The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “I – I’m meeting someone. He should be here any minute.”

  Silence.

  “I’m here Daniel!” she called. She cocked her head but didn’t hear anything. “Ah! There he is! Well I think I’ll go meet him. Won’t be long until breakfast.” Poppy turned her body sideways, intending to slip between the shadow and the hedge. “If you’ll excuse me...”

  The shadow opened his arms and straddled the gap, cutting off any opportunity of escape.

  What the heck was he trying to do? Was he trying to intimidate her? Poppy’s fear was washed away on a surge of anger. “Look, I’m not in the mood for silly games. Either introduce yourself or move on.” Poppy took a step towards him, hoping to get a better look at the face under the fedora hat, but as she did he turned and walked away.

  Incensed, Poppy ran to the gap in the hedge, intending to demand the stranger stop and reveal himself. But then the red mist lifted and she stopped in her tracks. Be grateful he’s gone Poppy. Let him go. Fear settled on her again. What if he comes back?

  Poppy pressed herself as close to the hedge as she could and peered around the corner – to the left and right. There was no one there. She listened intently but could not detect footfall. Has he gone? Oh Lord, I hope so. She no longer wanted to get to the centre of the maze. She just wanted to get out – safely. But which way should she go? In her fright she’d lost her bearings; she was like Ariadne without her golden thread. She closed her eyes and took a few calming breaths. Dear God, I know I’m being silly, but please help me. I just want to get out of here.

  After a few moments she felt calmer, more centred, and began to recall the sequence of left and right turns she’d memorized on her way in. Then, with a mental flip, she conceptualized it all in reverse and, slowly but surely, worked her way back to the Grecian urns. She stopped and took in the sweep of lawn in front of Winterton Hall, sparkling with frost in the moonlight. There was no one there. She let out a long sigh of relief. Had she just imagined the shadowy figure in the maze? It was dark. She was still a bit on edge after the séance. She hadn’t had much sleep… had she allowed her imagination to run away with her? She chuckled out loud, her voice brittle in the freezing air.

  But her laughter caught in her throat. On the frosty expanse there were three sets of footprints. Two sets came from the direction of the stables. One of them, she was sure, was hers. But the other… bigger, deeper; were they the footprints of the man? They hadn’t been there when she arrived. Was this evidence he – whoever he was – had intentionally followed her?

  She was relieved to see the stranger’s footprints, leaving the maze, headed off in the opposite direction, towards the east wing of the house. Poppy peered through the darkness, scanning her limited field of vision for anything that moved. There was nothing. I should get inside before he comes back. She ran as fast as she could towards the stable yard, slipping and sliding as she reached the frosty cobbles. Then she lost her footing completely and fell, slap bang onto her bottom.

  “Good heavens! Are you all right?” A man’s voice. A shadow lumbering towards her. Poppy gathered herself to scream but then stopped as she recognized the voice. “D – Daniel?”

  “Poppy! Are you hurt?” He was kneeling beside her, his gloved hands grasping her shoulders.

  “Oh Daniel!” she cried and opened her arms and thrust herself into his chest.

  “Steady on! Whatever’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself?” he asked, pulling her more tightly into his embrace.

  Poppy did a mental checklist of her body parts. Nothing seemed out of kilter, although through the thick cushioning of her winter coat she could feel a little pain in her right buttock. Best she not mention that. “No, I think I’m all right. I just had a bit of a scare, that’s all.”

  And then she told him all about the spooky stranger in the maze as he helped her to her feet. “He what?” Poppy could feel Daniel tense with rage.

  “He was probably just joking, but I didn’t find it very funny.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he growled. “Come on, let’s get you inside; then we’ll find out who it was.”

  Poppy felt safe. Very safe. What could possibly happen when she had Daniel with her? And then her stomach grumbled: loudly and unashamedly. “All right,” she said, “but do you mind if we do it after breakfast? I can’t sleuth very well on an empty stomach.”

  Daniel chuckled as he picked up her hat which had fallen to the cobbles, placing it firmly back on her head. Then he kissed her nose. “Oh, you are a funny bunny, Miss Denby,” he whispered, his lips just a fraction away from hers. Poppy glowed.

  CHAPTER 11

  “All right chaps, which of you silly kippers thinks it’s funny to scare a lady before breakfast?” Delilah stood in the doorway of the dining room, her cat-like eyes ranging over the other guests as they lined up for the breakfast buffet.

  “Delilah, shhh. I wanted to find out who did it without them knowing,” whispered Poppy behind her.

  “Whoops! Sorry Popsicle,” whispered Delilah over her shoulder. Then at full voice: “I heard someone say there’s no coffee left! You scared the life out of me!”

  The assembled guests gave Delilah curious looks, not quite sure what she was getting at, although Fox Flinton gave a supportive chuckle.

  “Fear not. There’s plenty coffee in the pot, Miss Marconi,” said Sir James, as he accepted a cup from Grimes, the butler, and took it to his seat at the table.

  “Good save, Delilah,” whispered Daniel from behind Poppy. Then added, for the room’s benefit: “Speaking of kippers, shimmy along ladies, I’m famished.” This elicited heartier laughter from the guests.

  “The kippers are top notch, Danny Boy,” said Rollo, already seated with a plate piled high with a sample of everything on offer. Poppy was always amazed at how much food went into her editor’s small body.

  “Then that’s what I’ll have! With some scrambled egg and toast. After you ladies,” said Daniel, gesturing for Delilah and Poppy to precede him to the serving table.

  Delilah, recovered from her near faux pas, asked for a poached egg, bacon, grilled tomato, and toast. And of course coffee. Black. No sugar. “I’m sweet enough.”

  Poppy opted for a couple of Cumberland sausages, a fried egg (sunny-side up), some mushrooms, tomato, and toast. “Oh, and a glass of orange juice please.”

  “The orange juice is on the table, madam,” answered Grimes in a tone as stiff as his starched collar. Poppy imagined him for a moment wearing a trench coat and a fedora. Hmmm, possibly. But why would he bother?

  “Kippers please, Grimes!” ordered Daniel.

  Poppy set aside her thoughts of the butler and the maze and moved on, giving Daniel room to pile up his plate. She took a vacant seat next to Miss Philpott. The American woman was tucking into a cheese omelette, liberally sprinkled with parsley.

  “Morning Miz Denby. They are pulling out all the stops, aren’t they? It’s a breakfast worthy of the Ritz!”

  “It is that,” said Poppy, nodding her thanks to the footman, who pushed her chair in and handed her a linen napkin.

  “Must be costing them a fortune.” Miss Philpott nodded affirmatively to a top-up of coffee.

  “Looks like they can afford it,” observed Poppy, stabbing a dollop of butter and spreading it on her toast.

  Miss Philpott lowered her voice and leaned in to Poppy. “Appearances can be deceptive, Miz Denby. Word is the Maddoxes are in the hock. Overextended themselves on all of Sir James’ foreign expeditions. He has bankrolled half a dozen digs in the last decade. Problem is, it was never his bank to roll.”

  “Oh,” said Poppy, casting a furtive glance at her host, hoping he hadn’t heard anything. Sir James was deep in conversation with Yasmin Reece-Lansdale and her brother, Faizal. By the body language of the two men, it was not an amiable discussion. Yasmin, as usual, in her white silk blouse, looked as cool as a cucumber, but the heightened colour on Sir James’s neck and Faizal’s flared nostrils suggested otherw
ise. Miss El Farouk had not yet come down for breakfast.

  “Yes,” continued Miss Philpott. “The money came from Lady Ursula’s side. And by all accounts she’s finally put her foot down and said he needs to start clawing some of it back. Hence the auction. If it goes well, I think we might see more of Maddox’s collection coming on the market.”

  Poppy’s newshound nose twitched. “Oh really? And does the Metropolitan Museum have its eye on anything in particular?”

  Miss Philpott chuckled and tapped the side of her nose. “It might, it very much might. Actually, it’s not just Sir James’ collection we have our eye on. We’re also here for the auction next week at Carnaby’s, although that might now be scuppered.”

  “And why’s that?” asked Poppy, cutting into her yolk and watching the yellow goo spread over the white egg.

  “Because the Renoir we were hoping to bid for might not be on the bill any more. Thanks to the artist’s untimely intervention last night...”

  Miss Philpott paused to fork a portion of omelette into her mouth. Poppy noticed that unlike the Americans she’d met in New York earlier in the year, Miss Philpott ate the British way – with the fork in her left hand. It was oddly comforting, as Poppy had been bizarrely on edge whenever she ate in the States. Poppy cut into her sausage and dipped it into the yolk, waiting for Miss Philpott to finish her comment.

  “You were there for that, weren’t you? The message from Renoir?”

  Poppy said she was. Then: “I’m sorry about storming out like that. I hope I didn’t ruin your evening.”

  Miss Philpott looked at her curiously from behind her tortoiseshell spectacles. “Not at all, Miz Denby. It poured a necessary bucket of cold water over the whole silly affair. I don’t blame you for it one bit. These charlatans toy with people’s emotions so. It’s not right.”

  Poppy put down her fork. “So you also think they’re charlatans.”

  “Of course!” said Miss Philpott, another chunk of omelette poised on her fork. “I hope you’ve worked out by now that the entire event was put on to try to inflate the bids on the Nefertiti mask?”

  “I surmised as much.”

  “But the Renoir intervention – I can’t figure out yet what benefit it will be to the Maddoxes to delay the auction. As far as I know, it’s not theirs. And they’ve never bid for an Impressionist before. Their interest is Classical.”

  Poppy hadn’t thought about the motives for the “Renoir intervention” – other than to terrorize poor Mr Carnaby, who seemed to be in thrall to the “spirits” and an easy target for manipulation – but it was an intriguing thought. This story was getting better and better. She quickly scanned the room, looking for Lionel Saunders. Ah, there he was, looking a bit worse for wear, hunched over and nibbling on a slice of toast like a rodent. His partner in crime, Harry Gibson, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Have you mentioned the Renoir to Mr Saunders from the Courier?” asked Poppy as casually as she could.

  Miss Philpott smiled knowingly. “I haven’t. He doesn’t think I’m worth talking to. And – if it will help you – I’ll ask my colleague, Dr Davies, not to mention it to him either.”

  Poppy took a sip of orange juice and put down the glass. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Philpott. But while I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, may I ask why you would like to help me?”

  Miss Philpott snorted with laughter, sounding very much like one of the horses in the stables outside. “Let’s just say, Miz Denby, I like to see a sister getting ahead. I was fascinated to read all about your escapades in New York last spring and more than a little happy to see certain people get their comeuppance. Some people think that just because they make a donation to the museum they can act like lord or lady muck – as you Brits so charmingly put it – but you well and truly put them in their place. So, let’s just say this is my way of saying thanks. Is that acceptable to you?”

  Poppy smiled warmly at Miss Philpott. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it. Will you be staying in London before the Carnaby’s auction? Or won’t you be going now? It would be good to have a proper interview about all this.”

  Miss Philpott greeted her colleague, Dr Davies, as he took the seat next to her.

  “Morning ladies.”

  “Ah, Jonathan, I’ll fill you in on the details later, but I am just setting up an interview with Miz Denby for later this week. Yes, we’ll be travelling up to London tomorrow morning. We’re staying at the Hotel Russell, near the British Museum. Do you know it?”

  Poppy said she did and arranged to meet Miss Philpott and Dr Davies on Tuesday. She knew she would be in the office all day on Monday typing up articles from the weekend. The Renoir was an interesting story, but it would be a separate piece from the Cairo Brief. She didn’t want to muddy the waters too much. Readers would be expecting all things Egyptian, not an article on a recently deceased modern Impressionist.

  Poppy was just clearing her plate of the last morsels when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle arrived. He looked tired and worried. Sir James rose to meet him. “Everything all right, Arthur?”

  “I’m afraid not, James. Jean is no better. She hardly slept a wink. I’m going to take her home. I took the liberty to telephone our physician in Harley Street, if that’s all right. He’s going to make a house call. I’m dreadfully sorry to put a damper on your weekend, old boy. Jean and I were both looking forward to it tremendously – particularly the séance. I’m just grateful you were able to get a replacement at such short notice.”

  Sir James patted Conan Doyle’s shoulder. “These things happen, Arthur. What do you think’s caused the gastritis?” He looked around at the rest of the guests. “Nothing contagious, I hope?”

  Conan Doyle lowered his chin to his chest and shook his head slowly from side to side. “I doubt it. Seems more like something she ingested. But food poisoning would normally have passed by now… this looks like it might be something else...”

  Whatever the “something else” might have been, Conan Doyle did not speculate out loud. Sir James said he’d get a footman to help Sir Arthur bring Lady Jean down and that he would get his chauffeur to drive them back to London. Apparently the Conan Doyles had arrived by taxi from the station the day before.

  Sir Arthur then left with a chorus of get-well wishes from the guests. However, something Conan Doyle had said sparked Poppy’s interest. Last night she had wondered how on earth Madame Minette had managed to get advance information on all the guests at such short notice – that is, if her assumption were true that that’s how the con was set up. But what if it was the Maddoxes’ intention all along to bring Madame Minette in? It was, after all, highly convenient that she just happened to be in the neighbourhood. The Conan Doyles, of course, were the main draw card for the press. Sir James obviously knew that or he wouldn’t have put it in the press release. Would they have been quite as keen to come if the famous author and his wife were not going to be here? Probably not. But if she was correct, and Madame Minette was the chosen medium all along, what did that mean about Lady Jean Conan Doyle’s sudden “illness”? No one had actually seen her. Was she really ill? Or were the Conan Doyles in on the whole thing? Poppy shook her head. No, surely not. Sir Arthur really did look worried. He’s an author, not an actor. That didn’t look put on. Poppy glanced over at Rollo, who was going up to the serving table for seconds. When he’d finally finished she would corner him and share her suspicions.

  Just then, the doorbell rang, echoing through the grand entrance hall beyond the breakfast room. “Are we expecting anyone?” asked Sir James.

  “It might be the police, m’lord,” said Grimes, indicating that a footman should take his place at the serving table. “About the accident yesterday. If you recall, I telephoned them after Mrs Reynolds told us that the hospital would be legally required to report any gunshot wounds.”

  Sir James nodded. “Yes, of course.” He stood. “If you’ll excuse me ladies and gentlemen, I’ll just attend to this. Please feel free to ta
ke your time or finish as you please. The clay pigeon shoot will begin at eleven. Anyone who wants to join in should meet in the stable yard.” And with that, he and Grimes left the room.

  Rollo piped up: “Don’t you think you should go too, Danny Boy? You took the lad to the hospital. No doubt the police would like to talk to you as well...”

  Daniel took a sip of coffee. “I’m sure they’ll call me if they need me, Rollo.”

  Rollo made a curious grunting noise and narrowed his eyes. Daniel put down his cup. “Of course you’re right. I’ll see if they need me.”

  He got up, winked at Poppy, and left before Lionel Saunders had a chance to react. The man from the Courier did not look well pleased. Poppy stifled a chuckle.

  Rollo then declared: “Well, it looks like my eyes are bigger than my stomach. I won’t be having seconds after all, my good man. Miz Denby, are you finished?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “Then perhaps you’d care to join me for some fresh air...”

  After working with him for eighteen months Poppy knew how her boss operated. This was not a request. “Of course, I’ll just get my hat and coat.”

  CHAPTER 12

  On her way back down from her bedroom, Poppy paused at the closed library door, behind which the policeman was speaking with Sir James and other witnesses. She made a show of winding and rewinding her woollen scarf, while trying, unsuccessfully, to tune in to the low murmur of voices.

  “You ready, Miz Denby?” Rollo received his bowler hat with thanks from the footman who had retrieved it from the hall cloakroom.

  Poppy realized she had missed a trick.

  “I’ll just be a tick,” she said to Rollo, then turned her attention to the footman. “Excuse me, could you show me where you keep the gentlemen’s outdoor wear?”