The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “Of course! When?”

  “I’ll try to arrange something for tomorrow. Didn’t you say Madame Minette lives out that way somewhere?”

  Poppy checked her notebook. “Yes, Acton.”

  Rollo made a note. “Good. We can do them on the same trip.”

  “Will that be before or after the meeting at the British Museum?”

  Rollo looked at her in surprise. “Are we invited to that?”

  Poppy shook her head. “Not that I know of. Nothing stopping us waiting outside for news though, is there? Either way, Jenny Philpott said she’d tell me what happened afterwards. And remember, I told you she’s also going to speak to her friend at the National Gallery about the Renoir – to see if he knows anything about it or a companion piece.”

  Rollo took a sip of coffee. “Ah! That hits the spot. Thanks Poppy. I’ve spoken to Yazzie and she’s told me reps from all four museums will be present. If they can get Carnaby and Lady Ursula to agree, they’ll schedule a new auction as soon as possible. She’s also promised to telephone me the outcome immediately. We’ll stop press if we have to, but I think we can still make the Tuesday morning edition.”

  Ike grinned. “And unless the Courier has someone on the payroll at the museum, we could beat them to it.”

  Poppy picked out a cheese and tomato sandwich from the pile. “Actually, I think they might. Or if not on the payroll, then at least in their pocket. Albert Carnaby seemed all too happy to give them the type of quotes that their readers like – jingoistic, anti-Egyptian, ungrateful natives, and the like. So it might be a race to see which of us gets it out first.”

  Rollo growled. “You’re right. Damn it. They’ll get it from Carnaby. We’ll just have to make sure we write the better story. I’ll do it myself. Danny Boy, can you stake out the meeting and see if you can get some pics as soon as the news is released?”

  “How will I know when it’s released?”

  “Liaise with Yazzie.” The editor wrote something down on a scrap of paper and passed it to the photographer. “Here’s her number.”

  “So,” said Ike, “I assume you and Poppy will be heading out west in the morning then. I can drop you off if you like. Save you the cab or train fare – at least one way. I’m thinking of paying a visit to Winterton Hall.”

  Three pairs of eyes turned to the West Indian journalist. “Why’s that?” asked Rollo.

  “Danny and I haven’t had a chance to fill you all in on what happened at the hospital yet.”

  “How’s the boy?” asked Poppy.

  “He’s all right,” answered Daniel. “Recovering from the operation. In a fair bit of pain, but the doctors think they’ve saved his foot and he’ll be able to use it again.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief!” said Poppy.

  “So what’s the story?” asked Rollo.

  “Well, the father was so grateful to Danny for helping out that he was happy to let us talk to the lad,” said Ike. “And a very interesting tale he had to tell too.”

  Both Poppy and Rollo leaned forward.

  Ike grinned, enjoying being centre stage for a change. “Turns out the boy had been bribed to put a deer cartridge in one of the shotguns.”

  “Bribed?” gasped Poppy. “By whom?”

  “Well, bribed wasn’t the word he used. But that’s what it amounts to. He was given a pound to load one of the guns with deer cartridge and to keep quiet about it.”

  “And who gave him the money?”

  “The butler,” Ike consulted his notes. “A Mr Grimes.”

  Rollo winked at Poppy. “So you were right, Miz Denby; it was the butler who did it in the courtyard.”

  “But why?” asked Poppy, delighted that her suspicions about Grimes had been right, but confused as to motive. “What did he intend to be done with buckshot?”

  “Ah, well, that’s where it gets even more curious. Grimes didn’t actually say it to him; it was written in a note which was in a sealed envelope. Grimes said he had been instructed to give it to the boy, but didn’t say who it was from. The note was unsigned. But it instructed him to fill a particular weapon with buckshot.”

  “Which one?” asked Rollo. “They all looked the same to me.”

  Daniel shook his head. “Not exactly. I noticed most of the guns were standard Purdeys. But one of them was a spanking new Browning.”

  Rollo and Poppy – neither of them knowing anything about weaponry – gave him a “do you really have to go into such detail” look. Then Rollo said: “Get to the point, Danny.”

  Daniel and Ike exchanged a conspiratorial look. Poppy could tell they were excited.

  Daniel took a deep breath, then played his trump card: “Do you know who was the only person to shoot with the Browning yesterday?”

  “Who?” asked Poppy and Rollo in unison.

  “Lady Ursula Maddox!”

  Rollo’s jaw dropped. “Grimes paid the kid to put more powerful bullets in the old dame’s gun?”

  “Cartridges, not bullets, but yes,” said Daniel.

  “But why?” asked Poppy again.

  “That’s what the boy didn’t know. Nor did his father. And that’s what I’m going to try to find out at Winterton tomorrow. I’ve already made an appointment,” said Ike.

  “You have?” asked Rollo. “On what pretence?”

  Ike grinned at his boss. “No pretence. I’m going to write Sir James’ obituary and have asked Lady Ursula if she will meet with me to discuss it. I called just after we got back to the office, after picking Poppy up at the museum.”

  The museum! Poppy suddenly remembered the man in the fedora. She had wanted to ring Dr Mortimer but then realized the museum wasn’t open… and if the museum wasn’t open...

  “Who answered the telephone at Winterton?” she asked.

  “The butler. Grimes. Initially he didn’t want to bother Lady Ursula, but when I told him I would go ahead and write the obituary anyway, and that if she didn’t speak to me she would lose the opportunity to have some input, he changed his mind. So he called her to the phone and –”

  “What time was this?” Poppy interrupted.

  Ike looked surprised. Poppy wasn’t usually this rude. “Half past four. Why?”

  Poppy bit her lip then puffed out her frustration. “Because then the man at the museum couldn’t have been Grimes. It would have been impossible for him to get from Bloomsbury all the way out to Winterton in half an hour.”

  Daniel gave Poppy a sympathetic look. “Well, that should make you feel better, Poppy. It was just a coincidence then. Just another man wearing a fedora and a trench coat. No one’s following you.”

  Was that true? Was no one following her? Had she just imagined it? But before Poppy could explore those thoughts further Rollo interrupted.

  “Can we please get back on track here?”

  “Sorry Rollo, yes.”

  “Thank you, Ike. Good work, old sport – I’ll buy you a pint for that once we’ve put this edition to bed. So, tomorrow you’ll head out to Winterton in the morning, dropping me and Poppy in Shepherd’s Bush to speak to the old Times reporter. Poppy, when we’re finished there we can get a cab to Acton – it’s not that far – to see if we can catch Madame Minette at home. Then we should be able to get the train back from Acton sometime in the early afternoon. That should give us time to write up before deadline and still leave some time to cover whatever comes out of the museum meeting. Good, good. And now –” he looked at his pocket watch then slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket “– we’ve got two hours to write up the front-page copy for tomorrow’s edition. Poppy, you flesh out the Nefertiti mask story and whatever you have so far on the 1914 murder. Ike, can you put something together on the boy? Just go with the ‘another accident on a tragic weekend angle’ for now – you can write a follow-up on it tomorrow. As it stands, it will be enough to scoop the Courier, who failed to mention it at all...” He grinned at Poppy; she grinned back, relishing the thought of one-upping Lionel.

  “Th
en, Danny Boy, get the front-page pics ready. I’ve already written the lead – a more fleshed out account of Sir James’ death, pointedly correcting some of the inaccuracies of the Courier report – so I’ll typeset that. And then I’ll get the press rolling.” He slammed down his palms onto the table, making the coffee cups and sandwich platter rattle. “Go to it team! We’re on deadline!”

  CHAPTER 20

  It was nearly eight o’clock when Poppy’s cab pulled up outside Aunt Dot’s Chelsea townhouse. She stifled a yawn as she paid the cabbie his fare then let herself into the dark, cold house, carrying her weekend case with her. Daniel had offered to see her home, but Poppy had declined, knowing that he wanted to get back to see his children before their bedtime. Poppy flicked the light switch in the hall and picked up Saturday morning’s post from the mat. There were a couple of bills plus a telegram. She tore open the envelope and read:

  Dear Poppy STOP Greetings from Paris STOP

  Grace & I about to board Orient Ex for grand

  adventure STOP Hope Winterton fun STOP

  Next stop Prague STOP Bon voyage to us STOP

  Poppy smiled as she refolded the telegram and slipped it back into the envelope. It was lovely to hear Aunt Dot sounding so chipper. After the stressful last eighteen months, separated from Grace, the two women deserved some happiness.

  Poppy took off her hat and placed it on the rack. She started unbuttoning her coat but thought better of it. Having not had a fire lit all weekend, the house was freezing. She kept it on as she made her way to the sitting room, knelt down, and lit the fire that Aunt Dot’s charlady Violet had very kindly prepared. After a few minutes the kindling was nicely ablaze and licking the coals. Poppy got up, brushed the coal dust from her hands, and then headed towards the kitchen to make herself something to eat.

  The kitchen was down a short flight of steps at the end of the hall. It was even colder down there than upstairs, with the stone flag floor not providing the insulation of the carpeting in the rest of the house. In addition, there was a door that led out into a small courtyard where the coal shed was kept, and Violet had forgotten to put the draught dampener across the bottom. Poppy found the sausage-shaped sack and pushed it in place with her foot. Then she lit the gas cooker and put a kettle on to boil. It had been a while since Rollo’s sandwiches and she was hungry, so she checked the larder to see what she could find. There was bread – a couple of days old but still edible – and, in Aunt Dot’s fancy new gas-run refrigerator, some sausages. Hmmm, sausage sandwiches. Nice.

  Poppy carried her wares out of the larder, put them down on the bench, then selected a heavy cast-iron pan for the sausages. The kettle was beginning to bubble and hiss. Poppy reached for a tea towel that hung from a peg on the back of the door. But as she did the door knob turned… Poppy froze. The knob wiggled. Poppy grabbed the frying pan and held it in both hands, like a rounders bat. Then she called out: “Who’s there?” The wiggling stopped. “V – Violet?” Poppy asked, knowing as she did that it wasn’t the charlady who only worked weekdays, and never at night. Then the knocking began: knock, knock, knock in three steady raps, then a pause, then the three raps again. Hell would freeze over before Poppy answered that! The kettle whistled, loud and shrill, a hysterical descant over the percussive rap.

  She put down the frying pan, grabbed the tea towel, then lifted the kettle off the flame, her mind racing through self-defence possibilities involving boiling water and kitchen utensils. The rapping continued. She picked up the frying pan and bashed it against the wooden door, screaming: “I’m calling the police! They’ll be here any minute!”

  The rapping stopped. Silence. The telephone was in the hall. Poppy would have to run to make the call. But what if he tried to break in when she was away? She looked to the kitchen window. The curtains were drawn, and she was too scared to open them in case the intruder saw her. With the light behind her, she wouldn’t be able to see him as easily. And he might try to smash his way through... Poppy tried to remember what kind of catch was on the window. From what she recalled it was a strong one, as was the one on the door. But a determined intruder might be able to force his way in…

  She ran up the stairs into the hall, still carrying her frying pan. She grabbed the receiver and dialled the operator, her hands shaking. “Police please! Hurry!” The operator sounded annoyingly calm as she asked: “Which area?”

  “137 King’s Road Chelsea! Hurry! There’s someone trying to get in.”

  “One moment please. Connecting...”

  As Poppy listened with one ear to the whirrs and clicks, she tuned in with the other to sounds from the kitchen: knock, knock, knock had now become bang, bang, bang. Surely the neighbours would start complaining soon. Wouldn’t they…?

  “Hello, police, what is your emergency?”

  Poppy, still clutching the frying pan, gabbled out an explanation.

  The policeman remained calm. “Are you sure it’s not a friend or family member who has forgotten his key?”

  Poppy took a deep breath, swallowing her anger, and explained why that could not be the case. It was the back door… friends would come to the front. All of her family were out of town… and besides, someone had been following her yesterday… No, she hadn’t reported it… sigh.

  “Is there someone you can call? A male friend? A neighbour?”

  Was there? She didn’t know the telephone numbers of any of the neighbours. There was Delilah who lived down the street, and Marjorie around the block, but would they be any help? Should she call Daniel? Daniel, who was on the other side of the city. Daniel, who had been away from his children all weekend…

  “No,” she said. “There’s no one.”

  The policeman told her that he would send someone round right away. She should keep the doors locked and check from an upstairs window to see if it was the policeman at the door before she answered it. Poppy thanked him and put the phone down. The banging had stopped. Dare she go back into the kitchen?

  She edged along the hall, telling herself that if “he” had broken in she would have heard it, and tentatively stuck her head around the kitchen door. The draught-dampener was still in place… no one had come in. Suddenly she heard the doorbell ring – someone was at the front door. She hurried back up the stairs. Was that the policeman already? She should go upstairs to look…

  She ran upstairs and into the spare bedroom that overlooked the front door. She looked down to see there was no one on the front step. Over the road patrons were emerging from the Electric Cinema. It was now half-past eight and the six o’clock feature show was coming out. She scanned the cinema-goers in their winter coats and hats, but couldn’t see the now-familiar figure of the man in the fedora and trench coat. There were some fedoras, yes, but they were on the heads of men with ladies on their arm. She doubted her stalker was one of them. No, he wasn’t there.

  But there was a policeman. He was crossing the road, heading towards her front door. “Oh thank God!” she said out loud and ran downstairs in time to respond to the constable’s knock.

  For the next fifteen minutes the policeman searched the house, went around the back and checked out the coal shed, ascertained that all windows and doors were locked, knocked on the neighbours to ask if they had seen anything (they hadn’t), and finally gave Poppy a paternal talking to about how natural it was to imagine things when staying alone at night.

  Poppy firmly but calmly told him she hadn’t imagined it, thanked him for his time, and then locked the door behind her. She thought she might call a cab and ask to spend the night at Delilah’s flat. But a call to her friend established that no one was at home. She then thought she might try Marjorie, but decided against it. The neighbours had now been alerted that there might be funny goings-on next door, and would no doubt come to her aid if she screamed for help. In fact, one of them, a gentleman, had given her his telephone number, wondering why Miss Denby Snr hadn’t already done so. No, Poppy decided, she would be brave and stay home. And cook those
sausages.

  The sausages eaten and the dishes washed, Poppy went into the sitting room and poured herself a sherry. The fire she’d lit earlier was blazing nicely and she finally felt warm enough to take off her coat. Then she slipped off her shoes, curled her feet under her in the armchair, and sipped her sherry.

  What a night. What a weekend.

  Who was the stalker and why was he harassing her?

  If she had been right, and it was him at the museum, then her suspicion that it was Grimes the butler could not be true. He could not have made it back to Winterton in time to talk to Ike Garfield on the telephone. However, what if it wasn’t him at the museum? What if Ike was right and it was just an innocent stranger wearing the same common outdoor attire? If that was the case, then the person knocking at her door could still have been Grimes. He could have made it from Winterton to Chelsea between half-past four and half-past eight. Poppy looked at her watch. It was a quarter to ten. Should she ring Winterton now and ask to speak to Grimes? If he wasn’t in she would know it was him… but would they answer the telephone at this time of night? Poppy reminded herself that it was a house in mourning. She didn’t want to upset Lady Ursula any further. In fact, the more she thought of it, the more it did not seem feasible that Grimes would have left his mistress at a time like this to drive all the way to London to harass a young journalist. No, despite her dislike for the man, Poppy was beginning to dismiss him from her list of suspects. Who, then, did it leave?

  Poppy got up and went into the hall – checking to left and right as she did – then quickly retrieved her satchel. Safely back in the sitting room, she took out her notebook and pencil and turned to the list of names she had jotted down in Winterton when she first contemplated the identity of the stalker.

  She had narrowed the list down to Sir James, Lionel Saunders, Harry Gibson, Albert Carnaby, Faizal Osman, Dr Giles Mortimer, and Mr Grimes the butler. With a regretful sigh she crossed Sir James off the list, then, after a pause, crossed out Grimes too. So that left the two Courier boys, the auctioneer, and the two museum representatives. All, as far as she knew, were currently in London. She asked herself why she had discounted the other men at Winterton and remembered it was to do with their choice of hats: the two German gentlemen wore homburgs; Jonathan Davies, the American, a derby; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a bowler; and Fox Flinton, a boater. There was, of course, also the possibility that Mr Fedora had borrowed someone else’s hat… but why would he feel the need to do that? A fedora was a very common hat that in itself would help disguise the identity of the stalker… And then of course there were all the male staff… but, as with Grimes, she found it difficult to accept that they had commuted to London. Difficult, but not impossible… She made a note to ask Ike to look into it when he visited Winterton tomorrow. Perhaps one of them had taken the afternoon and evening off…