The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Grimes assessed Ike, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than was polite on the West Indian gentleman’s dark face. Then he looked at his pocket watch. “It is a quarter past ten.”

  Ike agreed that it was and explained about getting stuck in the snow.

  Grimes grunted and said he would see if Lady Ursula could still see him. She was currently speaking to a police officer.

  “DCI Martin from the Met?” asked Rollo.

  Grimes’ upper lip twitched under his moustache. “I am not at liberty to say, Mr Rolandson.”

  Grimes turned and looked as though he were about to shut the door – to leave them waiting outside while he went to speak to his mistress – when Rollo stepped boldly across the threshold. “We’ll wait inside, eh Grimes? It’s freezing out here. Miz Denby?” With a melodramatic flourish, Rollo stepped aside, bowed, and ushered Poppy in with a twirl of his hand. Poppy chuckled to herself as she walked past the stiff shadow of the butler, followed by Ike who added insult to injury by taking off his bowler hat and giving it to Grimes with a “thank you, my good man”.

  Grimes held the hat as if it were the corpse of a dead rat then summoned the footman who was lurking uncertainly near the cloakroom.

  The young man hurried across the hall and took coats, hats, and scarves from the three journalists as Grimes retreated. Poppy smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr Wallace.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Denby. Would you and the gentlemen care to take a seat in the library? I’m sure Mr Grimes won’t be long...”

  But before they could be ushered away a door opened off the hall and Grimes stood aside to let Lady Ursula, accompanied by DCI Jasper Martin and the police constable from Henley-on-Thames, pass. The officers appraised the team from the Globe.

  “Look what the north wind has blown in,” observed DCI Martin. “Rolandson, Garfield, Miss Denby...”

  “Mr Garfield says he has an appointment, ma’am,” intoned the butler.

  Lady Ursula, looking pale and drawn in her mourning attire, nodded and said quietly: “He does, but the other two do not. Show Mr Garfield into the drawing room, Grimes.”

  Grimes bowed, stiffly. “This way, Mr Garfield.”

  Ike and the policemen swapped places and Lady Ursula followed the journalist into the room. “Grimes,” said the lady of the house, “will you chaperone us please?”

  Chaperone? Why does she need a chaperone? wondered Poppy, but then reminded herself that some people were fearful of black folk.

  In all the comings and goings, neither Grimes nor Lady Ursula had indicated what Poppy and Rollo were to do. “Perhaps you would still like to wait in the library, Miss Denby and Mr Rolandson,” said the footman, and pointed the way.

  But Rollo ignored him, positioning himself directly in the path of the two police officers. “Good morning, Constable Jones. It’s good to see you again, I’m just sorry it’s under such tragic circumstances.”

  “It is that, Mr Rolandson. Everyone’s had quite a shock. Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Martin from the Metropolitan Police?”

  Rollo nodded. “I do. DCI Martin and I are old pals, aren’t we sir?”

  Martin grunted. “Bosom buddies.”

  “Would you like your coats sir?” asked the footman.

  “Yes,” said Martin, then paused, looking shrewdly at Rollo and Poppy. “Actually, on second thoughts, I’m glad you’re both here.”

  Rollo cocked his head in surprise. “And why’s that?”

  The detective hooked his thumbs into his braces. “Witness statements. You were both here for the duration of the weekend and were present as Sir James died, weren’t you?”

  “We were,” said Rollo. “My photographer and I – that’s Dan Rokeby – tried to save him with the kiss of life and heart compressions. But unfortunately we weren’t able to. It was very distressing for everyone concerned.”

  “I’m sure. But very useful from a press point of view, no doubt.”

  Rollo shrugged. “I won’t deny that.”

  DCI Martin turned to Constable Jones and said: “Can you take a deposition for us, Jones? I think we’ll speak to Mr Rolandson first, then Miss Denby. Let’s do it in the library. You boy, get us some more tea.”

  The footman bowed, then caught the eye of a maid who was carrying a pile of tablecloths towards the dining room. “Bella, tea for four in the library please.”

  Martin held up his hand. “That will just be for three. I would like to speak to Miss Denby and Mr Rolandson separately. Would you care to wait, Miss Denby?”

  Wait where? “Of course,” said Poppy.

  The flustered footman revised his instructions to the maid, showed the three gentlemen to the library, then hovered in front of Poppy like a nervous puppy. “Erm, sorry about that Miss Denby. I think that the – er – the conservatory is free. Would you like some tea?”

  Poppy smiled at him in sympathy. “Some tea would be lovely, thank you, Mr Wallace.”

  Five minutes later and Poppy was seated in a wicker chair in the conservatory near a potted lemon tree, heavily laden with fruit.

  Wallace came in carrying a tray. He still looked ill-at-ease. Poppy felt terribly sorry for him. “How is everyone doing, Mr Wallace? I’m sure it’s all come as a terrible shock to you. First Sir James’ death, then news that it might be murder.”

  Wallace stopped in his tracks: the tea tray rattled; his face drained of blood. Poppy thought he might faint. She jumped up and took the tray from him.

  “M-murder?”

  “You didn’t know? No one has told you yet?”

  Wallace shook his head and reached out a hand to steady himself on the back of a chair. “Here, sit down.” Poppy took his arm and eased him into the chair. The young man was too shocked to question the impropriety of it.

  “H-how do you know it’s murder, miss? Who told you?”

  Poppy sat down in the chair opposite, poured him a cup of tea which he accepted with awkward thanks, then proceeded to tell him what she’d heard at the police station that morning. She hadn’t realized Lady Ursula had not yet told the staff. But why would she? She’d probably only just heard herself – perhaps that’s what DCI Martin had been speaking to her about. Perhaps he had only just delivered the news.

  By the time he had finished his tea, the footman’s hands had stopped shaking.

  “Do you feel better, now?”

  “I do, thank you, Miss Denby. I – I suppose I should go get you a fresh cup. And then wait to hear what Lady Ursula has to say about Sir James. Once the police have left I should imagine there’ll be some sort of announcement.”

  Poppy said there probably would. But then added: “I would also prepare yourselves for a whole lot of questioning.”

  The footman, who had started to stand, sat back down again. “Oh? I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think they suspect it’s one of us?”

  “Well,” said Poppy, “I don’t suppose any of us are off the hook. Every guest and staff member who was here on the weekend will no doubt have to account for their whereabouts. And they’ll also be digging into any feelings of bad blood towards Sir James – from the staff, family, and guests.”

  The footman flicked the nails of his thumb and forefinger together in a nervous gesture. “Is that right? You as a lady of the press have been involved in a few murder investigations, haven’t you? You’ll know what you’re talking about. In fact, I heard it said you’ve got a nose for murder, miss.”

  Poppy straightened up in surprise. “Really? Who said that?”

  “I heard Mr Flinton say it to Mr Grimes after young Willie was shot in the foot the other day. He said just as well there was nothing suspicious going on, or Miss Denby would be on the case.”

  “Golly,” said Poppy, quite taken aback. What do I say to that? She had to think quickly. Wallace was opening up to her; this might be the one and only chance she would have to speak to a member of staff before they were told to close ranks by Lady Ursula and the butler. Even if the pair were innoc
ent of any wrongdoing in this case, they still wouldn’t want it splayed across the front pages of the papers. She smiled gently at Wallace, re-establishing the connection she first made when she insisted on addressing him as “Mr” on Saturday morning. He returned her gaze, his eyes earnest and respectful.

  “Well, I don’t know about me having a nose for murder, but I do dispute Mr Flinton’s opinion that there was nothing suspicious going on with the shooting. I –” Poppy looked to the door, checking that no one was about to interrupt them. “– I actually suspect there might be a little bit more to that. And it might – just might – be linked to what eventually happened to Sir James.”

  “Oh my.” The footman continued clicking his nails, then abruptly stopped. He leaned forward. “You know what, Miss Denby, I think you might be right. What would you do if I showed you something that might be evidence?”

  Poppy leaned forward too. “Oh? What might that be, Mr Wallace?”

  “With all due respect, miss, I’d like to know what you would do with it, before I show you.”

  Poppy leaned back and folded her hands in her lap. “Fair enough. Well, I’d examine it, show it to my colleagues for their opinion, and then we’d hand it over to the police.”

  “So you won’t give it to the police immediately?”

  “No. Not until we’ve assessed it first. It might turn out to be nothing.”

  The footman looked relieved, then reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “That’s good. You see, I’ve found something, but I don’t really know if it is important. I was trying to decide what to do with it – in light of what happened to young Willie – but wasn’t sure. Up until now, it just seemed a little curious, but now that you’ve told me what’s happened to Sir James – and you think the shooting might be tied into it all somehow – perhaps I should give it to you.”

  Poppy took the envelope from Wallace. On the outside was written one word: “Willie”. Inside was a single sheet of paper. In handwriting that differed in style from that on the outside it said:

  Young Man,

  Lady Ursula wants to play a little prank on Sir James at the clay shoot tomorrow. Please load her weapon with buckshot instead of birdshot. For your trouble I have enclosed a pound. Do not tell anyone about this. We do not want to spoil the surprise. Once the game has been played I will give you another pound.

  There was no signature.

  A chill ran down Poppy’s spine. The handwriting on the note was familiar: it looked very much like the one left by her stalker last night. She would have to compare the two, but she was almost certain it was written by the same person. The writing on the envelope, however, was different.

  She looked up into the frightened eyes of Wallace. “Is it important, miss?”

  “It might, be, yes. Where did you get this?”

  “One of the maids from the big house found it when she was cleaning the gamekeeper’s cottage. His wife died, you see, and it’s just him and the boy. She found this on Saturday morning and gave it to me. She said it was lying on the boy’s bed, open, beside the envelope. That’s how she could read it.”

  “Why didn’t she give it to the boy’s father?”

  “He hasn’t come home yet, miss. He’s staying with family in London while his boy’s in hospital.”

  Poppy nodded. That made sense. But something else didn’t. The little she knew about the hierarchy of a grand house told her that a maid would very well report to a footman, but a footman would report to a butler, who in turn would report to the master of the house. “Why didn’t you give this to Mr Grimes? There’s been plenty of time since Saturday morning, even if you did just think it was curious – and it certainly is that.”

  It was the footman’s turn to look nervously towards the door. “Because miss, you see, I recognise the handwriting...”

  Poppy jerked to attention. “Whose is it?”

  “Well, I don’t know about the letter itself – but, you’ve probably noticed there is different handwriting on the envelope than inside...”

  “Yes, I saw that. So you don’t know who wrote the actual letter?”

  “I don’t. No.”

  Poppy willed herself to keep the disappointment off her face. “But you said you recognized the handwriting.”

  “I do miss. Not the writing in the note, but the name on the envelope. That was written by Mr Grimes. I know his writing. He writes up duties and such in a daily log book which we have to check. So you see, that’s why I didn’t give it to him straight away. He seems to be somehow, somehow –”

  “Implicated?” offered Poppy.

  The footman pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes miss. That’s the word. Implicated. But I’m not sure in what. The letter said it was going to be a prank. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what kind of prank would use guns.”

  “Neither can I,” agreed Poppy, grimly. “But I think your instincts are right. There is something in this note and I’ll get my colleagues to look at it. Then, if we think there’s any more in it, we’ll give it to the police. Is that acceptable to you?”

  Wallace nodded, looking relieved to have finally got his secret off his chest.

  Poppy, however, wasn’t quite finished. “You say you don’t recognize the inner handwriting.”

  “That’s right. Never seen it before.”

  “And it’s not Lady Ursula’s? Would you know her handwriting if you saw it?”

  “I would, miss. It’s not hers. Even though it mentions her name.”

  “That is indeed very curious.”

  Voices sounded from outside the door. Wallace jumped up. “Please don’t mention to Mr Grimes that I gave this to you, please miss? I don’t want him to think I’m snooping around.”

  Snooping – there was that word again. “Of course not. However, now that you mention Mr Grimes, can you tell me one more thing?”

  “If I can miss,” said Wallace, clearing away the tea things.

  “Was he here all day yesterday? And last night?”

  “Yes miss. He didn’t leave Lady Ursula’s side.”

  So, her stalker wasn’t Grimes after all. It wasn’t his handwriting and he wasn’t in London. Then whose was it?

  There was a knock on the door. Wallace opened it to reveal Constable Jones, the Henley-on-Thames policeman. “Miss Denby, DCI Martin will see you now.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The fire in the library hearth roared with false jollity, while the holly and mistletoe draped along the mantlepiece whispered of happier times. Through the window, on the lawn in front of the maze, Poppy saw Rollo pacing up and down, smoking a cigar. He was in thinking mode, Poppy noted, no doubt planning his team’s next move. She wished she had had a chance to speak to him before she was ushered in for her deposition. She would certainly tell the truth, but it might have been useful to know which version of the truth Rollo had told. From past stories she’d worked on with him, she knew that he was not averse to withholding information from the police so that he could scoop rival newspapers. All relevant evidence was eventually handed over, but not before the story hit the news stand.

  Poppy had known that the note to young Willie would be something Rollo would not want her to hand over until Daniel had had a chance to photograph it – and it burned a hole in her pocket. Untruths did not come easily to Poppy, so she hoped she would not have to dilute her testimony too much. Rollo was far more fluid with facts, and she feared she might unwittingly contradict him in her testimony. Dear God, help me to speak wisely.

  The detective had taken off his jacket in front of the warm fire, but his waistcoat was still firmly buttoned up. “So, Miss Denby,” he said, after pouring her a cup of tea, “Mr Rolandson has taken me through the broad sweep of events, Friday afternoon to Sunday morning, as well as informing me that you are both aware of the allegation of murder. Is that correct?”

  “It is, yes.”

  “Right, good. So you will forgive me then if I just hone in on a few details. From my previo
us dealings with you I recall that you are a woman who notices the small things, while Mr Rolandson, despite his size, does not.”

  Poppy didn’t think that was a fair assessment of her editor’s stature or skill, but she declined to say so. She stirred her tea while she waited for DCI Martin to continue. He checked his notes and conferred briefly and quietly with Constable Jones, pointing to this and that in the written transcript Jones had in front of him. Eventually he turned to Poppy and said: “Both Lady Ursula and Mr Rolandson say that you walked back with Sir James from the shoot and that the gentleman did not appear to be too well. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Did he say what was bothering him?”

  “He said he had a dicky ticker. And…” Poppy paused, wondering whether or not Rollo had told the detective what she had told him about Sir James’ medication being misplaced. She doubted it, as her editor had been tickled pink that this would scoop the Courier. However, she felt it was too important to withhold. Unlike the note, which so far only had a tenuous connection to Sir James’ death, the information about the digitalis was central.

  DCI Martin looked at her expectantly. “And?”

  “And he also told me that he had been late that morning in taking his medication, because, he said, someone had moved it – or it had been misplaced. He eventually found it, but it was considerably later than he normally took it. He believed that was why he was feeling unwell.”

  DCI Martin raised an eyebrow. “Did he now? Did he say how many times a day he took it?”

  “Yes he did. Three times a day.”

  “Have you got all that Constable Jones?”

  “I have sir.”

  “Good. That’s very helpful, thank you Miss Denby. Did Sir James say who had moved the medicine? Or where it normally was and where he eventually found it?”

  “He did not.”

  “All right. Fine. Did he say anything else you think may have pertinence?”

  Poppy scanned her memory of her conversation with Sir James. She remembered that he had got quite upset when he spoke about the Egyptian delegation’s efforts to legally overturn the auction as well as how defensive he became when she mentioned the murderous circumstances in which the mask of Nefertiti had originally been found. Should she mention that to Martin? She worried that if she did she would unfairly implicate Faizal Osman and Miss El Farouk. There was already a surge of anti-Egyptian feeling in the press; she didn’t want to fan the flames unnecessarily. Besides, the press release about the “murderous circumstances” would be common knowledge and Martin could see that for himself. No, she decided not to go into detail about that. Instead she said: “He was getting a bit worked up about the auction, wondering who would bid for the mask.”