Kamela stopped again and turned to Poppy, her dark eyes boring into those of the young journalist. “Well, Poppy, that may surprise you more than anything else I’ve told you tonight. That man was no other than Sir James Maddox.”
Poppy took a step back. “You mean...”
Kamela took Poppy’s elbow and ushered her towards the drawing room. “I certainly do. Now, shall we enjoy the rest of the party?”
CHAPTER 7
The drawing room, with its roaring log fire, was so hot it might as well have been Egypt. Poppy took off her mink wrap and draped it over the back of the armchair she was sitting in. As she did, Daniel appeared and plopped himself down on the arm.
“You’re back!” said Poppy. “Have you had anything to eat?”
“I have,” he said, accepting a cigarette from Howard Carter, who was passing them around. “The chauffeur took me down to the kitchen. Cook had kept something for me. Splendid piece of beef.”
“It was,” agreed Poppy. “Delicious.”
“Have I missed much?” he asked.
Poppy turned to him, her blue eyes wide, dying to tell him everything Kamela had told her. But the entertainment was about to start. “Loads,” she said, “but I’ll tell you later. How’s the boy?”
“I think he’s going to be all right. The doctors say they’ll be able to save his foot. But...” Daniel lowered his voice, “…there’s something funny going on with that whole shooting business.”
“Oh?” said Poppy, her curiosity piqued. “Why?”
Daniel raised his finger to his mouth and whispered: “I’ll tell you and Rollo later too.”
“All right,” agreed Poppy as Sir James stood up and shushed them with a ‘simmer down’ motion of his hands. The assembled guests, nursing glasses of brandy and sherry, allowed their babble of conversation to still.
Sir James stood with a brandy snifter in one hand and a cigar in the other. “Well, I hope you’ve all been having a splendid evening so far.” This was met with a round of hear-hears. Sir James smiled, his face as round and red as a billiard ball. He raised his glass in acknowledgment. “Why, thank you. Thank you. Then you’ll be pleased to know that the night is but a pup. First up – and I’m going to need to put these down –” He put down his glass and cigar, reached into a basket beside the fireplace, and took out a piece of white cloth with gold brocade. He bent his bald head and tucked it into the cloth, in an approximation of an ancient Egyptian headdress. The guests chuckled. “May I introduce to you the royal courtier Ay – father of Nefertiti.” The audience applauded. He bowed, holding his headdress in place with one hand.
Poppy looked over at Kamela El Farouk, who was crammed onto a sofa with Yasmin and Rollo. Her face was impassive. Yasmin’s, however, wasn’t, and she rolled her eyes in disdain. Everyone else, though, seemed to be enjoying the performance – even Daniel, who chuckled beside her. Poppy turned her attention back to Sir James.
“I lived in Egypt way back before the birth of the man you call Jesus. Thirteen hundred years or so before him.”
“How do you know about Jesus?” chirped Rollo. “Did you use H. G. Wells’ time machine?”
“Ay” chuckled. “We Ancient Egyptians have many secrets hidden in our pyramids. And that is one of them. Who knows what your friend Carter will find next.”
Carter raised his glass and grinned.
“Speaking of Carter – and his quest for the boy king – I (excuse the pun) am to become pharaoh after Tutankhamun. But –” and he grinned again “– using Mr Wells’ time machine, I will now take you back to before young Tut was born and introduce you to my beautiful daughter, Nefertiti!” He gestured extravagantly with one arm to the door of the library where Delilah – dressed in a very revealing Egyptian costume that looked like it had been borrowed from the wardrobe of the moving picture Cleopatra – made her entrance and struck a pose. She was greeted with enthusiastic applause.
“Nefertiti,” continued Sir James, “means ‘the beautiful woman has come’. And no doubt you can see why she was called that.” Delilah battered her false eyelashes seductively and was rewarded with a wolf whistle from Rollo.
“One day,” continued Sir James, “my boss, the pharaoh Amenhotep IV...”
Fox Flinton stepped into the library – he too in Egyptian costume – and stopped to pose. He then affected a lascivious look at “Nefertiti” before kneeling before Sir James, his hands raised in supplication.
“He would never have knelt,” observed Yasmin in a stage whisper and rolled her eyes again.
This was met with a few sniggers and the Fox hurriedly clambered to his feet.
Sir James ignored the heckling and continued with his narration. “Amenhotep, seeing how beautiful my daughter Nefertiti was...”
Delilah sashayed across the room, drawing admiring glances from everyone.
“… asked for my permission to marry her.”
“He would never...”
“Shush!” chastised Lady Ursula. “You’re spoiling it.”
“Yes, Yasmin, you’re spoiling it,” said Rollo teasingly and winked at her.
“Sorry,” said Yasmin insincerely.
Sir James cleared his throat. “Ahem, thank you. As I was saying, Amenhotep, seeing how beautiful Nefertiti was, asked to marry her. And I, of course, gave permission.” He opened his arms and gestured for the young lovers to come together. They did and fell into an exaggerated stage embrace. This was accompanied by a chorus of “Ahhhhhhhhhh,” from the audience.
“Now, Amenhotep and Nefertiti lived in a place called Thebes, which was the capital of the New Kingdom. If you were to go to Thebes today it wouldn’t be there, but – my glimpse into the future tells me – its ruins can be found in a place called Luxor. I think some of you already know Luxor. Hands up all the archaeologists in the room who have dug there.” Poppy looked around and saw Howard Carter, Miss Philpott, both Herr Stein and his assistant and – finally, with a sheepish grin – Sir James too. She noted that neither of the Egyptians had done so.
“But in the fifth year of his reign, Amenhotep had a vision...”
The Fox gave a good rendition of Saint Paul being blinded on the road to Damascus.
“Where the god Aten – otherwise known as the sun – spoke to him. Aten told Amenhotep that he, not the old gods, including the king of the gods Amen, after whom the pharaoh was named, was the true god of Egypt. Aten said that only he was to be worshipped and declared Amenhotep his official representative on earth. Amenhotep was immediately converted and changed his name to Akhenaten, which means ‘devoted to Aten’.”
“Ah,” observed Lionel Saunders from his seat on the piano stool, and took a swig of his brandy.
“Akhenaten told his beautiful wife about his vision and she too was converted.” Delilah imitated the painting of Mary the Mother of Jesus at the Annunciation by Botticelli, and did a very convincing version of it despite her provocative attire.
“Nefertiti renamed herself Neferneferuaten-Nefertiti – which, we can all admit, and I don’t know if I’ve even pronounced it correctly, is a real mouthful. Which explains why everyone simply carried on calling her Nefertiti. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we shall do too.”
The audience gave an appreciative chuckle, which was followed by a mistimed guffaw from Lionel. Poppy noted a line of empty glasses beside him on the piano.
“So,” continued Sir James, “the king and queen decided to move away from the old city of Thebes to find a new capital for the religion they had started.”
The Fox and Delilah mimed picking up suitcases and going on a journey, stepping over legs and climbing over footstools amid great hilarity from the guests. After two circuits of the room they stopped and mimed digging and hammering.
“They travelled all the way up the Nile to a place called Tel El-Amarna – a narrow valley between two cliffs – where they built a beautiful whitewashed city called Akhetaten, which means ‘the horizon of Aten’.”
The Fox and D
elilah stood arm in arm and gestured with their other hands as if presenting something for approval.
“But,” continued Sir James, “as you no doubt agree, the name of the city sounds far too similar to Akhenaten, and after a couple of drinks we’re bound to forget it –” Lionel guffawed at this again “– so let’s just call it El-Amarna, which, I believe, is what it is called today.” He looked towards the Egyptian contingent. Faizal Osman nodded in agreement.
“In El-Amarna, Akhenaten and Nefertiti had six daughters.”
Delilah mimed holding six babies one after another and passing them to the Fox, who hammed up almost dropping a couple of them.
“Akhenaten named Nefertiti his co-regent and together they both ruled as pharaohs. For the next twenty years they lived happily together: raising children, leading the people in the worship of Aten –” both Delilah and the Fox knelt down in prayer “– and continuing to build their city.”
“Eventually, when their eldest daughter, Meritaten, was old enough, Akhenaten married her, and she became his second wife.” This was met by a few titters. Sir James raised his hand. “And now, before the feminists in the room say anything –” he looked pointedly first at Marjorie Reynolds, then at Yasmin, then finally, with a patronizing smile, at Poppy “– that’s what they used to do in those days.”
Poppy and Marjorie’s eyes met across the room and they shared a mutual, virtual sigh.
“Meritaten, in turn, gave birth to a baby boy, and his name was...” Sir James cupped his hand to his ear and leaned in towards the audience.
“Tutankhamun!” called out a number of the archaeologists.
Sir James grinned. “That’s right. And before the boy stopped playing with toys his father sadly died.”
The Fox clutched his heart and fell to the ground. Delilah threw herself on his chest and wept.
Sir James sighed, his voice dripping with hammed-up emotion. “And what became of Nefertiti?”
“Yes, what became of her?” slurred Lionel, adding another glass to the piano.
“No one knows, Mr Saunders. Some believe she died soon after her husband. Others that she survived him and led the people back from El-Amarna to Thebes. Her tomb, to this day, has never been found. Some people think it might still be in Amarna – but that’s unlikely – it’s been well excavated. Another theory is that it might be in the Valley of the Kings. Most royal tombs have already been found. But not King Tut’s. And not Nefertiti’s either. Perhaps Mr Carter will find them both...”
“From your mouth to God’s ear!” declared Carter, followed by a “Hear-hear,” from Dr Mortimer.
Sir James indicated that he wasn’t quite finished. “But what we do have – thanks to the royal sculptor Thutmose and his workshop – are some beautiful statues, masks, and busts of her, the one in Berlin, of course, being the most famous...” He nodded towards the German contingent who, Poppy couldn’t help thinking, were looking rather smug. “And the one that is going to be auctioned here in this very house, tomorrow night.”
“Can we see it?” asked Jonathan Davies, the American.
Sir James smiled. “Not tonight, Dr Davies, no. It is currently under lock and key but will be revealed in due course at the auction.”
A murmur of disappointment spread through the room. Sir James, perhaps worried he was losing his audience, then added: “But don’t despair, there is more for you tonight. Lady Ursula, is Madame Minette ready?”
Lady Ursula said that she was.
“Good, then let us see if we can contact the spirit of Nefertiti.”
Delilah, who was still lying on the Fox’s chest, coughed loudly.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” called out the Fox.
Everyone laughed. “Of course!” said Sir James. “My apologies. Ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause for the very talented Miss Delilah Marconi and Mr Fox Flinton!”
CHAPTER 8
It turned out Madame Minette was not quite ready, so the guests were offered coffee while they waited. Rollo waved Poppy and Daniel over to him.
He leaned back on his heels, with his thumbs hooked into his cummerbund and chomped on his cigar. As his staff approached, he pulled out his cigar and held it between thumb and forefinger, and asked: “Having fun?”
Poppy said she was, but Daniel, who had spent most of the night driving back and forth to hospital, said he could do with a good night’s sleep. He looked around the room at the chattering guests and observed grimly, “But it looks like they’re just getting warmed up.”
“Stiff upper lip old chap,” grinned Rollo. “You can sleep when you’re dead.”
“Speaking of the dead,” said Poppy, “I’ve heard that we’re not all going into the séance. Apparently the round table can only seat twelve. You might be able to duck out of that one, Daniel.”
Rollo patted the photographer on his lower back. “I think me and Danny Boy won’t be invited anyway – after the job we did on the fairies. So that just leaves you, Poppy.”
Poppy’s stomach clenched. She wasn’t as sure as Daniel and Rollo that the whole thing was a party trick. Unlike them, she did believe – to some degree – in the supernatural. She believed in God and, although she didn’t believe they were behind every bush, she couldn’t discount the possibility that there were evil spirits too. Didn’t the Bible mention them? Hadn’t her father preached on them? There were three possibilities with this séance: either it was a hoax as her male colleagues believed, or it was a demonic deception as many in the church believed, or it was just what the spiritualists said it was – the spirits of loved ones who had passed on were trying to speak to the living. But Poppy didn’t have time to mull it over any further, as Rollo was steering the conversation towards other things.
“So what happened with the boy, Danny? You said there was something funny going on? Spill the beans.”
Daniel took a sip of his coffee, served in the tiniest cup Poppy had ever seen. He savoured the hot liquid, absorbing its restorative power. “His name’s William. William Booker. His father is the gamekeeper here at Winterton. He’s just left school and started work on the estate earlier in the summer. He helps with the hounds, and today, for the first time, he helped with preparing the guns for tomorrow’s shoot. He was supposed to check the mechanism of each weapon and oil them. But it seems like one of the barrels had not been discharged – or checked after the previous shoot – and still had shot in it.”
“Is that unusual?” asked Poppy.
“Yes. A good huntsmaster will check each weapon before putting it away. Booker senior was beside himself, wondering how he could have missed that one at the last shoot.”
“When was the last shoot?” asked Rollo.
“It was a live one – pheasant – the back end of October. About six weeks ago. But here’s the funny thing… the gun was loaded with buckshot, not birdshot.”
Both Poppy and Rollo appeared underwhelmed at this revelation, so Daniel went on to explain. “A bigger animal requires bigger pellets to kill it. Buckshot is bigger than birdshot and hence will do more damage.”
“What’s usually used for clay shooting?” asked Rollo.
“Bird.”
“Hmm.” Rollo stumped out his cigar in a convenient ashtray. “And what does the father say?”
“He says he swears by all that is holy that he never put buckshot in the guns. Not at the previous shoot, nor for this one. In fact, he swears that he had not loaded any of the guns for tomorrow’s shoot at all. They were just at the oiling stage – they would only have loaded the barrels tomorrow, just before the shoot.”
Poppy looked around the drawing room at the assembled guests, waiting for the séance to begin. They were gathered in clusters chatting, each in their national groups: German, American, Egyptian, and British. Yasmin was with her brother and Miss El Farouk, Marjorie was with Howard Carter and Dr Mortimer, and the Fox and Delilah were at the piano picking out a ditty. At the fireplace were Sir James, the auctioneer, and Arthu
r Conan Doyle, with Lionel Saunders, looking slightly unsteady on his feet, nearby. The Courier photographer was not in the room; neither was Lady Ursula, who, Poppy presumed, was trying to hurry up the tardy Madame Minette, while Lady Jean Conan Doyle was apparently still in bed. Flitting from group to group, like bees in a meadow, were three footmen, supervised by Mr Grimes, the butler, who monitored the dispensing of refreshments.
“Who else had access to the guns?” she asked, turning back to Rollo and Daniel.
“They would have been under lock and key,” said Daniel, popping his empty cup on a footman’s silver serving tray as he passed by.
“Then who had access to the keys?” asked Rollo.
“Booker said it was only him and senior members of the household.”
“And who would that be?” asked Poppy, noticing the photographer slip back into the room and whisper something to Lionel Saunders. Saunders nodded and followed him back out.
“Sir James, of course, Lady Ursula, who apparently is a crack shot, and Mr Grimes. As the butler, he has keys to everything.”
Rollo waved to a footman and mimed sipping coffee. He turned back to his staff. “The question that’s begging is why. If this Booker fella hasn’t just botched things up and is trying to cover for himself, why would someone load one of the weapons, in advance, with buckshot?”
Yes, that is the question… thought Poppy. “No doubt that’s what the constabulary will ask when they come to make inquiries. Any idea when that will be?”
“Probably tomorrow,” said Daniel. “Didn’t Grimes say he would give them a ring?”
“He did,” agreed Poppy. “They’ll probably want to speak to you too, as a witness.”
“Goodo,” said Rollo. “Let us know what’s said, eh Danny Boy. Now, team, let’s get back to the business at hand. I had a good chat to the Germans. Nice to be exchanging words for a change instead of bullets...” He grinned, Daniel laughed, and Poppy gave a mock groan. “… and they told me some very interesting things about our host.”
The Cairo Brief Page 8