by C J Turner
She paused to look up at him reflectively, her hands full of toast. ‘It is a bit odd that this should happen to poor old Alex twice now. But he was away the first time, if it’s the same gang, what on earth could they be after, do you think?’
He stared at her blindly for a moment, but it was the vision of Meredith on the stairs looking down at him with such cool consideration (or was it calculation?) that he saw again with vivid clarity.
He shook his head irritably. ‘Fine, fine, have it your own way. I have no idea what they wanted, ask your protégé, I’m sure she could tell you! Do convey my abject apologies to the poor child for frightening her so, last night. Assure her that it won’t happen again!’.
He was on the point of sweeping out of the door when Meredith herself came, rather tentatively, into the room. ‘Oh, I am so sorry, I hope I didn’t frighten you!’ he ushered her in with exaggerated concern. ‘Alice, don’t forget I’m expecting Max to arrive late afternoon.’
They heard the study door slam and with mutual accord, Alice raised her eyes to the ceiling as Meredith pulled down the corners of her mouth in a comical grimace of mock alarm. Their laughter reached him in the study and scowling, the Professor slipped a CD into the player and pointedly turned the volume up.
Blake had got through most of his favourite recordings before Max Tregunna finally arrived later that day. The new player in the game was duly presented to Meredith before retiring to the study with his old friend. Blake issued sweeping instructions that a) they were not to be disturbed, b) a second guest bedroom was to be made up and c) Alice was not to bother to cook for Blake and Max that evening as they would be dining out at the Professor’s club.
As Alice had better things to do than a), had taken care of b) earlier, and had already foreseen c), she treated these directives with the contempt they deserved and retired tranquilly to the kitchen where she intended introducing Meredith to the mysteries of making marmalade.
‘Is that it?’ Meredith asked indignantly, as she struggled to come to grips with an orange zester. ‘I thought he was going to help me, this Max. How can he help me if I am here and he is in there and then they are going out to enjoy themselves?’
The morning had brought calmer counsel after her troubled night, now was not the time to lose her grip, she told herself sternly. She still had a job to do and her family to protect and that had to come first. Thanks to Blake’s inexplicable duplicity, she was now on her guard and very aware that she needed all the help she could get. Max seemed a distinct possibility; she had been warmed by his gentlemanly charm and punctilious courtesy, and appreciated the twinkle in his very blue eyes when they had first been introduced.
He was of slighter build than Blake and a few years older, but whereas Blake always had an air of disheveled rakishness about him, once described by an infatuated female journalist as a certain careless elegance, Max was habitually perfectly and correctly groomed. Although not as aggressively masculine as his friend, there was something very taking about Sir Max; he brought out the best in people and because he was never anything but a gentleman, women around him instinctively behaved like ladies. He had crisp, light brown hair and his mild blue eyes looked upon the world with kindness and a certain wry humour from a tanned and pleasantly refined face. A truly gentle man, one of his most attractive traits was his genuine warmth and charm of manner; Max was the original people person, he actually liked the human race!
Everyone like Max, men and women alike, and his friends or the people who claimed acquaintanceship with him were legion. Many of these were puzzled by the unlikely friendship between himself and Blake, for to all outward purposes the two men had nothing in common - except of course for their shared passion for the ancient past. However, as Blake had antagonised or offended many of his fellow archaeologists, this did not adequately explain his deep respect and affection for Max. Yet they were more alike than most people realized. Blake was impatient, often rude and had not the slightest interest in making a good impression on anyone. He also had a reputation for being a hard man where women were concerned, which was entirely justified, and simply added to his attraction.
Max was courteous, amiable and fastidious in his habits but he was also entirely self-indulgent and had never felt the least need to hamper himself with wife or child.
Neither man suffered an ounce of humbug, both deplored the mindless vulgarity of so much in the modern world and significantly, they both blithely shared the assumption that the usual rules governing civilised behaviour were a very good and necessary thing, but did not necessarily apply to them personally.
There was nothing, therefore, to interfere with Max Tregunna’s hedonistic life style, which he could well afford to gratify as the whim took him. Max had inherited a delightful sixteenth century manor house in the West Country with his barony and a very comfortable fortune to go with it. He was a highly respected authority on archaic languages and rather surprisingly, was reputed to be a crack shot with any sort of firearm you could name.
He now sat in intrigued and attentive silence as Blake recounted the events of the last few days; his interest turning to dismay and growing consternation as the account was brought right up to date, as at half an hour ago, when the police had telephoned Blake with interesting developments. Interesting, but not altogether surprising, at least not to the Professor.
‘But what makes you so sure?’ Max asked when Blake had finally finished.
‘I couldn’t be absolutely certain of course, but too many things have happened that can’t be put down to chance, and last night she changed. Her manner was different; I can’t explain how, she was suddenly more assured and let me tell you, she was not frightened, no matter what Alice says - more… not excited exactly but focused, intent, by God, yes – she could have been a different person, the cool way she explained herself to the police, didn’t turn a hair. But now in the light of old Bentley’s statement, overwrought and exaggerated I’ve no doubt, I’m putting two and two together…’
‘As long as you don’t come up with five, old chap and in any case, you still haven’t got an explanation for any this.’ Max interposed gently.
He looked at the other man thoughtfully. Privately, he was intrigued at the change in Blake, who was looking more animated in a rather wild and distracted way than he had been for some time. He seemed to have come to life, and Max was reminded of a younger Blake, fired up with passion and enthusiasm, in the days before the fire had turned to irascibility. The bored drawl and cool indifference had quite gone while he had been talking, but he also seemed inexplicably angry over something and like Alice, Max too wondered at the difference he perceived in his friend.
‘I’m hoping that’s where you might be of some assistance. You don’t think you were invited here for the sake of your ‘bleu yeux’, do you?’ The humour in Blake’s eyes belied the acerbic tone and Max answered in kind.
‘Well, as to that, she could turn out to be a remarkably attractive girl – beautiful even, I think we might find, when her bruises go down; but I would not want to cut you out, my dear chap - it wouldn’t be sporting.’
‘Huh, fat chance - if I was interested or shared your view, which I don’t. I thought, like me, you might be professionally interested, that’s all.’ Blake responded flatly.
‘Oh I am, I certainly am – you say you haven’t mentioned this language business to her yet, so we don’t know if she has an explanation?’
‘No, not since she left the hospital and I don’t think she was really taking in much that I said then. Also, I was waiting for your confirmation that I’m right and not just having a serious attack of wishful thinking!’
‘Well, I hope I can soon put you out if your misery! You said you wrote the words down phonetically, may I see them?’
‘Of course … Max, there has to be a connection with that bad business with the Safwans twelve years ago. She definitely spoke the name Menkheperne, not once but several times. And I’ve seen that scarab before, I kn
ow I have. The girl, whoever she is, has to be involved somehow. It can’t be a coincidence – I’m pretty sure now that she was on her way to see me when she had the accident, but she’s holding back now for some reason – I just wish to God I knew why she obviously doesn’t trust me!’
‘But surely, it’s because she can’t remember any of that, or why she needed to see you, if that were true – that’s self evident!’ Max protested.
‘Mmm, possibly. Convenient thing, amnesia!’ Then, more hurriedly, as Max looked as if he was inclined to argue the point. ‘Anyway, the police are coming round again. The car number plate which Meredith reported was a fake and they want to go over Bentley’s statement with her again.’
‘Unusual name that’, mused Max. ‘But attractive, it suits her. Wasn’t there a Dr. Meredith once, you . . .’
‘Rubbish, it is a ridiculous name, nothing whatsoever to do with me, all Alice’s fault,’ Blake interrupted shortly, ‘I told her to come up with something more appropriate, but of course she never takes any notice of anything I say. Now, come along Max, you cannot sit there gossiping all day – there’s the doorbell, that will be the police wanting to speak to Mer ... blast it … her again! Let’s go and let them in.’
A large eyed, wondering Meredith sat and listened to Mr. Bentley’s account of the events of last night, recounted in Sergeant Plummer’s pronounced Scottish burr, and her evident, gentle distress did her no harm at all in that rigidly conventional, serge-covered mind. The sergeant was a very different man from the two charming young patrolmen of the previous night, and she adjusted her manner accordingly, fully aware that Blake was watching her performance with openly amused, if ill timed, appreciation.
Her outward expression demure and at times horrified, inwardly, she was hardly able to conceal her relief. A man of strong, not to say, melodramatic imagination (Mr. Bentley that is, not the infinitely more phlegmatic Sergeant) he was obviously no stranger to a certain lurid type of romantic paperback. Meredith particularly liked the part where he described a spectral figure wrapped in a bloodstained shroud suddenly appearing through the solid French doors, illuminated by a ghastly green light that streamed from its eyes and from an outlandish pagan amulet it wore on its breast!
Meredith thought Mr Bentley’s account may have lost something in translation as delivered in the Sergeant’s monotonous and carefully de-sensationalised tones, but was still somewhat amused that her rough and ready stratagem had succeeded so well – one might say, almost too well. She stirred uneasily, sensing Blake’s sardonic gaze resting speculatively on her attentively poised head as she gratifyingly strove to hang on the dour policeman’s every word.
It had seemed to Alex Bentley that the sight of this monstrous apparition had apparently utterly unmanned his assailants, and when it had further addressed them in an incomprehensible language, they had fled for their lives. At that stage Mr. Bentley had been similarly afflicted and had passed clean out, overcome by an experience totally beyond his comprehension.
He could offer no explanation for any of this and was completely at a loss as to why he had been attacked in the first place, but it seemed definite that they were the same gang who had broken into the house a few weeks before, as there was a fingerprint match.
No one seemed to notice the girl’s slight intake of breath at this point. Her mind rapidly backed tracked, she had only touched the talcum powder and a lipstick upstairs, and the electricity switch in the kitchen, and had used a towel on all three. She gave a tiny, imperceptible sigh of relief. (It was not until much later, that she remembered she had also turned the electricity back on – with her bare hand.)
However that was for the future, in the meantime, Mr Bentley had stated that the gang had seemed to be searching for something specific and had ignored his other valuables. When they did not find whatever they were looking for, they had turned their attention to him. Thankfully, they were interrupted before they had really got going.
The shocked and bewildered man was going to join his wife in Bath until the police had caught the thugs responsible. He had sent a personal message to Meredith, conveying his deep gratitude for her timely action and had promised to call on her personally when he was allowed out of hospital. (Actually he never did, his wife and daughter insisting that he stayed with them in Bath without returning to the house until the mystery was cleared up.) He did send an enormous bouquet of exquisite flowers to her, with a very touching note, which Alice thoughtfully saved for her, as by the time the flowers arrived, Meredith herself had gone.
‘My goodness, but how very strange!’ she now exclaimed at the end of the sergeant’s peroration, and an extraordinary story it was, even delivered as it had been in the policeman’s flat and unemotional style.
The Sergeant agreed with her but he was a painstaking man and something was puzzling him.
‘This here necklace that Mr Bentley describes, he says he saw it clearly and that the centrepiece was a scarab – can you tell me what exactly he meant by that, sir?
Max, observing the look on Blake’s face, stepped in smoothly.
‘The scarab was a sacred symbol to the ancient Egyptians,’ he explained, and then elaborated as the Sergeant’s frown deepened, ‘You see, they observed scarab beetles pushing balls of dung in front of them to make a nest for their larvae, and saw a parallel with Khepri, the god of transformations, who pushes the sun across the sky. Each day the sun disappeared, always to rise again and be reborn the following day. So for them, the scarab became a symbol for rebirth, and a scarab amulet would be buried with the dead to ensure the rebirth of the deceased in the afterlife.’
‘Hmmph, dung …’ murmered Sergeant Plummer, laboriously writing this down in his little notebook, ‘Beetles, you say,’ he said doubtfully, ‘Nasty things - well, it takes all sorts.’
‘But you yourself, miss, you saw nothing of any of this?’ he persisted stolidly, turning back to Meredith, ‘You are sure you did not see anyone else enter the house, or perhaps hanging around outside at about this time?’
‘No, I’m sure I didn’t. But it seems so fantastic, do you think perhaps that when Mr. Bentley fell and hit his head, he might have hallucinated all these things? Head injuries can have odd effects sometimes, you know.’
She looked intently at the doubtful Sergeant, nodding her curly head wisely. He leaned towards her and nodded slowly in agreement, his habitual mistrustful expression softening as he stared spell bound into those beautiful, so innocently beautiful eyes.
‘Well, you would know, my dear!’ the Professor interjected unpleasantly, abruptly derailing this gratifying new concord.
The suddenly wary policeman straightened up shaking his head slightly as if to dispel some lingering enchantment, and his expression hardened again as he took in her immediate confusion.
Meredith shrugged a disgusted shoulder in Blake’s direction but the damage was done. She had blushed a deep and becoming dusky pink, but before the now thoroughly suspicious arm of the law confronting them could say a word, the Professor suddenly became very busy and attentive, pointing out that Meredith was still in very delicate health and was really in no fit state to continue this interview.
The sergeant could see for himself that she was very flushed and was obviously getting feverish again. Blake swept the stolid policeman to the door, assuring him that if she remembered anything further, they would be sure to telephone him immediately. Sergeant Plummer glanced dubiously over his shoulder at the young lady but found that she had retreated behind a large handkerchief thoughtfully handed to her by Sir Maxwell. The older woman, who had begrudgingly let him in (pointedly telling him to wipe his shoes before admitting him into the drawing room),was now glaring accusingly in his direction, and indicated with a terse jerk of her head that he could take himself off. Thoroughly demoralised, he found himself ushered smoothly out of the house and back to his car before he had time to collect his thoughts.
A strange case and a rum household to be sure, the Sergeant
could not quite work them out, but at least he had the reassurance of knowing exactly where he could lay his hand on them, should any further questions occur to him. Unlike Mr Bentley’s ghost, they were not likely to disappear into thin air; he smiled comfortably to himself at his little joke, and drove sedately back to the station.
When Blake came back to the drawing room, Meredith had already disappeared up to her room to have a lie down. She was very upset by the sergeant’s disturbing account, Alice told him and the best thing they could do for the poor child was to let her rest. Blake curled his lip, but said nothing and presently he and Max went out and Alice went back to the kitchen to watch some television, while she finished putting the labels on the marmalade, now cool and glistening like liquid amber in several glass jars.
The house relaxed and settled down to quiet. Up in her room, the girl called Meredith hugged herself in glee. She had pulled off a coup against all the odds, and now she would have to move very quickly indeed. It could only be a matter of time before Mustaf and his men realized that they had been tricked.
The moment she had seen his swarthy countenance from the window, it was if a curtain had suddenly been switched aside in her head, and impressions had come flooding back in disjointed waves of returning memory. She had acted purely on instinct then, but now she composed herself to piece together the correct sequence of events over the past few weeks.
She cast her mind back to that dreadful day when she had received a hysterical telephone call from her Aunt Hameeda.
Chapter 5
Recall
Her Aunt had been almost incoherent in her distress and Amunet (yes, Amunet Shafik – that was her name, how wonderful to know who she was at last!) gathered that her young cousin Ghalida had disappeared and was in terrible danger.