“So,” said Poppy, “what’s the decision with the mask? I missed the announcement while dealing with the fisticuffs earlier.”
“Which also reminds me,” Yasmin interrupted, “I’ll go over to the station when they take Daniel in. Will you ask Rollo to drop by when you get back to the office, Poppy? Someone will have to pay bail if I can’t convince them to release him without charge.”
Poppy tried to catch a glimpse of Daniel, but two burly policemen obscured her view. “Thanks Yasmin. I appreciate that.”
Giles Mortimer cleared his throat. “So, yes, the mask. Well, the good news is that the experts who examined it and performed some tests all believe it is the genuine article. And it has been agreed – after a brief telephone call to Lady Ursula – that the auction will take place here, at the museum, at eight o’clock tonight. She and her butler will be coming into town for the evening.”
“Tonight?” asked Poppy. “That’s rather soon – and, if I may say so, rather crass. Her husband has just died.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Poppy,” said Marjorie.
“Then why so soon?” Poppy looked at each of her friends in turn.
“Probably to get the thing out of the country before the court case I’m bringing on behalf of the Egyptian government,” said Yasmin. “I’ve put in a request for a judicial stay on sale. It could come through as soon as tomorrow. I had to notify both Lady Ursula’s and Albert Carnaby’s solicitors that I was doing it. Hence, I believe, this shameless attempt to flog it tonight.”
Dr Mortimer pursed his lips and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Reece-Lansdale, but as far as the British Museum is concerned, it is a legitimate sale. And, don’t count your chickens before they hatch; we might be the highest bidder.”
“With all due respect, Dr Mortimer, I doubt that.” Yasmin and Mortimer held each other’s gaze, she as tall as he.
However, before Anglo-Egyptian relations could deteriorate any further, DCI Martin announced everyone was free to go. Poppy rushed over to say goodbye to a morose-looking Daniel and told him Yasmin would be getting him out.
“I’m sorry, Poppy,” he said, “but I couldn’t have him saying those things about you.”
“I know you couldn’t. And thank you.” She wanted to say, thank you for loving me, but the sight of two burly policemen on either side of her beau put her off doing so. Instead she smiled at him and said: “We’ll have dinner as soon as you get out.” And then we’ll have that talk…
She held back tears as the policemen led him and a truculent Harry Gibson away.
“Are you coming Poppy?” called Marjorie Reynolds.
The older woman reached out her hand and took Poppy’s, squeezing it warmly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, everything will work out.”
Poppy wanted to throw her arms around Marjorie and pour out her heart. Perhaps she would later tonight. But not now. There was work still to be done.
Marjorie led her back into the basement.
“Where are we going?” asked Poppy. “The exit’s that way.”
“Giles said we can all go out the service entrance. It’s closer.”
A few moments later and Marjorie and Poppy, still holding hands, walked out of a door and up a short flight of steps. They emerged at the back of the British Museum at the very spot, Poppy realized, where she had seen the man in the fedora hat the day before. And there, walking ahead of them through the snow, were two men in fedora hats: Dr Giles Mortimer and Faizal Osman, neither of whom had agreed to give a writing sample. Poppy’s eyes narrowed.
Back at the office Poppy waited impatiently for Rollo to return from the police station. He had caught a taxi over as soon as she had told him about Daniel’s arrest. She spent the time – along with Ike – writing up copy for the morning edition. He did a write-up of his interview with the grieving widow; she did an update of the Nefertiti mask story. The result of the auction would come in too late for the Tuesday edition so would have to wait for Wednesday. Rollo, Ike, and Poppy agreed that the “fake Renoir” story needed to develop more before they could go to press with it. Rollo had already written up the lead article, which was that Sir James Maddox’s death had now been declared as murder. Golly, thought Poppy, it’s going to be a busy edition! Poppy typed ENDS at the end of her article and whisked it out of the Remington. She sat down with a cup of tea to read it over before submitting it to the sub-editor.
Bloomsbury, London, Monday 12 December 1921 – The death mask of Nefertiti, owned by the late Sir James Maddox, has been declared legitimate today by experts at the British Museum. The mask will now be put up for auction at the museum in an ad hoc sale organized by the widow of Sir James, Lady Ursula Maddox.
According to Dr Giles Mortimer of the British Museum, Lady Ursula said she wanted to honour her late husband’s wishes “to see the mask go to a good home”. It was at a previous attempt to auction the mask – on Saturday 10 December – that Sir James collapsed and died of what, at the time, was thought to be a natural heart attack, but now has been declared murder. (See page 1 – Murder most Foul! – for further details.)
The same representatives of four internationally renowned museums who attended the first aborted auction will gather at the British Museum to bid for the mysterious mask. The Globe will bring you the results of the auction as soon as we know them.
The museums are: the British Museum, the Berlin Museum, the Cairo Museum, and the Metropolitan Museum of New York. However, it is unclear if the Cairo Museum will be putting in a bid as they are currently trying to have the mask returned to them by the British courts.
Miss Yasmin Reece-Landsdale, KC, acting on behalf of the Egyptians, has expressed her and her clients’ belief that that is the real reason for the rushed second auction. She said: “I have submitted an application for the sale to be halted until its legality can be ascertained by a judge.” However, Miss Reece-Lansdale has told the Globe that she will not be able to get a hearing for her application until Tuesday morning – which will be after the sale has gone ahead.
“We are not giving up, however, and will ask for the halt on the sale to be applied retrospectively if the judge finds in my client’s favour,” she said. She went on to explain that the mask would then be confiscated by the authorities and the sale put on hold until a “proper legal process” had been fulfilled. She told the Globe that the process could go on for months.
However, Dr Giles Mortimer of the British Museum has expressed his doubt that a judge will find in favour of the Egyptians. “They’ve attempted this before and failed,” he said. “I think it’s time they accepted that and just put in a bid like the rest of us.”
Miss Kamela El-Farouk, assistant to the director of the Department of Antiquities at the Cairo Museum, said that she hopes the British judiciary will live up to its reputation of independence and give an honest hearing to the case. “We believe the mask was stolen from the people of Egypt,” she said. “It should not be sold tonight, nor any other time.”
This view is partially shared by Herr Dr Heinrich Stein, Director of Antiquities at the Museum of Berlin. However, Herr Stein believes that the mask was stolen from German archaeologists who had a licence from the Cairo Museum to excavate the site where it was found in 1914. “The mask disappeared from the dig before the artefacts could properly be processed. The death mask of Nefertiti rightfully belongs to the Museum of Berlin.”
Asked whether or not he would be putting in a bid for the mask, he said he would. “Unfortunately we have no proof that the mask was stolen, as it did not appear in the original manifest of the contents of the site. And as it did not appear in the manifest we cannot prove that the mask was actually found on our licensed dig. We only have anecdotal evidence of its existence,” Herr Stein explained.
Poppy paused, pencil in hand, and tapped the words “no proof”. The article went on to explain that Sir James Maddox had been present at the dig – and confirmed that the mask had indeed been found – but th
at he had claimed ever since that he did not know what happened to it and why it had not been recorded in the manifest.
This is where there’s a gap in the story, Poppy thought. Borchardt’s assistant who recorded the manifest should know what happened. But she had not had a chance to ask Herr Stein about it yet. She reached for the gooseneck telephone and asked the operator to put her through to the Hotel Russell. Then to Herr Stein. Herr Stein answered. “Hello, Miss Denby. You just caught us. We’re all about to go down for tea – the Germans, the Americans, and the Egyptians,” he chuckled. “We’ll be trying to figure out each other’s strategy before the auction tonight. I assume that’s why you’re calling, to get a comment about the auction.”
“Actually, not. I think I’ve got all I need for that. What I would like to know, though, is the name of Professor Borchardt’s assistant – back in 1914 – and what he said about the mask. That part of the story is still a little unclear to me.”
“Funny you should ask about that. I had a phone call earlier from another journalist wanting to talk about Waltaub too. Frederick Waltaub – that was his name. We called him Freddie.”
“Oh,” asked Poppy, gripped by a pang of anxiety, but trying to keep her voice casual, “was it Lionel Saunders from the Courier?”
Herr Stein laughed. “Scared he’s going to scoop you? No, it wasn’t, it was someone from The Times – at least he said he was from The Times. When I called their office afterwards to check up on him, they told me he had retired.”
Poppy gripped the receiver. “By any chance was his name Walter Jensford?”
“It was, yes. He didn’t sound too healthy though. Kept breaking off the call to cough. I asked him if he would be at the auction later – this was before I knew that he was no longer officially on the payroll – and he said no. He wouldn’t be there but was following up on the 1914 angle. He wanted to confirm something about Freddie.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“That his murderer had never been found.”
Poppy gasped and nearly dropped the receiver. “F – F – Freddie was murdered?”
“Well, possibly. We don’t really know. It looked like it was suicide – that he’d shot himself – but his family never believed it. The official cause of death was suicide, which is what I told The Times journalist – or the man who said he was from The Times. I thought him a little suspicious, which is why I called the paper to check on him. His editor said I should just ignore him. Apparently he’s lost his marbles and forgets that he no longer works for them. Poor old chap. Not sure how he knew I was at the Russell... anyway, back to old Freddie. Yes, the family had wanted the case reopened, but had failed. As far as the police – and the Berlin Museum are concerned – the poor man killed himself.”
Poppy made frantic notes. “When was this?”
“Freddie’s death? Hmm, let me think… last year sometime. Summer of 1920. In Cairo. He had been there to meet James Maddox, as a matter of fact.”
The lead of Poppy’s pencil snapped. She tossed it aside and grabbed another one. “Oh? Do you know why?”
“Yes. Maddox had told him that he had something the museum might be interested in, a companion piece to our Nefertiti bust – the one we already have. So, as Freddie was already in Cairo – at a meeting with the Antiquities Department – we said he should go along to see what Maddox had to say. But Freddie never met him. His wife had left him. Run off with another man. He got a telegram about it when he was in Cairo. We assume that’s what pushed him over the edge. He’d been drinking heavily. Tragic. Totally tragic.”
“Yes it is,” observed Poppy. “And did you find out what Sir James was going to offer him?”
“We did, yes. It was the death mask. The one that’s going to be auctioned tonight. After Freddie’s death Maddox telegraphed us to say that he had it but that he’d now changed his mind about it. That was the last we heard until the invitation to Winterton last week.”
“Golly!” said Poppy. “Have you told the police about this? DCI Jasper Martin?”
“Not yet. But he’s sent word that he wants to interview me and my assistant at Scotland Yard – Weiner this evening, me first thing in the morning. I should imagine he’s working his way down the list, starting with those who didn’t give a writing sample earlier today. Have you been interviewed by him yet?”
“I have, yes.”
Poppy heard a knock on the door from Herr Stein’s side of the line. “Sorry, Miss Denby, there’s someone here. I’ll see you later at the auction.”
“Yes, I’ll see you there, Herr Stein. And thank you for speaking to me. You’ve been most helpful.”
Poppy put down the phone and circled the name Walter Jensford on her notepad. Most helpful indeed.
CHAPTER 28
The station clock struck six o’clock as Poppy stepped off the Central Line train at Shepherd’s Bush. It would be a tight fit to get to see Walter Jensford at the nursing home, then get back in time for the auction at the British Museum, but it was doable. Poppy would have been here earlier if she hadn’t been delayed by a most unpleasant phone call.
At five o’clock she decided she had waited as long as she could for Rollo and, in consultation with Ike, had decided to visit Walter Jensford on her own. She had filled her colleague in on her conversation with Herr Stein about the death of the German archaeologist in Cairo. Both agreed that whether or not the man’s death had been murder – or, as official reports claimed, merely suicide – there was more to the story that needed to be unearthed. Here was a third death linked, in some way, to the Nefertiti mask. Or perhaps fourth, if the boy’s death in prison was added to the number. Neither Ike nor Poppy was keen to use the word “curse”, but they both knew that the Courier would have no qualms in doing so. She had rung the nursing home and arranged an early evening visit with Mr Jensford. Mr Jensford had been reluctant at first to agree, saying he had been looking forward to speaking to “the dwarf”, but Poppy promised him that Rollo would drop by as soon as he could; in the meantime he had asked her to speak to the retired journalist on his behalf.
“I’m afraid Mr Rolandson is currently tied up at Scotland Yard.”
This appeared to amuse Jensford no end and they ended the conversation as his laughter turned to a rib-rattling cough and his nurse took the phone from him. “Mr Jensford is not well, miss. So I will expect you to keep your visit short. Is that understood?”
Poppy assured the woman that it was. However, just as she was readying herself to leave, Mavis Bradshaw, the receptionist, called to say that a Mrs Minifred Hughes was waiting on the line to speak to Poppy. Could she put her through?
Minifred Hughes! Madame Minette! Poppy took the call and within half a minute regretted that she had. Madame Minette – all traces of a French accent gone – had called to give Poppy a piece of her mind. How dare the sneaky little reporter try to take advantage of a sick child? How dare she force her way into a private home? How dare she interview a minor without the presence of a guardian? “You’d better watch your back, missy. I was paid fair and square to run that séance. Just ’cos you didn’t like what was said, don’t take it out on me. There is nothing unlawful about what happened. The spirits have told me things about you, Poppy Denby. And they don’t like that you’re mocking them in the papers – saying it’s all a con. So leave me and my family alone or you might just get a visitor you don’t want either.”
“Is that a threat, Mrs Hughes?” asked Poppy, having a flashback to the previous night and the terrifying knocking on the kitchen door.
“Call it what you like. Watch your back missy; that’s all I’m going to say.”
With Madame Minette’s threatening call echoing in her ears, Poppy left the office to catch a train to Shepherd’s Bush. And now, forty minutes later, here she was. According to the station master the nursing home was only a five-minute walk away. It was already dark, but Poppy didn’t want to waste money on a cab ride for such a short journey.
Poppy left the
station with other commuters, following the station master’s directions. Soon the crowd thinned as people veered off left and right, until she was on her own. The street lights cast an eerie glow in the quiet street, and the sound of her heels clicking on the pavement was muffled by a thin blanket of snow. “Not far now...” she said out loud, so she wouldn’t feel so alone. She chastised herself for being so jittery. She had been like this since that ridiculous séance on Friday night and the pantomime apparition of her ghostly brother.
The nursing home was only a few hundred yards away on the opposite side of the road. She stepped between two parked cars to cross. As she did the door of one of the cars opened and someone climbed out – someone in a trench coat and a fedora hat.
“Miss Denby, I’m glad I’ve caught you. I need to talk to you.”
Poppy gasped and stepped back.
“Wait, I’m not going to hurt you.” The man reached out his hand towards her.
Poppy spun on her heel, ready to run hell for leather back to the station. A firm hand gripped her arm.
“Wait!”
“Let go of me or I’ll scream!” Poppy scanned the street. Lights behind curtains told her people were home. Someone will come if she screamed.
She opened her mouth to do so when suddenly she felt something hard press against her ribs.
“Don’t scream, Miss Denby. I have a gun. I would prefer not to use it, but if I must I must.”
Poppy turned around, slowly, and looked into the face of Fox Flinton.
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
“I will explain in the car. Now please get in. He pulled her by the arm towards the vehicle and pushed her towards the open door. “Get in, then shimmy across.”
“Why? Where are you taking me?”
“Just get in, then we can talk.” Fox gestured with his hand and Poppy saw that he did indeed have a gun. She did not have a choice.
Poppy climbed into the driver’s seat, thinking for one mad moment that she could kick Fox over then drive off. But she didn’t know if the keys were in the ignition or whether, instead, this was the type of car that needed a crank start. A quick getaway was not on the cards. She then considered shimmying across and escaping out of the passenger seat door. But Fox was one step ahead of her.
The Cairo Brief Page 24