The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 4
“My lady does not want the press to get wind of our expedition. She is ostensibly on her honeymoon in Monaco.”
“And where then? Rome? Venice? The grand tour?” The champagne had somewhat restored my good humor.
“My lady has not shared her itinerary with me. We shall accompany them no farther than Luxor. But she does not want her visit to Egypt bruited about. Remember that.”
“As soon as she boards the boat to Alexandria she’ll be recognized,” objected Mrs. Roberts.
“She has an aeroplane waiting for us in Monte Carlo. We shall be whisked from thence to Cairo in an instant, in complete secrecy.”
This news made me slightly apprehensive. As one went farther east, the planes were rarely maintained, and the pilots very rarely adequately trained. Or so I had heard.
As soon as the consommé du volaille aux something-or-other came, I fell to, rather greedily. Of course I hardly knew what I was eating as we marched through the dishes. I kept hoping Mrs. Roberts would ask Holmes or the waiter, but she never did. I can say this: it was glorious, whatever it was. And glorious, too, was the French countryside passing by the window, with the sun slowly melting like butter all over the green horizon. Not that the English countryside wasn’t every bit as glorious, but it was a bit mildewed at that time of year.
But it was not only fresh strawberries and the view of the rolling French pastures that was on the menu. I was about to bear witness to Mrs. Roberts’s sleight of hand at its most ingenious.
I was just wondering where I was going to put the Charlotte Russe when our tranquility was invaded by the approach of a stranger, a big fellow with a broad, open face and a toothy smile that put me in mind of an American—or a huckster. So has my association with Sherlock Holmes bent my mind toward mistrust. He stopped short right in front of us. As it turned out, he was not an American.
“Sherlock Holmes! You are Mr. Holmes, aren’t you? Or Sir Sherlock, I should say.”
So it still happened. He still had fans who recognized him. Sometimes he cursed me for his notoriety and cursed my stories in the Strand as the cause of it. But his eyes always lit up at these encounters.
This, however, was no ordinary fan, I’m sorry to say.
“I’m Geoffrey Hodson!” he practically bellowed.
This pronouncement had an immediate effect on both Holmes and Mrs. Roberts, although Holmes seemed far more enthusiastic than the lady. I was completely in the dark.
“Of course, I should have known you from your picture! This is quite the fortuitous occasion! I would never have expected to find you here,” said Holmes.
“Do you know Gerald Murphy? No? Awfully good chap,” Hodson said, as if he had just scored one for the team. “American, but trying to live it down. I’ve been invited to his place in Antibes to give a lecture to some of his friends. Cole Porter, Scott Fitzgerald, Picasso . . . .”
“Anyone I would have heard of?” asked Holmes.
The fellow seemed to have had some wind taken out of his sails but recovered himself. “Well, and of course there’s the sun and the sea.”
“What do you have to do with those? Are there fairies?”
At this point I was quite sure Holmes had gone mad. Alas, I was only a little wrong on that score. It would prove to be the case that I was the only sane one of the group.
The fellow Hodson stuttered, “No . . . you go there to swim in the sea and lie in the sun. Get tanned.”
“It sounds like a perfectly good way to acquire sunstroke,” said Holmes with some disparagement.
“Yes . . . well . . . what about yourself? A speaking engagement somewhere?”
“Something of a more confidential nature,” Holmes replied with his usual tight smile.
“What an amazing coincidence running into you like this.” Hodson was apparently trying to start the conversation over. Of course, this meeting would prove no coincidence at all.
“Hodson, this is my longtime associate Dr. Watson, and the lady is the renowned medium Mrs. Estelle Roberts.”
The fellow gave me a glance before his eyes came to linger on Mrs. Roberts.
“I’m gratified to make your acquaintance,” said Hodson, taking the lady’s hand. For a moment I thought he might kiss it continental style, but she withdrew it before he could follow through on the threat.
“Mr. Hodson is perhaps the foremost authority on the fairy phenomenon,” said Holmes.
“Yes, I’ve read your book,” said Mrs. Roberts.
Mr. Hodson, I was to learn, had authored a book called Fairies at Work and at Play. Yes, that was really the title. You are forgiven if you are not familiar with it. I myself, to this day, am not familiar with it.
“His chapter on the Cottingley fairies is particularly illuminating,” Holmes said.
Oh, God, not the Cottingley fairies again. I thought that had died its natural death. Fairies! The man who was once known as the sharpest mind in England was now known for his championing of fairies—fairies, needless to say, on which he had never set eyes himself. I’m afraid my cheeks went red with shame.
Holmes had no such shame. “Where would you say fairies in England are most plentiful?” he asked matter-of-factly, as if we were discussing the best climate for vegetable marrows. I wondered whether the two little girls who had taken photos of the fairies had been invited to talk to Gerald Murphy’s celebrated guests.
“Well, I’ve toured England quite extensively in search of fairies, as you’re aware, together with my wife, Jane. I would have to say the Cotswolds trump any other both for number and variety.”
“Ah, yes, the Cotswolds, they do seem to congregate there,” Holmes agreed.
Moths. Moths congregate in the Cotswolds. I must have made a face.
“I see someone is not a believer,” tsked Hodson, earning my ire twice over.
I cleared my throat. “Tiny little supernatural beings frolicking at the bottom of the garden are simply not my cup of tea.”
“Oh, but they’re not supernatural. They’re entirely natural. And they are not all tiny,” responded Hodson.
“I’ve never seen one, in point of fact. But you’ll say they’re shy, I suspect.”
“Not in the least, though they exhibit little interest in our human world. But one must train oneself to see them. They operate at much higher frequencies than we are accustomed to.”
“What, like hummingbirds?” I asked, goading him.
“A very apt analogy. Or dog whistles. Would you deny the existence of sounds at higher frequencies than our ears are attuned to?” he asked, shooting his cuffs. “It’s the same with our vision.”
I sighed. Once again I had allowed myself to be dragged into one of these ridiculous, exasperating conversations that had so strained my friendship with Holmes. But I noticed something unexpected. Mrs. Roberts looked as unimpressed as I. Was there a rift here I could exploit?
“What do you think, Mrs. Roberts?” I asked, hitting the ball to her. “Are there fairies on the other side of the great divide?”
She was slow to answer. All three of us were staring at her. “There are nature spirits. I have never been in contact with one. But that doesn’t mean—”
I followed up quickly. “Why not have a go at it?” I said. “Between your talents as a medium and the gentleman’s remarkable eye for spying out fairies . . .”
“Why, Watson, what a tremendous idea!” said Holmes. “This is exactly the pair to pull it off.”
Mrs. Roberts, for her part, now seemed nervous as a rabbit, searching for a politic answer. But before she could think how to worm her way out, Hodson chimed in. “Capital idea! Shall we say midnight? I’ve always found the fairy folk to be most active at the witching hour.”
I think that was when I lost my taste for Charlotte Russe.
Chapter Four: Mrs. Estelle Roberts
Ihad never seen a fairy before and was, frankly, skeptical. But Sir Sherlock seemed animated by the idea. As for Dr. Watson, he had attended to most of Mr. Hodson’s little dissertation with his head in his hands. But he popped up with such a cunning look in his eye when he made his suggestion, his manner so unlike himself—at least as he had presented himself—that I had to wonder what he had in mind. Skeptics are always trying to trip me up.
The doctor swiveled back toward me. “Have you never spoken to fairies before?” he demanded.
I repeated, rather sharply, that I had not. I don’t like being badgered.
“But you’re a clairvoyant, like Mr. Hodson, are you not?” he continued.
“I’m confident she’s up to the challenge. Her powers are phenomenal,” said Sir Sherlock.
I was, you’ll agree, in a tight corner. Different sensitives are attuned to different vibrations. Fairies might simply not be on my harmonic. I was reluctant to give in to the request, but now all three men seemed thrilled by the idea; there was no graceful means of backing out. A moving train far from the seat of my power was hardly the ideal setting for attempting such an unusual séance. But as I suspected Dr. Watson of wanting to embarrass me, I found myself keen to display my prowess. Besides, if my abilities should prove themselves diminished here, of what use would they avail me in faraway Egypt? I found myself agreeing reluctantly, to the delight of Sir Sherlock and, I suspected, the secret joy of Dr. Watson.
We agreed to meet at midnight, though for my part I ascribed no special merit to that time or any other. I would simply be sleepier. In fact, I did try to nap. When nothing came of that, I ordered a pot of chamomile and resumed my letters, which, at the rate I was plodding along, I was afraid I would never finish.
We met that night in Mr. Hodson’s compartment. To my surprise, we were greeted by Mrs. Hodson. He hadn’t even mentioned that his wife was on the train with him. I was relieved to have a friendly woman’s eyes to gaze into. More, it would mean no more oh-so-genteel kissing on the hand or, worse, kissing on the cheek. Hodson was positively distant with me in her company.
He did not introduce her, so we introduced ourselves. The lady’s name was Jane. Where he was expansive, she was contained, with brown skin and boyish bobbed hair, which was the style that season. She put me in mind of one of the brownies I’d read about in Hodson’s book, or perhaps it was Peter Pan. Oh, so many races of fairies in his world! Elves and gnomes and undines and sylphs and devas, all with their peculiar manifestations and rituals. His book was frankly quite maddening, although the girls enjoyed it, especially Ivy.
“But do fairies die?” Dr. Watson started in, out of nowhere, as we were assembling. Oh, now he was cooling to the idea? He probably just wanted his bed. He hid a yawn behind his sleeve.
“Death has no meaning for such creatures. The question is whether they can penetrate to the other side and what their purpose may be for making such a crossing in the first place.” There, I’d staved him off with a confident-sounding answer. Just at the moment I was more concerned with whether Red Cloud would even deign to make his appearance in such an unfamiliar and possibly hostile atmosphere. He is a sensitive soul.
Hodson had us sit around a tiny table in the middle of their compartment, our knees practically knocking together. Utterly unnecessary, but I didn’t like to spar with him.
“You work through a spirit guide of some sort?” Mrs. Hodson wanted to know.
“Red Cloud.”
“Another American Indian, eh? They seem popular this year.” Hodson grinned as if amused. I did not care for his insinuation. Not at all. A man who wrote about fairies!
Mr. Hodson had scared up candles from somewhere. He closed the curtains tight and turned down the lights while his wife lit the candles. I must admit that the clack of the rails and the wavering of the candles set a certain sonorous rhythm, which was actually meditative. I took a deep breath. Our hands found each other’s round the table.
“Red Cloud? Are you near? Do you hear me?”
There was nothing, no sensation. I felt a wave of panic rattle through me.
“Come to me. I am far from home.” My voice was trembling. I had to take a breath. I opened my eyes. Everyone was staring at me expectantly, Hodson eyeing me almost hungrily.
Then Dr. Watson winked at me. It was such an unexpected gesture that I nearly laughed out loud. I felt a familiar warmth tingle through me, a lightheadedness. It felt just the same as if I were in the heart of London. My pulse slowed. I was ready for whatever came next—I thought.
“Good evening, Estelle,” I heard my voice saying, an octave lower in pitch. Red Cloud had taken up residence. “You are indeed far from home. But I am not.” Red Cloud had always exhibited a puckish sense of humor.
“Yes, Red Cloud, I am traveling to Egypt.” As soon as I said it, I remembered Sir Sherlock did not want our destination disclosed. I was still a bit nervy.
“For what purpose have you summoned me tonight?”
“This is Mr. Hodson. He wants to contact someone.”
“What is the name of the person you wish to contact?”
“A fairy,” I added hesitantly.
“What is the name?” returned Red Cloud without a moment’s qualm, as if it were the most ordinary request in the world. Perhaps it was?
“A name, please, Mr. Hodson?” My gaze fell on the man. He looked befuddled.
“Can’t you simply . . . ask for a fairy?” he fudged. There was the trace of a whine in his voice.
“How many fairies are there?” I asked patiently.
“The fact is, I’m not sure they have individual names,” he said. “I’ve never spoken to one. I’m not certain that they do speak.”
This appeared to rouse Dr. Watson’s aggravation. “How do you expect to communicate with them if they can’t speak?” His sentiment chimed with mine.
“Well, don’t they knock on walls and such?”
Jane Hodson spoke up abruptly. “Winnie,” she said. Her husband cast a confused look her way.
“The brownie who lives in the kitchen cupboard,” she explained.
“You have spoken with it?” asked Sir Sherlock, who had been silent up to this point.
“I’ve spoken to it. I named it Winnie. It seems to like the name.” She blushed prettily at the attention she drew.
“Well, then. Winnie,” I said, addressing Red Cloud. Splendid that it was a brownie, I thought. I recalled from Hodson’s book that they were domestic creatures, more or less tame.
I could feel Red Cloud spreading out in all directions, searching the etheric.
“Look!” hissed Hodson. I opened my eyes to lights—small lights, dancing on the walls. Fairies? But Red Cloud was still searching. Could they have been called simply by uttering the one name? I could sense no consciousness in them, no guiding force. They were only . . . lights.
“Behold the fairies in their true form, prior to taking on their thought forms,” Hodson said in that sermonizing tone. “Now one is changing, taking on the form of a manikin.”
“I see nothing but little lights,” said Dr. Watson.
“You are not attuned to their frequency,” snapped Hodson.
“Perhaps you’d best describe him, dearest,” admonished Jane softly.
“Oh, well then—he is about fourteen inches tall, raw red face and hands, beady eyes, sheathed all in green. Ah, now here’s a brownie with the face of an aged man, a long beard nearly down to his bare toes, a tall conical hat on his head—and, yes, he has a fairy with him!”
He drew a deep breath. His wife was tense by his side.
“The fairy is a female, dressed in white, or pink—”
Wait, was I seeing it? I could almost anticipate what he would say next—
“. . . a clinging, sheeny material, fine textured—”
Then I recalled it—Ivy reading to me by the firelight, from Hod-son’s book:
. . . dressed in a white, or very pale pink, clinging, sheeny material of exceedingly fine texture . . .
“. . . drawn in at the waist and shining like mother of pearl. The wings are oval,” he continued, his voice thrumming. He was quoting himself, from his book! It was all a patter! Was Jane a part of it, too? What were they up to? I felt like flinging the woman’s hand away! Just at that moment, unexpected words formed on my lips:
“Jane? Geoffrey?” My voice was treble, slightly hoarse, and trembling like a leaf.
“Who speaks?” demanded Sir Sherlock.
“I am Winnie,” answered the voice.
There was a hush all around the table.
“Speak to her,” I coaxed.
“Yes, Winnie, we’re here,” murmured Jane.
“Winnie,” said her husband cutting in, “what is my mother’s name?”
Of course, the bully would try to test me. “Constance,” Winnie answered flatly.
He smiled sheepishly. I decided to ask it a question myself. “How did you get the name Winnie?”
“Winifred was Jane’s great friend in childhood. She died in 1911.”
“That’s true,” said Jane, sounding exultant but a bit scared.
“Would you like to speak with her?” Winnie asked amiably.
“No . . . no, thank you,” stammered Jane, flustered.
We had established Winnie’s bona fides to both their satisfactions.
“You are not at home. I’ve searched for you,” Winnie’s voice said accusingly.
“No, we’re on a trip,” Jane answered gently.
“To find more fairies?”
“Are there fairies in the south of France?” Hodson smirked. He thought I was as much a fraud as he.
“Coco will be there,” Winnie shot back.
“No. You’re mistaken,” said Hodson hurriedly.
“I do not mistake. Coco is there now.”
Jane cast a swift, furious glance at her husband. “You told me positively she would not be there.”
Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Not positively. I mean, you never know who’ll turn up at the Murphys’. She said she would be at Cannes—”
He realized he’d said too much.
“You’ve spoken with her,” Jane concluded.
“You should not go,” Winnie contended. The brownie was evidently intent on making mischief. Or perhaps shielding against it? Who could know a fairy’s purpose?
