The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  ‘She was definitely carrying an evening bag,’ I replied. ‘It was very small, a tiny thing, like a doll’s almost.’ I stopped. I’d been slow but suddenly I’d understood the reason – the only possible reason – for these questions. ‘It was… very pretty.’ My voice faltered. ‘It had embroidery on it, something that sparkled and – and – I can’t remember if she was wearing jewellery.’

  ‘I can.’ Frances reached for my hand and squeezed it. ‘I remember exactly. She was wearing earrings made of priceless Burmese rubies, and a beautiful ring that matched, a square one. They came from Cartier. I recognised them because I’d seen them before, and she’d told me they were a wedding present from her husband, Mr d’Erlanger.’

  ‘Most interesting.’ El-Deeb made a small note. In a casual tone, he added: ‘Wedding ring? Was she also wearing her wedding ring?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake… ’ Urquhart burst out. He threw up his hands and turned to stare mutinously at the wall opposite.

  ‘A small point,’ El-Deeb said, with a cold glance. ‘It is the small points that speak. I pay them the closest attention, always. I advise you to do the same. So, Miss Payne, Miss Winlock: the wedding ring – was this a detail you noticed?’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Frances confirmed, as I shook my head. ‘When we were in her room that evening, I noticed her wedding ring. Mrs d’Erlanger wanted to give us presents when we left and she asked us to choose something pretty from her dressing table. The ring was there, lying on the table, next to some scent bottles, and under––’

  ‘Was that unusual? Did Mrs d’Erlanger not make it a habit to wear that marriage ring?’

  ‘She hadn’t worn it while she was in Cairo, no. But she put it on that night – and I saw her do it. She gave us our presents, and then she noticed the ring. It was underneath a swansdown powder puff and when that was moved, she suddenly saw it. She gave a little cry and said, “Oh – so that’s where you’ve been hiding!” She snatched it up and put it on, and she – she winked at Wheeler. And then we left.’

  I stared at Frances in astonishment. How observant she was. How much she noticed that I missed. I wasn’t sure if she’d understood the purport of these questions: her expression was unreadable. El-Deeb bent over his notes and wrote. A silence ensued, during which Lieutenant Urquhart showed signs of mounting consternation. He wriggled in his seat, coloured hotly and eventually burst out: ‘Look here, I’d just like it on the record: in my opinion we’re galloping straight down a cul-de-sac. This ring, that ring – what difference can it possibly make? Poor Poppy wasn’t––’ He broke off. ‘I just jolly well don’t see any possible relevance. I object to this line of questioning. And I want that formally noted on the files, El-Deeb.’

  El-Deeb made a mark in the margin of the page. ‘Duly noted,’ he replied. ‘And – let us agree to disagree, Lieutenant Urquhart – the information is germane. Miss Winlock is an excellent witness. Truly an archaeologist’s daughter,’ he continued, with a bow of the head to Frances. ‘She understands the importance of the substrata. She does not just examine the surface, oh no, she examines the information that lies hidden beneath. She examines it,’ he paused magisterially, ‘and then she allows it to speak to us.’

  He looked intently, first at Frances and then at me. His expression became less severe, and for a moment I thought he might relent and explain; the possibility seemed to cross his mind. He hesitated and then said: ‘This is hard for you both. You are young, and I can see you find these questions alarming. I apologise. I am doing what I came here to do, and I hope in due course you will understand that.

  ‘As you will have gathered,’ he continued in a cautious way, ‘there are – concerns as to where Mrs d’Erlanger went, and what happened to her after she left Shepheard’s Hotel that night. I should stress, no time has been wasted, no stone left unturned. Lord Carnarvon informed the Cairo police of Mrs d’Erlanger’s absence within a day. He also alerted his friends at the British Residency… and initially no one was greatly alarmed. Mrs d’Erlanger had a history of such sudden and unexplained departures, it seemed. Enquiries were made, and this took time, cables had to be sent, letters written… When none of the many friends and family Lord Carnarvon contacted proved able to explain her whereabouts, and when police enquiries met a similar blank wall, it became clear that Mrs d’Erlanger’s disappearance might, after all, give cause for alarm.

  ‘In recent days,’ El-Deeb continued, exchanging a glance with Urquhart, ‘there have been certain developments – I will say no more than that. They indicate Mrs d’Erlanger may possibly have met with an accident. That possibility remains to be confirmed. At the present moment, we continue to hope that your friend will be found safe and well.’ He flashed a reassuring smile. ‘Meanwhile, the details as to what she was wearing, and her – demeanour that night are vital to establish. So if I may just be completely certain: in your recollection, that was the only jewellery Mrs d’Erlanger was wearing? No necklace or brooch? No bracelets? No wristwatch?’

  ‘No, none,’ Frances replied in a flat voice.

  ‘And, finally, was there anything else that was notable about Mrs d’Erlanger’s behaviour or appearance that evening? Anything, however small, that struck you?’

  ‘She was very worried about what to wear that night,’ I said, after a pause. ‘It seemed to matter a great deal to her. She was nervous. Excited.’

  ‘She was wearing scarlet lipstick,’ Frances said; she cleared her throat. ‘Bright scarlet. Might that be important?’

  ‘Ah. Lipstick.’ El-Deeb exchanged a glance with Urquhart, and for once both men seemed in accord: it was a glance of understanding and sympathy. Urquhart buried his face in his hands. El-Deeb shook his head and bent over his notebook. ‘A very valuable piece of information,’ he said gently, and without looking up. ‘I shall certainly make a note of it, Miss Winlock. And now, I need detain you and your friend no longer.’

  That was the end of our interview. There were no further questions or reassurances – and no further explanation was proffered by either El-Deeb or Urquhart. By then, neither Frances nor I was expecting one.

  When we left, we found Frances’s parents were waiting for us. They sent us ahead to Miss Mack’s room, where they said they would join us. Halfway down the stairs, which were crowded as always with hotel guests, Frances caught me by the hand, and drew me aside; we fled into a quiet, deserted corridor. We came to a halt in a window embrasure overlooking the Nile; below, the ferryboat was about to depart; a whistle sounded.

  ‘When did you know?’ Frances said fiercely.

  ‘When I began describing Poppy’s handbag. Then. As soon as I said how small it was.’

  ‘I knew then too. That exact same moment.’ She turned away.

  ‘They’ve found her, I think. That’s why he asked all those questions about her clothes.’

  Frances did not reply. She was staring out of the window at the river below, her face chalk white and her expression fixed. I still wasn’t sure how much she’d understood, so I said quietly: ‘Poppy’s dead, Frances. I think she must be dead. Cairo isn’t safe, especially at night. Everyone said that. There must have been some terrible accident. Maybe they haven’t confirmed her identity yet, but —’

  ‘I know she’s dead.’ Frances continued to stare fixedly at the river below. ‘We’ll never see Poppy or speak to her again. When she left the dining room that night, when she gave that toss of the head and walked out – that was the last time. And neither of us knew.’ She took a deep breath. ‘She was magnificent then, Lucy. All those hateful people in the dining room staring at her – and she was so brave and defiant. I shall always remember her like that. I’m glad they’ve found her in that dress, with her wedding jewels and her red lipstick. Looking beautiful. As she always did.’

  I couldn’t bring myself to reply. I was thinking of the two weeks that had passed, of the fierce Egyptian heat. If Poppy had died that same night, or the following day, and, given the questions as to her clothe
s, I thought she must have done, then this image of her was sadly wrong. How strange that Frances, so knowledgeable as to embalming, the preservation of bodies and the ancient ways of death, should be mistaken now. I could imagine, only too well, why it might be taking time to confirm Poppy’s identity.

  ‘We’d better go back, Frances,’ I said gently. ‘Otherwise they’ll come looking for us.’

  Frances did not move, or look around. ‘Our spells worked too. I knew they would. I asked Isis and Nephthys to bring Poppy back. Without delay. And they did it that very same day… ’ She hesitated. ‘Just not in the way we expected, Lucy. But then I guess the gods are like that.’

  I was thinking that if Frances’s gods were given to that kind of trickery, I’d avoid them in future: they’d get no more sacrifices from me. How stupid to get caught up in Frances’s schemes: to steal pages from a book, to bury them in the desert; to invoke the powers of gods who’d never existed, gods I didn’t believe in anyway. Frances had made these actions seem meaningful, but now I saw them for what they were: a foolish game, childish delusions. I thought of the story Carter had told us the previous day, of Carnarvon’s seance, and a stream of words that might have been a warning. There could be no such warnings, I decided, because there were no gods to make them. I’d felt the presence of gods, of something, when I’d explored the tombs, but that too was an illusion.

  I knew it would hurt Frances and provoke a storm of tears if I said that, so I stayed silent. After an interval, Frances stepped away from the window and gave herself a queer little shake. Looking at her bright, set face, I realised that, as always, she was moving on to the next challenge, the next task; and, as always, she was leaving me behind her, sick at heart, in a maze of uncertainties.

  ‘I guess we’d better go, Lucy,’ she said. ‘They’ll be waiting for us. I wonder what half-truths they’ll come up with next? They’re letting us down gently. They mean well, I know that. We all meant well, you and I, Lord Carnarvon and Eve and Mr Carter – we all acted for the best. It doesn’t matter what they say to us now, anyway. By hook or by crook, we’ll discover the truth, won’t we, Lucy?’

  ‘I expect so. Eventually.’

  ‘Oh, sooner than that. I shall find out – or you will. And whoever does it first has to tell the other at once. Promise me, Lucy.’

  ‘Of course – if I can. But I’m leaving next week, Frances.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! As if that matters! I shall write you every week, and you’ll write me. Look how close we are!’ She grabbed my hand and pressed it between hers. ‘That close. Distance won’t make the least difference. I love you dearly, Lucy. Maybe not quite as much as my mother and father, but next. Even more than Poppy – and I loved her a lot. So whatever we find out, we share it. From now on until the day we die, there will be no secrets between us. Give me your solemn word.’

  I looked at Frances’s intent, urgent face. Her bright gaze held mine. I was wary of her schemes, of her capacity to recover and move on, but how could I refuse her? Only one person had ever expressed love for me before then, and she was gone. And so, hugging her to me, I told Frances that she was my dearest friend too. I promised, as she did, that we’d never keep a secret from each other and would share all truths – including the truth as to Poppy d’Erlanger, should that emerge. We clasped hands and thus what Frances called the sacred ‘pact’ was made.

  ‘Why do we have to call it a pact?’ I protested belatedly, as we returned to the stairs; Frances’s heightened language, her love for high-flown terms, both thrilled and alarmed me. We turned along the corridor to Miss Mack’s room. Faint voices were audible behind its closed door. ‘Why can’t we say something ordinary, like “agreement”?’

  ‘Oh, Lucy, has Egypt taught you nothing? “Pact” sounds much better,’ Frances replied. ‘And it means more.’

  Knowing Frances’s skills, I expected she would be the one to discover the truth, but I was wrong. I discovered it, a week later.

  By then, the arrangements for our journey back to England had been adjusted. Miss Mack had learned that Rose and Peter’s father was demanding their immediate return home. They had been told, as we had, that their mother might have met with an accident, that there were reasons to be anxious on her behalf. Small hints had been dropped that Poppy might not be returning for a long, long time, and that therefore they must travel back to England without her. Their father had sent wires to Lord Carnarvon in which he made it clear he expected them to set forth at once, on the next available boat, with Wheeler as escort; he would meet them at Dover.

  When Miss Mack discovered this, first from a tearful Eve, then from an indignant Wheeler, she was outraged. ‘Lord Strathaven’ became a name she refused to pronounce; from then onwards, he was that man. Outwitting that man, compensating as best she could for his deficiencies as a father and his abject failures as a human being, became her obsession. She could speak of nothing else – and I had never admired her more than the afternoon on which she returned triumphant from yet another skirmish at the Cook’s travel bureau to announce that the matter of Rose and Peter’s return was now settled. Their departure would be delayed by two days; our departure would be moved forward two days; as a result we would all leave Egypt together. We would take the same boats, the same trains, and with the assistance of Lord Carnarvon, who’d wired contacts at the train and shipping companies on our behalf, we were all to be accommodated in comfortable berths, at every stage of the long journey.

  ‘And I hope that teaches that man a lesson!’ she declared. ‘Alexandria to Marseilles – a four-day crossing, and he expected Wheeler to travel third class! Imagine: those two poor bewildered children, all alone on one deck, and Wheeler down in the bowels of the ship somewhere. I can tell you, Lucy, I’ve learned a very great deal on this journey of ours, and never again shall I be taken in by an English gentleman. Some merit that title, and some, my dear, do not. And I’ve had just about enough of his American counterparts too. At first I’d felt that you and I might economise, dear. But then I thought of those high-handed, hard-hearted Emersons and Stocktons – and I remembered you’d need to be near Rose and Peter, because you’re a comfort to them, Lucy, and little Peter adores you… and, well, I just decided, there and then. I threw caution to the winds, and did it.’ Coming to a halt, inspecting my face, she hesitated: ‘I did do the right thing, didn’t I, Lucy?’

  ‘Absolutely the right thing. Truly, Miss Mack. You’ve done everything, and more, that I could have wanted.’

  ‘And you won’t mind leaving a little earlier, Lucy? You’re sure?’ She looked at me intently. ‘I know you’re reluctant to leave. I know how close you and Frances have become – and I expect there are many uncertainties, even anxieties in your mind about returning home, and how it will be, there in Cambridge, without your dear––’

  ‘No, no, no,’ I said, knowing I must stop her at once. ‘Two days makes no difference. And anyway, Frances and I were prepared – we shall write to each other.’

  ‘Sure you will.’ Miss Mack was attuned to me now: she planted a kiss on my brow, and with no further mention of Cambridge or my father or my future, for which mercy I silently blessed her, announced that the sooner we started packing, the better.

  We took the night train to Cairo two days later; Lord Carnarvon and Eve, Frances and her parents came to see us off. They all kept saying how much they would miss us, how we’d meet again soon, how we must return to Egypt… Fortunately there was no need to reply: Peter, overwhelmed by yet another departure, burst into tears, so Rose and I could be occupied in soothing him.

  From Cairo, we took a train straight on to Alexandria and embarked on the Berenice, an ageing but still glamorous paquebot. We sailed at noon, Miss Mack pointing out the sights she remembered from her time there in the war, and the hospital where she’d nursed the wounded men evacuated from Gallipoli. There was a strong onshore wind, and as soon as we were beyond the harbour, the seas became choppy. Within an hour, Miss Mack, greenish of co
mplexion, announced that it was undeniably rough, and she would retire to her cabin. She was followed, soon afterwards, by most of the other passengers; the decks emptied. Wheeler, Rose, Peter and I held out until, unwisely, tea was risked. Peter took one look at the cakes, hiccuped, and was copiously sick; through clenched teeth, Rose announced she might be dying.

  Wheeler whisked them away, and I was left alone. I wandered through the staterooms, which were deserted, and out onto the empty decks. From the stern, Egypt was invisible, left far behind; from the bows, I could see nothing beyond a wall of cloud. I did not feel seasick, or dizzy; no smoky typhoid uncertainties clouded my mind. I just felt alone, on a brilliantly lit ghost ship, sailing to nowhere.

  I walked the port deck, then the starboard, and after a long while, when it was absolutely dark at sea, without stars or moon, I sat down on one of the steamer chairs and stared at the invisible horizon. Someone had left the Morning Post, an English-language Cairo newspaper, on the chair; I picked it up. The wind kept riffling the pages, so I took it back to my cabin with the fixed intention of reading every word of every column: then, as now, reading was the best cure I knew for affliction.

  I lay on my narrow cabin bed and continued reading where I’d left off: a long account of the declaration of independence for Egypt, issued on behalf of the British government by Lord Allenby the previous day, 28 February. As the ship rolled and pitched, I read through the comments from English diplomats and Wafd Party nationalists, beginning at last to understand that uneasy scene between Lieutenant Urquhart and Mr El-Deeb – when that interview took place, the transfer of power had been just a week away. I turned to the second page, and the third, which seemed to suggest that this transfer was partial at best, attended by scores of muddling provisos. The British would retain control of the Canal Zone, the army, of the Sudan, of… I turned the page, and there opposite was a large photograph of Poppy d’Erlanger. It was a recent picture, one that captured the woman as she was then, and as I still remember her. A speaking glance straight to the lens: unforgettable eyes, a half-smile, and an air of hastening away somewhere.