The Cairo Brief Page 6

  Poppy glanced at Daniel over Rollo’s head. He didn’t look like he was going to argue. And neither would she. Let the solicitors fight this one out.

  “You all right?” he asked, gently, his grey eyes appraising her with concern.

  Her heart warmed as it always did when Daniel looked at her like that.

  “I am,” she said.

  Just then Marjorie’s cream Lincoln rounded the bend and pulled up beside them. “Good heavens! What happened?” she called across Delilah, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

  Yasmin told her.

  “You’ll be suing them, I imagine,” answered the lady MP.

  “You can bet your bottom dollar on it!” grinned Rollo.

  Daniel knelt down and examined the undercarriage. “Looks like there may be some damage under there after all. Can’t be sure till I get it up on blocks. Can we hitch a lift to the house, Mrs Reynolds? Then we can get someone to come back and tow the old motor and collect the luggage?”

  “Of course!” cried Delilah on Marjorie’s behalf, looking very fetching in an Isadora Duncan-style headscarf. “Hop in!”

  The Lincoln joined the queue of vehicles at the entrance to Winterton Hall. There was a line of servants to help the guests disembark: the men in black suits, the women in white aprons and mop hats. Daniel spoke to a dignified-looking gentleman in butler’s livery and arranged for the Ford to be towed and the luggage collected.

  “I’d better go with them,” he informed Poppy and the rest of the Globe party. “I want to take some snaps for the solicitors before they move it. Yasmin nodded her approval.

  As Daniel and some of the Winterton staff drove off in one of the estate vehicles, Poppy and the other guests were ushered up the wide marble staircase and through the mock Greek portico into the main hall, adorned with holly and tinsel and dominated by a giant Christmas tree.

  In the shadow of the tree, with fairy lights twinkling, they were informed by the butler – a Mr Grimes – that the lord and lady of the house apologized for not greeting them in person but they were otherwise occupied making preparations for the séance that evening. “Miss Marconi,” said Grimes, turning to Delilah, “they have asked you to join them as soon as you arrive. Mr Flinton is already here. Bella here will show you to your room then take you to join them; if that is acceptable to you.”

  “It is,” said Delilah and winked at Poppy. “I’ll see you later Popsicle.”

  Poppy, Marjorie, Rollo, and Yasmin were then greeted by name and shown to their rooms. They were informed that pre-dinner drinks would be at six o’clock, where Sir James and Lady Ursula would meet them. Dinner would be at seven, port and cigars at eight thirty, followed by the evening’s entertainment: a dramatic re-enactment of the love story of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, followed by the first viewing of the Nefertiti mask, and then the séance. In case this was too much to remember, Grimes informed them, a written itinerary for the whole weekend, as well as a guest list, was provided in each room.

  The Globe team, as well as Marjorie and Yasmin, were allocated rooms in the Georgian west wing. The Courier contingent (the only other newspaper who responded to Maddox’s invitation) were billeted in the east, along with the delegates from the Berlin and New York Metropolitan museums. The delegation from the British Museum was also in the west wing, as were the representatives of the Egyptian Antiquities Department from Cairo. The Conan Doyles, Delilah, and Fox Flinton had rooms in the main house, near the Maddox family, as, Grimes reminded them, Mr Flinton was Lady Ursula’s cousin. Poppy was sure Delilah would have preferred to be with her friends in the west wing – out of the clutches of the Fox. Perhaps she could arrange to swap later.

  Grimes led them through an enormous domed entrance hall, dominated by a spectacular chandelier and classic nude statuary, through a number of reception rooms and a glass-walled orangery. They accessed the west wing via a long gallery lined with small taxidermied animals, cabinets of butterflies and birds, and, startlingly, a large black bear, frozen in time in its last battle with the hunter. “Lady Ursula’s father shot it on holiday once,” Grimes supplied. Poppy wondered whether it was Lady Ursula’s father or the bear who had been on holiday, and stifled a giggle. Rollo must have been thinking the same thing because he winked at Poppy as Grimes led them out of the gallery and into the west wing.

  One by one the guests were led to their bedrooms. They were told their luggage would be delivered as soon as Mr Rokeby and the men arrived back with it. In the meantime, if there was anything they needed, they should just ring and one of the maids would assist them. Poppy thanked Grimes as he withdrew with a bow and closed the door behind him.

  Poppy looked around the room. It was comfortable and clean but not excessively luxurious. Poppy reminded herself that this was a private residence and not a hotel. The furniture was old and mismatched but solid and of good quality. The single bed was covered in a green satin bedspread that was slightly frayed at the edges, but still perfectly serviceable. A fire had been lit and was burning quietly in the grate. Poppy picked up a poker and gave it a stir, thankful that it didn’t take long to come to life. She looked out of the second-floor window, with a view of the stable yard, and noticed preparations for the clay shooting party scheduled for the following day. Men in thick tweed coats, woollen scarves, and flat caps were cleaning an arsenal of shotguns and sporting rifles, watched over by half a dozen horses, curiously peering over their stable doors. A pair of foxhounds lay curled up in the last pool of sunlight in the far corner of the courtyard. Poppy checked her watch: it was nearly half-past three. The sun would be setting soon, and if the night remained clear, a frost might very likely settle. Poppy was glad she had brought her mink fur wrap – a cast-off of Aunt Dot’s – but a warm and stylish one.

  She would start getting ready at half-past four as there was no en-suite bathroom and she’d have to book a slot in the communal one down the hall. She would be sharing with Yasmin, Marjorie, and another lady from the Egyptian delegation, whom she was yet to meet.

  She had an hour to spare. What should she do? She would have taken a walk around the grounds – she was keen to try out the maze – but she should probably wait for her luggage to arrive and perhaps do some preparation for the evening. As promised, there was an itinerary and guest list laid out on the oak dresser. She took it, kicked off her shoes, and propped herself up on the bed with her notebook and pencil. She scanned the itinerary and, after confirming that she had correctly memorized the Friday evening schedule – including the séance she really was not keen on attending – noted that the auction was after the shooting party on Saturday. Carriages were after breakfast on Sunday morning.

  Poppy then turned her attention to the guest list, keen to get to grips with who was who. The list was helpfully divided into the areas of the house where the guests were to be accommodated.

  THE MAIN HOUSE

  • Sir James Maddox and Lady Ursula: hosts

  • Sir Arthur and Lady Jean Conan Doyle: author & metaphysicist, spiritualist medium

  • Mr Fox Flinton, Esquire: actor

  • Miss Delilah Marconi: actress

  • Mr Albert Carnaby, Esquire: auctioneer, Carnaby’s Auctioneers

  THE EAST WING

  • Mr Lionel Saunders, Esquire: reporter, The London Courier

  • Mr Harry Gibson, Esquire: photographer, The London Courier

  • Herr Dr Heinrich Stein: Director of Antiquities, Museum of Berlin

  • Herr Dr Rudolf Weiner: assistant, Museum of Berlin

  • Dr Jonathan Davies: Director of Antiquities, Metropolitan Museum of New York

  • Miss Jennifer Philpott: assistant, Metropolitan Museum of New York

  Poor Miss Philpott, thought Poppy. The only lady in the east wing. Ah well, at least she’ll have a bathroom to herself... She checked her watch: a quarter to four.

  THE WEST WING

  • Dr Giles Mortimer: Head Curator, Dept Egyptian & Assyrian Antiquities, the British Museum

&
nbsp; • Mr Howard Carter, Esquire: Archaeologist, Egyptologist, and special adviser to BM

  • Dr Faizal Osman: Director, Egyptian Antiquities Service, Cairo Museum

  • Miss Kamela El Farouk: assistant, Egyptian Antiquities Service, Cairo Museum

  • Mrs Marjorie Reynolds, MP: Minister of State for the Home Office

  • Mr Rollo Rolandson, Esquire: Owner & Editor, The Daily Globe

  • Miss Poppy Denby: reporter, The Daily Globe

  • Mr Daniel Rokeby, Esquire: photographer, The Daily Globe

  • Miss Yasmin Reece-Lansdale, KC: art collector and legal counsel

  Poppy made a priority list of whom she would like to interview – starting with Howard Carter, the man, according to Dr Mortimer, who would be tasked with ascertaining the authenticity of the Nefertiti mask. After that Mortimer… no, she could catch up with him in London if necessary… so Carter first, then Yasmin’s brother, Faizal Osman, to find out if the Egyptians thought it had really been stolen. And perhaps he could also give her some information on the alleged murder. Poppy wrote the words “murderous circumstances” next to Osman’s name and circled it. After that, Sir James Maddox; he was essential… but she’d like to be forearmed with information from Carter and Osman first. She wrote numbers next to each name in order of priority.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Your luggage, miss.” Poppy smiled. She knew that voice. She jumped up and opened the door to find a grinning Daniel holding her suitcase in one hand and a camera tripod in the other.

  “I thought you might need this, m’lady,” he said, and placed the luggage at her feet.

  “Why thank you, m’lord.” Poppy did a playful little curtsey and they both laughed. “Will you come in for a minute? I can ring for tea...”

  Daniel looked uncertain. “Perhaps it might not be appropriate.”

  Was he saying that because it would be socially improper for a gentleman to enter a single lady’s bedroom, or because he really didn’t want to be alone with her? “Oh, all right then. Well, perhaps a walk...”

  His face relaxed. “Yes, a walk will be lovely. Do you want to put some shoes on?”

  Poppy looked down at her stockinged feet. “Good idea. Just a tick.” She turned to retrieve her shoes, but as she did a loud blast rang out. “What on earth was that?”

  “Gunshot,” said Daniel and they ran together to the window.

  “Keep pressure on it!” Daniel, his hands bloodied, knelt beside a young man sprawled on the cobbles of the stable yard. The photographer looked up at the gathering crowd around him. “There’s no time to wait for the ambulance. Can we take him in one of the estate cars, Grimes?”

  The butler said they could and shouted instructions to ready Sir James’s Rolls. “It’s the fastest we’ve got,” he added.

  As soon as Poppy and Daniel had seen what had happened from their second-floor window they ran down to the courtyard to help. A boy – of around fourteen – had been shot in the foot, while cleaning one of the shotguns for the following day’s sporting shoot. Daniel, a former soldier, had worked as a field medic during the war and was experienced in dealing with gunshot wounds. Poppy took upon herself the role of communications coordinator and crowd control, explaining to each guest as they arrived what had happened.

  “Daniel says it’s a relief he was only using birdshot. But it was such close quarters he might still lose his foot.”

  “The poor boy!” cried Marjorie.

  “What the hell was he doing with a loaded weapon?” asked Rollo.

  “No one knows. His dad – the fella over there –” Poppy explained, nodding to a distraught man being comforted by his colleagues “– said it was his first time on the job. He’s just learning. Something must’ve gone wrong.”

  “You can say that again,” growled Rollo.

  A tall, dark-haired man ran past the group of friends and knelt down beside Daniel and the other men attending to the boy. “Have you made a tourniquet?” he asked.

  Daniel said he had.

  “That’s Faizal Osman,” Rollo explained. “Yasmin’s brother.”

  Osman looked up as the Rolls chugged into the yard. He was a darkly handsome man in his late thirties, with the same coal-dark eyes and long straight nose as his sister.

  “Bring a plank!” he shouted. “Let’s get him to the motor.” Clearly, he is a man used to being in charge, thought Poppy. If Daniel had been a different sort he might have resented the newcomer taking over, but he was too intent on helping the young lad, whimpering in pain, to worry about pecking order. That’s why I love him, thought Poppy.

  A plank was brought from a nearby stable and the boy was gently lifted onto it. The boy’s father, Daniel, Faizal, and another man carried him to the car and eased him onto the back seat while Mr Grimes supervised.

  “Booker, you go with your boy.”

  “I’ll go too,” said Daniel. “We don’t want to lose pressure on the wound.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, Mr Rokeby, I’m sure Sir James will be much obliged.”

  Sir James, Poppy noticed, had not arrived. Nor the Conan Doyles, Delilah, and Fox Flinton. She assumed that the gaggle of people emerging from the pathway to the east wing, hurriedly pulling on their coats, were the German and American museum representatives. And of course, there was the team from the Courier, with Lionel Saunders sucking hungrily on a cigarette. He glared at Poppy. She glared back. If there was a story to be had, once again, the Globe was first on the scene. Was there a story here? She wasn’t yet sure. Nonetheless, newsworthy or not, the shooting was attracting attention. On the opposite side of the courtyard, near the doorway to the west wing, were two women: Yasmin and a younger woman wearing a Mohamedan headscarf. Poppy assumed it was Faizal’s assistant. She turned her attention back to the group of men helping the young boy into the Rolls Royce.

  “It’s no trouble at all, Mr Grimes,” said Daniel, positioning himself on the back seat with the patient. “Rollo, can you handle the camera until I get back?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?” answered the editor. Then, in a gentler voice: “Get that kid some help.”

  Faizal Osman withdrew from the vehicle, backside first, his shirtfront bloodied, and announced: “I think I’m surplus to requirements.”

  “Danny was a field medic,” Rollo explained. “The boy’s in good hands, Faizal.”

  Faizal nodded his agreement and immediately went up in Poppy’s estimation. A man who likes to be in charge but does not lack humility. Interesting. Very interesting.

  The Anglo-Egyptian man joined Poppy, Rollo, and Marjorie as they watched the Rolls drive out of the courtyard.

  “How far is the hospital, Mr Grimes?” asked Marjorie.

  “There’s one in Henley-on-Thames. They should be there in about twenty minutes. I’ll telephone ahead to tell them to expect a gunshot victim.” He turned to head back into the house.

  “And the police too,” called Marjorie.

  Grimes stopped in his tracks. “The police?”

  “Of course,” said the Minister of State for the Home Office, under whose jurisdiction the British police force fell. “They have to be alerted of any gunshot injuries. It’s the law. If you don’t, the hospital will.”

  The butler pulled back his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Of course, madam. You’re right. I shall telephone the local constabulary immediately after the hospital. I shall just let Sir James know.”

  Grimes withdrew, shooing the gathered household staff back to work.

  The newly arrived guests, however, took longer to disperse and gathered around Rollo as he informed them of what exactly had happened. Various exclamations of “by Jove!”, “good golly”, and “my word!” were uttered. Then, introductions were made. Poppy, who had run out without a coat, offered her apologies and said she needed to get inside before she froze to death. She would meet everyone later. Faizal offered her his coat, but she declined with thanks, a
nd hurried back into the house.

  As she passed Saunders and Gibson she heard Lionel mutter: “Off to find some smelling salts, I wager. The little lady can’t take the whiff of blood.”

  Poppy’s hackles rose.

  CHAPTER 6

  The long table, seating twenty-two, was resplendent with the best silver and Yuletide decorations. Three courses had been served and removed and now the guests waited for dessert. Two seats remained empty: Lady Jean Conan Doyle had fallen ill just before dinner and sent her apologies, and Daniel, who had not yet returned from the hospital. He had, however, telephoned to say that the young lad had been stabilized and then transferred to a bigger hospital for surgery. The doctors at the local hospital were unsure whether or not they could save the foot, so arranged for a better-equipped facility in the city to take him. The Rolls was going to follow the ambulance to take the boy’s father to be with his son. The drive back would take over an hour. Rollo, who had taken the telephone call, filled the guests in on the latest developments.

  “You should have called me, Rolandson,” said Arthur Conan Doyle. “I am a physician, you know.”

  “I was not responsible for ‘the calling’, Sir Arthur,” drawled Rollo, putting undue emphasis on the title.

  Sir James Madddox, a large, red-faced man who looked like he might have difficulty going up and down stairs at any speed, turned to his butler, who was hovering at the sideboard decanting a bottle of dessert wine. “Why didn’t you call Sir Arthur, Grimes?”

  “There wasn’t time, Sir James. Mr Rokeby impressed upon us the need for immediate action.”

  “Rokeby?” asked Conan Doyle. “The photographer?”

  “Yes,” said Rollo, patting his stomach as a footman placed a bowl of sorbet and meringue in front of him. “The very fella who debunked your –”

  “Rollo,” Yasmin said sharply, putting a restraining hand on the editor’s arm. “Let’s not get into that.”