  It took him ten minutes before he could summon the strength to stand and find cloths to mop up the gory carpet, and an old bag to dispose of the remains.

  Half an hour later, he had cleaned the room and packed up the snake, ready for disposal in the morning. Charters checked his door. Locked. He turned the key, opened the door, closed it, and locked it again. He shivered, a combination of the chill in the room and his own fears. If the door had been locked, how had Quintillus—assuming it was him—gained access?