The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “He must be exhausted.”

  “Well quite. Not to mention the petrol bill!”

  Poppy made appropriate noises of sympathy. They were approaching the stable yard and Poppy realized that she had not yet spoken to him about the job at hand: the auction. That’s what she was really there for. So she spent the last few minutes in his company asking him about the mask. In answer to her questions he declared that he didn’t really mind where the mask ended up as long as it would be looked after and that he’d be appropriately reimbursed for his expenses. And no, he did not want to say exactly how much he’d paid; it would not be gentlemanly of him. He reiterated that he had bought the mask from a dealer in Cairo. Yes, it was unfortunate that the man could no longer be found, but that was hardly his fault, was it? No, he did not believe the mask had been acquired by illegal means. That was a rumour started by the Hun because they had a chip on their shoulder since they lost the war. He hoped Miss Denby would take whatever Herr Stein told her with a pinch of German salt. And, oh yes, if that Osman chap and his “little assistant” wanted to challenge the court order then that was their prerogative. And no, he did not give a hoot that Miss Reece-Lansdale was advising them on legal matters. It was time that woman decided where her loyalties lay: Egypt or England. But what else did one expect from a half-breed? Not that it was her fault that she was mixed race, of course – these things tended to happen in the colonies, you know… by gumption, he was sorry for that last comment. Not an appropriate topic of conversation for a young lady. Could Miss Denby forgive him?

  Poppy assured him she could and then continued with her questions, amazed at how garrulous he was. Had he forgotten she was with the press?

  So no, Mrs Reynolds had not spoken to him about it on behalf of the British government. But if she did, he’d tell her what he’d told Osman and “the girl” earlier today: they could take a running jump off the nearest cliff. Well, not literally, of course; far be it for him to wish ill on anyone…

  “Like the watchman and his dog?” Even as she said it, she realized she might have gone too far. But she had to ask it now. The chips would just have to fall as they may…

  Sir James stopped outside the door of the west wing of Winterton Hall. “What’s that, Miss Denby?”

  “The watchman and his dog at Thutmose’s secret chamber. Back in 1914 when the mask was first found. That was the ‘murderous circumstance’ you referred to in your press release, wasn’t it? I heard about it from Miss El Farouk...”

  Sir James released Poppy’s hand from the crook of his arm and took a moment to catch his breath. Eventually, he continued: “Yes, that was a very unpleasant business. But they got the chap who did it – or at least helped the person who did it. A local lad. Did Miss El Farouk tell you that?”

  “She did,” said Poppy. “But she also said that she believed the boy was innocent. And that he’d died a few years later in prison. Did you know that?”

  Sir James cleared his throat. “I did not hear about his death, no. That is unfortunate. But believe me, the lad was guilty as sin. I attended his trial. And it was a fair one.”

  “Miss El Farouk thinks differently.”

  The colour rose in Sir James’ face. “Well she would, wouldn’t she? Have you ever been to the colonies, Miss Denby?”

  Poppy said she had not.

  “Well, if you had... you… you... would know… that the... natives... always stick together. The boy was... guilty. Of that... I’m sure.”

  “Are you all right, Sir James? Can I call someone? Or get you anything?”

  Sir James summoned up a weak smile. “Thank you... no. But I... do need to... rest. Good... day to you.”

  And with that, he walked slowly away. Poppy watched, deeply concerned. She was just about to hurry after him and insist she accompany him, when Mr Grimes drew alongside his master, slipped a hand under his arm, and helped him into the house. As they entered, the butler cast a steely look in Poppy’s direction, as if she were personally responsible for his employer’s condition. Well two can play at that game, thought Poppy, and returned the gaze, steel for steel.

  Poppy rushed upstairs, changed out of her shooting clothes into an indoor frock of navy blue, and jotted down as much of her conversation with Sir James as she could remember. She also made notes about what she had overheard of the conversation between Marjorie Reynolds and Faizal Osman. Then there was a knock at the door. It was Delilah and Kamela El Farouk.

  “Are you coming down for lunch, Poppy?” asked Delilah, looking very fetching in forest green culottes and a cream blouse with a mandarin collar, embroidered with gold and green silk. Miss El Farouk wore a lilac frock with a white silk headscarf.

  “Yes, I’m famished!” said Poppy. The cucumber sandwich she’d had at the shoot now seemed a long time ago. She packed her notebook into her satchel, picked up her light navy jacket with white trim, and joined the other women on their way to lunch.

  “Did you have a restful morning, Kamela? I didn’t see you on the shoot?”

  “I did, thank you. I caught up on a bit of reading. Shooting isn’t really my thing.”

  Poppy grimaced as they entered the corridor containing the hunting trophies, presided over by the black bear. “It’s not mine either. But not having to actually kill something makes all the difference. It was really jolly good fun.”

  “Oh, it’s not the killing that bothers me,” observed Miss El Farouk. “It’s killing something innocent that’s the problem.” She gestured to the animal heads lining the walls. “There’s a difference between killing something for food and killing for sport, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I would. And that’s exactly how I feel about it too,” said Poppy.

  “So do I,” agreed Delilah. “But shoots can be splendid. It’s not the shooting itself, but the party around it. Such fun!”

  “Will there be a party tonight?” asked Miss El Farouk. “After the auction?”

  “I jolly well hope so!” said Delilah and danced a quickstep down the remainder of the corridor, ending it with a pirouette and a curtsy. Poppy and Kamela laughed.

  “Oh, you girls are a breath of fresh air!” said Kamela. “I do love my job, but I seem to spend most of my days with fuddy old men.”

  “Dr Osman doesn’t seem that fuddy – or that old. In fact, he’s quite a dish,” said Delilah and gave a little wink to Poppy. “Are you and he…?”

  “Good gracious no!” said Miss El Farouk. “He’s nearly forty!”

  “Totally ancient!” laughed Delilah, and the other girls joined in.

  After lunch – a tasty spread of vegetable soup followed by venison pie, mashed potatoes, and gravy – Poppy managed to catch up with Daniel and told him that Rollo had suggested the two of them spend the afternoon trying to track down Madame Minette.

  “We could take a drive into Henley-on-Thames. Just the two of us,” added Poppy.

  Daniel smiled at her. “I could think of no better way to spend the afternoon. The only problem is, Fitzroy hasn’t had a chance to look at the Model T yet. He’s been run off his feet since we all arrived. He said he was going to sort it this afternoon.”

  “Oh bother,” said Poppy.

  “Are you young people in need of a motor?” It was Marjorie, who had overheard their conversation.

  “We are,” said Poppy. “But the company car needs a bit of work. Thanks to the silly kippers from the Courier who ran us off the road.”

  “Why don’t you borrow mine?”

  “Golly, Mrs Reynolds. That’s sporting of you. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all, Mr Rokeby,” said Marjorie. “I’ll go fetch the keys.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Winterton Hall was six miles east of Henley-on-Thames and Marjorie’s powerful Lincoln ate up the miles far more quickly than Poppy wanted. It was a real treat to be alone with Daniel, even if it was on official business. Poppy was very conscious of his proximity, particularly when his gloved hand reached down to change
gears, a mere inch from her thigh. Daniel was a very attractive man. Twenty-nine years old, six-feet tall, well-built but not bulky, he was physically exactly what Poppy would have hoped for in a man. She loved the way his brown hair was brushed smoothly to the side – so unlike her own unruly locks – and how his dark grey eyes twinkled with good humour when he looked at her.

  She remembered the first time they’d met, in the summer of 1920, on platform 1 of King’s Cross Station. She had just got off the Flying Scotsman, hauling her trunk behind her because the porters were on strike, when she was approached by a young man carrying a camera case. She had accidentally dropped her book – a novel by Agatha Christie – and the young man spotted it. That was the first time she’d noticed his twinkling eyes: when he had teased her about lady mystery writers. However, it was also the first time she’d seen the shadow that occasionally fell upon him, when he mentioned the war memorial he had just been photographing. The memories of the war and his fallen comrades were never far from Daniel; and the scars he’d earned trying to save some of them from a trench blaze marred his hands under the driving gloves.

  It was in a field hospital in Belgium, where he was recovering from his wounds, that Daniel had first met Rollo Rolandson, who taught the young British soldier the rudiments of photography. Two years later, in 1917, Rollo won The Daily Globe in a poker game and offered Daniel – discharged from the army on medical grounds – a job on the London newspaper. Daniel, who at the time had a wife and two children to look after, jumped at the chance. Sadly, a year later his wife died of the Spanish flu and his sister, Maggie, took over looking after the children.

  Maggie. Poppy sighed. If it weren’t for Maggie she and Daniel might already be married. The woman had never liked Poppy. She saw her as a threat to her surrogate family and had tried on more than one occasion to drive a wedge between her brother and the young, attractive journalist. The thing that infuriated Poppy more than anything was that Maggie couldn’t make up her mind if Poppy was a threat because she feared the younger woman was about to take the children away from her, or because she wasn’t. Last Christmas Poppy had endured endless jibes about women who pursued careers at the expense of their children, or did not know that a woman’s true place was in the home. And, to make it worse, for a while Poppy wasn’t sure if Daniel shared his sister’s views. Earlier in the year, in the spring, Poppy had called off their relationship when Daniel disapproved of her decision to go to New York for three months, not understanding – or seemingly caring – that this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for her to further her career.

  However, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and on her return he apologized and told her that he fell in love with her as a career woman and would continue to love her as one. This put Poppy’s mind at rest, and for the next few months they happily renewed their courting.

  This did not, however, mean that Poppy did not want children – she did – but not yet. The problem was, Daniel already had children, and if the two of them were to marry then Poppy’s decision, which she hoped to put off for a few more years – of whether to stop work completely or do a bit part-time on the side until the children were older – would be brought abruptly forward. And both Daniel and she knew it.

  Perhaps that’s why he still hasn’t proposed... Poppy cast a sideways glance at her beau. Clean shaven, but with a slight shadow along his jaw, his beautiful mouth was unencumbered by a fashionable moustache. Poppy closed her eyes, imagining for a moment that mouth kissing hers… Her pulse raced as she remembered the handful of times which it had, and the same number of times when either she, or Daniel, had pulled away. Despite her progressive views on women voting and working, she held to traditional views on sex before marriage. But that didn’t stop her dreaming…

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Poppy opened her eyes and smiled shyly. If only he knew…

  “I was just thinking through the case.”

  “Really? I wasn’t.”

  “Oh?” she asked, feeling a slight blush flush her cheeks.

  He grinned. “Perhaps we can take a walk along the river after we’ve visited the Chapmans.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  The Lincoln powered over Henley Bridge with the dark waters of the river below. Poppy raised her eyebrows in surprise at a pair of canoes, manned by men in woolly hats and scarves, suggesting some or other university affiliation.

  “Hardy souls,” observed Poppy.

  “No doubt they’ll warm up later with a pint or two.”

  They drove past a beautiful medieval church and onto a quiet high street. As it was Saturday afternoon, most of the shops – apart from one or two tea rooms – were shut. Poppy imagined just a few hours earlier the pavements would have been full of shoppers dressed up against the biting air, laden with Christmas shopping.

  Christmas shopping. Golly, I’d better get some done! I’ll suggest a morning on Oxford Street with Delilah next Saturday…

  “According to the directions from Fitzroy, the Chapmans’ place should be just up here...”

  Daniel indicated a left-hand turn and manoeuvred the Lincoln into a smart, tree-lined street. Right at the end was a large, imposing villa of red brick with a black front door, punctuated with a big brass knocker.

  A few moments later they were on the doorstep, assured they were in the right place by a small brass plaque under the house number: Chapmanville.

  Nouveau riche, thought Poppy, then immediately chastised herself for such uncharitable thoughts.

  “Perhaps we should have telephoned ahead,” said Daniel, as he rapped the knocker then straightened his tie.

  “Possibly,” said Poppy, “but that would have warned Madame Minette we were coming.”

  He looked down at her. “Do you think she might not want to see you?”

  “Let’s just say we didn’t exactly get on like a house on fire last night.”

  The door lock clunked and turned and they were greeted by a butler in a black suit and white bow tie. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  “Ah, good afternoon. My name is Miss Denby and this is Mr Rokeby. We are looking for Madame Minette. Is she in?”

  The butler looked puzzled. “Madame Minette?”

  “Yes, the medium. We met her last night at Winterton Hall. She was conducting a séance. We were informed that she is staying here with Mr and Mrs Chapman. Sorry we didn’t telephone ahead...”

  “Ah. Perhaps you mean Mrs Hughes. Mrs Minifred Hughes.”

  “Mrs Hughes? Is that her real name? I’m sorry, I only know her – her – professional name. But it sounds like the same lady. Is Mrs Hughes French?”

  “She is not.”

  Well, that’s no surprise, thought Poppy. But she tried to keep the disdain out of her voice when she asked: “Is she in then? Mrs Hughes?”

  “She is not.”

  It was starting to get very cold on the doorstep. Poppy wished the butler would invite them in, but he was guarding the door like Cerberus at the gates of Hades.

  “Do you know when she will be back?” asked Daniel.

  “I do not, sir.”

  The butler did not budge.

  Suddenly there was a call from behind him. “Who is it, Belson?”

  Belson turned and called back: “It is a lady and gentleman looking for Mrs Hughes, madam.”

  “Minifred? Well, have you told them she’s not here?”

  “I have, madam.”

  Oh, this is getting annoying. “Hello! Sorry to bother you!” Poppy called, hoping her voice would circumvent the butler and reach the lady behind. “But we were hoping to speak to Madame Minette – Mrs Hughes – about a séance. She was fabulous last night. We’d like to hire her for a little soiree we’re having ourselves. Might you know when she’ll be back?”

  A turbaned head stuck itself around the door frame. But from the look of the pale, gaunt face under it, the scarf was for medical not fashion purposes. The butler stepped back to allow the lady th
rough. “Hello,” said the woman. “I’m Rhonda Chapman. And you are?”

  Poppy smiled. “I’m Poppy Denby and this is Daniel Rokeby.”

  The woman screwed up her face, drawing attention to her lack of eyebrows. “Denby? Are you any relation to Dot Denby?”

  “I am! She’s my aunt. I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Chapman.” Poppy stuck out her hand. Mrs Chapman took it and shook it limply.

  “I used to know Dot, back in the day. You look very much like her, you know? Or at least what she looked like when she was young.” Mrs Chapman smiled, wistfully. “I hope she is in better health than I am.”

  Poppy’s heart beat in sympathy. “She is very well, thank you. She’s off travelling at the moment. If she knew I was coming, I’m sure she would have passed on her regards.”

  Mrs Chapman nodded. “I’m sure she would have. And she might have saved you the trip. Your aunt actually knows Minifred – or used to. They were in the theatre together, back in the day.”

  So she is an actress.

  “Would it be possible to come in and wait for Mrs Hughes?” asked Daniel.

  Mrs Chapman looked up at Daniel. “I’m sorry to be rude, young man, but unfortunately not. I am waiting for the doctor to come and give me some treatment. I thought you were he.”

  “Oh, it’s we who are rude!” said Poppy. “We should have telephoned. We didn’t really think. We thought we’d just pop by while we were in Henley-on-Thames. It was a spur of the moment thing, really. Not important. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”

  Mrs Chapman gave a tired smile. “Perhaps you and your aunt could come for tea sometime. When she returns. If I’m still here...”

  Poppy’s heart lurched again. She embraced the older woman with a sympathetic gaze. “We’d be delighted to. I shall let her know in my next letter. And I shall ask about Mrs Hughes too. However… that could take a while to get to her… we were hoping to book Madame Minette before Christmas. Can we drop by to see her later – when she returns – and when, of course, it is more convenient for you?”