The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 20
We had left the Beauchamps behind in Cairo, along with the Bugatti. Anna would drive it to Highclere Castle in Hampshire. On her way back she promised to attend one of my demonstrations. I looked forward to seeing her again. She would never make a sensitive, but she had a fierce heart.
Sir Sherlock had assured the Beauchamps before we left them that we would yet supply the resolution Lady Evelyn sought. His promises rang hollow. How could I, in the rain and cold of London, call up the furious soul imprisoned in the tomb of the pharaoh? And how else could we discover the answers we sought?
Since having seen him laid out in his coffin, I had begun thinking of Tutankhamun as the boy in the golden mask, staring up for centuries at the lid, waiting to be freed. I had posed the detective a simple enough question: Where was the pharaoh’s wife buried? But it appeared, as was often the case with Sir Sherlock, that there was no simple answer. I marveled sometimes at Dr. Watson’s patience with him.
Tutankhamun’s wife was named Ankhesenamun, he said, and she was his half sister. I thought that utterly disgraceful, but he claimed it was customary in ancient Egypt. Their father, Akhenaten (if he was their father) had turned the Egyptian world upside down by dumping the Egyptian gods in favor of one god—not the true God, but the sun god. After Akhenaten died, Tutankhamun ascended the throne at the tender age of ten. He turned around and welcomed back all the old gods, the Ennead, as they were called. Which long-winded discourse still didn’t answer my question.
Then Sir Sherlock rambled on about Nefertiti, who may have been Tutankhamun’s mother or may not but was definitely the power behind the throne until she vanished in a puff of smoke when Tutankhamun came of age. It all made me cross-eyed. The upshot was that Ankhesenamun’s tomb had not yet been found, which was what I had suspected from the start. Nor had Nefertiti’s. There positively must be a hidden chamber in the tomb where one of them, wife or mother, was buried, I decided. One of them must be the lady of the tomb.
I pressed my face against the window again and let my mind wander. Where was Madame Louise? I couldn’t simply summon her. She was too powerful, too capricious, too hurt, for even Red Cloud to call her if she did not wish to be called. She seemed still bathed in the flames that had taken her away from this plane of existence. But she had contacted me in the first place because her son was in danger. Had that danger passed? Was my part in this drama finished? I had not exactly covered myself in glory up to that point.
The men were talking now about interviewing subjects. Dr. Watson spoke with confidence, as if he’d finally found the ground solid beneath him again. How could I contribute? I had tried to summon the souls of Colonel Herbert and Lord Carnarvon at the very beginning of our investigation, to no avail. They refused to speak to a stranger, perhaps. That was often the case. Or sometimes those who had died recently had not yet got their bearings. Some were still unconvinced that they had passed over. In death, as in life, we have a great deal to learn, and to learn to accept.
Should I attempt them again? Would they even know who had murdered them, or how? Oftentimes it is as great a mystery to the victim as to the detective. How does it feel to be poisoned, to be stabbed in the back, to have one’s skull split open? Can one take such a brutal memory to the other side? Would they have simply told me, as George Gould had, that she had—or he had—stolen the true name? Was the true name to be found in the heart scarab? If so, why had they not simply said so? In spite of depictions in the sensationalist press, those who’ve passed speak plainly, not in riddles. What could be more pressing than the name of your murderer, Mr. Gould?
It was all for the best, perhaps. I had neglected my husband and children, rushing off to Egypt to impress this man with my talents. No, for the money, which we sorely needed. I was grateful to Sir Sherlock for the opportunity. But it was over, finished.
What had happened at this mysterious dinner the baronet spoke of? All three men were now dead. Perhaps I had been spending too much time at the Marylebone Spiritualist Association. I had made more money as a housekeeper, and no one ever questioned my credentials with a broom. My mind could not rest anywhere. It kept buzzing around like a—what? A bee? No, like a wasp, a maddened wasp.
When I stepped off the train at Victoria, I fairly flew into Arthur’s waiting arms. I didn’t even make a proper farewell to Sir Sherlock or Dr. Watson. Of course, there was no one waiting at the station for those two lonely old men.
When I arrived home, I hugged the children till I almost squeezed the life out of them, and the girls hugged me back just as hard. The baby just let out a hearty burp. Then I put on the tea as the rain pattered on the window. Of course, it was a new home, with new things since the fire. Rather bare. Shoddy. It would take some time till I could make it truly a home.
After I saw the children off to school the next morning, and Arthur off to work, I sat in the rocker with Terry asleep in my arms. I felt a ringing sadness, as though a chapter of my life had come to an end. I was desolate.
Three days later I received a wire from Sir Sherlock. I was to please attend him at the Queen Anne Street address of Dr. Watson, to prepare to visit the home of Mrs. Mary Gertrude Herbert, widow of the late colonel Aubrey Herbert. My heart soared. I threw on my shawl and tied my bonnet and went skipping out into the world with a light heart. Stupid woman. I ran back to tell Bea that I would be gone for a few hours, and to look after the baby. Luckily, my reputation as a sensitive had always overawed her. She did not ask questions. She only nodded.
Chapter Fifteen: Dr. John Watson
Once Mrs. Roberts appeared, greeting us as if we hadn’t seen her in years, and her hair looking a fright, we were ready to decamp. We took a cab to Bruton Street in Mayfair. It was a fine, imposing house, as one would imagine, with a ruthless Georgian facade. We were fortunate in that Mrs. Herbert had just come up to town. She had been cloistered in Somerset since her husband’s death late last year. She was overseeing the construction of a rather elaborate tomb to house his remains. No scarabs included, I hoped.
“Now, Mrs. Roberts, a bit of theatre will be in order,” said Holmes, and he sketched out his plan as we rode along.
We rang the bell, bringing to the door a clockwork butler who insisted we were tradesmen and we should use the back entrance. White tie and tails must have been the order of the day, at least to pass muster with this stiff-necked functionary. I’m afraid I disagreed with him and was soon raising my voice to such a pitch (wholly unconsciously) that we attracted the attentions of a constable and the lady of the house, a formidable if slender personage in her thirties, with a hard face and calculating eyes, dressed in black bombazine for mourning.
Luckily, the lady recognized Holmes right off. Indeed, I was to learn later that he had often been a dinner guest during the war, whenever Colonel Herbert was at home and not off in some far-flung corner of the empire. She sent both the butler and the bobby about their business and guided us into the parlor herself. The room was unrelentingly modern, all chrome and glass, with Bibendum chairs in which one could do nothing but slouch. We were soon slouching with the requisite tea and Mrs. Herbert was staring at us inquiringly. She did not slouch.
“If you’re here to console me, I’m afraid the bloom is off the rose on that one. If Aubrey owed you money, send in an invoice like everyone else. You look tired, Mr. Holmes.”
There was a disappointed set to her lips, but her eyes were far-off, enjoying themselves in the mountains, or perhaps by the sea. Anywhere but the here and now. She was well equipped for disappointment.
“I have some questions regarding a matter your husband was involved with just before his unfortunate demise.”
“Then you’re here in an official capacity?”
“I’m here representing a client.”
“I thought you only sleuthed for king and country nowadays.”
“This is for God,” said Mrs. Roberts meekly.
Mrs. Herbert stared at her in wonderment, as if a pet canary had spoken.
“This is my associate Mrs. Roberts,” Holmes hastened to interject.
“Ah. And this must be the famous Dr. Watson. I should have known you were on an investigation as soon as I saw him in tow.”
I merely nodded, uncertain whether I should take umbrage.
“You realize that most of what my husband was engaged in falls under the Official Secrets Act. That means he didn’t talk to anyone about it. Even myself.”
“You know that I did some work for the Egypt Office during the war,” Holmes said.
“I do.”
Holmes pounced. “Then the colonel did tell you some things.”
Mrs. Herbert colored. “For which he swore me to secrecy,” she countered.
“But now he is dead.”
“That does not release me from my vow.”
“No . . . ” Did Holmes have another move? “But it surely releases him. This lady, Mrs. Roberts, is a talented medium. Should you consent, she can ask your husband certain questions, which he can answer as he sees fit—through you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I understood you had taken up spiritualism. It seemed odd at the time. Now I begin to understand.”
“Do you consent?” he pressed.
“You’re as sly as Aubrey was. All right. I shall don your fig leaf. Ask me what you will.”
Mrs. Roberts looked at Holmes for her cue. He nodded. She would remember what we had discussed in the cab.
“Colonel Herbert, what was your relationship with Ali Fahmy Bey?” she asked tentatively.
“Don’t we extinguish the lights and join hands?” Mrs. Herbert put on a scandalized mien, which I assumed was merely to protect her reputation.
“We can dispense with the theatrics. Mrs. Roberts is a powerful sensitive. Just answer her questions as the spirit moves you,” said Holmes, dropping a wink.
“Keep calm and let the spirit flow through you. You can close your eyes if you like,” added Mrs. Roberts in a reassuring tone.
Mrs. Herbert did as she was bidden. She took a long, deep breath and then began.
“Prince Ali was conflicted. He wanted to be loved by his people but respected by the British. He wanted a typical Islamic marriage, though he’d married a French tart.”
“In other words, he was the perfect subject to turn into a spy,” said Holmes.
“For the British, perhaps. Certainly for the Egyptians. Probably for anyone who greased his palm.”
“And you ran him,” Mrs. Roberts said, sounding like an old intelligence hand herself.
“My husband . . . I saw a certain potential in him,” she responded, keeping up the fiction.
“For access?” Mrs. Roberts ventured.
“For secrets. Aubrey was a great collector of secrets. He stored them up for a rainy day.”
Now Mrs. Roberts consulted with Holmes in a whisper. “And he had something to sell Ali Bey,” she put forward.
“I don’t know what it was, though.”
“A thing of beauty? Or a thing of power?” Holmes broke in.
“My dear sir, beauty is power. Even with your reputation, you must be aware of that. Perhaps you should talk to Princess Marguerite.”
“But will she talk?” I asked.
“She’ll talk to anybody that wants dirt on her husband. After the things she revealed in court about their most intimate moments in the boudoir—well, it’s enough to make one blush. She might need the incentive of a few quid, of course. She’s trying to get hold of Ali Bey’s fortune—over two million pounds—but for some reason the family has objected. They’re fighting her for it.”
“What about Guinevere Gould?” asked Holmes.
“Harder to read. Definitely the distraught widow. Married less than a year. Of course, she was his secret lover for years before his first wife died. Had three children by him during that time. So she might have shared his secrets. And she might not be inclined to give them up. But I’ve found American women rarely concern themselves with their husbands’ business affairs. Foolish.”
Mrs. Roberts leaned into Holmes again to receive whispered instructions. “One more question,” she asked. “How were your relations with Lord Carnarvon?”
There was a prolonged silence. At last Mrs. Herbert opened her eyes with a dramatic flutter and said, “I’m sorry. The spirit has left me.” She slumped back as if exhausted. A pretty little performance.
But Holmes was not to be denied. “Then let me ask you. Was there bad blood between your husband and Lord Carnarvon?”
Her back was up. “Not in the least. They were brothers.”
“No jealousy?” Holmes probed.
“They were both ambitious. George made the biggest find in the history of archaeology. Aubrey was offered the crown of Albania— twice. They both reached the pinnacle of their chosen fields. They cheered each other on lustily.”
“The dispute between Carnarvon and the Egyptian government must have been ticklish for your husband.”
“The dispute was, as you say, between the government and George. My husband did not concern himself in any way with it.”
Holmes’s eyebrows did not go up. But I recognized the effort to keep his face immobile. It meant that he had encountered a lie but could not find his way around it. “Well, that should be all, then.” He rose. We followed suit. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Herbert. Or your husband’s, I should say.”
But if Holmes was satisfied, I was not. I spoke up. “One question: Who told your husband to have his teeth pulled?” A question so obvious I assumed it had been overlooked.
“I don’t really know. My husband was desperate. His sight, which had always been weak, was failing entirely. He got the doctor’s name from a friend in the service. I’m afraid they’re rather fanciful in the service, begging your pardon. Still. He never should have listened to that man. I told him so. But he’d rather listen to some Oriental quack than his loving wife.”
“Oriental?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fairly certain the doctor was Arabic, though his practice was here in London.”
“Do you know the friend who recommended him, at least?”
“Certainly. Lawrence. Tom Lawrence.”
Holmes, who had been moving toward the door, stopped and turned around. “Lawrence? Are you certain?”
“Have you ever met Mr. Lawrence? Well, then, you know he’s hardly forgettable.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Herbert,” said Holmes crisply.
“And again, we’re sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Roberts added as a sop.
“Well, apparently I can call on you anytime I need to consult with him.” Whether it was meant as a harmless joke or to sting, it definitely landed. Mrs. Roberts cast her eyes to the floor and did not raise them again until we were well clear of the house.
We filed out, hardly knowing what we had achieved. I went to whistle up a cab, but then I realized the clockwork butler was there before me. He had a cab in hand and was even holding the door open for us. This was such a turnabout that I felt it was necessary to ask, “Is this for us?”
He gave the briefest of nods, all the contrition we would get from the fellow. We settled into the cab and soon cast off the gloom of Bruton Street.
“Mrs. Roberts, you were tremendous. I know you have scruples against that sort of playacting, but be sure, it was necessary.” Holmes was usually not so free in handing out compliments. “Watson, your question was particularly incisive. I don’t know why I bothered to put in an appearance at all. I could sit at home, listen to the gramophone, and wait for the clues to come in.”
I felt pleasure burn my cheeks, although I wasn’t sure what we had learned on our outing.
“Shall we try our luck with the grieving widow of Ali Fahmy Bey?” Holmes said.
“The princess?” I stared in wide wonder. “She’s in Cairo, isn’t she?”
“According to this morning’s Times, she’s at the Savoy.”
“The Savoy?” Mrs. Roberts’s hand flew to her mouth. “Isn’t that where—?”
“She slew her husband, yes. And trust me, the Savoy is soaking up all the publicity it can. They’ve even concocted a drink named in her honor, the Three Shot Killer. Brandy, curaçao, and bitters.”
I put my hand to my temple. “It’s appalling. Why on earth—?”
“She has an announcement for the fourth estate. It seems she’s given birth to the child.”
“No!” said Mrs. Roberts. “Does she intend to produce the infant?”
“Can you purchase a child on the black market in Paris?” I asked, only half joking.
“I don’t think she’ll go that far,” Holmes assured us. “It’s obviously a further ploy to bolster her claim to her husband’s fortune. Or she’s gone mad, which is a distinct possibility.”
“Why did she come to London to announce it?” Mrs. Roberts asked.
“I think she expects a more receptive audience,” I offered.
“Yes. Watson, you brought along your camera, as I asked?”
I nodded. I had bought an Autographic after the war and taken hundreds of pictures before I became bored with the thing and sick of the smell of darkroom chemicals.
“Excellent. We’ll freshen things up a bit. You will be the intrepid journalist, Mrs. Roberts the stenographer, and I shall be the photographer. That should make her hungry to see us.”
Holmes reached into his own bag and produced a false beard and spirit gum right there on the spot. He began to apply it. Mrs. Roberts held up her compact mirror to help him. There was a service I’d never thought to afford him. I busied myself with the settings on the camera.
“Holmes, what you intimated about trouble between Lord Carnarvon and Colonel Herbert . . . ?” I hinted.
