The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Poppy felt a cold chill run down her spine. Possession? Oh dear God, should I leave?

  But then she hurriedly reminded herself that people she highly respected were convinced it was a hoax. It had to be a hoax. No, she had a job to do and she would stay.

  Lady Ursula continued: “Madame Minette also tells me that before full possession takes place, the spirit will knock to announce its presence. As all our hands will be flat on the table it will obviously not be us doing the knocking. The first spirit you will hear will be what is known as the control spirit. This is Madame Minette’s spirit guide. It is the spirit of a man called Alexander, a Greek slave in the court of the Emperor Nero, who burned to death during the great fire of Rome. Alexander, when he comes, will then help to control the other spirits who want to speak.”

  A bit like the chairman at a debate, thought Poppy.

  “In addition, there may – or may not – be physical manifestations. Flickering lights, ghostly music, moving furniture… whatever happens, do not be alarmed. Madame Minette and Alexander are in control. Is it clear how it will operate?”

  Everyone said it was. There was a frisson of excitement in the room, which surged as the gas lights suddenly dimmed and then raised again.

  “The sssspirits are anxioussss tonight,” whispered Madame Minette in her strange, sibilant voice.

  In response the guests’ expressions alternated between expectant, amused, scared, and barely contained scepticism. Miss Philpott fell into the latter category. Poppy made a mental note to speak to her afterwards.

  “Then let us begin before they move on,” said Lady Ursula. “Hands on the table as they were before please. We need to harness the collective psychic energy of everyone here. Do not break the circle under any circumstances. Are you all ready?”

  There were nods all round.

  “Good. Then spirits we welcome you. Speak as you will.”

  “Ssssspeak assss you will,” repeated Madame Minette, who then began to take long, deep breaths. Poppy pressed her palms firmly down onto the table, willing the stability of the wood to still her shaking frame. She felt sweat beads form at her temples and her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t deny it – she was scared, but also curious. How were they going to rig this thing? Her eyes flitted around the room. Behind Madame Minette was a cupboard, about six feet high, draped in a black cloth. What was in the cupboard? She wondered too what might be under the table. A white cloth reached all the way to the floor, so she had been unable to look beneath it when she entered the room. What might be hidden under there?

  Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of pan pipes playing a pentatonic scale – up and down and down and up. Delilah squeaked in delight. Poppy cocked her ear – there was no hiss or crackle to indicate it was a recording.

  “Alexsssander is here,” said Madame Minette and softened her lips as if she were a lover waiting for a kiss. “Are you here Ssssander?”

  Knock, knock, knock. Poppy jerked in fear, her hands losing contact for a moment with Herr Stein on her right and Mr Carnaby on her left. Herr Stein reached out his little finger and re-established the connection. Mr Carnaby followed suit.

  “Ah, you are welcome Sssander. You may enter.” Madame Minette lowered her chin to her chest then flung back her head and shook, as if convulsed by epilepsy.

  Poppy dug her fingernails into the tablecloth.

  The convulsions ceased and Madame Minette’s chin once more fell to her chest. The pan music was playing again as she slowly raised her head and gave the most chilling smile. “Good evening, Albert,” she said, looking directly at Mr Carnaby to Poppy’s left. Mr Carnaby’s hand flinched. “It’s so lovely to see you again, my dear boy.” All trace of sibilance had left the medium’s voice and, if Poppy was not mistaken, there was now a slight trace of an East Lothian accent.

  “M-mother?” asked Mr Carnaby, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

  “Of course it’s me, my dear, dear Bertie. Have you missed mumsy?”

  “Y-yes. I think of you often.”

  Madame Minette smiled. “That’s what a mother likes to hear.” Suddenly, Madame Minette began to twitch and jerk. Her chin dropped and raised again. This time her eyes were full of anger. “Get out of her, Mary! I did not give you permission to enter first!” The medium’s voice had dropped an octave and she now spoke with a vaguely Italian accent.

  “Who-who are you?” asked Albert Carnaby. “What have you done with my mother?”

  “I am Alexander. Steward to the great Nero, emperor of Rome!”

  “I’m surprised there’s no fiddle music,” observed Howard Carter laconically, and was hushed by Lady Ursula.

  Delilah stifled a giggle.

  “I’m sorry, Alexander. Please continue,” said Lady Ursula, bowing her head in deference.

  “Alexander” pulled back his lip into a snarl. “My master would never have permitted this insolence.” He pinned his yellow gaze on Howard Carter, who met it with a single raised eyebrow.

  It was Poppy’s turn to stifle a giggle. Her fear was beginning to dissipate. What a pantomime. I bet she’s an out-of-work actress, thought the young journalist, and started formulating draft intro paragraphs for her article, while trying to keep a straight face. She bit her lip and forced herself not to look at Delilah. That would be the end of them, she just knew it.

  “There are only three spirits who wish to speak tonight as there is insufficient psychic energy in the room,” said “Alexander”. Lionel, Lady Ursula, and Sir James all shot accusing looks in Poppy’s direction.

  “The first is Mary Carnaby, who has already spoken.” Madame Minette’s head twitched to the left. “What’s that Mary? All right. You may speak to your son. But if you dare speak out of turn again, you shall not return. Ever.”

  Madame Minette did the now familiar chin to the chest then flicked her head back. And lo and behold, Mary Carnaby returned with her gentle East Lothian burr. “Albert my boy. I do not have much time. Are you still there, Albert?”

  “I’m here, mother,” said Mr Carnaby.

  “Good, good,” said Mary. “I just want to ask – have you sold the Renoir yet?”

  Mr Carnaby’s finger twitched against Poppy’s. “No mother. But I’m putting it up for auction next week. How did you know?”

  Madame Minette smiled her chilling smile. “Spirits talk. The spirit of Pierre-Auguste asked me to ask you not to sell it yet. To wait for the next auction. Can you do that?”

  “P-Pierre-Auguste? Pierre-Auguste Renoir?”

  “Of course. What other Pierre-Auguste would I be talking about? Pierre-Auguste does not want you to sell the painting next week. He says you must wait until February. Is that clear?”

  Poppy cast a furtive glance at Mr Carnaby’s face. There was puzzlement but nothing to indicate the auctioneer did not believe he was talking to his mother. Wasn’t he one of the guests who had previously attended a séance? A true believer?

  “All right, mother. I’ll do as you ask. You can tell – Pierre-Auguste – I’ll hang onto his painting until February. But please, before you go, can you tell me if you’ve seen Ruthie? Can you ask her to come next time?”

  Madame Minette gave her creepy smile. “I can ask but I cannot make her, Albert. I shall give her your love.”

  “Y-yes mother, p-please do,” said Mr Carnaby, his voice cracking with emotion.

  Poppy felt a surge of anger rise in her. How dare this charlatan toy with this poor man’s emotions? Ruthie must be dearly loved and missed. She imagined for a moment stretching her hand over Albert Carnaby’s and squeezing it for comfort. But she did not break the circle. She was already on thin ice with Lady Ursula. However, it was patently obvious the medium was using information that would be easy enough to find out. Carnaby’s was a world-renowned auction house. As long as there was advance notice of who would attend the séance – which there had been – it would be easy enough to find out which paintings were up for auction next month. Altho
ugh, Poppy had to admit, Madame Minette had not had much notice. Hadn’t Lady Jean Conan Doyle been scheduled to lead the circle? Hmm. But before Poppy could follow her next train of thought the medium bobbed her head down and up again and Alexander was back, only to announce, like a music hall master of ceremonies, that the next spirit who wished to speak was no less than the pharaoh queen Nefertiti herself.

  Drum roll please!

  Head down. Head up. “Who is it who summons me from my eternal sleep?” said Madame Minette in a haughty voice of indeterminable foreign accent.

  Sir James cleared his throat. “It is I, your eminence, Sir James Maddox of Winterton Hall. We have spoken before, if you recall...”

  The “queen” turned to look at the man seated to her left. “Ah, yes. At that séance in Giza. You wanted to know where I had been laid to rest.”

  “That’s correct, your eminence, and you declined to tell me.”

  Nefertiti pulled back her lip into a snarl remarkably like that of Alexander’s. Limited range, thought Poppy and suppressed a smirk.

  “That was because I do not want to be disturbed.” She flashed a look at Howard Carter. “And neither does my grandson, Tutankhamun. Be warned, king hunter, if you disturb his sleep you will be cursed. Do you hear me?”

  Carter stifled a yawn.

  “But you do not mind me having your mask, your eminence?” asked Sir James.

  Nefertiti stuck her nose in the air, affecting a regal air. “I do not. The mask was never truly mine. It was made for me but never used by me. ’Tis not the one I am buried with.”

  Sir James cleared his throat again. “Good, good. That is a relief to hear, your eminence. Do you know that it is going to be sold at auction tomorrow night?”

  Nefertiti nodded her assent.

  “And do you have any preferences as to where it should go?”

  Oh please! Utterly transparent!

  The “queen” smiled, making her look just like Mary Carnaby. Or was it Alexander? Poppy was losing track.

  “I do not. All I ask is that the highest bidder respect me and my station. I am Nefertiti, the most beautiful woman in the world. I do not want to be sold for a pittance.”

  Miss Philpott let out a loud snort. “Forgive me, oh queen, but do you perhaps have an acceptable figure in mind? If so, let Lady Jean know and she can write it down for us. I’m sure you know where to find her. Upstairs, turn left, third door on the right...”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not what the queen meant, is it your eminence?” said Sir James, staring intently into Madame Minette’s eyes. “You did not mean monetary value, did you? Of course you didn’t.”

  The “queen” met his gaze. “Of course I did not mean monetary value. My value is beyond money. I am the queen of the heavens, the consort of the sun. Who can put a price on me?” Nefertiti cocked her ear as if hearing something from afar. “Hark! Akhenaten is calling me. I must go.”

  Head down.

  Poppy waited for the head to come up but nothing happened.

  The guests’ eyes flicked towards each other. Is it over?

  “Is that it?” asked Miss Philpott. “Because if it is, I could do with another brandy. Anyone care to join me?”

  “Hear hear,” said Howard Carter and pulled his hands from the circle.

  But as he did Madame Minette’s head whipped up. “Poppy! Poppy Pie! Is that you?”

  Poppy felt as though someone had poured a jug of ice water down her back.

  There was only one person who had ever called her Poppy Pie. But no, it couldn’t be. This whole thing was a hoax. A cruel hoax. She refused to play along.

  Madame Minette spoke with a Northumbrian accent. “It’s me, Christopher. Are you there, Poppy Pie?”

  Poppy had had enough. She stood up, overturning her chair with a clatter, and pointed at the medium. “You’re not going to fool me Madame Minette, or whatever you call yourself.” Then, with eleven pairs of astonished eyes following her, she stormed towards the door.

  “Don’t go Poppy Pie! I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the magazines. I never meant to get you into trouble.”

  Poppy stopped in her tracks. The magazines? The Strand magazines? How does she know about them? There’s no way she could know... Poppy felt suddenly faint. She reached out her hand to steady herself on the door frame.

  “Poppy, are you all right?” It was Delilah, standing beside her, her arm around her waist.

  Poppy breathed deeply, calming herself, then gave Delilah a grateful squeeze. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She looked around the room, taking in the shocked and concerned looks. “I’m sorry I spoilt the fun, everyone. I know it’s just a game. But I think what that woman is doing is cruel. And I don’t want to be a part of it. Good night.”

  And with that, she left the room.

  CHAPTER 10

  The house was still dark when Poppy buttoned up her coat, pulled on her boots, and slipped out into the icy morning air. The stable yard, where the afternoon before the young boy had had his accident, was crisp with frost. So she trod carefully over the sparkling cobbles, accompanied by the snicker and stomp of horses still snug in their stalls. She rounded the wing of the house and onto the crunchy gravel of the circular drive. To the left was the sweep of stairs leading up to the grand entrance of Winterton Hall, and to her right the stark gardens, saved from winter austerity by splashes of evergreen. And there, with its leylandii walls, was the maze she had noticed on arrival yesterday. On either side of the entrance were two matched Grecian urns, cemented to the top of fluted pedestals. She wondered if the urns were originals.

  She wasn’t sure what drew her to the maze, but during the long sleepless night as she tossed and turned, haunted by her brother’s face and her outrage at the audacity of the medium, Madame Minette, it kept coming to mind. Perhaps because it was a puzzle, its convolutions a physical manifestation of her tumultuous thoughts.

  She had left the séance last night and gone straight to bed. She’d thought about popping in to see Daniel and Rollo in the drawing room, but decided not to. She didn’t feel like being lectured by Rollo about not seeing the job through. Delilah could explain what happened. No doubt Lionel would rub it in, but he always did. She could handle Lionel.

  The bed had been less than comfortable. And when the fire in the hearth had burned itself out, the room, with its aged and cracked Georgian window frames, became as icy as a tomb. She was grateful for the warming pan one of the Winterton maids brought for her, but she still had to get up in the middle of the night to retrieve her dressing gown from the back of the door and climb back into bed wrapped in an extra layer. And oh, how she wished she’d packed bedsocks!

  She looked up at the pre-dawn sky, hoping to find some kind of guiding light to lead her through the maze. But the moon had slipped behind a cloud and the sun had not yet risen. She would just have to find her way by instinct.

  The evergreen walls sparkled with frost-encrusted spider webs, like little strings of Christmas fairy lights. That reminded her: when she got back to Chelsea she should put up Aunt Dot’s Christmas tree. It was already well into Advent but the decorations hadn’t gone up yet. Poppy loved Christmas in Chelsea. Back home in Morpeth her parents observed the season the way they observed everything else: with subdued moderation. But Aunt Dot – oh my! – Poppy had been gobsmacked when she came home from work last December to find the house transformed into something from The Nutcracker. One of Aunt Dot’s theatre friends – a set designer from the Old Vic – had helped her do it. Poppy wondered if Carlos would be available this year. Probably not, as Dot and Grace were off on the Orient Express. Ah well, she’d give it a go herself when she got home. Perhaps Delilah would help her. Or Daniel…

  Last year, after a string of parties at Aunt Dot’s in the run-up to the big day, she had gone to Daniel’s house after church to spend the afternoon with him and his family. It had been a tense time with Maggie, his sister, but the joyful exuberance of the two children eased it. This yea
r there had been no invitation. Although there were still two weeks to go, she doubted one would come. She didn’t hold it against Daniel – she knew things were difficult with Maggie’s plans to move to South Africa, and it might possibly be the last Christmas he would spend with his children for a while. The last thing he needed was to worry about how his on-off sweetheart was getting on with his sister.

  On-off sweetheart. Poppy approached a crossroads in the maze. Who would have thought when she agreed to go out to dinner with him that very first time, back in the summer of 1920, that things would become so complicated. Which way? Left or right? Poppy looked up and saw that the moon had come out from behind the cloud and the morning star sparkled. She turned right towards the star.

  So where would she spend Christmas? Perhaps if she let it be known she was on her own someone would invite her round. Delilah’s father would be coming over from Malta, and they were going to a big shindig at his Uncle Elmo’s house. Perhaps Poppy could tag along. And there was always Marjorie who lived around the block in Chelsea. Perhaps she could spend it with her and her son, Oscar. She wasn’t sure what Rollo was doing either. Ike Garfield’s wife, Doreen, had hosted something last year for the Globe staff on Christmas Eve, but she would have a full house with family coming over from Trinidad this year. Never mind, if worst comes to worst, I can just have a quiet day at home…

  Snap! There was a short, sharp crack; as if someone had stepped on a twig. Poppy froze. She looked behind her: there was no one there. She listened again and thought she heard someone breathing behind the hedge wall on her left. “Hello? Is there anyone there?”

  Silence. Poppy’s heart began to thump. She hurried on, turned left, turned right, and then came face to face with a dead end. She turned around, and as she did, saw a shadowy form standing in the entrance to the cul de sac.

  “Oh! You gave me a fright!” said Poppy, squaring up to the fellow maze traverser. But the figure did not speak. Poppy took a small step backwards. The shadow, which Poppy could now see had the silhouette of a man in a trench coat and fedora hat, took a step forward. She could hear him breathing, and see a cloud of white vapour form in the air between them. Poppy clenched her gloved hands, wishing she had some kind of weapon – an umbrella or walking stick.