The Cairo Brief Read online

  “Quite, let’s not,” agreed Lady Ursula Maddox, a finely boned grey-haired woman in her fifties. “Before she became ill, Lady Jean impressed upon me the importance of weeding out any contrary vibrations before the séance.”

  “Weeding out?” snorted Rollo. “Then just as well Rokeby isn’t here. He’s an even bigger weed than I am!”

  The German and American delegations chuckled; the British and Egyptian were politely impassive.

  “Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket, Rollo; you’ll spoil it for the rest of us,” chastised Delilah, cracking open a piece of meringue with her dessert spoon. “Lady Jean is right – we must all try to have positive thoughts and good vibrations or the spirits will not come.”

  Rollo rolled his eyes. Yasmin frowned at him.

  “It’s such a pity Lady Jean will not be leading the circle tonight,” observed Marjorie. “A chill, you say?”

  “A stomach upset,” declared Conan Doyle. “It came on rather suddenly.”

  “Yes, we thought we might have to cancel,” declared Sir James, “but fortunately Lady Ursula happened to know that the esteemed medium Madame Minette was staying with the Chapmans in Henley-on-Thames. A quick telephone call was all it took. She should be arriving any moment.”

  There was a polite cough from the sideboard.

  “Grimes?”

  “The lady arrived shortly after the fish course, Sir James.”

  Maddox looked blankly at his butler. “Why the deuce didn’t you tell me?”

  The butler put down the decanter and turned to his master. “The lady asked to be admitted discreetly. She,” he cleared his throat again, “she said she wanted to prepare herself without any hullaballoo. I told Lady Ursula and she instructed me to take her to the parlour.”

  Maddox turned his attention to his wife. “And you didn’t bother to tell me, my dear?” His voice was tight.

  “You were busy discussing the mask with Dr Mortimer and I felt it was prudent not to interrupt,” she answered, matching her husband’s tautness.

  Poppy flicked a glance at Dr Mortimer, seated between Marjorie and the archaeologist Howard Carter. Mortimer was forensically examining his pudding while Carter was pouring a glass of water for the Egyptian museum assistant, Miss El Farouk. All were assiduously pretending not to listen to the spat between the lord and lady of the house. Poppy, who was seated opposite the British Museum and Cairo delegations and next to Lionel Saunders from the Courier, had spent the first three courses trying to eavesdrop on the conversation across the table while simultaneously pretending not to be keeping another ear on Saunders’ chitchat with the American and German delegations. Fortunately, Rollo was seated closer to them so she told herself to relax, knowing that her editor would pick up anything she missed. The Courier photographer, a surly man who let Saunders do all the talking, spent the time between courses sketching a diagram of the dinner party on a napkin.

  On Poppy’s right, the actor Fox Flinton had been eyeing up the empty seat reserved for Daniel all night. Once he had suggested to Delilah that they “shimmy up”, but Delilah pointed out Daniel might arrive any minute so best to keep it open. She was, however, keen to shimmy up the other way so she could be opposite Conan Doyle. Flinton did not seem quite as keen on this idea and so the two actors stayed put. Poppy was grateful for the gap between her and the Fox. Poppy had encountered him before in her role as arts and entertainment editor. His crowning achievement had been a critically acclaimed Hamlet back before the war, but since then the Fox had never quite got the roles or the press he probably deserved. Poppy felt sorry for the fading actor but admitted that he didn’t help himself by the impression he gave that no one was good enough to direct him and his insistence on casting his own leading ladies via the dressing room couch. Poppy worried a little for Delilah, but her friend assured her she could handle herself.

  Poppy wished too that there was a spare seat between her and Lionel Saunders. Lady Ursula was either completely ignorant or completely mischievous when she told the two journalists she had seated them together so they could “swap notes”. The two had never been friends. Ever since Poppy’s first day on the newspaper, when she provided a story at the last minute to fill in for Lionel’s failure to produce suitable material by deadline, the older journalist had branded her an enemy. Poppy was well aware that he considered her an upstart who only got the job because of her looks and believed she used her feminine wiles to hoodwink unsuspecting male sources. Well, Lionel could think what he wanted; the fact was she had scooped him on every big story in the last eighteen months. She wasn’t quite sure how she could scoop him on this one – they were both at the same event, seated right next to each other – but Poppy knew that she could certainly write a more in-depth and factually accurate article than her rival. Lionel, she had come to realize, was always more interested in staying on the right side of the richest and most powerful person in a story rather than digging for the truth no matter where it took him. And at the moment he seemed to think that the American delegation to his left were the most powerful people in the room.

  On one level he was probably right. Poppy had already ascertained from Dr Mortimer that the Americans had deep pockets and would be able to outbid anyone else at the auction if they wanted to. Lionel was also using his connection to The New York Times, via his cousin Paul Saunders – whom Poppy had met while she and Rollo were Stateside the previous summer – to ingratiate himself with the delegation from the Metropolitan Museum. The Americans, Dr Mortimer had also told her, were instrumental in funding much of the current excavations in Egypt and had even tried to get Howard Carter onto their payroll. Carter, though, was being backed by Lord Carnarvon, a Brit, and so didn’t need their money – for now.

  After Lionel had coolly greeted her – and she had coolly replied – he had turned his shoulder and lavished his full attention on Dr Jonathan Davies of the Metropolitan Museum, two seats down. Unfortunately for Lionel, Lady Ursula had positioned Miss Jennifer Philpott between the Courier journalists and the director of “the Met”, but Lionel had no qualms about talking over his hunched photographer and the lady next to him to ingratiate himself with the person he considered the Man in Charge. Miss Philpott, a large-framed lady in her forties with tortoiseshell spectacles and intelligent eyes, had raised her eyebrow to Poppy over Lionel’s head after he blatantly snubbed her when she had attempted to participate in the conversation. Poppy had shrugged her shoulders and smiled in sympathy. In return, Miss Philpott had raised her glass to the young journalist. Lionel, as usual, was sniffing down the wrong track. Dr Mortimer had told Poppy that Miss Philpott was actually the expert in Egyptology – a veteran of three seasons in the Valley of the Kings and two at El-Amarna – and that Dr Davies was merely there as the money man.

  Poppy liked the look of Miss Philpott and decided she would try to have a word with her after dinner. But for now, she was intent on listening in to the people she so far believed were the real power in the room: the Egyptians. If what she had been told by Dr Mortimer was correct, they were there not to bid for the mask but to gather substantiating evidence for their case that the artefact had been stolen. In addition, the presence of Marjorie Reynolds suggested there was something else going on other than the sale of a mask. This had more to do with diplomatic relations between Britain and its soon-to-be former protectorate. Let Lionel focus merely on the sale; she was going to dig deeper.

  Rollo, meanwhile, while he wasn’t goading Conan Doyle at the other end of the table, was chatting to the German delegates. They were there to try to get the Nefertiti mask as a companion to the bust of the pharaoh queen they already held in the Berlin Museum.

  Next to Rollo, Yasmin was in deep conversation with her brother, while Miss El Farouk was responding to Howard Carter’s questions in, what Poppy assumed, was Arabic. The lady did though speak excellent English and she and Poppy had swapped pleasantries over the soup. She appeared to be only a few years older than Poppy – twenty-five or twenty-six perh
aps.

  Halfway through the pudding course Mr Carter was drawn into conversation with Dr Mortimer and Marjorie to his left, who was enquiring as to how the search for King Tut’s tomb was coming on, leaving Miss El Farouk without an interlocutor. Poppy took her chance. She checked to see that Lionel was still engrossed in his conversation with Dr Davies, then asked:

  “Miss El Farouk, do you perchance know anything about the ‘murderous circumstances’ surrounding the mask?”

  The Egyptian woman, who had just finished her pudding, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin before answering. “Please, call me Kamela. And may I call you Poppy?”

  “Of course,” said Poppy, nodding her thanks to the footman as he took her dessert plate away. “I’m not sure if you saw the press release that Sir James sent out – it may only have come to us journalists – but in it he said the mask was found under ‘murderous circumstances’.” Poppy emphasized her point with quote marks in the air.

  “Hmm,” said Kamela, her dark eyes looking thoughtful. “I didn’t know he had said that. But, it’s true, there were two deaths associated with the finding of the mask.”

  “Two?” asked Poppy, casting a quick glance towards Lionel to see if he was listening: he wasn’t, he was hanging on every word the American man uttered. Then she leaned forward. “Please tell me more.”

  Kamela pushed a long strand of black hair back under her white silk scarf. “All right then. There’s no secret about it. The mask was found in an underground storeroom of the famous sculptor Thutmose. No doubt Sir James will tell you all about it later. The story I heard – from the local folk who lived nearby – was that two youngsters, a brother and sister, of around sixteen or seventeen, stumbled on the storeroom. But it turns out they weren’t the first there. When they arrived it appeared as if someone had been there before them and had packed up the treasures for shipping.”

  “One of the archaeologists from the German dig?”

  “Apparently not. The Germans had been unable to find the chamber – isn’t that right, Herr Stein?” she acknowledged the older member of the German contingent who was listening in on the women’s conversation.

  Herr Stein nodded his assent. “It is. Dr Borchardt had found the main workshop, but this chamber had up until then alluded him. In fact, he was away in Cairo at the time when the incident in question took place.”

  “Why isn’t Dr Borchardt here?” asked Poppy.

  “He’s currently on a dig in Heliopolis. This is more museum business. He is not actually employed by the museum; he just works with us now and then. If you don’t mind, Miss Denby, I’d be very interested to hear what else Miss El Farouk has to say about this. I’m intrigued to hear the Egyptian version of events.”

  Kamela smiled sardonically. “You will discover, Poppy, that there are a number of different versions of this story. All I can tell you is the one I know – and believe.”

  Poppy nodded her understanding. “Yes, there are always a number of versions of a story. I’d be interested to hear Herr Stein’s version too.”

  “I have already told your editor, Miss Denby. He can fill you in.”

  “Thank you. I’ll ask him later. Do continue, Miss El – sorry, Kamela.”

  Kamela nodded to Herr Stein and continued. “Apparently, when the youngsters got there they discovered the bodies of the site watchman and his dog, hidden in a sarcophagus.”

  “A coffin?” asked Poppy, thinking back over the artefacts she’d seen at the British Museum.

  “That’s right,” said Kamela. “But one made of stone. It was incomplete though. As you will hear from Sir James, Thutmose abandoned his workshop when the queen left the city after the king’s death. No one knows why the sculptor left the things behind. Did he hope to come back for them later? Or was he leaving them behind permanently? The hidden storeroom suggests the former. But we’ll never know.”

  Poppy feared she was being diverted into a history lesson. She gently nudged the antiquarian back on track. “So the bodies...”

  Kamela chuckled. “A journalist, of course. Not to worry; I understand you need to cater to your readers. So, the bodies… yes. The brother and sister found them after they had found the mask that is going to be sold here tomorrow night.”

  “Were they going to steal it?” asked Poppy. It was Herr Stein’s turn to smile sardonically.

  Kamela tossed him a quick glance, then returned her attention to Poppy. “Possibly. But that’s not the point. As I said, it looked like all the contents of the storeroom had already been packed up for shipping. Someone else – on a much larger scale – was planning on stealing the artefacts.”

  Poppy was puzzled. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the German archaeologist, Dr Borchardt, have permission to dig? Didn’t he have a licence? Hence the goods were not being stolen.”

  Kamela smiled indulgently. “Actually Poppy, you’ll find that this is the one thing that Herr Stein and I both agree on: Ludwig Borchardt was not the thief. Isn’t that right, Herr Stein?”

  Herr Stein was sipping his wine. He raised the glass to Kamela. “That is correct, Miss El Farouk. As I said, Borchardt was away at the time. Someone else was looting the site while his back was turned.” He flicked his eyes to the head of the table, then made a point of returning to his wine. Good heavens, thought Poppy, is he suggesting…

  “That’s right,” continued Kamela. “But even if it was Dr Borchardt who found the workshop and planned on shipping the artefacts, he could not do it without the permission of the Egyptian Antiquities Department. We grant licenses to excavators – particularly foreign excavators – on the condition that all finds are split evenly, fifty-fifty, between them and the Cairo Museum. For too long, Miss Denby, we have lost our cultural heritage to European nations. Like the Nefertiti bust in Berlin...”

  Herr Stein inhaled sharply and put down his glass. “As you very well know, Miss El Farouk, the head of the Antiquities Department at the time gave Dr Borchardt permission to take the bust as part of his fifty per cent.”

  “Well, that’s your version of the story...” Kamela folded her napkin and ran her thumbnail sharply along one edge.

  Poppy feared they were going off on a tangent again. She’d heard all about the disputed Nefertiti bust from Dr Mortimer. “So, the bodies in the sarcophagus. Are those the two deaths you were referring to? The watchman and the dog?”

  Kamela put the napkin onto her side plate. “No. There was another. The boy.”

  Poppy gasped. “The boy who found the storeroom? And discovered the watchman? Oh, how awful! Do you know who killed him? Was it the thieves?”

  Kamela looked down at the empty place setting before her and then up at Poppy. There was anger in her eyes. “He died two years later. In prison. He and his sister were discovered by one of Borchardt’s men who had brought a policeman with him. The man had been tipped off that someone had found the chamber and was trying to loot it. He had sent the watchman over to check it out while he went to get the local constabulary. When he returned – and this is his story – he found the brother and sister fleeing from the chamber. The boy, apparently, had blood on his hands. The man went inside, found the body of the watchman, and insisted the policeman arrest the brother and sister.”

  Poppy absorbed this information. There was a lot here. She’d have to write it all down as soon as she had a chance. “So,” she continued, “the boy and girl were arrested. And, it seems the boy was convicted of murder… what about the girl?”

  Kamela raised her hand to decline the offer of another glass of water from a hovering footman. “No, the boy was only charged as an accessory to murder. The girl served three months for looting, but was let off the accessory charge. The boy was sentenced to three years. But he died in a prison riot two years later. He was only nineteen.”

  The same age as Christopher when he died. Oh, how tragic. Poppy sighed deeply, thinking of her brother, and then asked: “And you think he was innocent?”

  Kamela shrugged. �
�That’s what the local people tell me. His story sounds plausible, don’t you think? And the girl’s too.”

  “You’ve met her?” asked Poppy.

  “No,” admitted Kamela. “No one has seen her since her brother died. Apparently she left Egypt to start a new life somewhere. She was well educated. After serving her time in prison she went back to school and got a diploma. But after that…”

  Kamela spread her hands and smiled sadly.

  “It’s a terrible tale,” said Poppy.

  Just then Sir James announced that coffee would be served in the drawing room and, after that, the evening entertainment would begin. With expressions of thanks for a lovely meal, everyone got up and made their way to the door. Poppy found herself next to Kamela as they exited the dining room.

  “Thank you for telling me that story,” said Poppy. “There’s just one more thing I’d like to know. Perhaps Sir James will mention it later, but I want to know what you think. What happened to the mask?”

  Kamela tensed and then stopped. She stepped out of the line of traffic and ushered Poppy to join her. Poppy did. “Well, that’s why we’re here – me and Dr Osman. After the man and the policeman took the brother and sister to the police station, the man returned to – and these were his words to the judge – ‘secure the artefacts’. However, he claims that when he entered the tomb, the mask was gone.”

  “Gone? Well, surely that exonerates the boy then! Someone else must have stolen it. Someone else must have been there!”

  “That’s exactly what the boy’s lawyer told the judge. But the judge just took it as evidence that the siblings had not acted alone. That they had an accomplice. Still, there was enough doubt to not convict the boy of murder – just as an accessory – but it didn’t exonerate him.”

  Poppy watched the rest of the dinner party file into the drawing room. She indicated that she and Kamela should follow. The two women started walking, side by side. “It does sound as though there was a miscarriage of justice,” said Poppy, “just from what you’ve told me. Tell me, what happened to the man who brought the policeman to the workshop?”