The Cairo Brief Page 4

  However, she had, and the curator’s expression made it clear that he was expecting a fuller explanation for her presence. There was nothing top secret about the Cairo Brief, but at the same time she knew Rollo would expect her to find some kind of angle to scoop the rival papers. It was best if she didn’t let too much out. On the other hand, it would be common knowledge in the circles Dr Mortimer frequented that there was going to be an auction of an Egyptian artefact. In fact, hadn’t she seen the British Museum on the guest list…?

  She smiled politely at the curator. “You’re probably aware that there’s going to be an auction of a mask this weekend. The Globe – along with other papers – has been invited. I’m just doing some preparation for that.”

  “Ah, the Nefertiti mask.”

  There was a fleeting exchange of glances between Marjorie and Mortimer. Hmmm, thought Poppy, what interest does the Home Office – or possibly the Secret Service – have in this mask? Or did I just imagine it…

  “Yes, I’d heard Maddox was inviting the press to his little soirée,” continued Mortimer, his nose twitching slightly in what Poppy suspected was disapproval.

  “I assume Rollo will be going too,” observed Marjorie, with a twinkle in her eye. “I heard Conan Doyle will be there – I’d love to be a fly on that wall after Rollo’s pasting of him with the fairy story.”

  Poppy smiled back at the older woman, noting to herself, not for the first time, how such an apparently severe exterior covered such a warm personality. “Yes, he’s packing his bags as we speak!”

  “And you’ll be going with him?”

  Poppy nodded. “I will. We’ll head down tomorrow afternoon after I see Dot and Grace off.”

  Marjorie turned to Dr Mortimer, who was beginning to look like he wanted to be somewhere else. “Poppy is Dot Denby’s niece, you know, Giles.”

  This seemed to draw the curator’s attention back to the young woman in front of him, appraising her with an iota more respect. “Is she really? Your aunt is a remarkable woman, Miss Denby.” He paused and raised a sardonic brow, “… as is Mrs Wilson. I assume they are going to be – erm – convalescing after Mrs Wilson’s – erm – recent ordeal...”

  Poppy smiled tightly. Rumours about her aunt’s friendship with Grace Wilson had been splashed over all the city’s rival newspapers. It annoyed her no end that that’s what the gossip columnists focused on rather than the very serious issues that both Grace and Dot had brought to light the previous year, resulting in the exposé of corruption at the highest levels. She pulled back her shoulders and looked Dr Mortimer directly in the eye. “They are taking a trip on the Orient Express.” He could make of that whatever he pleased!

  Marjorie, perhaps sensing Poppy’s annoyance, interjected: “And they’re going to be having a fabulous time! And now, I must dash. Work to do at the Home Office. I’ll see you tonight at Oscar’s, Poppy, for the dinner. Giles, send over those documents by courier will you as soon as you get them?”

  Mortimer said he would and then turned as if to leave. But before he could, Marjorie chipped in: “Perhaps you could show Poppy around the exhibit, Giles. It might be helpful for her to get an expert’s perspective on everything.”

  Mortimer considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose I could do that. If Miss Denby would like my input...”

  His tone suggested that perhaps Miss Denby might be too irked to spend any more time with him. He was right – she was. However, she also had a job to do, and getting a personal tour from the most knowledgeable man at the British Museum would definitely give credibility to whatever article came out of it. She very much doubted Lionel Saunders at the Courier would have such an opportunity… an image of her weaselly rival flashed across her mind… and she made up her mind: “Thank you Dr Mortimer; I’d be honoured.”

  Marjorie and Mortimer exchanged another brief look – which Poppy filed away to ponder later – and bid their farewells.

  “After you, Miss Denby.” With a wide sweep of his arm, Mortimer gestured for Poppy to precede him through the giant pillared entrance of the Egyptian gallery. Poppy stepped into the graveyard of another world. Giant amputated statues, their limbs hacked and hewn, lined the walls of the exhibition space. The style was brutal compared with the European Renaissance statuary of Michelangelo and Donatello that Poppy was familiar with from perusing her aunt’s books on art and, in her opinion, lacked the emotional beauty of the exquisite creations of the Frenchman Rodin that she had seen in Paris on her first trip abroad.

  But she nodded politely as her guide enthused about the origins of the statues, liberated from temples, tombs and abandoned palaces in the deserts of North Africa. Then, when they stood in front of a black granite slab, protected in a glass cabinet, his face all but shone. “The Rosetta Stone,” he announced. Poppy peered through the glass, trying to make out the tiny carved writing, as Mortimer explained how this stone – inscribed in three languages – was the key to understanding so much of the archaeological finds of Egypt. “It’s unlocked a lost world.”

  Poppy asked if there were any books he could recommend so she could read up on it all. He said there were and gave her a few titles by Egyptologists such as Flinders Petrie and Ludwig Borchardt. “Speaking of Borchardt,” Mortimer said as he led Poppy from the sculpture gallery into a far more colourful room filled with painted panels, jewellery, and exquisitely decorated coffins, “he’s the one who found the original Nefertiti bust. You can read all about it in that book I recommended. There’s one in translation in the library.”

  “The original bust?” asked Poppy as they stood for a moment and peered into an open sarcophagus containing the mummified remains of an ancient Egyptian. Poppy shuddered, and wondered at the callousness of displaying someone’s dead body for public entertainment.

  “Yes,” answered Mortimer. “It was found at El-Amarna in 1912.”

  “Do you mind if I take a few notes?” asked Poppy, and reached into her satchel for a notebook and pencil.

  A flash of self-importance crossed Mortimer’s face. Poppy had seen that look many times. When a journalist starts to take notes the interviewee feels valued and respected.

  “So that was Ludwig Borshart, Excavations at El-Amarna.”

  “Borchardt with a c-h and a d-t,” corrected Mortimer. “He’s German. Petrie – our chap – excavated the royal palace of Akhenaten.” He spelled the name for Poppy. “He was Nefertiti’s husband. She may have become pharaoh after he died. Petrie talks about it all in his book. The Egyptians themselves did the cliff-side tombs. We thought that was all the treasure there was. But then the Germans got a concession to dig down in the valley and they uncovered an abandoned workshop of a man called Thutmose. He was Akhenaten and Nefertiti’s official sculptor. It was there, in 1912, that Borchardt found the Nefertiti bust. I’ll show you a picture of it if you like. There’s one in the library...”

  “Oh yes, please,” said Poppy. She looked around the treasure trove on display. “Do you have the original here somewhere?”

  Mortimer laughed, a paternal look settling between his mutton-chop sideburns. Poppy was familiar with this look too. It implied: the pretty little thing doesn’t know much after all. Poppy didn’t mind. She knew what she knew and knew what she didn’t. If people thought less of her for it, then that was their problem, not hers.

  “No, my dear. It’s in Berlin. It emerged last year.”

  “Emerged?”

  “Yes, it disappeared during the war. There was some controversy back in 1914 about whether or not the Egyptians should keep it. You see, there’s a deal with Cairo that anything found by foreign expeditions must be split fifty-fifty with them. And Cairo have first dibs. No one understands why the Egyptians didn’t demand the bust. It’s exquisite. But Borchardt insists they didn’t. The Egyptians, though, claim that they were duped – but they would. Can’t trust them now that the whole place is run by natives.”

  “And it’s now in the Berlin Museum?”

 
“Yes, and the Egyptians are furious. Which is why this new find – Maddox’s mask – is causing such a hoo-hah.”

  Poppy’s newshound nose began to twitch. “There’s a hoohah?”

  Mortimer led the way past a cabinet labelled “Book of the Dead”, displaying colourful papyri. How fascinating, thought Poppy. I’d like to have a look at that, but I don’t want to distract Mortimer. Not when there’s some hoo-hah afoot…

  “Indeed there is,” the Egyptologist answered. “Apart from the gossip that someone was murdered in its acquisition – which I personally think is a poppycock story made up by Maddox to gain publicity – no one really knows where the mask has come from, or even if it’s authentic. It’s not on any official dig manifest.”

  Poppy absorbed that, then remembered something she’d read in Maddox’s jazz file. “Maddox is a little unorthodox, isn’t he? I believe he was asked to step down from the Egyptian Exploration Society in 1914.”

  Dr Mortimer’s face registered surprise and then relaxed into a smile.

  He’s warming to me, thought Poppy. Good.

  “He was indeed, Miss Denby, I’m impressed. Let’s just say his methods are not what we approve of here at the British Museum.”

  “Oh?” asked Poppy, probing for more.

  “You never know quite what you are getting with James Maddox, which is why we are sending along our best man – Howard Carter, the gentleman who’s hunting for King Tut’s tomb – to have a look at it tomorrow night. If it’s authentic, we’ll put in a bid – but so will the Germans and the Americans. And of course the Egyptians are saying they want it back – that it must have been stolen and taken out of the country without their permission – which wouldn’t surprise me, actually...” He chuckled. “It’s going to be worse than an assembly of the League of Nations!”

  “Golly,” said Poppy, jotting down Mortimer’s words in shorthand.

  Mortimer’s eyes twinkled through his half-moon glasses. “Golly indeed, Miss Denby.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Poppy stepped out of the piping hot shower of number 152 King’s Road, Chelsea, and wrapped herself in a large, soft, bath towel. She still could not get over the wonder of having such a facility en suite. Her family home in Morpeth – the manse of the Methodist church – did have indoor plumbing, but nothing as fancy and modern as a shower. She had once thought a bath in a separate bathroom was the lap of luxury, knowing that most of her father’s congregants only had a tin tub in front of an open fire, but not any more. Her aunt’s three-storey townhouse in the fashionable London borough was fitted with all the latest mod-cons. There were showers, a telephone, a stairlift, electric lighting throughout, and even one of those new-fangled thingies to clean carpets: a vacuum cleaner, Poppy had heard it called. And it was going to be all her own for the next three months. Fortunately for Poppy, Aunt Dot’s charlady, Violet, was going to be kept on in her mistress’s absence, so Poppy didn’t have to worry about learning to use the sucking machine herself.

  Poppy stepped into her bedroom – decorated with pale blue wallpaper and a peach blossom motif – and headed towards the white and gold gilded dressing table. The decor was not quite to Poppy’s taste, but it wasn’t her house and she had no say in its fittings. In the spring, when Dot and Grace were back from their trip, she intended to move into a place of her own. She had been living with her father’s sister for the last eighteen months, but now, with a steady job, some savings and a growing sense of independence as a fashionable working woman, she felt it was time to step out on her own – just like her friend Delilah. Delilah had a flat further down King’s Road. Poppy didn’t think she’d be able to afford anything quite as plush, but something perhaps in Pimlico or Shepherd’s Bush might be within budget.

  Poppy was looking forward to finally getting her own place. For a while she had thought that she might move straight from Aunt Dot’s house into Daniel’s – when marriage was on the cards twelve months earlier – but now that didn’t seem likely to happen. Oh, she still loved him, and she knew he loved her, but his children, and his sister who looked after them, continued to pose an obstacle. Maggie was now – against all odds for a woman of thirty-five – engaged to be married to a diamond mine manager from South Africa. He was a widower and had a daughter who was in boarding school in England. But the girl was unhappy and he had come to fetch her home. While visiting her, he had met Maggie. The mine manager wanted Maggie to move to South Africa with him after the wedding; and she wanted to take the children – his and Daniel’s – with her. Since Daniel’s wife had died of the Spanish Flu, “Aunt Maggie” had been the only mother his children knew. And she too considered them her own. But Daniel, naturally, did not want to let them go. So for the last few months – by mutual consent – Poppy and Daniel had put the brakes on their relationship while he sorted things out with Maggie and her fiancé. As time went on, Poppy began to wonder if it would ever get back on track. She would be seeing him this weekend at Winterton Hall, so she hoped they could find some time alone to talk.

  Poppy sat down and pulled off her shower cap. Oh fiddlesticks; it still got wet. Her naturally curly hair was now more frizz than wave. She assessed her damp blonde mop, blue eyes, and heart-shaped face. She looked like a half-drowned Pollyanna, not the sophisticated career-lady-out-on-the-town look she was hoping for. She sighed, opened her dressing table drawer, and pulled out a wooden-handled hair iron, which she then poked into the hot coals of her bedroom fireplace. She checked the carriage clock on the mantelpiece: half-past seven. Not much time… Aunt Dot and Grace were already out, having pre-dinner drinks, and she had arranged to meet them and the other guests at Oscar’s at eight. Fortunately, the club was only a ten-minute walk. Still, it wasn’t much time to do her hair. She had been planning on coaxing her dry curls into some flattering Marcelle waves, but now that it was damp and frizzy, she’d have to think again. The coals were hardly glowing… She gave them a poke; there was a splutter and a spark, but not much else.

  With a sigh, Poppy gave up on the hot iron idea and instead selected a jar of Brillantine from the array of potions and lotions on her dresser. She’d always thought the hair product was for men, until her visit to New York earlier in the year introduced her to some young flappers who used it to slick down their hair and create perfect little kiss curls on the forehead and temples. Yes, that’s the look she’d go for: slicked down and kiss-curled. And if she wore the new Gustave Beer-inspired gown, she could also wear the matching headband, which would help calm the frizz. Poppy got up and opened her wardrobe, selecting the sky-blue calf-length frock, embellished with silver embroidery. It was a sleeveless number with brocade straps – might it be too cold to wear it? Oscar’s was always hot inside, but it had been snowing… She reached towards the back of the wardrobe and found a silver-fringed shawl with similar geometric patterns to the metallic embroidery on the gown. Another imitation.

  Although she had had a wage increase since her return from New York, she wasn’t quite able to afford the Parisian couture originals that her friend Delilah wore, and had to make do with off-the-hanger copies from Milady’s or John Lewis on Oxford Street. She did have an original Charles Worth, but she couldn’t wear it to every swish do, now could she? No, definitely not. She looked at the clock again: Oh diggety dog! Shake a leg old girl – time is ticking!

  Oscar’s Jazz Club was thrumming. Every time the doors opened and closed onto the Chelsea street, Poppy could hear the driving drum beat and belting brass from a block away. Black cabs lined up along the kerb, depositing their passengers, who stepped out in fur coats, top hats and tails, for a night on the town. Although the newly opened 43 Club, on Gerrard Street, Soho, was now the hottest venue in town for London’s bright young things – thanks, in part, to the American actress Tallulah Bankhead, making it her home from home – Oscar’s was still the favourite haunt of much of London’s more established (some would say sedate) “fast set”. Unlike The 43, it kept its liquor licence up to date, so the clientele c
ould be assured they wouldn’t have to flee the premises in case of a raid. Poppy realized that for some people, that would be one of the attractions of The 43 – living on the edge of a life of crime – but she, and most of the other frequenters of Oscar’s, preferred a slightly less nerve-wracking night out. Delilah, of course, visited The 43, but the young actress went out nearly every night of the week; The 43 was just one of many on her list, including Oscar’s.

  Poppy joined the short line waiting to get into the club. With the snow beginning to fall again, she was grateful the queue was not round the block as it had been when, only a year earlier, Oscar’s had been the number one venue in town. Soon she was stepping into the foyer and checking in her fur-trimmed coat at the cloakroom. Oscar Reynolds – as dapper as ever with his slicked-back black hair, gold monocle, and white tie and tails – spotted her from across the foyer. “Poppy! How many times have I told you to come straight in! I’ve told the doorman to let you, you know that?”

  “I know that,” said Poppy and presented each cheek for Oscar to kiss in turn. “Sorry I’m late. Is everyone here?”