A flutter of excitement twirled around the room.
Carter continued: “Herr Stein here believes it is of comparable quality to the bust of Nefertiti in Berlin, and both Dr Osman and Miss Philpott say it shows similar marks of style and craftsmanship with other works of Thutmose held in their respective museums. I believe the age of the wood under the enamelling is suggestive of the Eighteenth Dynasty – mid-1300s – and similar to other artefacts I have examined of that period. However –”
“Well, there you have it!” exclaimed a beaming Sir James. “The experts have declared the mask authentic. So let’s proceed with the auction. Mr Carnaby...”
“However...” repeated Howard Carter, forcibly, backed up by three serious faces, “there are one or two – how should we say – curious anomalies...” Three heads nodded. “And we are all in agreement that further tests will be required under laboratory conditions, and that these should be carried out – by the four of us – post-haste, at the British Museum.”
Sir James stared at him, aghast. “Good heavens, man, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” said Carter, standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow antiquarians, “that we are not prepared to bid on the mask until those tests have been done.”
A collective groan went around the room. Every single person, apart from Kamela El Farouk and Yasmin Reece-Lansdale (whose expression could only be described as smug), looked disappointed.
“But – but – but –” spluttered Sir James, his face turning an alarming shade of puce, “the auction is scheduled for tonight!” His breathing became increasingly laboured. Grimes moved to his master’s side. “Everyone is – is – here! We can – sort out – sort – it’s genuine – the mask – Nefer – Nefer –” The host clutched his chest, emitted an agonized groan, and slumped towards the floor. Grimes caught him and manoeuvred him towards a footstool. Fox Flinton rushed in to help. Then Daniel, who had been behind his camera at the back of the room, charged forward.
“Put him on the floor. Loosen his clothing.”
Grimes and the Fox obeyed, laying Sir James flat on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace.
Grimes ripped off his master’s bow tie, frontispiece, and cummerbund while Fox unbuttoned his shirt. Lady Ursula was now on her knees at her husband’s side. “James! James! Call the doctor!”
“Yes, call the doctor, now!” ordered Daniel, bending over the stricken man.
Sir James was suddenly still. Daniel put his ear to his chest and listened. Then, with a loud expletive started pumping the older man’s chest. “Rollo! Help me! The kiss of life!”
Rollo bent over Sir James, pulled back his chin and started breathing over his mouth and nose, alternating breaths with Daniel’s compressions.
No one else in the room breathed, as if lending their lungs to the desperate effort to save their host’s life. But eventually, one by one, they resumed, and Daniel’s compressions slowed and finally stopped. The only sound that could be heard was Lady Ursula’s sobs and the spluttering of the fire.
CHAPTER 17
Breakfast the next morning was a very subdued affair. Grimes was in attendance and told each guest as they arrived that Lady Ursula sent her apologies but would not be coming down. No one was told that they were expected to leave, but it was assumed. It was announced that the Winterton Rolls Royce would run anyone to the station who didn’t have their own transport. It would be leaving at ten o’clock.
Poppy accepted a poached egg from Grimes, wondering how on earth she could now question him about the maze and the boat house. No doubt behind the professional facade was a man devastated by the recent death of his employer. His coal-dark eyes were fixed and staring at a point beyond Poppy when she thanked him for the egg and retreated to join her colleagues at the table.
“Morning Rollo. Morning Daniel.”
“Morning Poppy,” they muttered in unison. Delilah, Marjorie, and Yasmin soon joined them. The two German men had already eaten and were having coffee and cigarettes, while the Americans, Giles Mortimer, and Howard Carter were still eating. Faizal Osman arrived and said that Miss El Farouk would not be having breakfast and was busy packing. There was no sign of Fox Flinton, Albert Carnaby nor the two Courier journalists.
“I think Lionel and Harry left last night – after the doctor and the mortuary van left. I heard their motor,” said Daniel.
“It would have been heavy going in the snow,” said Rollo. “It didn’t stop falling until well after midnight.”
Poppy didn’t ask why Rollo had been up well after midnight. She too had lain awake well into the early hours going over the events of the evening.
The general consensus was that Sir James had died of a heart attack. After the hysterical Lady Ursula was helped from the room by Fox Flinton and Marjorie Reynolds, Grimes used the cloth that had covered the Nefertiti mask as a temporary shroud and laid it over his employer’s livid face. Then, with a remarkable sense of decorum, suggested the guests leave the drawing room. Drinks, he said, would be served in the dining room. Poppy followed the crowd into the dining room and accepted a glass of sherry to steady her nerves. Conversation was stilted. It would be impolite to talk about anything other than Sir James, but there wasn’t much that could be said other than “shocking”, “dreadful”, and “tragic”. Poppy did catch Howard Carter whispering to Dr Mortimer, however, that a decision still needed to be made about the mask, and Mortimer had whispered in reply that he’d make enquiries about it when it was polite to do so.
Fox Flinton returned from helping his cousin to her room. He said her maid and Mrs Reynolds would be sitting with her until the doctor arrived. Then he confirmed what Poppy already knew: Sir James had a weak heart and had been taking medication for it for a few years. That was one of the main reasons he had stopped going to archaeological digs. That and – he confided indiscreetly – Cousin Ursula had decided to draw the purse strings. Why he felt a household of strangers should know that, Poppy had no idea. But clearly the man was in shock, and perhaps that had brought on verbal diarrhoea. He did, however, have something useful to relay: Lady Ursula asked Albert Carnaby to take custody of the “cursed” mask.
“What? Now?” asked the auctioneer.
“I assume so,” said Fox.
Carnaby got up and hurried away.
“Cursed mask?” asked Delilah. “Do you think she means that literally?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” said Poppy, but noticed Lionel’s and Harry’s eyes light up. She could guarantee what angle the Courier would be taking on this. The rival journalists exchanged some whispered remarks, and Harry left the room announcing that he needed to retrieve his photography equipment.
“Should you get yours too?” Poppy asked Daniel.
“Yes. But I’d still like to get a photograph of the mask – if it’s not too awkward. I’ll wait until Carnaby returns and I’ll ask him. It would hardly be appropriate to take it in the room with the corpse now, would it?”
“Well...” said Rollo, stifling a grin.
“Rollo!”
“Just kidding, Miz Denby.”
Soon after that, the doctor came, having fought his way through the snow from Henley-on-Thames. Poppy could hear stomping of boots and mutterings of “dreadful night” and “I’ll go up to see Lady Ursula when I’m finished.”
By the time the doctor had finished with both Sir James and Lady Ursula, the mortuary van had arrived, and after the guests watched their host’s final departure from the dining room window, one by one, they drifted off. Most went to bed, but a few night owls decamped to the library for further drinks and cigars. Daniel, who had collared Albert Carnaby, set up a photoshoot of the mask in the hall with Rollo assisting him. As Poppy was surplus to requirements, she left them to it.
And now, the next morning, breakfast was finished. There was nothing for it but to pack up and leave. Daniel ascertained that Fitzroy had managed to repair the Model T, so with the help of a subdued Winterton staff, they p
acked their suitcases and said their goodbyes. Poppy, Rollo, and Daniel would return in the Ford as they had arrived. However, Yasmin asked if she could swap with Delilah and travel back with Marjorie in the Lincoln; and would the minister to the Home Office mind if Faizal and Kamela caught a lift too? Apparently there was business to be discussed between the Egyptian representatives and the British government. Delilah readily agreed.
The Americans and the Germans caught a lift with the Rolls. They would train back to London. Before they left, Poppy confirmed her appointment with Dr Davies and Miss Philpott for a breakfast meeting at the Russell Hotel on Tuesday. Fox Flinton said he’d be staying a while longer as he needed to support his cousin. Albert Carnaby, who had travelled in with Fox, said he would catch a later train back as there was not room in the Rolls at the ten o’clock departure.
And so the sad convoy, equipped with snow chains, made its way from Winterton Hall, as Grimes stood sentinel at the entrance to the house of mourning. He was wearing his black fedora and greatcoat. Poppy shuddered.
“Jake, Mary, and Jehoshaphat!” Rollo slapped down a copy of The London Courier into the middle of the editorial conference table. He then let off a string of expletives without bothering to apologize to Poppy. Daniel mouthed a “sorry” to Poppy, who gave a wistful shrug. But when Daniel and Poppy saw the front page of their rival, they understood exactly why Rollo was erupting like a volcano.
Underneath a photograph of the body of Sir James with the death mask of Nefertiti resting, where it had fallen, beside him, was the following article:
“It’s utter codswallop! The whole bloody thing!” Rollo was pacing up and down the conference room, gesticulating wildly. “But what really gets my goat is that they’ve brought out a Sunday edition! The Courier never have a Sunday edition. If I could get my hands on that snake Saunders I’d wring his scrawny neck!” He mimed the action to punctuate his point.
Poppy too was furious. Not about the Sunday edition – hats off to them for taking the initiative and getting the scoop – but for maligning Daniel and Rollo, who had desperately tried to save Sir James’ life. “How dare they!” she spluttered. “I didn’t see them lift a finger to do anything. At least you two tried! And from what I could see, you did everything properly. I’ve worked at a hospital, remember? It’s outrageous! Completely outrageous!”
Daniel reached across the desk and squeezed her hand. He was the only one in the room who didn’t appear to be affected by the article. “All right you two, calm down. There’s no use crying over spilt milk. The question is, what are we going to do now?”
Rollo stopped pacing and slumped into a chair. “You’re right Danny Boy. What’s done is done – now we need to plot our revenge.”
Daniel shook his head. “Not revenge, Rollo, and as soon as Poppy calms down I’m sure she’ll say the same. But we can get back by scooping them. However, we should do it with the truth, not a pack of lies. Here, have a cigar.” Daniel plucked a cigar out of Rollo’s breast pocket and offered it to his employer.
Rollo took a deep breath, smiled wryly, and took the cigar from Daniel. “Thanks Danny Boy. You’re right. We can turn this around.” He picked up the Courier again, skimmed through it, and circled a couple of paragraphs. “We can’t do anything about the Kiss of Life comments as it will appear petty trying to defend ourselves, but we can do something about the rest of it. I can probably pull together a more detailed article on the séance – they’ve only just mentioned it briefly, although they do have a photograph. But from what I recall Delilah telling me – I’ll formally interview her for it, as well as a couple of the others who were there – the curse mentioned was in relation to King Tut’s tomb, not Nefertiti’s mask. Is that right?”
Rollo was back into management mode. Whatever anger Poppy felt would need to be set aside for a while. There was a job to do.
“Yes, as far as I recall, that’s the case. I actually suggest you speak to Howard Carter, as he is the one who Madame Minette directed her comments to.”
“Good idea, I’ll see what I can do. And you managed to get hold of Madame Minette’s address, didn’t you? Do you think you could drop around there sometime soon?”
Poppy had intended to do so on Monday. It was now just after lunch on Sunday. The newspaper office was usually closed on a Sunday, but the three journalists had agreed in the car that they should try to get something together to put into the Monday edition (which was normally printed on a Saturday night) because of the sudden and dramatic end to Sir James. They knew the Courier would be doing something, but hadn’t been prepared for them to bring out an emergency edition overnight. So it was even more imperative that they put in some hours now to get back into the running. Although the Monday edition had been printed, there would still be time to reprint the front page if they worked through the afternoon and into the evening. But would there be time if she went to Madame Minette’s?
She mentioned her concerns to Rollo who, after making a few notes regarding the proposed schedule, agreed that it could wait for Monday.
“That way you could also ask her about the Renoir angle. Would you be able to bring your meeting with Davies and Philpott forward though?”
Poppy nodded. “Yes, I’ll give it a go. I can put in a call to the Hotel Russell and ask them. And while I’m at it I’ll see if I can speak to Yasmin and her brother. And perhaps Marjorie. There’s another angle in the Egyptians trying to delay or stop the sale of the mask. I don’t think it’s the way the Courier made it out to be, but there is something in it. I think Yasmin was the one who advised her brother to suggest that tests be conducted on the mask. I think she’s trying to buy time for her to orchestrate a legal intervention.”
Rollo nodded in agreement. “Yes, I think you’re right. She did say to me that she was ‘on the case’. I’ll tell you what – leave Yasmin to me. But you can handle Faizal and Miz El Farouk. They’re staying at the Hotel Russell too. You might also get a bit more on this 1914 murder – I see the Courier botched that story up too; it certainly wasn’t ‘in a similar way’ to Sir James, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Good. Then flesh that out a bit more. See what you can pull together this afternoon.”
Poppy had been making notes. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
Rollo was now chewing on the unlit cigar. “Good, good. This is coming together very nicely. Danny, what pics do you have?”
“None of the séance, unfortunately. But I’ve got some of Delilah as Nefertiti, plus one of the mask. A lovely close-up. Better than the Courier’s. I’ve also got some of the shoot, but they won’t help...”
Rollo unplugged the cigar from his mouth and jabbed it at Daniel. “Not that shoot, no. But what about the shooting accident the day before?”
Daniel shook his head. “Sorry, nothing.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Rollo. “We’ve still got the information. The Courier didn’t even mention the shooting of the boy. We can scoop them on that. A weekend of tragedy! Which hospital was he taken to?”
“The Royal Chelsea.”
“Not too far, then. Good. Get your pics developed first, then head over there. Try to get a picture of the boy in bed looking sorry for himself. I’ll give Ike a ring and fill him in. We’ll need his help. He can meet you there. I’m not sure what the story is behind the shooting but there definitely is one. Maybe the boy and his father will be able to tell you more, now that the immediate shock is over. And then perhaps Ike can ring the butler at Winterton and question him about why there was a shell in his pocket.”
“B-but then he’ll know I was snooping!”
“There were three of us there, Poppy. Ike won’t have to say which of his colleagues told him, just that one of us did. Besides,” he grinned, “you were snooping.”
Poppy bit her lip. “Yes, I was.”
Rollo chuckled. “And I’m so glad you were. Right team, off you go! Let’s show those Courier boys what real journalists can do.”
CHAPTER 18
The Hotel Russell on Russell Square was a monstrous red terracotta affair of arches, towers, and domes, now made doubly garish by an explosion of Christmas decorations. The main entrance was guarded by life-sized statues of the four British queens Elizabeth, Anne, Mary, and Victoria, after whom the hotel’s palatial suites were named. The foyer was dominated by a Pyrenean marble staircase, and the dining room – which led to an indoor sunken garden, twinkling with festive baubles – had been designed by the same man who had created the dining rooms of the sister ships Titanic, Atlantic, and Olympic. Poppy read all of this on an information card as she waited to be helped at the reception desk. She decided that she would have to pop into the dining room before she left – for old times’ sake – as she had just recently travelled on the Olympic and had spent some delightful evenings eating and dancing in that room.
Eventually Poppy caught the attention of the receptionist and asked him to let Miss Philpott and Dr Davies know she was there. She had telephoned ahead and Miss Philpott, Dr Davies, and Miss El Farouk had agreed to see her. Dr Osman was not in as he was spending some time with his sister. Poppy thought she would speak to the Americans first, then the Egyptian lady. Fifteen minutes later she and Jennifer Philpott were sitting at a table on a patio off the sunken garden sharing a pot of tea. Dr Davies, it turned out, sent his apologies – he had been called out suddenly to another meeting.
But Poppy didn’t mind. She liked Miss Philpott and felt she had already made a connection with her. Dr Davies was an unknown quantity and she might have had to spend valuable time establishing a rapport with him instead of getting straight down to business.
The ladies spent a few minutes going over the events of the previous evening, expressing their shock and sadness before getting to the point of the meeting: the Renoir.
Miss Philpott reached into her handbag and brought out a catalogue for Carnaby’s Auction House. “I dug this out for you. Thought it might be useful. It’s for the pre-Christmas auction,” she explained. She turned to a bookmarked page and opened it in front of Poppy. “Here’s the Renoir in question.” She pushed the book towards the young journalist, pointing to a black and white photograph of a painting entitled Yachts on the Seine. “That’s the painting Madame Minette – pretending to be Albert Carnaby’s mother – asked him to withdraw from auction.”
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