The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “Lionel Saunders from the Courier?” asked Poppy as she stood up and straightened her calf-length Chanel grey skirt – all the rage in office wear for the working lady – and shrugged into the matching jacket.

  “You can bet your bottom dollar on it,” observed Rollo. He wagged a finger at Poppy. “We’d better make sure we get the scoop on him. Do as much research as you can, Miz Denby, and I’ll see if Yazzie knows anything about these ‘murderous circumstances’. Her brother Faizal is with the Egyptian Antiquities Service, did you know?”

  Poppy didn’t. She didn’t even know Yasmin had a brother. The editor and reporter parted ways, promising to touch base later in the day.

  Down in the morgue, Poppy hung her jacket and matching cloche hat next to a huge black greatcoat, which had previously seen action on the Western Front. The coat belonged to Ivan Molanov, the archivist of The Daily Globe. Ivan was a refugee from communist Russia who had met Rollo Rolandson in a military hospital in Belgium during the war. At Poppy’s request, Ivan had dug out the jazz files on Arthur and Jean Conan Doyle, James Maddox, the archaeologist Howard Carter, and his backer, George Herbert, the fifth Earl of Carnarvon. Poppy didn’t know whether Carter and Carnarvon were going to be at the shooting weekend, but as they were currently the most famous Egyptologists in the country, she thought their files might contain some useful background material. She also asked Ivan to look beyond the jazz files – which contained mainly celebrity gossip – to the subject clipping files.

  “Do you have anything on Egypt in general? Or this Queen Nefertiti?”

  “Nay-fah who?” asked Ivan.

  Poppy wrote down the name on a piece of paper and gave it to him. Ivan held it in his huge paw-like hand and grunted. “Thees ees not a library, Mees Denby. Go to the British Museum. Beeg library there. Lots of Egyptian artefacts too. You ever see a mummy?”

  Poppy admitted that she hadn’t. She was a frequent visitor to the British Library, but in the eighteen months she had lived in London she had never ventured into the bowels of the museum which shared the same premises. History did not interest her that much, and most of her time – work or leisure – was taken up attending art exhibitions, book launches or theatre and cinema shows. She was, after all, the arts and entertainment editor of the Globe, not a historian. However, this new story, which she had labelled “The Cairo Brief” in bold letters at the top of her notebook (she had initially called it “The Pharaoh Brief” but wasn’t confident she could spell it), was about ancient art. She felt a little out of her depth.

  “Yes, that’s a good suggestion, Ivan. I’ll head over to the museum when I’m finished here.”

  Ivan left her to her research. First off she opened the file on Arthur and Jean Conan Doyle. Actually, it was two files in one, as the file of Jean Leckie, long-term mistress of the famous detective fiction writer, was slipped into her lover’s when they finally married, the year after the death of Conan Doyle’s first wife. Sir Arthur, Lady Jean, and anyone close to them denied that they’d had a physical affair, but no one denied that they had been in love for at least a decade while the first Mrs Conan Doyle became increasingly infirm with tuberculosis. It was partly due to Jean, apparently, that Arthur became embroiled in spiritualism, which avid readers of the Sherlock Holmes stories struggled to understand. Conan Doyle had previously been a doctor and gifted his scientific mindset to the forensic genius of Holmes. However, as Poppy read on in the file, she realized that this was just a veneer. The real Conan Doyle was just as interested in the metaphysical as he was in the scientific, having become a Freemason thirty years earlier. He had also written articles on psychic phenomena, which he claimed to have observed in his children’s nanny. When he married Jean in 1906 and she professed to have the gift of contacting the dead and communicating their messages to the living through automatic writing, Conan Doyle became increasingly active in the spiritualist movement. Poppy noted that his first published work on spiritualism was in 1916, the year after one of his nephews was killed in the war. Poppy swallowed hard. That was the same year Christopher died...

  Poppy’s brother Christopher had been a voracious reader of the Sherlock Holmes stories and had used his pocket money to buy The Strand magazine and kept it hidden under his mattress. Knowing their parents would disapprove of wasting good money on what they would have thought “bad literature”, he swore Poppy to secrecy. A few years later, when Christopher died, she felt she needed to continue keeping his secret. But when she went to his room to retrieve the stash, their mother was already there. She had pulled the mattress off the bed for beating and found the collection of story magazines. They now lay around her as she knelt on the floor, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed. One of the magazines was clutched to her breast as she wept out her anguish for her lost child. Poppy did not speak; she just turned around and left her mother to her private grief. Later, she returned to the room, but the magazines had all gone.

  Poppy closed her eyes to suppress the tears that were beginning to well. Pull yourself together, old girl; there’s work to be done. Poppy turned a page in the file to find a clipping from The Strand dated December 1920. The article, written by Conan Doyle, was in defence of the girls from Yorkshire who claimed to have photographed fairies at the bottom of their garden. Poppy smiled as she looked at the whimsical photograph, considered a hoax by experts and academics, but widely believed by the general public. This article by the author of Sherlock Holmes had much to do with the popular acceptance of the fairy hoax, as the public seemed to struggle to differentiate the unimpeachable fictional detective – who could never be fooled – from his more fanciful creator.

  The next page in the file held an article written by Rollo Rolandson, lampooning Conan Doyle for his defence of the photographs and quoting Daniel Rokeby, The Daily Globe’s resident photographer, who explained how the photographs had been staged and faked. Poppy remembered Rollo and Daniel working on the piece last December. Golly, had it been a year already?

  Poppy trailed her finger along Daniel’s name. Last December Poppy had believed she and the handsome photographer might soon be married. But here they were, twelve months later, and there was still no ring on her finger. Their relationship ebbed and flowed like the tide, and for three whole months, when Poppy was in New York with Rollo, she thought it might be over forever. But on her return Daniel had been waiting for her… Poppy pulled herself up again: Stop daydreaming!

  She read through her notes on Conan Doyle and decided that she had enough to go on for now. She was fascinated to meet the man in the flesh – as well as his wife; although the idea of speaking to someone who spoke to the dead was a little troubling. Claims to speak to the dead, Poppy reminded herself. Surely, the whole thing was a hoax. Not to mention un-Christian! Nonetheless, she was intrigued to see what actually happened at a séance. Despite her qualms, Rollo was right: it would make for a fantastic article.

  The next file was on Sir James Maddox, whom Poppy had never heard of before. There wasn’t much in the file, as Maddox appeared to spend much of his time abroad or on his country estate, Winterton, and did not come up to London much. There was, however, a photograph of Maddox and his wife, Lady Ursula, at the opening of an exhibit at the British Museum. He was a beefy, balding man, sporting a moustache and wearing one of those curious Ottoman hats – a fez, Poppy thought it might be called. His wife was more conventionally dressed, her unsmiling face giving nothing away. The notes added little to what Rollo had already told her. Maddox was a gentleman archaeologist and world traveller, with an extensive collection of Egyptian, Roman, and Greek antiquities. There was, however, one newspaper clipping that gave a hint of something slightly controversial. It was from The Times, dated August 1914, reporting that Sir James Maddox had been asked to step down from the board of the Egyptian Exploration Fund. A representative of the board had told The Times it was due to concerns that had been raised about Sir James’ “methods of procurement of certain antiquities”. The representative declined to
give more specific details and Sir James was “not available for comment”. It was a short article, covering a mere three column inches. Poppy was very surprised the journalist hadn’t dug deeper. There was clearly a story there… but, perhaps the outbreak of the war that very same month had caused the story to be spiked – or it had been longer and the sub-editor had cut it for space. She checked the byline on the article – Walter Jensford. She’d never heard of him but made a note of it.

  Poppy closed the file and checked her watch – nearly one o’clock. Time for a spot of lunch then I’ll head over to the British Museum. She hadn’t had a chance to read the Carnarvon and Carter files. “Ivan,” she called out to the archivist. “Can I take these with me please?”

  Ivan said she could and made a note in his meticulously kept record book as Poppy slipped her jacket over her white silk blouse. “You should wrap up warm, Mees Denby. I see it is starting to snow.” Poppy glanced out of the third-floor window, overlooking Fleet Street. Down below, horse-drawn vehicles jostled for space with motorcars, and pedestrians pulled up their collars against the cold. Ivan was right; it was starting to snow.

  CHAPTER 3

  Poppy stopped by the newsroom to pick up her heavy winter overcoat and umbrella before popping her head into Rollo’s office to tell him where she was going. He was on the telephone and waved her off. So she asked Ike Garfield, the senior journalist, to let him know when he was off the phone. She took the lift down to the entrance foyer, watching the brass arrow tick off the floors one by one. At the second floor she wondered for a moment if she should stop in to see Daniel in the photography department but decided against it. She didn’t have much time to get to the British Museum and do the research she needed. Besides, if Rollo was asking Daniel to accompany them to Henley-on-Thames, she would see him for the whole weekend. Yes, they’d be working, but still… Poppy smiled to herself at the thought, remembering the last time she and Daniel had travelled west of London, on their way to Windsor: he on a motorbike and she in a sidecar with the wind teasing long strands of hair from under her leather helmet. That was before her flapper friend Delilah had got hold of her and given her a jazzy makeover, including a fashionable bob. Poppy pulled her hat firmly over her cropped curls. There would be no wind in the hair today. And hopefully not too much snow…

  The lift shuddered to a stop on the ground floor and Poppy stepped out into a black and white marble foyer, lined with Egyptian-inspired art deco statuettes in alcoves. London designers were afroth for all things Egyptian or Oriental at the moment, and as the owner of the Globe was romantically connected to one of the city’s most prolific antique art collectors, it was no surprise that that was the chosen design motif. Poppy was looking forward to seeing Yasmin Reece-Lansdale again; she was a woman the young journalist greatly admired. Rollo was a fool to turn her down. But, Poppy reminded herself as she waved to the receptionist Mavis Bradshaw, who was signing in a visitor to the building, it was none of her business.

  Out on Fleet Street Poppy was absorbed into the throng of pedestrians, shoulders hunched, brollies up, picking up their pace before the snow really set in. Across the street, Poppy saw the door to Ye Olde Cock Tavern open and close as it sucked in more clientele, while to the right of the pub, an alleyway leading down to Temple Church and the law courts was like a cave mouth, beckoning black-cloaked lawyers and clerks like bats at sunrise.

  Poppy joined the bedraggled queue waiting for the number 68 bus as the wind picked up and lashed icy gusts at her face. So as not to impede on other people in the queue, she held her brolly at a jaunty angle, but then pulled it down as it was doing no good. Instead, she tucked up her fur collar under the brim of her hat, contracting her neck like a tortoise retreating into its shell. After a few minutes she realized that even if the bus did come before she froze to death, there was no guarantee that it would be one of those new double-deckers with roofs. If it was one of the older buses – or a pirate bus – the bottom floor would be full and she’d be forced to sit upstairs, open to the elements. It was only a quarter of a mile to Aldwych tube station so Poppy decided to go underground. She slipped out of the queue and put her brolly back up, chastising herself about how soft she was getting living in London. She was a northern lass, and back home in Northumberland they would have laughed at the southern softies bleating about a few snowflakes. Poppy straightened her spine and trudged on.

  She passed Chancery Lane, then the Royal Courts of Justice, and turned right into Aldwych Crescent. The snow was turning to sleet, leaving wet streaks on her stockings and splodges on her shoes. She picked up her pace and half-ran into the station entrance. The station had been built on the site of an old theatre and her lovey friends had told her that at night the ghost of an actress walked the tunnels. Poppy chuckled to herself and wondered if Lady Conan Doyle had ever chatted to her.

  Poppy joined the queue for the ticket office and bought a single to Holborn. She didn’t bother with a return, as she would head home to Chelsea afterwards and just telephone in an update to the office. She had already arranged to get off work early as she was going out with her aunt Dot and her companion Grace for a farewell dinner with friends. The pair were heading off to France in the morning to join the Orient Express for a three-month return trip across Europe.

  Fortunately, the journey to Holborn was only one stop up the Piccadilly line. Poppy did not like enclosed spaces – particularly tunnels – so when at all possible travelled around London above ground. But as time – and the weather – were not on her side this afternoon, she bit the bullet and joined the other commuters spluttering their way through the smoke- and steam-filled corridors to catch the next train.

  Fifteen minutes later, Poppy was spewed from the bowels of the city into the relatively fresh air of Southampton Row. The rain had won in the battle of the sleet, and the pretty white dusting – which for a moment had transformed the grey Bloomsbury streets into a picture postcard – was washed away. Poppy, like the rest of the commuters emerging from the station, popped up her umbrella and ploughed on. Right down Southampton Row, past Baptist Church House, then left at Victoria House and onto Vernon Place, before a quick shortcut through the park at Bloomsbury Square.

  The museum was on the far side of the park. She crossed vertically through it, via an avenue flanked by aged oaks, planted in the days of mad King George, and whose leafless branches did nothing to shelter pedestrians from the rain. Sheets of water spilled from the roof of the bandstand where, Poppy remembered, she and Daniel had come the previous summer with his two children to listen to the Salvation Army brass band.

  But there was no time to reminisce now: the rain was getting heavier and Poppy picked up her pace, hoping to get into the shelter of the museum before her black leather Mary Janes were completely soaked through. She soon reached the grand Greek Revival-style building and slipped gratefully through the black wrought-iron gates. In the summer there would be queues of people lined up; today, there was only the gatekeeper huddled in a shelter and a young mother unsuccessfully trying to keep her toddler out of puddles. Poppy hurried up the wide stone stairs, past the giant Ionic columns, and into the museum proper, where she joined a huddle of dripping visitors, shrugging out of their overcoats and shaking their brollies in the museum’s cloakroom.

  Finally free of her sodden attire – and regretting not keeping a pair of galoshes in the office – Poppy endeavoured to ignore her squelching stockings and shoes as she checked out a map of the museum. The exhibition space was a giant quadrangle with a circular domed reading room at the centre. The reading room housed the British Library, where Poppy had spent many an hour researching and reading for pleasure. But she had never ventured into the galleries of the quadrangle nor the wings to left and right that housed the museum’s treasures.

  She checked the board to see where the Egyptian collection might be and discovered that it was to the left of the reading room, in galleries 22–26. She headed off in that direction and soon found the entrance to t
he main Egyptian and Assyrian gallery. As she was about to enter, pondering what wonders she might see, she came face to face with a familiar figure: Marjorie Reynolds, one of the country’s first women members of Parliament and minister in the Home Office. Marjorie was a good friend of Poppy’s Aunt Dot and, it was rumoured, an undercover member of the Secret Service – although she would never admit to that publicly.

  “Mrs Reynolds! Fancy seeing you here!”

  The older woman’s intelligent grey eyes lit up with recognition. “Poppy!” A leather-clad hand reached out from the tailored cuff of her houndstooth jacket. “This is a surprise!”

  Poppy took Marjorie’s hand and shook it firmly. Next to Marjorie was a large man in a crumpled brown suit. His fulsome belly strained against the buttons of his waistcoat, putting excessive pressure on a pocket-watch chain. He peered down at Poppy over a pair of half-moon spectacles.

  “Giles, may I introduce Miss Poppy Denby from The Daily Globe. Poppy, this is Dr Giles Mortimer, Head Curator of the Egyptian and Assyrian collection here at the museum.”

  Dr Mortimer reached out his hand and took Poppy’s. Like most men when shaking the hand of a lady, he didn’t apply any pressure – perhaps out of fear of breaking it – holding for the briefest moment before withdrawing.

  “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Denby. Are you here on behalf of the Globe? The press office didn’t tell me they’d set up an interview...”

  Poppy shook her head. “No, nothing official, I just want to do some background research on a story I’m working on.”

  “Oh?” his eyebrows raised in two arches over the half-moon lenses.

  Poppy detected a hint of suspicion in his tone. In the eighteen months she had worked at the newspaper she had become accustomed to two broad reactions when people heard she was with the press: the first was surprise that such a young woman would be doing a “man’s job”, followed by curious questions or suggestions of stories she might be interested in. Nine times out of ten the “stories” were either blatant self-promotion or scurrilous gossip. Poppy would listen politely, say she would keep it in mind, and then get out of the conversation as quickly as she could. The second kind of reaction was more disconcerting: a hooded look, a suspicious stare, and defensive body language, followed by the person, instead of Poppy, shutting down the conversation as quickly as possible. Dr Mortimer’s reaction fell halfway between the two. Here was a man, Poppy thought, wary of journalists but needing to keep them on side. Marjorie’s introduction of her as “from The Daily Globe” had immediately charged the air between them; they were instantly polarized, a power dynamic at play. Poppy was rushed for time, uncomfortable in her wet clothes, and not mentally prepared for it. She wished Marjorie hadn’t said anything.