The Cairo Brief Page 12

  If the footman thought the request curious, he hid it well. “Certainly, madam, it’s in here.”

  He gestured to a door next to a statue of the Reclining Ariadne. She from the maze fame, Poppy noted. Oh, the delicious irony! Lead me, Ariadne, with your golden thread…

  The footman opened the door and Poppy stepped into a deep closet, lined on either side by racks of hanging coats, hats, and winter boots.

  “Golly, there are a lot of them,” she observed. “How do you know whose is whose? You must need an awfully good memory to keep track of them all.”

  The footman’s face lit up with pride. “I do indeed, madam. It’s quite a job. And Mr Grimes does not give it to just anyone.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t.” Poppy smiled at the servant, noting that he was around the same age as she. “It really is a remarkable gift! Would you be able to tell me, for instance, which guests wear which hats? Who, for instance, wears a fedora?”

  The footman pulled back his shoulders and recited a list of names: “Well, there’s Sir James, of course, then of the guests: Mr Carnaby, Dr Osman, Dr Mortimer, and the two gentlemen from the Courier.”

  “That is very impressive indeed. What do the other gentlemen wear?”

  “Well, Mr Rolandson, as you know, wears a bowler, as does Mr Rokeby and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Dr Davies wears a derby – which, I believe, is the American version of the bowler – and Mr Carter and the two German gentlemen all wear homburgs. Then there’s Mr Flinton –” He paused, allowing the slightest of smiles to grace his lips under his moustache: “he wears a boater – in all weather.”

  Poppy was mentally filing this all away. Unfortunately, there were quite a few fedora wearers in the entourage, but at least she had eliminated some of the men from her enquiry. Apart from one… “And Mr Grimes? What does Mr Grimes wear?”

  The footman cocked his head slightly, but then instantly regained his composure. “Mr Grimes does not keep his hat in this cloakroom. He uses the servants’ entrance – which has its own cloakroom – downstairs.”

  “Ah, of course,” said Poppy. “How silly of me. Well thank you… er… Mr...”

  “Wallace. Just Wallace.”

  Poppy smiled. “Thank you, Mister Wallace.”

  The slight smile returned. “You’re most welcome, Miss Denby.”

  “Ahem.” It was Rollo, peeking his head into the cloakroom. “If you’ve finished playing sardines, Miz Denby, perhaps you would care to join me for that walk.”

  She flashed a smile at the footman and then turned to join her editor. “Right away, Mr Rolandson.”

  “So what was all that about?” Rollo and Poppy, wrapped up warmly against the brisk winter air, descended the grand steps of the main entrance just as the Rolls – presumably carrying Sir Arthur and the stricken Lady Jean – drove off down the drive.

  “I do hope she’s going to be all right,” observed Poppy.

  “Yes, it does seem rather convenient, doesn’t it? Lady Jean falling ill like that and that harpie with the hennaed hair taking over at such short notice.”

  “You saw her?”

  Rollo shook his head. “No, but Delilah gave me a full and accurate description. That girl would make an excellent journalist if she ever chose to give up the greasepaint. She’s very observant. Lacking in discretion – to say the least – but observant. She also told me about your little party trick.”

  Poppy’s stomach tightened. He didn’t sound very pleased.

  “Well you see –”

  Rollo raised his gloved hand. “In a moment. First I want to hear about the hat malarkey. What are you up to, Poppy?”

  Poppy looked out at the expanse of lawn, towards the maze. The sun was now well up and had melted the top layer of frost from the grass. The footprints – evidence of her stalking shadow – were gone. Nonetheless, she told Rollo about her pre-dawn encounter with the man in the fedora hat.

  Rollo let out a low growl. “Whoever it is, deserves a good belting.”

  “That’s what Daniel says too.”

  “So who do you think it was?”

  Poppy listed the fedora wearers again: Sir James, Lionel Saunders, Harry Gibson, Albert Carnaby, Faizal Osman, and Dr Giles Mortimer.

  “Hmmm,” said Rollo. “And you’re sure it was a fedora?”

  “Quite sure. It has a very distinct silhouette. The coat could have been anything, if I’m honest – although I did think it might be a trench coat – but the hat was definitely a fedora.”

  Rollo steered them past the maze and down a gravel pathway, leading to a walled orchard where bare branches clawed over the dry stone wall like witches’ fingers.

  “So it was a man. In a coat and a fedora. Are you sure it was a man?”

  “You mean it could have been a woman in men’s clothing?” Poppy thought for a moment, allowing the memory to form more clearly in her mind. “No. It was definitely a man. It was the way he stood, the way he held himself...”

  “How tall?”

  “Taller than me. I’m five-five.”

  “Then every man here except me. Although Lionel’s not much above five-five. What about bulk. Was he fat, slim…?”

  “In between. He didn’t fill the entire gap in the hedge. I could have still squeezed past if he’d let me.”

  “So probably not Mortimer or Sir James. They’re obviously bulky. That leaves the Courier lads – although possibly not Lionel – Carnaby, and Faizal. The question is, why?”

  Rollo pushed open the wooden gate to the orchard, its hinges protesting at the unexpected intrusion, and stepped aside to let Poppy through. Inside, apple, pear, and plum trees huddled together as if for warmth. The remnants of autumn carpeted the copse: unraked foliage and rotting fruit, while a few die-hard leaves still clung to the tips of the branches above. Poppy and Rollo followed a crazy-paving footpath until they came to a wrought-iron bench that was crying out for a lick of paint.

  “Shall we?”

  Poppy sat, wincing slightly at the pain in her rear-end from the fall earlier. She was going to have a very large bruise there.

  “So why do you think, Poppy?”

  Poppy let out a long sigh, her breath clouding in the freezing air. “Perhaps they were trying to scare me. Or intimidate me. But why I don’t know. I was already a bit on edge from the séance…”

  Rollo raised a shaggy red eyebrow.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll get to that – so maybe they wanted to push me a bit more.”

  “They? I thought there was only one person.”

  “There was. In the maze. But last night I felt as if there was some collusion between Madame Minette and one, or both, of the Maddoxes.”

  Rollo pressed a crab-apple leaf between the palms of his gloved hands. When he opened them again, the leaf had crumbled. He brushed his gloves together to dispose of the remains. “Well, that goes without saying. It was obviously a setup. Delilah told me about the attempts to influence the bid on the Nefertiti mask.”

  “Did she tell you about the Renoir?”

  “Only that the great man sent a message along. Why? Is there something else?”

  Poppy told him what Jennifer Philpott had told her at breakfast.

  “Hmmm, very interesting. Yes, definitely follow up on that, Poppy. So, quite clearly the medium had been briefed to put pressure on Albert Carnaby. Poor blighter. I went to his wife’s funeral, you know. It was about three years ago. The story the family put out was accidental death. A fall from a bridge. But everyone knew it was suicide. Albert blamed himself. He’s never got over it.”

  “Was her name Ruthie?”

  “Yes. It was all over the papers. We covered it too. So, easy enough for a medium – or someone feeding the medium information – to find out. Same with the Renoir. Albert was photographed in front of it earlier in the year when you and I were over in New York. In fact, I think Daniel took the shot. We’ll have to check the jazz file when we get back to the office, but I think it was mentioned there that it would be put up
for auction before Christmas.”

  Poppy nodded. Yes, that rang a bell. “So that explains the first two communications from the spirit realm, but what about the one to me? I assume Delilah has told you the medium impersonated my brother?”

  “She did, yes. And that you got upset and stormed out.”

  Poppy bit her lip. “Yes I did. And I’m sorry. I should have stayed to the end of the séance so I could write about the whole thing.”

  “Yes, you should have.” Rollo hugged himself and rubbed his arms with his sheepskin gloves. “Brrrrr. It’s cold enough to freeze the hair off a pig’s… back.”

  Poppy smiled to herself.

  “Should we get moving again?”

  Poppy looked at him. Was that it? Was that as far as the reprimand was going to go?

  As if reading her mind, he added: “But don’t do it again, Miz Denby. All right?”

  “All right,” she agreed, relieved. “I would have stayed, I’m sure, but it’s just that my brother is a touchy subject.”

  “Which is probably why they raised it. They wanted to spook you.”

  “But how would they know? It wasn’t in the papers or anything.”

  “Not in London, perhaps, but might it have been in the local news in Mowpeth?”

  “Morpeth,” she corrected. “Yes, I think it was. But that was six years ago now.”

  “It would still be in the archive though. And there’d be copies at the local library.” Rollo got up and indicated they should carry on walking. Poppy gingerly got to her feet.

  “You all right, Poppy? You look like you’ve got a sore… hip.” Rollo grinned.

  “Yes, I slipped on the cobbles this morning and hurt it. My hip. I hurt my hip.”

  “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “No. It’s just a bit bruised. I’ll be fine.”

  The pair of journalists continued their circuit of the orchard, heading back towards the gate. Poppy agreed that her brother’s death would have been in the local news. “But they must have gone to an awful lot of trouble to get it. They would either have had to go up there themselves or paid someone to do it for them. But why would they bother? And who are ‘they’? The Maddoxes? Madame Minette? This fella who tried to scare the heebie-jeebies out of me? Perhaps they want to scare me off the story?”

  “Or,” said Rollo, as they reached the gate, “perhaps they want to scare you onto the story.”

  Poppy stopped in her tracks. “Why on earth would they want to do that?”

  “You’ve got a reputation, Poppy. You dig until you get to the bottom.”

  He unlatched the gate and ushered her through.

  “You mean they want me to investigate? Why?”

  Rollo shrugged. “Perhaps they just want publicity. The more publicity there is around the sale of this mask, the more attention they’ll get for any future auctions. If Jennifer Philpott is correct, and more of the Maddox collection is going to come onto the market, then what better way to get people interested than to capture the attention of one of London’s leading reporters.”

  “But they already had our attention! We’re here, aren’t we? And the Courier boys.”

  Rollo headed back up towards the house. Poppy kept pace with him.

  “That’s true,” he conceded, “but perhaps they wanted to ensure you remained interested after this weekend – that you might come to the next and the next and the next. And if your brother was speaking to you from beyond the grave, that might tempt you to come.”

  Poppy felt her anger surge. “Well they’re wrong! I’m not tempted. I’m angry. I’m angry that they have tried to use something so personal against me. But what I can’t figure out is how they knew…”

  “It was in the papers.”

  “His death was, yes, but not the magazines. There was nothing in the papers about the magazines. Why would there be? That was personal. No one else knew about that.”

  Rollo was looking at her curiously. “Whatever are you talking about, Poppy? What magazines?”

  “Didn’t Delilah tell you?”

  “No.”

  Poppy sighed and told Rollo the story of her brother’s detective story magazines that he kept under his mattress and how she had tried to stop her mother from finding them. “So you see, no one would have known about that. Unless my mother has told someone. But why would she? She’s never even spoken to me about it.”

  The gravel of the path merged with the gravel of the driveway in front of the main house steps. The door opened and a uniformed police constable appeared alongside Mr Grimes.

  “Yes, it’s a mystery,” agreed Rollo, “but that’s what you specialize in Poppy. I suggest you get to the bottom of it. And I suggest your first port of call should be that medium. Perhaps you can pay her a visit this afternoon after the shoot. There’s free time before the auction this evening. Take Danny Boy with you.”

  The police constable raised his hat as he passed them halfway down the steps.

  “Sir, madam.”

  Rollo raised his hat in return. “Ah, good morning, Constable, might I have a word...”

  “Of course, sir, what can I do for you?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Poppy appraised herself in the mirror, turning to the left and right to see how she might look in her new trouser suit. Poppy had never dared try the new fashion of trousers for women before, but Delilah had assured her they were still perfectly feminine and completely appropriate for a shooting weekend. The trousers were in a jodhpur style, fitted at the calves but then widening above the knee to be loose fitting – even baggy – around the thighs. Under the matching jacket with brown suede trim she wore a white blouse with a flouncy cravat at the neck. It was finished off with a tweed sports hat in a trilby style, with a small pheasant feather tucked into a brown velvet band. Delilah told her she could wear the outfit for shooting, riding or rambling in the Alps. Poppy had no intention of ever going riding but a ramble in the Alps sounded rather fun. Although it was frightfully far… and could one actually ramble in the Alps…? Perhaps she should start with the Lake District. She smoothed the jacket over her derriere and resisted the urge to pull down her trousers and have one more look at the rather impressive bruise ripening on her right buttock. Instead she checked her watch: a quarter past ten. Yes, there would be time to do what she needed to do before the shoot.

  Poppy slipped down the back stairs – where she’d observed the servants coming up and down last night – and found her way to the serving level of Winterton Hall. She had been relieved to see Mr Grimes still upstairs, not yet dressed for outdoors. Hopefully she’d be able to do what she needed to do before he came down to get his hat and coat for the eleven o’clock shoot. As quickly and unobtrusively as possible, she worked her way to where she assumed the back door would be, and after a few minutes, one wrong turn, and a quick duck into a doorway to avoid a chambermaid, she found what she was looking for: the servants’ cloakroom. She slipped inside and was met with a smaller version of the room upstairs. There were about a dozen coats and hats: bowlers, flat caps, and one rather posh-looking fedora. The fedora was not really a working man’s hat, but if anyone would have one, it would be the butler of a fine country estate. And there it was. A black one on the hook above a black trench coat. Could this be the attire of the morning stalker? Poppy had no real way of knowing, but it did, very firmly, place Mr Grimes on her list of suspects.

  Her suspicions confirmed, Poppy turned to leave. On a whim she stopped and thrust her hands into the trench coat pockets. She felt a handkerchief, a cigarette case, and some loose change in one and in the other – oh goodness, what is that? – a metal cylinder. Poppy looked over her shoulder. Good heavens, girl, what are you doing? If anyone comes in they’ll assume you’re stealing… But she couldn’t resist the temptation and pulled the cylinder out to have a look. She caught her breath: it was a shotgun shell. What was a shotgun shell doing in Mr Grimes’ pocket? She appraised it quickly, not knowing much about weaponry and ammunitio
n, memorizing as much as she could in order to describe it to Daniel, before slipping it back into the pocket. Suddenly, she heard voices approaching the closet. It was too late to leave without being noticed so she burrowed into the corner furthest from the door and pulled an overcoat over her.

  “You got the port ready, Wallace?”

  “Yes, Mr Grimes.”

  “Good lad. And don’t forget some of the ladies might want sherry.”

  “I’ve got that ready too, Mr Grimes.”

  Poppy heard the men shrugging into coats, praying they wouldn’t notice her. They didn’t. The men left, the door closed, and Poppy let out an almighty sigh of relief.

  The rest of the guests were already gathered in the courtyard by the time Poppy joined them, chattering and smoking in companionable clusters. The intrepid sleuth had had to take a convoluted route to avoid detection on her journey back from the bowels of the building, but she was not late – Sir James had not yet called the gathering to order. Tweed suits were in abundance – including the women – but only Poppy, Delilah, and Yasmin Reece-Lansdale dared to wear trousers. The older ladies – Lady Ursula, Marjorie Reynolds, and Jennifer Philpott – all wore long skirts under their tweed jackets, and Kamela El Farouk was not there. Poppy wondered why but then reminded herself that the shoot was optional. In fact, if it had been a hunt for live game, Poppy would not have joined in either. Thankfully, the use of captive birds had been outlawed back in the summer of 1921. Wild birds could still be hunted, but that was trickier to organize in the winter months, so many of the country estates were now offering clay shooting as an offseason alternative.

  Poppy joined Delilah, Marjorie, Faizal, and Yasmin. Daniel was busy with his camera taking un-posed photographs: she waved, and he waved back. Rollo was in a jovial conversation with his fellow Americans – sharing gossip about New York society folk and celebrating the World Series, which had featured two local teams. The German duo were sharing cigarettes with Carter and Mortimer, while Lionel Saunders appeared to be interviewing Albert Carnaby. Poppy noted that Harry Gibson, the photographer, was absent.