“They are,” he said, ushering her through the double doors into the main dance hall and dining area. “They’re at the usual,” he said, nodding towards the circular table to the left of the bandstand. The table was set for six. Four women – in their fifties and sixties - were already seated. Poppy’s aunt, Dot Denby, wearing a vivid crepe silk fuchsia gown, with a purple feather boa and matching feather in her hair, was a former suffragette and leading lady of the West End stage. She was now in a wheelchair after being injured in a “votes for women” demonstration back in 1910. Beside her, as tall and slim as Dot was short and round, was Grace Wilson. Grace was the former bookkeeper of the militant suffragist cell, The Chelsea Six, which disbanded in 1914. She and Dot had been companions for over a decade, separated in that time only once, when Grace served a twelvemonth jail term for obstruction of justice. But Grace was now out of the clanger and she and the former doyenne were off on a trip of a lifetime on the Orient Express. Grace was wearing a grey silk matching blouse and skirt. The ruffles down the front of the blouse were no longer de rigueur, but, thought Poppy, the ensemble suited Grace’s quietly formal personality.
Next to Grace was the equally tall and slim Marjorie Reynolds, mother of the club owner Oscar. She had changed out of the houndstooth suit Poppy had seen her in at the museum and was now wearing a tasteful green satin gown with black velvet trim. If Poppy was not mistaken, it was an original Jacques Doucet. Marjorie raised her black lacquer fan with mother of pearl inlay and waved it at Poppy. Poppy waved back. This caught the attention of the fourth woman at the table, wearing a navy blue crêpe de Chine gown, covered with a navy blue blazer. The blazer – more daywear than evening – would have been odd on anyone other than the former leader of the Women’s Suffrage and Political Union, who was so famous she could get away with just about anything. “Well, good evening, Poppy.”
“Good evening, Mrs Pankhurst.”
Oscar pulled out a chair for Poppy and placed a menu at her place setting. She thanked him and asked for a glass of chardonnay.
“Oh, do have some pink champers darling,” cried Aunt Dot. “It’s on me! In fact, can you bring a couple of bottles over, Oscar?”
The host said he would and affected an elaborate bow before withdrawing.
“Your boy’s doing well, Marjorie,” said Emmeline Pankhurst, peering short-sightedly at the retreating Oscar.
“Yes he is,” said Marjorie. “I thought after that to-do last year he might have thrown in the towel, but I’m glad to say he’s made of stronger stuff.”
“Just like his mother!” trilled Aunt Dot.
“Quite,” said Emmeline. “It’s thanks to you that we got the suffrage bill through in Eighteen. Still a long way to go though. Votes only for women over thirty who own property is simply not good enough. You mustn’t give up, Marjorie, you must never give up!”
This was met with a “hear hear!” from the other women at the table.
“Never fear, Emmie, Marjorie is the last person to give up!” Aunt Dot raised a glass to her friend; Marjorie smiled her thanks.
“So Grace, what do you think the highlights will be on your trip?” asked Marjorie, turning her attention to the quiet woman.
Grace’s brown eyes stared past Marjorie to the small stage beside the bandstand. Then, in little more than a whisper, she said: “She looks so much like Gloria, doesn’t she?” Poppy turned to look at what had caught Grace’s attention. And there, on the bandstand, talking to the band leader and adjusting the microphone to her 5 feet 2 inches height, was Delilah Marconi, daughter of the late Gloria Marconi, another of the Chelsea Six. Gloria had died in 1913 in mysterious circumstances. Tears welled in Grace’s eyes, threatening to spill over. Dot took her hand and squeezed.
“Yes she does. She’s a beauty, just like her mother. Gloria would be so proud of her. And she’d be proud of you too, Grace, for finally telling the truth and putting that monster of a man away. Now, enough of this morbidity. Marjorie was asking about our trip!”
Dot turned her sparkling blue eyes towards the lady MP and gushed out their itinerary for the next three months on the Orient Express. “Well first, of course, there’s Paris, and then on to Strasbourg and Salzburg – where they have the Mozart museum, you know – and then Linz and...”
Poppy had heard her aunt recite the route so many times, she could almost recite it herself. She tuned out and focused her attention instead on Delilah, who was just about to start singing. Poppy appraised her friend’s ensemble with admiration – a black satin sheath dress with an embroidered bronze and gold phoenix emblazoned from hem to neckline. As Delilah opened her arms to virtually embrace the band, Poppy saw that the sleeves mimicked the phoenix’s wings. The back of the dress drifted into a train of black, gold, and bronze feathers, which Delilah artfully draped across the stage as she positioned herself in front of the microphone. On her head, encasing her blunt, black-fringed bob, was an elaborate headdress, following the phoenix theme.
“Then of course there’ll be Belgrade and Sofia...”
Poppy smiled to herself, wondering what her mother would think of Delilah if she came down to London next summer, as she had said she might. Last Christmas Mrs Denby had given her daughter a book on etiquette, written by a Mrs Lilian Eichler, to help her, the enclosed note said, “to know how a modest young woman should dress for each social occasion”. Poppy had taken the chapter on dressing for the office to heart – hence her professional-looking Chanel suit – but the chapters entitled “The Slattern” and “The Eccentric Dresser” just made her laugh. Mrs Eichler no doubt had someone like Delilah Marconi in mind when she wrote:
Many men and women, in the mistaken belief that they are expressing personality, adopt certain peculiarities of dress. Eccentric dressing always attracts attention, and is therefore bordering on the vulgar. There are, of course, many men and women who enjoy attracting attention, who delight in being considered “different”. In such people we are not interested. It is the people of good taste that we wish to advise against the mistake of wearing peculiar and unconventional clothes.
“And finally we’re in Istanbul. After that we’ll –”
Grace put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Dorothy, dear, we’ll hear the rest later. Delilah is going to sing.”
The band struck up the opening bars of “I’m a Jazz Vampire”, which Poppy and Delilah had heard for the first time at a speakeasy in Manhattan earlier that year. The London crowd loved it! The women swayed in time to the jazzy beat, the men whistled at the titillating lyrics, and Delilah playfully reeled them in as she sang: “Wise men keep out o’ my way, they know I’ll lead ’em astray, they fall the minute I sway, I insist you can’t resist a jazz vampire.”
As the saxophone honked out its final solo the crowd at Oscar’s rose as one and applauded Delilah and her fellas. The musicians soaked up the adulation and then broke into a medley of tunes made famous by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band. When Delilah finished her set, an adoring gentleman helped her step down from the stage. He kissed her hand and then watched with open admiration as she sashayed across the dance floor, her phoenix train swishing behind her.
“Aren’t you dancing, darling?” asked Dot as the Maltese girl approached the table.
“Not till I’ve had something to eat, Dot; I’m famished! Have you gals ordered yet?”
“Not yet,” said Poppy, whose tummy was grumbling as loudly as a percussion section. “We were waiting for you!” She pulled out the seat beside her and Delilah plopped down.
“Then wait no more!”
The women perused their menus and put in their orders. Poppy decided to have Oscar’s special: roast quail with fondant potatoes. It had taken her a while to discover that fondant potatoes were just a posh way of saying pan-fried potatoes, but she liked the way Oscar’s chef cooked them, all buttery and golden. While they waited for their food, Poppy told Delilah all about her day and the invitation to Winterton Hall for the séance, auction, and shooting weekend.
She wanted to sound her society friend out on what exactly one wore to these sorts of occasions. Mrs Eichler had a chapter on sporting wear for the hunt and the shoot, but there was nothing on auctions and séances.
“You’re going to Winterton, too, Popsicle? Oh how spiffing!”
“Why?” asked Poppy, delighted and surprised. “Have you also received an invitation?”
“Sort of,” answered Delilah, nodding her assent to a refill of pink champagne. “It’s a work thing. They’ve asked me and Fox Flinton to perform a mime to narration before the séance. I’ll be playing the pharaoh queen, Nee-for-something...”
“Nefertiti,” supplied Poppy. “But Fox Flinton? Why him? Isn’t he that dreadful ham actor from the Apollo you worked with in September? I thought you couldn’t stand the man.”
Delilah flapped her hands in mock outrage, nearly taking out the waiter as he delivered warm bread rolls to the table. “Sorry, sweetie!” Then to Poppy: “I can’t! He couldn’t keep his hands off me backstage. He’s twice my age and won’t take no for an answer! But he’s a cousin of Lady Ursula Maddox, apparently. They asked him to suggest an actress to play Nee-for-whatever, and he said, I quote: ‘There is no one more suited to play an Egyptian goddess than the delectable Delilah Marconi.’ Then he offered himself to play my husband.”
She grimaced, then took a roll from the waiter, breaking it open with her perfectly manicured fingers.
“Why did you agree to it, then?” asked Poppy, buttering her own bread.
“Because of the séance, of course! I’ve been dying to go to one of the Conan Doyle ones – excuse the pun – but I’ve never managed to wangle an invitation.” She pouted. “I think it’s because of my association with Rollo and Daniel and that article they wrote last year. No offence, darling.”
Poppy smiled at her friend and took a sip of her champagne. She felt the bubbles fizz in her mouth then zing in her throat as she swallowed. Lovely.
“No offence taken. How are you getting down? Is your motor still off the road since that last prang?”
Delilah shook her head in despair. “They’re saying it’s a write-off! Can you believe it? It was only a little bump.”
“With a telephone box!” laughed Poppy. “It’s a miracle no one was inside.”
Delilah frowned. “Yes it is. You’d swear I’d murdered someone the way the Post Office have been going on. Daddy has had to pay them an awful lot of money.”
Poor daddy, thought Poppy. She loved Delilah dearly but sometimes she wished her friend would start to realize that money didn’t grow on trees. “So, do you need a lift then? I can ask Rollo if there’s space in the company motor.”
“Oh, that would be spiffing of you, thank you. Otherwise I might have to take the old Fox up on his offer.” She shuddered.
“Did I hear you say you needed a lift to Winterton Hall, Delilah?” It was Marjorie Reynolds.
“Yes you did.”
“You can come with me, if you like?”
“Oh yes, please,” answered Delilah, no doubt, thought Poppy, comparing the comfort of Marjorie’s luxury vehicle with the crammed interior of the Globe’s old Model T.
Poppy cast Marjorie an inquiring look. She hadn’t given any indication at the museum that she was going to attend. In fact, she’d suggested the opposite, saying she would like to be a fly on the wall at the séance… hmmm...
Poppy’s newshound nose twitched. “Will that be on behalf of the Home Office, Marjorie?”
A sly smile fleshed out Marjorie’s thin lips. “Oh, let’s not talk shop at your aunt’s special dinner, Poppy.” Then she turned to Dot. “Now, Dot and Grace, tell us again about your trip.”
Aunt Dot’s face lit up. “Of course, Marjorie! I thought you’d be tired of hearing about it! But if you’re not, well, first, of course there’s Paris...”
CHAPTER 5
The gateway to Winterton Hall – flanked on either side by two sphinxes – was as imposing as Poppy had expected it to be. The weather had cleared remarkably from the previous day and the sandstone gatehouse – built like a little mock Roman temple – was stroked with rays of mid-afternoon sun. The gravel drive wound for over a mile through parkland and gardens, interspersed with fabriques: garden buildings and follies imitating Classical designs from Greek, Roman, and Egyptian architecture. One could forget, for a moment, that one was on an English country estate, only forty minutes west of central London; but then a cricket oval, with its comfortingly familiar iron roller, brought one home again. The Model T Ford, with Daniel driving, Rollo in the passenger seat, and Poppy and Yasmin in the back, skirted an artificial lake with an Egyptian obelisk pointing, helpfully, to a clear winter sky.
“Looks like we might get some shooting in after all,” observed Rollo.
“Spiffing,” answered Yasmin, her voice dripping in sarcasm.
“What? You don’t want to blast blocks of clay from the sky with the landed classes?” asked Rollo, peeking his ginger head around to look at his almost-fiancée in the back seat.
“You forget, my Yankee friend, that my father is one of the landed classes.” Yasmin raised an exquisite eyebrow towards her hairline, and flicked her finger against the tip of her striking Egyptian nose. Poppy giggled. She was enjoying seeing the playful side of Britain’s first female barrister, usually so formidable as she presented her cases at the Old Bailey. Yasmin was the daughter of a British major general and an Egyptian heiress. Her Anglo-Egyptian heritage gave her striking looks, accentuated by the most up-to-date of hairstyles: the Eton crop. Poppy, frankly, was in awe of her. She was as stylish as Delilah, and with a mind as sharp as a tack and ambitions that led all the way to Downing Street. Poppy doubted she would ever see a woman prime minister in her lifetime, but if there ever was one, she could imagine it would be someone like Yasmin Reece-Lansdale, KC.
Poppy, trying not to stare at the older woman, wondered what her brother would be like. Apparently, unlike his sister, he had identified with the Egyptian side of his heritage and now lived in Cairo. He had been at the forefront of Egypt’s bid for independence from Britain’s “protectorate”, and thanks to his and his fellow-activists’ work, the British government was in the process of passing legislation to approve the North African nation’s independence within a couple of months. But Faizal Osman (who had changed his Christian name from Fitzroy and taken on his maternal grandfather’s name as a surname) was not going to be at Winterton as a political activist, but in his day job as the Director of Antiquities of the Cairo Museum.
“Nearly there, folks!” said Daniel as the Model T rounded a bend. And there, on a hill, brooding over the estate like a red mother hen, was Winterton Hall. The original red-brick Tudor mansion had been added to every century since the sixteenth and was now a hodgepodge of architectural styles. A central domed hall with a Grecian facade was flanked on either side by two sprawling wings, one Georgian, one Victorian. To the left was a long bank of stables, and to the right a tennis court, bowling green, and archery range. In front of the house, bracketed on either side by the gravel drive, was a leylandii maze in need of a good trim. Poppy could see the heads of statues above the greenery, trapped forever in the labyrinth.
“More than enough room to swing a cat,” chortled Rollo.
“With at least thirty bedrooms for your moggy to choose from!” agreed Daniel. “I’ll have to get some snaps of the old pile while the light lasts. I’ll just drop you off first and –”
Bang! Poppy and Yasmin were thrown forward against the front seats, while the men were rammed against the dashboard.
“What the deuce!” Rollo pushed himself back from the glove compartment as a large battleship-grey Chrysler pulled alongside them.
“You ladies all right?” asked Daniel, sticking his head between the seats.
Poppy righted herself and did a quick top-to-toe health check. “Yes, I think so. You Yasmin?”
Yasmin rubbed the back of her neck and muttered: “For now. But whiplash takes a while to develop
.”
The window of the Chrysler rolled down and the weaselly face of Lionel Saunders, entertainment editor for The London Courier, popped out.
“You folks all right?” and then, without waiting for an answer: “Yes? Jolly good. You should be more careful, Rokeby. You’re not driving a tank now.”
“You rammed us off the bloody road!” roared Daniel, struggling to open the door.
But before he could, Saunders and his photographer – Harry Gibson – sped off, scattering gravel against the Model T like shrapnel on a battlefield.
Daniel leapt out and shook his fist aftrt them. Rollo, Poppy, and Yasmin got out too. Poppy tried to calm Daniel, while Rollo examined the back of the car and Yasmin continued to rub her neck.
“You all right, toots?” asked Rollo, turning his attention from the bashed rear end of the Ford to his lady friend. Yasmin’s eyes narrowed and lips tightened.
“Right as rain Rollo. At least I will be when I serve those buffoons with an injunction.”
She, Poppy, and a still huffing and puffing Daniel, joined the little editor in examining the damage. The back right wing was dented and scuffed and the exhaust pipe had been knocked loose, but no obviously substantial damage had been done.
“Not too bad,” muttered Daniel, calming down slightly.
“Don’t say that again, Mr Rokeby,” said Yasmin briskly. “As far as you’re concerned the damage is significant and – as four witnesses will testify, including one Queen’s Counsel – deliberately inflicted. I suggest you photograph the vehicle for the record and I shall take affidavits from you all.”
“Well, to be honest, I can’t say for certain it was deliberate.”
Neither can I, thought Poppy, as Daniel continued: “I was in the middle of the road and perhaps the Courier boys couldn’t see me when they came round the bend, and –”
Rollo stuck up a hand like a traffic warden. “Can it, Rokeby, Yasmin’s right. It looked deliberate to me. But even if it wasn’t, they didn’t offer to help us. And this is not the first time they’ve done something like this. I still think it was them who sabotaged our printer last month. Don’t worry toots; I’ll get our solicitor onto it and then a judge can decide.”
The Cairo Brief Page 5