The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. She has gone home. She left first thing this morning. Very suddenly. Barely a word of goodbye.”

  A motor car pulled up on the drive behind the Lincoln. A gentleman carrying a doctor’s bag stepped out.

  “Ah, here’s Dr Rose. You must excuse me.”

  “Of course,” said Poppy, politeness vying with urgency. “But could we bother you for Mrs Hughes’ home address? We really do want to book her...”

  Mrs Chapman gave a tired sigh. “Of course. Belson, will you give this young lady Mrs Hughes’ address? You’ll find it in my address book in the drawing room. Good afternoon doctor. It’s like King’s Cross Station here today.”

  The doctor raised his hat to Poppy and Daniel, but his look was disapproving. “You need to rest, Mrs Chapman, not receive visitors.”

  Chastised, Poppy and Daniel stepped away. “Sorry to have bothered you. We’ll just wait for that address and be on our way,” said Poppy. Then, to save Mrs Chapman having to decide whether or not to let them in, added: “We’ll just wait in the motor.”

  Fifteen minutes later, with Madame Minette’s home address – a property in Acton – successfully obtained, Poppy and Daniel set out on a walk along the river. They parked the motor near the bridge and walked down a flight of stone steps to the towpath below. Mid-afternoon in December and dusk was beginning to settle over the riverside town. Down by the river, licks of light highlighted icy patches on the bank. Poppy looked up at the darkening sky and wondered if they were going to be in for some more snow. Those clouds look heavy… She pulled her fur collar up to meet the edge of her hat.

  “Cold?”

  “A little,” she smiled up at Daniel.

  “Do you want to go back to the motor then?”

  “No,” she said, and slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. She was going to savour this time with her beau.

  He reached out his arm across his chest and took her hand in his. She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked. A man with a spaniel on the opposite bank raised his hat in greeting. Daniel let go of Poppy’s hand to raise his in return, but then instantly connected with her again.

  “It’s been a funny old weekend, hasn’t it?” he said.

  “It has. Lots of material gathered. Lots of angles to follow. I think we’ll need a good sit-down with Rollo on Monday to work through it all.”

  “We will, but would you mind if we didn’t talk shop for a little while? It’s not often I get you all to myself these days.”

  Poppy glowed. “Of course.”

  They walked in love-charged silence, their winter boots crunching on the gravel. Beside them the Thames, dark and brooding, murmured its approval. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit unpredictable these last few months,” said Daniel. “It’s definitely not what I had planned when you came back from New York.”

  “Oh? What did you have planned?”

  He squeezed her hand. “I think you know that, Poppy. I was hoping to work things out between us so that we could – we could –”

  A splash. The spaniel, now off its lead, had hurled itself into the river chasing a stick, oblivious to the cold.

  “Yes?”

  “So that we could find a way to be together. Permanently.”

  Poppy’s heart skipped a beat. Is this it? Is he about to propose?

  They approached a canoe shed at the top of a frosty slipway as a few flakes of snow fell onto the sleeve of her coat.

  “It’s snowing,” said Daniel, stating the obvious. “We should get back to the car...”

  No! Say what you were going to say! “Let’s slip in here for a bit. It might clear...”

  He smiled down at her. “Good idea.” He pushed open the door to reveal empty racks where the vessels were normally stored. “They really should lock these things.”

  “They probably do when there’s something in it. Nothing to steal right now.”

  “No?” said Daniel, pulling the door closed enough to give them some privacy but still to allow in a bit of light. “I was hoping to steal your heart.” He put both hands on her shoulders and stared boldly into her eyes.

  Poppy blinked and swallowed, then softened her lips. “You don’t have to steal it, Daniel. It’s already yours.”

  A look of pure love washed over his face, visible only for the moment before his lips found hers and they kissed – a long, deep, lingering kiss. Poppy sank her chest against him, trusting he would hold her weight in his strong embrace. He did. Then, after an exquisitely indeterminable length of time, their lips parted.

  “Oh Poppy,” he breathed. “I’m not sure being alone with you is the wisest thing. You’re intoxicating, Miss Denby.”

  Then make an honest woman of me, she thought, willing him to ask.

  He took a step back and reached a hand into his pocket.

  Poppy held her breath.

  The door to the shed creaked. Poppy looked over Daniel’s shoulder, expecting to see a canoeist. Drat it all, why couldn’t they – but it wasn’t a canoeist. Standing in the entrance, silhouetted against the setting sun, was not a young man with a woolly hat and scarf, but the shadowy outline of an older gentleman in a trench coat and fedora hat.

  Poppy screamed. Daniel spun round. The shadow fled.

  Poppy gabbled an explanation about the man from the maze; Daniel flew out of the shed in pursuit. Poppy followed him to the door, looked left and right, but could not see the man in the fedora. Neither, it seemed, could Daniel. A few minutes later he returned, breathing heavily from exertion and announced that the blighter had got away. “I’m sorry Poppy; he had too much of a head start.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “To be honest I didn’t see anything of him.” He looked over Poppy’s shoulder. “Perhaps he went the other way. Should I –”

  Poppy shook her head. “No, he’ll be long gone. And you could break your neck trying to catch him in this weather.”

  They both looked up. The snow was now falling steadily.

  “We should get back before it really sets in,” said Daniel, sounding desperately disappointed.

  Poppy looked at him, hoping he would continue saying what he was going to say before they were interrupted. But the moment was gone. And instead of the glow of happiness she had basked in just a few minutes earlier, there was a cold chill of foreboding. Why was the shadow man following her? She shivered and pulled up her collar. “Yes, let’s get back to the car.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The snow was falling thick and fast on the drive back to Winterton Hall; even if Daniel and Poppy had wanted to steer their conversation back to more personal matters, it was not safe to do so. The Lincoln held the road well, but the tight country lanes, slippery tarmac, and decreasing visibility meant that Daniel had to concentrate only on his driving. Then, as soon as they pulled up to the front door, they were met by Rollo wanting to plan the photoshoot of the auction, and Delilah who wanted help choosing what to wear. After returning the keys to Marjorie, Daniel and Poppy exchanged a wistful glance and then went their separate ways.

  Poppy noted that Grimes, the butler, hadn’t answered the door. She asked the footman if he was in – she thought it was finally time to ask the man some pointed questions. But she was told that he was out for the afternoon “on estate business”. He would, however, be back in time to supervise dinner.

  “Out in Henley-on-Thames?” she asked the young footman.

  “I have no idea, Miss Denby; he didn’t say.”

  “Come on Poppy, I need your help!” called Delilah.

  Poppy thanked the footman and joined her friend.

  Poppy lay back in the steaming hot water and sighed. The bruise on her right buttock was really starting to ache, and a piping hot bath before getting dressed for the evening’s festivities was just what was called for. She lowered her head under the water and then reached for the cake of shampoo. As she massaged the foam into her scalp she imagined for a moment Daniel
sitting behind her, washing her hair. When they married, would he do that? When we marry? No Poppy, if we marry. She reminded herself that it was not a certainty that Daniel had been about to propose. After all, nothing had changed in his circumstances. His sister was still talking about taking the children with her to South Africa; Daniel was still trying to talk her out of it. Planning and organizing a wedding – or trying to figure out how she fit into his complicated domestic arrangements – would be the last thing on his mind. Or was it…?

  Poppy ducked under the water again to rinse off her hair, then lay back, her head on the rim, while she worked up a lather with a bar of soap. “Most men ask: ‘is she pretty?’ Not ‘is she clever?’ Be pretty and clever. Buy Palmolive.” Poppy recited the advertising slogan in a sing-song voice, then laughed. “What utter poppycock!”

  She thanked God Daniel loved her for more than her looks. And she loved him too. They would work things out… please God, let it work out…

  She closed her eyes and conjured up the memory of their latest kiss. She sank into the fantasy, savouring every sweet moment, and then, just as she was about to imagine what might happen next, a dark shadow filled her mind’s eye. She gasped and opened her eyes, half-expecting to see the man in the fedora standing in the bathroom. But of course, he wasn’t. Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? Like earlier in the boat shed, he had once again spoiled her time with Daniel. Who was he? Was it Grimes, as she suspected? And if so, what motive would he have for following her and Daniel to Henley-on-Thames? Or for scaring her in the maze? Or for having a shotgun shell in his coat pocket…? Was he acting on his own, or at the behest of someone else? Sir James? Lady Ursula? Was this all tied in to what Rollo had suggested earlier in the day – that they were trying to unnerve her and make her more interested in attending future séances in order to ensure more newspaper attention? Or was it the opposite: were they trying to scare a young, inexperienced journalist off the case? Perhaps they had something to hide and didn’t want it to be exposed. Rollo Rolandson, no doubt, would be seen as a cynical old hack, beyond influence and manipulation. But Poppy, perhaps, was seen as the weak link in the Globe chain. Ha! They obviously don’t know me very well!

  But, she had to admit, she had been unnerved, particularly by the fact that Madame Minette seemed to know something about her brother that no one else should know. How on earth had she known about the magazines…? Poppy resolved to visit the medium, aka Mrs Minifred Hughes, in Acton as soon as she had an opportunity to do so on Monday. Her week ahead was already filling up: editorial meeting Monday morning; possibly a trip out to Acton in the afternoon. Then Tuesday she planned to visit the Americans – Miss Philpott and Dr Davies – at their hotel near the British Museum, to discuss the Renoir angle. And of course they would discuss whoever managed to successfully bid for the Nefertiti mask this evening.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to rush you, Miss Denby. It’s Kamela El Farouk. I was hoping to have a bath before dinner. Would that be all right?”

  “Of course! I’ll be finished in two ticks.”

  Oh bother!

  “Goodness me, Miss Denby, are those the Prince of Wales’ pearls?”

  Lady Ursula Maddox honed in on Poppy after dinner as the guests were being offered a glass of sherry or brandy before the auction started.

  “They are indeed, Lady Ursula. They were a present from my Aunt Dot on my twenty-third birthday. How did you know?”

  “Oh, they were all over the papers back in the day. It caused quite a stir, you know – the heir to the throne giving such an expensive gift to a mere actress. It certainly got tongues a-wagging, I can tell you.”

  Poppy suppressed a smile, certain her aunt would have revelled in all the attention. “They were just friends, I can assure you,” she said, feeling she needed to defend Dot’s honour.

  “Oh, I’m sure they were,” said Lady Ursula. “But the prince was known for his wandering eye. Even I caught his attention.” She nodded to a portrait of a younger version of herself on the wall behind Poppy. “That was me at around the same time your aunt and the prince were – er – friends.”

  Poppy chose to ignore the implied slur against her aunt and instead appraised the painting. It was an oil painting but done with the lightness of touch of a watercolour. Ursula, wearing a light pink blouse and straw hat tied under her chin with a chiffon scarf, was sitting on the bench in the orchard she and Rollo had been in earlier that day. Beside her was a basket of apples as if just harvested. She was looking wistfully into the distance. The artist had captured a sadness in her eyes that now – twenty years on – had been replaced by something Poppy couldn’t quite put her finger on… something predatory? Yes, that was it – Lady Ursula seemed to look on people like a sparrowhawk contemplating its prey. Poppy shuddered inwardly. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “Why thank you,” said Lady Ursula. “It was a gift from my cousin Fox. He was quite a gifted artist when he was a young man. In fact, he used to paint portraits when he was still an upand-coming actor. To pay the bills, you know. But he let it slip when the stage work started taking off.”

  “How interesting. You hear of lots of actors who are creatively gifted in different ways. Delilah, for instance, can sing, dance, and act.”

  “That’s not what she’s best known for though, is it?” asked Lady Ursula, tartly, directing her gaze towards the young woman who was engaging a clutch of men in conversation on the other side of the room. As per Poppy’s suggestion she was wearing the Egyptian-themed gown she had worn the other evening at Oscar’s, with the train of peacock feathers.

  Poppy smarted. “Delilah has many gifts. But the best of them are loyalty and kindness.”

  Lady Ursula turned her gaze back to Poppy and offered an insincere: “I’m sure they are.”

  Poppy swallowed her retort, forcing herself back onto a professional track. “So, the auction… who do you expect will win the bid?”

  Lady Ursula looked shrewdly at Poppy, hazel eyes meeting blue, then scanned the room. Her gaze lingered first on the Americans, then the Germans, then the Egyptians, and finally the British. “I’m not sure,” she answered. “The Americans have the deepest pockets, but the British seem very motivated. Why else would Giles Mortimer have Marjorie Reynolds accompany him? If the British Museum has the backing of the British government then perhaps they might be able to compete with the New Yorkers.”

  Poppy looked over to Dr Mortimer, Howard Carter, and Marjorie Reynolds who were deep in conversation. Were they planning their auction strategy? Yes, perhaps Lady Ursula was right. “What about the Germans and the Egyptians?” she asked.

  Lady Ursula flicked a bejewelled hand in dismissal. “Neither of them can compete financially. The Berlin Museum could have done once, but they’ve been a bit cash-strapped since the war. All those reparations the Weimar government has had to pay...”

  “And the Egyptians?”

  Lady Ursula’s eyes narrowed. “They think we owe them something. We owe them nothing. We’ve agreed to let them govern themselves; let them govern themselves. Let them pay their own way. Let them compete like grown-ups and put in a proper bid instead of whining about long-dead history.”

  “Are you talking about their accusations that the mask was stolen?”

  “I am.”

  “It was only eight years ago, wasn’t it? Just before the war started? Hardly ancient history.”

  Lady Ursula’s mouth narrowed, her lips compressing so tightly that all blood was driven from them. “I see you’ve been listening to gossip, Miss Denby.”

  “If you mean I’ve been speaking to Dr Osman and Miss El Farouk, then yes, Lady Ursula, I have. That is my job.”

  The older woman’s lips now curled back, revealing a line of small, uneven teeth. “Let sleeping dogs lie, Miss Denby.”

  Golly, is she referring to the dead dog in the tomb? But just as she was about to question the lady further, Sir James,
looking much better after an afternoon of rest, called the room to attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in a few moments, the auction will begin. However, before that, as per the request of all four interested parties, I have agreed that one representative from each group be allowed to examine the mask to determine its authenticity. So, without further ado, I present to you the death mask of Nefertiti!”

  With a flourish he whipped a damask cloth off a table beside him to reveal – propped up against a pile of books – an exquisite visage in blue enamel, gold leaf, black ebony, and jade.

  Poppy, and everyone else in the room gasped.

  “Oh! My! She’s beautiful!” trilled Delilah.

  “She is that, Miz Marconi,” agreed Jonathan Davies and then let out a long, appreciative whistle.

  Sir James grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “I’m glad you appreciate her, ladies and gentlemen. I trust that will be reflected in your bids. So, if you please, Herr Stein, Dr Osman, Miss Philpott and Mr Carter – I believe you are the nominated experts...”

  The four representatives stepped forward and approached the mask with a mixture of deference and curiosity. Each of them was given a pair of white cotton gloves and, one by one, they picked up and examined the mask, turning it this way and that. Both Herr Stein and Miss Philpott used eyeglasses; Carter and Osman each in turn held it up to the light, causing the encrusted jewels to sparkle. After about five minutes and a period of huddled consultation, the four experts turned to face the expectant guests.

  “Well,” prompted Sir James, “what is your verdict?”

  Three of the experts nodded to Howard Carter, indicating he should speak on their behalf. “Well, without the benefit of a laboratory, where we could compare the mask to existing artefacts whose authenticity is beyond question, it appears that the article may be genuine.”