If he noticed, Mr. Fairbrother was immune. “Save me any muffins, Figgy?” he asked her cheerfully as he seated himself.
“Only one. Choke on it and die,” she said, tossing the breadstuff. It landed, buttered side down, on his lap, and he shied. Figgy laughed, the first genuine expression of pleasure I had seen out of her since our arrival. Lady Tiverton pressed her lips together in a line of disapproval, but Sir Leicester merely joined in her laughter.
“Figgy, you are such a pip,” he told her.
Figgy was badly spoilt, I corrected silently, but I turned instead to Mr. Fairbrother. “What, precisely, does a philologist do?” I inquired. He paused a moment to retrieve the muffin from his trousers and drop his handkerchief discreetly over the butter stain.
I knew exactly what a philologist did, but it had long been my experience that most men love nothing better than to talk about themselves, so I kept my mouth shut and my eyes wide as he launched into a lengthy explanation of his duties and fed bits of the buttered muffin to Nut, who gazed at him in rapt adoration. When he finished his little monologue, I made suitable noises of appreciation.
“How fortunate for you to be part of such a successful expedition,” I told him. “Was it your first trip to Egypt?”
“It was my second, actually, and I certainly hope it was not my last,” he replied.
“Then you’d better find a new digestive system,” Figgy warned. “You spent half the season in the privy.”
Mr. Fairbrother blushed again, but before he could react, Sir Leicester bellowed.
“Iphigenia!” Her father had at last reached his limit. He straightened in his chair, his color nearly apoplectic. “If you cannot act like a lady, you will remove yourself to your room.”
“Gladly,” she said, rising from her hassock. With grave courtesy, she handed the toasting fork to Stoker. “Good afternoon,” she said politely, inclining her head with all the imperiousness of a duchess. The dog Nut rose and followed her, ears pricked like a crown.
“Good afternoon, Miss Tiverton,” he said, rising once more to his feet and giving her a little nod of salutation.
Mr. Fairbrother kept to his chair, ducking his head and reaching for a sandwich as Lady Tiverton offered us a wan smile. “I must apologize. My stepdaughter is a trifle high-spirited at times.”
“Like a purebred filly,” Sir Leicester said with grudging approval. “Although I thought she would have learnt a little better to behave in company by this time.”
“She only wants understanding,” Lady Tiverton told her husband.
“She wants whipping,” her father countered swiftly. “But I’ve never had the heart to do it.”
“Her resentment is natural,” Mr. Fairbrother said quietly. “She feels I have usurped her place, and I cannot blame her for that.”
“Patrick.” Sir Leicester’s voice was sharp, but Fairbrother merely waved a reassuring hand.
“She feels displaced by my very presence, and why wouldn’t she? You have taken me in and treated me like a son. If I were Figgy, I’d do far worse than put a frog in my bed and oil of figs in my soup.”
“Did she really?” I asked.
Patrick Fairbrother’s smile was wry and entirely charming. “The oil of figs, yes. I cannot prove the frog. It might have hopped in of its own accord. It was Egypt, after all.”
I grinned in reply.
Sir Leicester made a sort of tutting sound. “Listen to us, running away with ourselves! You’ve no interest in our little family dramas. You’ve come to hear about the curse,” he said, giving us a knowing look. He held up a hand. “I do not blame you. It is the story of the decade—of the century, perhaps! Where would you like to begin?”
He looked from Stoker to me, and I smiled sweetly. “With the disappearance of John de Morgan.”
Sir Leicester’s florid complexion suffused with red, but Lady Tiverton was more composed. She made a sympathetic noise. “Such a dreadful business. I am very sorry for Mrs. de Morgan. At least . . . I would like to be.”
“You suspect her of aiding her husband in the theft of the diadem?” I suggested.
“Not a bit!” Sir Leicester said.
“My husband and I are not of one mind,” Lady Tiverton explained.
Sir Leicester shook his head. “I will not have such stories put about,” he said firmly. “We’ve no proof Caroline de Morgan is complicit in the theft.”
Lady Tiverton’s gaze rested indulgently on him. “My husband will not admit that ladies are capable of villainous acts,” she said.
“But you will?” I ventured.
Her expression was serious. “I have seen enough of the world to know that women can scratch and claw and fight just as fiercely as men for what they want. Perhaps more.”
“Indeed,” I said. But Sir Leicester shook his head again, like a grizzled lion shaking off the buzz of an unpleasant idea.
“No, Mrs. de Morgan is worth our pity for her husband’s actions, but not our suspicion,” he insisted.
“You are certain, then, that John de Morgan stole the princess’ diadem?” I asked.
Lady Tiverton gave a firm nod. “Of course he did.” Her husband did not appear as certain. His look was distinctly uncomfortable.
“Careful, poppet. We don’t want to open ourselves to libel.”
Lady Tiverton’s little sigh seemed tinged with exasperation, but she concealed it well. “I think you mean slander, my love. But it is difficult. We know what we believe. However, speaking it openly is, as my husband says, a dangerous thing. And the police simply do not seem to care,” she added, spreading her hands. They were long and slender, unadorned save for a slim gold ring upon the fourth finger of her left hand.
“What have they told you?” I asked.
Sir Leicester puffed himself up again. “Precious little! The Dover police were less than uselesss. They mishandled questioning Mrs. de Morgan badly. They sent out notices to the ports, but what does that do for getting back my crown?” he demanded.
Lady Tiverton put a quelling hand to her husband’s arm. “Scotland Yard seem to have given up,” she said simply. “Mrs. de Morgan refuses to speak with them further, and she cannot be compelled. Of course, the Metropolitan Police cannot spare the men to watch every port. There are far worse crimes than the theft of a single jewel. Ours must seem like a very frivolous sort of crime—the loss of a crown! What is that compared to the murders and assaults they must contend with daily?”
Put like that, it seemed entirely reasonable that Scotland Yard would have thrown up their hands after a cursory investigation.
Stoker, who had remained silent during our conversation, suddenly broke in. “What about you, Mr. Fairbrother? Do you think de Morgan and his wife stole the diadem?”
Because he was startled at the abrupt inquiry, Mr. Fairbrother’s hand jerked, spilling watercress into his lap. “Good Gad,” he said with a rueful laugh. “That’s two butter stains in a quarter of an hour. These trousers will never come clean.” He lifted his head. “Apologies, ladies, for the language. As to your question, Mr. Templeton-Vane, I do not know what to think except that it is certainly incriminating that the fellow disappears at precisely the same time as the most valuable jewel in the tomb goes missing. Whether his wife aided or was his dupe cannot, in the end, matter. The fact is, John is gone and so is the diadem, and the police are doing precious little to find either of them.”
Lady Tiverton broke in. “Perhaps you would like to see the diadem.” She rose and went to the writing table, carrying back a portfolio. “We have a sketch of it. We would have preferred a photograph, but I am afraid Mr. de Morgan was not an experienced photographer. There were few usable plates from his work.” Lady Tiverton opened the portfolio and extracted a large sheet of paper.
“Why so?” I inquired.
“Troubles with the equipment, exposed plates, mis
sing chemicals. It’s a miracle we got any plates at all,” Sir Leicester said.
“To what do you attribute the troubles?” Stoker inquired.
Patrick Fairbrother spread his hands in an expressive gesture. “No one knows. But the locals said it was the handiwork of the mummy of Princess Ankheset.”
“The curse,” I said, taking the page from Lady Tiverton. I held it so that Stoker could examine it at the same time. The drawing was well executed, tidy and draftsmanlike, with strict attention to detail and no flourishes save a gentle wash of color where appropriate. “The Diadem of the Princess Ankheset of the Eighteenth Dynasty” was written in neat capitals at the bottom, along with the date of the find, but it was the jewel itself that demanded our attention. It was a slender crown, graceful in its sinuous curves. A circlet formed the base and an arch of gold ran from the foundation at the center of the back to the front, ending in three sculpted golden animal heads—a vulture flanked by gazelles. A series of stiff ribbons fashioned from gold hung from the circlet; along the length of one ribbon, a cartouche had been engraved, a long oval surrounding a group of hieroglyphics—the lady’s name and titles, no doubt—and the whole crown was fitted with jewels. Below the drawing of the diadem, a brief paragraph described the gems as carnelian, jasper, and lapis lazuli.
“The vulture is the goddess Nekhbet, who spreads her wings over upper Egypt,” Lady Tiverton explained. “While the gazelles were symbolic of Anuket, goddess of the cataracts of the Nile. Taken together, the crown symbolizes the protection of the source of the Nile, the foundation of all life in Egypt. Our princess was a very high-ranking lady indeed.”
“It is spectacular,” I told her truthfully.
“And priceless,” Sir Leicester said, rubbing his hands fretfully. “Of all the pieces he might have taken . . .” He let his voice trail off suggestively, but I understood. All those years of digging in Egypt with halfhearted results, only to strike gold, quite literally, in the form of a princess’ tomb—and then to have the most precious object taken from it. It reminded me of the time my net split just as I brought it down upon a Rajah Brooke’s Birdwing in Sumatra. It was the first and only time I ever encountered one in the wild, and I mourned for it still. The blow of losing the coronet must have been a serious one to Sir Leicester, and I felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for him.
I said as much and he was silent a moment, clearly caught in a reverie. His wife gave a gentle cough, and he shook his head, recovering himself. “Ah, yes, as you say, quite a blow indeed. But not as serious as losing the mummy would have been,” he added swiftly. “Nothing matters as much as the princess herself.” He nodded to the closed door behind him, and Stoker and I exchanged glances.
“You have her here?” Stoker asked.
“I certainly do! I wouldn’t even let her be shipped through a commercial line with the rest of the grave goods,” he said with a touch of proprietary pride. “I brought her privately out of Egypt. She traveled with us every step of the way from Cairo to Dover, and she will not be out of my care until her sarcophagus and all her treasures are displayed next week.”
He rummaged through a sheaf of papers on the blotter on his writing desk before thrusting a piece of card at us. It was an invitation to the Tiverton Exhibition at Karnak Hall on the first of March. The exhibition would feature the finds from Princess Ankheset’s tomb, highlighted by the displaying of the lady’s sarcophagus. A note at the bottom indicated that admittance was by invitation only.
“You are both welcome to attend,” he said graciously. “We have chosen the most auspicious date for the affair—the first of March, known to ancient Egyptians as the Going Forth of Khepri, the date when the scarab god rolls forth the sun and all is reborn. It will be quite a spectacle. Once the private exhibition is finished, we shall open the collection to the public for a short while before the artifacts are to be offered for sale,” he explained. “It will give the common man a chance to elevate his entertainments.”
I deliberately avoided Stoker’s gaze, but I suspected he was repressing laughter. Sir Leicester was the oddest mix of bombastic high spirits and good cheer. Compared to the cool serenity of his wife, he seemed an elderly schoolboy. “This exhibition will be my crowning achievement. Lady Tiverton is even writing a book upon the subject,” he added with a warm look of marital pride at his wife.
She put up her hands. “Oh, no, you mustn’t call it a book,” she protested. “It is only a little pamphlet upon the history of the Eighteenth Dynasty, a sort of introduction to the period for those who are unfamiliar with it. It will be a modest effort at best, nothing like the scholarly books written by the first Lady Tiverton,” she finished.
I held up the invitation card with a smile. “How very kind of you to invite us. I was not certain how we would be received today, given our current task, but you have been nothing but gracious, Sir Leicester.”
“Current task?” Lady Tiverton asked quickly.
I held the smile as I turned to her. “Yes. You see, we are investigating the disappearance of John de Morgan.”
Making a dramatic pronouncement is akin to pitching a stone into a still pond. There is silence, but the ripples are perfectly apparent.
Sir Leicester’s dark gaze rested upon us, the eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Lady Wellie’s letter of introduction said that you were interested in Egyptology.”
“Lady Wellie’s relationship with the truth is better described as a nodding acquaintance in this case,” I told him. “Mr. Templeton-Vane has an interest in discovering the whereabouts of Mr. de Morgan. If anyone can ascertain the truth, he can.”
“Templeton-Vane,” Lady Tiverton said slowly. “I knew I recognized the name. Now I remember . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes, I am also Caroline de Morgan’s former husband,” Stoker affirmed.
“All the more reason to take an interest in her welfare,” Lady Tiverton said, giving him a consoling smile. “It is a credit to your gentlemanly instincts that you intend to learn for her what happened to her present husband.”
Before I could point out that Stoker’s motivations were rather more self-interested than that, he gave her ladyship a gracious nod. “As you say. But, while we may have inflicted ourselves upon you under less-than-honest pretenses, certainly you can appreciate the merit of having this little mystery cleared away.”
“Little!” Patrick Fairbrother’s hands were fists upon his knees. “If you can locate John de Morgan, it will be a greater find than Princess Ankheset’s tomb.”
Sir Leicester nodded slowly. “Yes, I have to agree with Patrick. We would like to know what became of John.”
“And recover the princess’ diadem,” I added.
To his credit, he did not protest. “Certainly. I will not balk at the truth, Miss Speedwell. I have written off de Morgan as a common thief, and if I never see the fellow again, it will be too soon. But I would very much like to have my diadem back.”
I smiled. “Then we are natural allies. If we find de Morgan, no doubt we shall find your crown. And we shall do our best to recover both,” I promised him. “Now, is there anything you can add to what we have already read in the newspaper accounts?”
Sir Leicester’s mouth thinned. “You’ve seen The Daily Harbinger, then? Preposterous twaddle, all of it, concocted by that blackguard J. J. Butterworth, whoever he might be. The mummy’s curse indeed!”
“But the story of the curse has kept your expedition in the public eye,” I pointed out. “Naturally that will drive interest in the sale of the collection.”
His expression was stern. “My dear Miss Speedwell, one does not sell pieces of a collection like this for the purposes of making money.” He bit off the last word as if it tasted bitter. I flicked a glance to Patrick Fairbrother, who was pointedly saying nothing. Sir Leicester went on. “One sells only to kindred spirits, to those who have not the opportunity to travel to Egypt
to excavate, but who live and breathe antiquities as we do. The interest of the general public is something we do not court,” he finished loftily.
Patrick Fairbrother ate the last of the sandwiches. “Apart from the accidents and the misfortunes we have endured, it is a thorough nuisance, this curse,” he said. “It is the entire reason we left Egypt so early.”
“The tale of the curse began there?” Stoker inquired.
“It shouldn’t have,” Lady Tiverton said quickly. “Excavations in Egypt are arduous things. There are always complications—illnesses, accidents, delays. But this particular expedition seemed to have more than its fair share. And unfortunately, the mummy itself seemed to supply a reason.”
Patrick Fairbrother leant forwards. “You see, the tomb we discovered is not intact and it does not even belong to Princess Ankheset. To be strictly correct, it isn’t even a tomb. It is a sliver of a cave, and nothing more. Usually Theban tombs in the Valley of the Kings are elaborate affairs, with many chambers belowground, properly excavated from the rock and highly decorated. It takes years to prepare a royal burial properly. But our lady was discovered in a very small natural cave some forty feet above the nearest ledge.”
“How on earth did you manage to find her?” I asked. “It must have been like stumbling over a particularly elusive needle in an Egyptological haystack.”
Sir Leicester preened a little. “I was an accomplished climber once upon a time. I still like to keep my hand in, so to speak. The cliffs around the Valley of the Kings are treacherous beasts, crumbling and unsound, but I am careful, and I do like to get a bit of exercise. I happened to be climbing in a remote area of the Valley last year, a spot no one had ever excavated before. I stumbled upon what I thought was a mere crevice in the rock. A cursory glance showed that it was actually a proper cave, albeit a very small one. It occurred to me that it was the perfect sort of place to cache a hoard of goods. I poked my nose in a few inches and found a bit of pottery, just enough to convince me I was right.”
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