The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “Why?” asked Poppy, looking at the typical Impressionist-style painting, bleached of colour.

  “I’m not sure,” said Miss Philpott. “The owner of the painting is listed as ‘a private collector’ and the guide price is £1,000.”

  “Is that a lot for one of these?”

  “It’s at the top end, yes, but his work has gone up in price since he died last year. However, what makes this painting special is that it’s one of a pair of companion paintings Renoir did with his pal Claude Monet. The two of them often used to paint the same scenes together.”

  “Hmmm,” said Poppy. “Do you know who has the companion piece?”

  “I don’t,” said Miss Philpott. “But… if the two were to be sold as a pair, that would inflate the price considerably.”

  “Really?” asked Poppy, her mind ticking over all sorts of scenarios. “I wonder if that’s got something to do with the request to withdraw it. Perhaps it’s someone’s way of stalling until the companion piece can be auctioned at the same time.”

  “Good thinking,” said Miss Philpott as she popped a sugar cube into her tea. “Do you think there’s a story in this for the paper?”

  Poppy stirred her own tea and took a sip. “There might be. The whole thing was very odd, wasn’t it, shoehorning it into a set-piece about Nefertiti? I mean it’s obvious why the Maddoxes would want to create some mystique around the mask, but why muddy the waters with the Renoir?”

  Miss Philpott pushed her spectacles up onto the bridge of her nose. “You think the Maddoxes orchestrated the whole thing?”

  Poppy nodded. “I do. Who else could it be? But there’s nothing illegal about what they’ve done. Some would say it was all just part of the party fun. But the Renoir – that just doesn’t fit, and it’s troubling me.”

  Miss Philpott looked at Poppy shrewdly. “I heard from Judson Quinn at The New York Times that you had a first-class newshound nose, and it looks like he’s right.”

  Poppy flushed. “Why thank you, Miss Philpott. That’s very kind.”

  “Please, call me Jenny. I think you’re right about this Poppy. And even though on the surface there doesn’t seem anything illegal about it – just a little curious – I too have my instincts. I’ve been around the art and antiquities business long enough to tell you that crime is rife.”

  Poppy’s ears pricked up. “Are you saying there might very well be a crime here, Jenny?”

  Miss Philpott nodded. “It’s a real possibility. It would be very helpful if we knew who has the Monet companion piece and who the ‘private collector’ who owns this one is.”

  Poppy nodded her agreement. “Yes it would. Any idea how we could find that out?”

  Miss Philpott sipped her tea and put the cup back on the porcelain saucer with a tinkle. “Let me make some enquiries. I have a friend here in London at the National Gallery who is an expert in the Impressionists. He’s a personal friend of Monet – who of course is still very much alive – and he may know who he sold the painting to. Just leave it to me. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Oh, that will be spiffing! When are you going back to New York?”

  “Not until after the auction so there’s still time. I’ll drop by the gallery after our meeting with Carnaby at the British Museum tomorrow.”

  Poppy’s eyes widened. “You’re meeting him tomorrow? About the mask?”

  “Yes. We collared him before we left Winterton this morning. There’s one thing not to harass Lady Ursula in her time of grief, but Albert Carnaby doesn’t fall into the same category. We didn’t come all this way not to have a chance to bid on that mask. So, we’ve arranged for the mask to undergo tests on Monday morning, then to have a meeting with him in the afternoon to discuss the results and, if it’s authentic, reschedule the auction as soon as possible. Dr Davies and I can extend our stay here by a couple of weeks if necessary. Obviously we can’t expect Lady Ursula to have another auction before the funeral, but we don’t see why Carnaby can’t do it on her behalf as soon as possible afterwards.”

  “When is the funeral? Do you know? I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll try to find out tomorrow.”

  Poppy nodded. “Yes, and I’ll ask our receptionist who deals with death and funeral notices to keep an eye out too.”

  Just then, Kamela El Farouk joined them. She looked quite fetching, Poppy noticed, in a peppermint green frock and matching headscarf, with wisps of long dark hair visible around her face. She was apologetic as she joined the other two women. “I’m sorry I’m a little early Poppy. I can wait until you’ve finished speaking with Miss Philpott, if you like.”

  “No, not at all,” said Poppy. “I think we’re finished here. Miss Philpott has been most helpful. Can you give me a ring tomorrow, Jenny? About what we spoke about? I’ll be at the office in the morning.” She handed a calling card to the American lady, embossed with: Poppy Denby, journalist, The Daily Globe, London and an accompanying telephone number and address. Miss Philpott slipped it into her handbag. Poppy handed her the auction brochure too.

  “No, you keep that; Dr Davies has another copy.”

  “Thank you.” Poppy slipped it into her satchel then, as Miss Philpott left, called over the waiter to ask for a fresh pot of tea and a clean cup and saucer for Miss El Farouk.

  “Oh, and would you like a bite to eat? I’m feeling peckish.”

  Miss El Farouk said she would and she and Poppy chose something each from the cake trolley.

  Suitably served, Poppy got down to business. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Kamela. By any chance, have you seen the Courier today?”

  “Unfortunately yes.”

  “Then you’ll know that they have got the wrong story about what happened in 1914. It wasn’t in a tomb and the watchman didn’t die in the same way as Sir James – at least not from what you told me on Friday night.”

  Miss El Farouk nodded, chewing on a piece of lemon drizzle cake. When she had finished, she dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin and said: “I think they must have got their information from eavesdropping on us at dinner. I never actually spoke to either of them. Neither did Dr Osman. Not surprising with their clearly anti-Egyptian stance, is it?”

  Poppy, embarrassed on behalf of her more jingoistic countrymen, apologized.

  “Not your fault at all, Poppy. I’m sure the Globe will do a much better job.”

  “We’ll certainly try,” agreed Poppy and then proceeded, pencil in hand, to clarify the story Miss El Farouk had first told her.

  “So to summarize, a pair of local youngsters, whose father worked for Dr Ludwig Borchardt, the eminent German archaeologist who found the original Nefertiti bust, stumbled on a hidden chamber near to the site of Thutmose’s workshop. We will have to do a little sidebar on who Thutmose was, and his connection to Nefertiti and Akhenaten, but that’s easily done. But the main story will be the murderous circumstances surrounding the discovery of the mask that may or may not be on auction again soon.”

  “Yes, that’s right. The youngsters –”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “Unfortunately I don’t recall. I’m sure they will be in the trial transcript, but that will be back in Cairo… does it matter?”

  “Not really. But I do like to be as complete as I can. Never mind. But what we do know – if you’re prepared to go on record –”

  Miss El Farouk said that she was.

  “– is that the watchman – known as Mohammed, you say? – was murdered. Beaten to death. And his dog too. You are sure about that?”

  “Yes. Definitely. It was all over the papers at the time. The Egyptian papers, that is...”

  “Of course, although I wonder if it got any coverage here… or in Germany… but I won’t have time to follow that up. Again, never mind. I think I’ve got a lot to put in the article already, particularly the bit about Sir James finding the body and helping to apprehend the suspects.”

  “Helping t
o frame the suspects.”

  “Yes, but that’s not official. It’s not on record.”

  “I can go on record. You can quote me accusing him of killing Mohammed.”

  Poppy opened her eyes wide. “You think Sir James is guilty of murder?”

  Miss El Farouk’s eyes flitted from side to side. “Possibly. He’s certainly one of the likely suspects. No one else apart from the policeman could have done it. And that’s a bit of a stretch. So can you quote me on that?”

  Poppy frowned, wondering how that would go down with the Globe readers. They might see it as uncouthly digging up dirt on the deceased and adding unnecessary upset to an already grieving widow. On the other hand, it was a juicy accusation… She made a note and circled it, saying: “I will have to pass that with my editor first. My feeling though is that he would require a corroborating source. Do you have one?”

  Miss El Farouk shook her head glumly. “I don’t. But what about the mask being stolen? Herr Stein could corroborate that.”

  “He could corroborate the accusation, yes.”

  “Can you use it?”

  Poppy nodded. “I think we can, because it’s linked to the dispute around the sale of the mask – as long as we don’t say Maddox definitely stole the mask, only that accusations have been made that the mask was stolen. The readers can infer for themselves whether or not Sir James is being accused. Can you just clarify though why you believe it was stolen?”

  Miss El Farouk finished her cake and dusted the crumbs from her fingertips. “Yes. That’s easy. Despite all the witnesses to the mask’s discovery, it was not listed in the manifest of the contents of the chamber. However, because of all the drama surrounding the murder of the watchman and the arrest of the youngsters, this only came to light a few weeks later.”

  Poppy tapped her pad with her pencil. “And what did Sir James say?”

  “Well, as he wasn’t responsible for drawing up the manifest or packing up the contents of the storeroom, he claimed it wasn’t his responsibility, and he has no idea what happened to the mask – between it being found and then resurfacing in the shop in Cairo years later.”

  “Who was responsible?”

  “An assistant of Borchardt.”

  “Name?”

  “Unfortunately I can’t remember. Herr Stein might know.”

  Poppy made another note. “Thanks, I’ll ask him. But you can definitely say that the mask disappeared soon after the body was found?”

  “Well I can’t say how soon afterwards...”

  “No, of course. Perhaps we could just say ‘afterwards’.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Poppy smiled. “Not at all. We’ve got lots to go on. Thanks so much for your help, Kamela.”

  “You’re welcome. However...”

  “Yes?”

  Miss El Farouk offered to pour Poppy another cup of tea. Poppy declined. The Egyptian woman continued as she filled her own cup: “I do hope you can manage to write something about the Egyptian side of the story. And why we believe the mask was stolen and that, as it didn’t go through the proper channels via the Egyptian Antiquities Service, it should not have been taken out of Egypt.”

  Poppy nodded her understanding. “Yes I can, in passing. But don’t worry. Rollo, my boss, is working that angle with Yasmin Reece-Lansdale. She’ll be sure to give him the full story.”

  Miss El Farouk chuckled. “I’m sure she will.”

  Poppy made her way across Russell Square Park towards the back of the British Museum on Montague Street. She had arranged to meet Daniel there, as it was easier for him to find parking than outside the busy hotel where he would have to jostle for space with taxis picking up or dropping off clients. The snow that had covered the countryside around Henley-on-Thames, turning it into a Christmas card scene, had been pummelled by millions of pairs of London shoes and London wheels into dirty puddles of slush. Fortunately, this time she had remembered her galoshes and had slipped them on before stepping out of the hotel.

  She made a quick, huddled dash through the park – not wanting to linger as it was now dusk – and breathed more easily when she reached the relative safety of Montague Street. She chastised herself for being so silly, but she couldn’t quite shake the unnerving events of the weekend. She checked her watch: it was five to four. Daniel had said he would meet her at four o’clock on his way back from the hospital. Poppy would ordinarily have got the tube or bus back to Fleet Street, but as it was Sunday, service was intermittent. Besides, it was another opportunity to be with Daniel.

  Poppy crossed the street and stood under a lamp post, beside a gate in the wrought iron railings of the museum. This wasn’t the grand public entrance, just a service gate, and with the museum closed for the day, it was, unsurprisingly, locked. She thought about what Jenny Philpott had told her about the meeting with Albert Carnaby tomorrow. If it was at the museum, no doubt reps from the British delegation – definitely Dr Mortimer, possibly Howard Carter – would be in attendance. She hadn’t mentioned anything about the Germans and the Egyptians, but Poppy wouldn’t be surprised if they too would be there. Hmmm, I wonder if I can wangle an invite... or at least be on hand to interview them when they come out of the meeting. She wished she had asked Miss Philpott what time the meeting would occur. She made a mental note to telephone Jenny at the hotel when she got back to the office. It was too late to backtrack now. She checked her watch again. Two minutes to four. Daniel should be here any minute…

  Suddenly some movement in the museum grounds caught her eye. Striding purposefully along the side of the building was a man in a black fedora and trench coat. Her hackles rose. It was time to confront this man and find out what he was jolly well up to. She clutched the railings with her gloved hands and called out: “Hello! You sir! Can I have a word?”

  The man turned and stared at Poppy. It was too far away and too dark to see his face, but his body language was clear to see: he tensed, stared, then turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Poppy ran along the railings parallel to his path, calling out: “You sir! Stop! Why have you been following me?”

  The man put down his head and continued to ignore her until he came to a short flight of steps, which he hurried down. Poppy could not tell where the steps led, but as he did not return she assumed they led to a door into the basement of the museum. She called again. The man did not emerge. She grabbed the railings and shook them in frustration. Oh bother that the gates are locked!

  A horn honked behind her. Poppy turned to see the Globe’s Model T Ford pull up at the kerb. Daniel rolled down the window to greet her while his passenger – Ike Garfield – jumped out and opened the back door for her. “Your carriage awaits, m’lady.”

  “Poppy, what is it?” asked Ike, looking into her pale face.

  Poppy explained to the two men what had just happened and pointed to where the man in the fedora hat had disappeared.

  “Are you sure it was him?” asked Daniel, still in the motor and keeping the engine running.

  “Yes,” said Poppy.

  “A fedora hat and overcoat you say? Like I’m wearing?” asked Ike.

  Poppy looked at her fellow journalist and realized that he was wearing the same attire as her stalker. But that was not unusual. Fedora hats and trench coats were not uncommon… could the man in the museum just have been some innocent employee?

  Ike asked the same question.

  “It could have been, yes,” said Poppy. “But then why did he ignore me when I called?”

  Ike shrugged. “Perhaps he thought you were a member of the public trying to get into the museum when it was closed. He didn’t want to deal with you so he scarpered. Rude, yes, but not criminal.”

  Poppy frowned at Ike. He was annoyingly right. She turned her attention to Daniel. “What do you think?”

  Daniel looked at her sympathetically. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him. But you’re obviously unnerved. Look, why don’t you get into the motor. It’s freezing out there.
I don’t think we’d be able to get into the museum now to check anyway. So why don’t we go back to the office and see if we can get hold of Dr Mortimer? We can tell him what’s happened and ask him who might be at the museum at this time of day on a Sunday. That could narrow it down for us. Does that sound like a plan?”

  Poppy took one last look at the museum. There was no sign of the stalker. “I suppose it does,” she agreed, and got into the car.

  CHAPTER 19

  Rollo staggered into the editorial office carrying a huge platter of sandwiches, followed by Poppy with a tray of coffee cups. Ike cleared some space on the conference table – moving photographs, flat plans, and jazz files – while Daniel shut the door behind them to keep the heat in.

  “Where did you get all those on a Sunday, Rollo? Made with your own fine hand?” jibed Ike.

  Rollo grinned. “Not on your nelly. I twisted someone’s arm over at my club.”

  “Speaking of your club,” said Poppy, distributing the mugs of brew to the four assembled journalists, “did you remember to follow up that reporter from The Times? What’s his name? Walter Jensford?”

  Rollo accepted his cup from Poppy with thanks. “That’s the fella. Wally Jensford. And as a matter of fact, I did remember, Miz Denby. This old stallion isn’t ready to go out to pasture yet.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean –”

  Rollo gave a look of mock outrage. “Forty-five isn’t that old.”

  Before Poppy could renew her halting apology, Rollo continued: “He’s still a club member. But as I thought, retired from the biz. He’s been unwell, apparently, and has moved into a nursing home out in Shepherd’s Bush. But I think we can visit him. Are you up for it, Miz Denby?”