The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 10
“And her performance at the villa was even more astonishing.”
“I sense the old doubt creeping up on you.”
“Miss van Vredenburch was with her. Why didn’t she see anything? Why didn’t the watchman?”
“I’d like to question the Dutch girl further. But she’s a close one, I think. We’ll learn the truth of the matter soon enough. If something of consequence is missing from the tomb, will that suffice to convince you?”
I didn’t answer, considering what other tricks Mrs. Roberts might have up her sleeve.
Chapter Eight: Mrs. Estelle Roberts
We were up early the next day, with the sleep still in our eyes, when we hustled into the car to meet Captain Shaw at his hotel. We were to meet him in the Belle Epoque room for breakfast. I was determined not to gawk at whatever I saw this time, but pink marble columns and crystal chandeliers and ceiling frescoes and hats with a hundred plumes like an aviary tried my resolve severely. I have no idea what I ate, save that it was buttery and creamy and French. Not ideal for the figure.
Dr. Watson seemed to have thawed toward me somewhat, and the talk flowed like wine. The talk flowed like wine. I’m not usually so poetic, but the South of France—or Monaco, whatever—does something to you. Even the baronet seemed in good form that morning. We studiously avoided discussing the events of the night before.
“Mrs. Roberts,” the baronet asked, lighting a cigarette, “how do you intend to deal with these elementals if you do come across them? How will you even recognize them?”
The question was fair enough. I responded shortly, “Revulsion.” Then I realized that was not explanation enough for neophytes. “I’ve dealt with something similar before. Have you ever heard of a psychic rod?”
“Something wicked this way comes,” muttered Sir Sherlock.
“Exactly. A psychic rod may appear anywhere there is a strong concentration of wickedness.”
“How will you destroy this wickedness?” pressed the baronet.
“I shall do nothing, but Red Cloud, using my hands, will send purifying vibrations through the elemental until it loses all cohesiveness. It will simply cease to exist.”
I was surprised to see everyone hanging on my words. I had at least not lost my ability to command attention.
“Well,” said Lady Evelyn at length, “I’m glad we have you with us.”
And then we were joined by Captain Shaw, and everything went awry. He looked quite romantic in his flight jacket and scarf. Oh, he was an engaging little devil, full of compliments and sly little barbs, meant to prick but not to puncture. Not the kind of badinage the baronet seemed inclined toward, which was always sharp and often hurtful. His mannerisms were pleasantly old-fashioned and stately, as if he might share a drop of blood with the royals. And he knew how to charm with just a twinkle of the eye, as if he were sharing a secret joke with you. I couldn’t imagine what made Sir Sherlock so wary of him. Had he not warned us against the man, I would have warmed to him instantly. I noticed Beauchamp took his wife’s hand firmly in his own; I think he was perhaps a tad jealous after all.
Then Sir Sherlock proceeded to roast him over a slow fire.
“So you fought in France during the war, I understand. Were you in Arras in ’17?”
“Bloody April? I was in reconnaissance.”
“A bad business. Sopwith Snipe?”
“You know your aircraft.”
“Yes. I do.” He drummed his fingers on the table.
Captain Shaw lost his smile at this rejoinder.
Wait. I had worked in a Sopwith factory in Kingston-upon-Thames during the war, sewing fabric onto the ailerons of aeroplane wings. There was no Sopwith Snipe in 1917, I was almost certain. They were both mistaken. But I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.
“You were in Intelligence during the war? One hears rumors,” said Shaw, trying to turn the conversation away from himself.
Sir Sherlock fobbed him off. “Oh, strictly behind-the-lines stuff. Too old to go adventuring far afield. And now you’re assigned to Monaco? Are we preparing to assault the roulette wheels?”
That stung a bit, if the captain’s tight-lipped scowl was anything to go by. What was all this fencing about? Was Captain Shaw really in league with this sinister fellow Moriarty? What if he wasn’t really a pilot at all? But he had flown Lady Evelyn all the way from London. Heavens, I hoped he was a real pilot.
“I made some small modifications to the engine in my Avro. Needed to test them out. Monte Carlo seemed as good place as any to aim for. Always sure of finding petrol for refueling. And I’m attracted to bright lights. Like a moth.”
“What were these modifications you made?” prodded Sir Sherlock.
“My job is to make planes go faster. On less fuel, preferably.”
“And whose bright idea was it to go mucking with the engine? French manufacture, isn’t it? Don’t trust them myself,” railed the baronet.
“No, she’s outfitted with a Bristol Lucifer. Hundred horsepower. As for whose idea? It was mine, expressly. Tinkering with engines is a bit of a specialty. During the war, speed became something of an idée fixe for me. So I mucked with the engine. Funny thing, then they expected me to test it, too.”
“I’m not sure I want to subject myself or my wife to any of your tests,” said the baronet stiffly.
“Good man. A gentleman defends his lady to the death. But be of good cheer—I wouldn’t subject a passenger to any ride I’m not one hundred percent confident in. Certainly not your lady. ‘And there I made promise unto your lady that I should yield me unto you.’”
“Le Morte d’Arthur,” said Sir Sherlock.
“Very good, Mr. Holmes. But then, I would have expected you to be a devotee of Malory.”
“I knew a pilot during the war who carried Malory with him on every mission. What was his name?” Sir Sherlock searched his memory. “Ross, I think.”
Shaw gave him a black look. Then he did something funny, if funny is the word for it. He unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out a book, and threw it on the table. It was Le Morte d’Arthur. He threw it down as if it were a gauntlet.
The table filled up with tension. Why, because of a dog-eared book? A coincidence, nothing more. When men talk, why is it they always talk about everything but what they mean? Banal talk about machines and books and sport—it all seems charged with hidden meaning. Women are clear as glass. Men see through a glass darkly.
“It appears to be a custom that’s spreading,” said Dr. Watson, trying to lighten the mood.
“It should be required reading for anyone who challenges the skies. ‘For herein may be seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, friendliness, hardiness, love, friendship,’” quoted Shaw.
“‘—cowardice, murder, hate, virtue, and sin,’” added Sir Sherlock. Captain Shaw had understandably shied away from that part of the quote.
“Always with your mind turned to the dark side of human nature, Mr. Holmes? I suppose it’s inevitable in your line of work.”
“Where is this plane, anyway? There can’t be an aerodrome for a hundred miles around here.” Dr. Watson, too, seemed tired of double-talk.
“You’re correct, Doctor. Not an aerodrome, but Etienne Romano has an aircraft plant just west of Cannes, less than an hour away by automobile, with the crew of skilled mechanics I needed to fine-tune my adjustments. Which leaves me free to borrow another plane for a few hours to fly you to Cairo. If you’re finished with your breakfasts, we should take our leave. No more than fifty pounds a person, though, unless you seek a watery grave.”
“Watson and I pack light,” Sir Sherlock threw in.
“Bully. She should be gassed up and ready to fly”—he checked his wristwatch—“just about now. On to the Aeroport Côte d’Azur.”
“I’m not sure I don’t have more than fifty pounds,” Lady Evelyn hedged doubtfully. I could imagine!
“We’ll take our chances.” His dazzling smile came into play. All my misdoubts were quelled.
So we took our leave of Monte Carlo. A place so full and yet so empty. A whipped-up froth that would dissolve into nothing if ever given the chance to settle. That was my verdict, at least. Others might disagree.
It would have been far simpler to take the train over to Cannes, but it was a glorious day for a drive with the wind in your face. And we did have a driver, after all, though she was an odd one. I kept catching her at breakfast, staring at me from under her dark lashes, as if hoping she might catch me at something.
Once we were out of Monaco, a forbidding wall of granite rock rose up on one side, and the glittering sea lay flat and calm on the other. Occasionally trees sprouted horizontally (cheekily, I thought) from the bare hillsides. The hills diminished gradually until tamed. Palm trees marched on our left side, cypresses on our right, like debutantes and their escorts, shy of each other, never meeting to dance. Of Nice itself we only got a briefest glimpse: Monte Carlo without the glamour and dash.
In less than an hour, we were at our destination. What Shaw had grandly called the Côte d’Azur Aeroport turned out to be a row of aeroplane hangars and a single airstrip in the middle of nowhere, situated on the only flat ground for a hundred miles in any direction. The sign over the office door read Chantiers aéronavals de la Méditerranée, which sounded like a wonderful French dish, but the interior of the hangar was dark and musty and smelled of oil.
I had never seen an aeroplane quite so large before (I’d seen few of any size), but it seemed so delicate, patched together from wood and wire and canvas. I wondered who had sewn the ailerons. Were they conscientious? Did they realize that lives depended upon their stitches?
Three assistants—three layabouts filled with the self-importance that seems to attend anyone having faintly to do with the science of flight—were giving the vehicle a last check under Captain Shaw’s watchful eye. I noticed that the cockpit was open and separate from the interior. Nothing to fear from Captain Shaw. He wouldn’t be able to get to us even if he did mean mischief. Of course, if he were to jump out over the sea—
“It is a Handley Page 0400—‘bloody paralyzer,’ they call it. They used them as bommenwerpers—what you call bomber, I think—during the war. Now they convert them to civilian aircraft.” It was Miss van Vredenburch who spoke, in better English than I had credited her for. Was there anything with an engine she didn’t know about? I didn’t like that name, “bloody paralyzer,” at all. I hoped there were no bombs left lying about on this aeroplane.
Miss van Vredenburch stood very close to me. Uncomfortably close.
“I hear him,” she whispered.
“You hear who?” I asked.
She gestured for me to keep my voice low. “Mynheer Gould. I do not see him, but I hear him. He say she stole, she stole the name.”
I was struck dumb. Was she serious? Why hadn’t she said anything before?
“This mean I am like you? Psychic?” she asked, in an almost pitiable way.
I could glimpse her then, not as she was, beautiful and daring, but as she must have once been, a plain little towheaded thing, probably the only girl among all brothers, ignored by everyone, wanting to be told she was special. I would have to be very cautious with her. She was more fragile than she appeared.
“Have you ever communicated with the dead before?” I asked.
“I do not think so. Could I have forget?”
“Perhaps. I suppose it is possible.” It was not possible. My first experience with the departed still burns in my mind, though I was no
more than three at the time.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Do you want to be a seer?”
She nodded.
“Wait. Pray. Be receptive. If they choose you to speak through, they will make it plain.”
“May you teach me?”
Oh, my. Well, it wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that question.
“It doesn’t work that way. You see—”
But her face had already fallen. She had already turned and was walking away with jerky, self-conscious little steps. So much for taking care. I would have to make it up to her somehow.
I watched the assistants start to wheel the plane out. It seemed to wobble. I feared it might simply collapse under its own weight.
I hung behind. There was Captain Shaw, directing them from the back of the plane. I had a question for him; I forget what it was. Perhaps it was something to do with Le Morte d’Arthur. Or perhaps it was whether the plane would go up in a fireball.
I never got my chance to ask. Just as I approached him, Sir Sherlock appeared out of the very shadows and said, “Lawrence.”
Shaw whipsawed around and had his hands on Sir Sherlock, driving him to the wall. Sir Sherlock grunted with the impact. Shaw jammed his arm against Sir Sherlock’s throat.
“I knew you were here for me. All this talk about mummy’s curses was just a sham,” he hissed.
It was all so unexpected, I didn’t know what to do. Should I shout for help? Throw myself into the fray? Summon Red Cloud? What could he do? Nothing. There was a spanner hanging on the wall near at hand. Should I—? All these thoughts ran through my mind in a blur.
Sir Sherlock peeled the arm from his throat as if it were a stray twig in his path. There was still strength in that arm. “Keep your hands from my person, Airman Ross,” he said contemptuously, though it came out as little more than a whisper. “I’m not here for you. I was demobbed from the service a year ago. But how long do you think you can go undiscovered this time? It doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to sniff you out. Especially if you’re stirring up trouble among the natives again. Most especially if you’ve your sights set on Egypt this time. Too valuable to let you fumble it away.”
“What am I supposed to do, grow a moustache and wear an eyepatch?” He stepped back from Sir Sherlock, just inches, did Tom Shaw—or Lawrence Ross.
“It might do for a start. Not meddling with the Arabs would be another excellent measure. They’re a coiled viper, ready to strike. They’ll bite you as soon as anyone else.”
“I’m finished with the Arabs. That book is closed.”
“I beg to differ. I’ve read your book.”
“What the devil do you mean? My manuscript? It was you who purloined it?”
“Not precisely. But did you think the government would ever let you print it? Oh, it’s largely fable, but you did leaven it with a bit of fact, most of it quite embarrassing to His Majesty’s government. And some of it embarrassing to you.”
“I don’t care about my reputation,” Shaw flung back.
“Sometimes I think it’s all you do care about. What would Emir Faisal say if he knew about your double dealings?”
“You’re unqualified to speak about Faisal. You’re unqualified to speak about the Arabs. A brave, honorable race. Don’t you see these people deserve the liberty that is every man’s God-given birthright?”
“They have the same freedom and protection I enjoy under the beneficent sway of George the Fifth. They aren’t your desert nomads, scrambling from one water hole to the next, afraid they’ll have to drink camel’s blood if the oasis has gone dry. Left to their own devices, they’re a lethargic, biddable people.”
It was obvious that Sir Sherlock had known Captain Shaw—or Aircraftman Ross—all along. Indeed, they seemed to be rehashing a debate they’d had many times before. Regional politics bores me stiff and hardly seemed the sort of thing to come to blows for. Men are mad.
“Do you intend to notify GHQ?” Shaw—or Ross—asked.
“That depends entirely on your intentions.”
“I only want my privacy. I wish to God I had never met that huckster Lowell Thomas.”
“Indeed, it’s never wise to let a journalist get close. You couldn’t find privacy at Oxford? What is this mania for the RAF?”
I was right! He had been to Oxford.
“Where can a man find more freedom than in the skies alone? It’s even purer than the vastness of the desert.”
Sir Sherlock seemed to weigh his answer.
“I have no brief for you. But you won’t be able to hide. You’re no good at it. And if you want to liberate your honorable people, just ask your friend Carter about all the royal tombs that have been looted over the centuries.”
“You mean the masses of gold that were dug for centuries to fill the tombs of the powerful while the people were kept poor and starving? I don’t blame them for feeding their children by theft if it were the only way to keep them alive. I’d have stolen the bishop’s candlesticks for bread.”
They could have gone on with this strange and pointless debate for hours, I suppose, but now the mechanics intervened to tell Shaw that the aeroplane was in position and the checklist gone through. Shaw gave a little gesture to them that might have been the beginning of a salute and strode off. His voice floated back: “I’ll hold you to your promise of silence.”
I tried to recede farther into the shadows, but Sir Sherlock, without even looking my way, said, “Come, Mrs. Roberts, we have an aeroplane to catch.” I joined him where he stood. He locked his eyes with mine and said, “I know, though you promised him nothing, that I can count on your discretion.”
“Of course,” I stuttered, “but is he—?”
“There will be a time for questions later.” He took my arm, but I stood my ground.
“Is he an actual pilot?”
He merely sighed and led me out into the sunshine.
When I was helped into the—car, cabin?—I registered at once it was not like a train, with luxurious seats, a dining car, or an observation platform. Not that I had actually expected such amenities, but—it had pull-down wicker seats facing each other, bolted to the walls, and the whole thing echoed like a drum. If it had been converted for civilian use, it still had a great deal of converting to go. I wished I had brought a pillow. I did make sure I could not see out of a window by sitting right next to the front wall—er, bulkhead— directly behind the cockpit, hoping I could hear or sense if anything went wrong with the pilot. I smelt oil and leather and disinfectant. It was only supposed to take a few hours to Cairo, which seemed altogether too short a time to me. I would just as soon have taken it at a more leisurely pace. Sir Sherlock was in a terrible hurry to reach Luxor, but I really couldn’t fathom why. The elementals had been bound to that tomb for three thousand years. They weren’t likely to go anywhere soon.
