The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 7
He whipped back on us again. “And speak to no one, particularly the press, about our little dash over to Luxor. My wife and I are wintering in Monaco. That is all anyone needs to know of the affair.”
He seemed somewhat abashed at raising the subject. I could certainly agree with the sentiment. I felt foolish enough going on this harebrained expedition without seeing it splashed about in the penny press.
I handed him back my entry form. By the time we were prepared to take the plunge, there were already some coming out whom I recognized from the train, with the dejected and destitute looks of those who had bet their fortunes on one turn of the wheel. And lost.
I rose. “Shall we go in?” I offered Mrs. Roberts my arm.
“Oh, no,” she said timidly. “I think I’ll just wait out here. Watch all the grand people.”
“No, you shan’t,” said Beauchamp determinedly. “My wife is most eager to meet you—inside.”
It seemed couched as an ungentlemanly demand, but after a swift glance at Holmes, she decided not to contest the matter.
Beauchamp studied us with a critical eye. “We’ll have to get beyond the dress police first.”
“The what police?” I blurted.
“Once you enter the casino, you’re part of the show, or at least part of the backdrop.” He had the effrontery to straighten my tie. “You stick close to the lady and they might not notice you.”
I could see we were going to get along swimmingly.
Chapter Six: Mrs. Estelle Roberts
Istepped through the doors of the casino and was absolutely shattered. First of all, it was immense: rows of creamy columns topped by Greek capitals, supporting a high gallery that wrapped around the entire space, lit by countless electric globes, and a heaven-stretching skylight spilling the last golden rays of the sun on everything and everyone. Looking down from the gallery were slender men in swallowtail coats and swan-necked flappers kept from flying away only by the weight of their jewels. It reminded me of a fairy tale—and I was only seeing the atrium as yet.
Perhaps Sir Sherlock and Dr. Watson were accustomed to this sort of magnificence. They seemed perfectly blasé as to the surroundings, although their tuxedoes did seem a trifle outdated compared to the perfectly tailored evening clothes most of the men wore, with their slim silhouettes and spectators instead of boots. The doctor had turned a peculiar shade of purple; I think the baronet had cinched his tie too tight.
We entered the roulette salon, a room that seemed to stretch to the horizon, lit by chandeliers as massive as anchors. It thronged with people, most of whom seemed to be milling about looking for someone they expected to meet. My cheeks flamed when I saw the women draped in silk and chiffon, dripping with diamonds and pearls. I had felt like Cinderella in the spangly black gown I wore with the rose-colored sash (picked out and paid for by the Lady Evelyn, Sir Sherlock had assured me), but I felt decidedly dowdy by comparison with the bejeweled and bedecked beauties all around me. The only bit of jewelry I wore was my plain wedding band. I felt invisible.
Yet most of the women moved across the room restlessly, like antelopes across the veldt, peering in at the gaming tables, trying to understand why the men were fixated on play rather than on themselves. They seemed more a part of the decor than actual living, breathing human beings. Perhaps that was by design.
There was the scent of wealth everywhere, and not just in the delicate perfumes, the peppery cigar smoke, or the walnut smell of expensive whiskies. The scent of something strangely like a gathering storm filled my nostrils, crackling with electricity and yet weighed down by heavy air at the same time. There was a whisper of prayer in the air, in which the only deity was Mammon.
Well, I was not here on holiday, but on business, even if it were only ancillary business. Thanks to the baronet’s description, I had a horror of having to drag Mrs. Beauchamp out by her hair, with her heels leaving little grooves in the exquisite carpet.
In the center of the vast room were three green baize tables like islands in the storm, stacked with winking tiles. They were lined with players so intent on their games I could feel the baritone hum of anticipation and smell their burning cupidity. I had no idea what roulette was all about, but the wheels were spinning, the play was fast, and the croupiers seemed ruthless, those bright tiles clawed away as fast as they were shoved out onto the field of play. My entire savings could be devoured in five minutes. I clutched my pocketbook to my bosom.
The Baronet Beauchamp scanned the room for a few seconds. Then he said curtly, “Ah, center stage, of course,” and made a beeline for the table at the very center of the room. Holmes and Watson dove in after him. I came behind at a distance, eyes still dazzled.
There was a clutch of women at the table, but it was obvious which one was Lady Evelyn. She was not draped over some man but sat with furrowed brow and flashing eyes concentrating on her tiles before her. The baronet’s stern look gave way to something resembling pride. There was nothing diffident about her—heavy-lidded eyes, a prominent nose, a mobile mouth. She wore a floor-length cocoon coat of stretch velvet in royal blue, gathered at the waist with a silver butterfly, which I would have died to wear—not that I could have pulled it off. On her forehead was a beaded fascinator, much more practical and far more stylish than my vagabond hat. Of course, I had seen her in the papers before, but they had not conveyed the set of her chin, nor the domination in her eyes. Here was a woman to be reckoned with. What did she want with me?
The man next to her, I realized, was not merely next her, but with her. Quite a handsome man. Fair hair, blue eyes, complexion brown as mahogany. Wearing his RAF uniform, he was quite dashing, if a bit rumpled. It was a shame he was no taller than my twelve-year-old, Iris. The two were deep in consultation. I was surprised to catch no hint of jealousy in the baronet’s eyes.
As soon as she saw us, she dropped her tiles and swam into the baronet’s arms like the beaming bride she was. But she did not stay there long, for soon she was greeting us with effusion and introducing her companion.
“This is Captain Tom Shaw of the RAF. He flew me down here from Croydon. I think we should buy a plane, darling.”
“Sir Sherlock, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you. And, of course, the redoubtable Dr. Watson.” Captain Shaw shook both their hands warmly. Dr. Watson reciprocated just as warmly. Sir Sherlock was more reserved, but then, he always is.
“Shaw, you said?” he asked with a curious look in his eye.
“That’s right, Shaw as in George Bernard.”
“Oh, are you related?” Dr. Watson asked.
“Possibly. He’s Irish, I’m Irish. We’re an inbred population.” He didn’t sound Irish. He sounded like an Oxford don. But he had the Irish sense of humor.
“What do you fly?” asked Sir Sherlock.
“Avro 504K.”
I had no idea what they were talking about.
“All the way from Croydon?” Sir Sherlock sounded dubious.
“By easy stages,” he replied smoothly.
“It was thrilling,” volunteered Lady Evelyn.
The granite look did not leave Sir Sherlock’s face. What could it mean, I wondered.
“Captain Shaw is a great fan of yours, Mr. Holmes. He even threatened to leave me behind and carry you instead,” said Lady Evelyn. Then she turned to me. “You look simply marvelous, Mrs. Roberts. Thank you so much for coming.” Of course, she was too tactful to mention that she had chosen the dress, and paid for it. I could only guess how much it cost. I was half afraid I might be waylaid in some alley by dress thieves and forced to hand it over.
She gave me a long going-over, but it was not the look of a superior to an inferior, merely a look of curiosity and perhaps assessment. She finally said, “These people with all their hopes and fears must really set a psychic buzzing.”
I didn’t know quite how to answer. I’m no mind reader as such, but I am sensitive to people’s moods and could feel the waves of anxiety in the crowd pressing round. I would imagine anyone could feel it. I reminded myself that I was here solely at Sir Sherlock’s behest. I had no idea whether she was sympathetic or teasing me. I nodded my head in a noncommittal way and let her make of that what she might.
“You’re not really going to ask her?” said Captain Shaw, his face lighting up.
Oh, no. Too often people want me to perform like a circus animal, even believers. I thought back to Mr. and Mrs. Hodson. I had spent the whole night reconciling them, explaining how fairies loved to tease mortals and cause trouble between them. Me, lecturing Hodson on fairies! It was only by several anecdotes (largely passed on to me by my old nanny, I’m ashamed to say) and most of a bottle of sherry that I was able to put them in a receptive mood and leave them smiling at Antibes.
The lady took my hands in hers, leaned in, and whispered to me, “You’re just in time.”
I was taken aback. Just in time for what?
“Just whisper the numbers in my ear.” Her eyes sought mine out, looking for some sign of complicity. “You can do that, can’t you?”
“You’re asking for the moon, Eve,” Shaw chided her. I thought at first he was referring to my role in Luxor. I felt slapped.
But what would she have me whisper to her? Then I realized. Oh.
She gave him a look of annoyance and sat back down and spread her tiles again.
“How much have you lost, darling?” Beauchamp asked casually. Too casually.
“My luck is about to change,” she rejoined confidently and gave the briefest toss of her head in my direction.
She had made herself plain. She wanted me to help her, to be her confederate. To use my powers. I was flattered, and to my dismay I felt a sudden surge of warmth. I wanted to help her, to prove myself. But it was wrong; it was cheating. I didn’t even know whether I had the ability—
For one thing, I didn’t have the slightest idea how to play roulette.
How quickly could I learn? The game was played, as I said, on a long green table. The table was sectioned out into three columns of printed numbers, from zero to thirty-six, some in red, some in black. The wheel, situated at the center of two tables, had the same numbers marked around its circumference, in the same colors. There was one man with a white ball poised in his hand ready to launch it onto the wheel, and another fellow with a long rake next to him, both as serious as undertakers. There were, besides the Lady Evelyn, six miserable-looking men on either side of the table in perfectly tailored swallowtail coats, boiled shirts, and brilliantined hair. They smelled like a patch of lavender. Each had a stack of tiles in front of him, and each slid his tiles onto various numbers jerkily, as if he would much rather be sliding them back to safety.
That was all I could grasp of the game. If only I had been warned this would be expected of me! It was also far warmer than was comfortable, even with my shoulders and arms bare. No wonder the ladies doused themselves with scent.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I felt the undertow of the spirits, but there was nothing unusual in that. I gave myself up to them, drifting in their wake. It was only with their help that I could succeed. I heard the ball drop onto the wheel. And felt myself falling, whirring. Dizzy, the ball clattering, so dizzy.
I sank to my knees on the soft carpet. No one seemed to take the least notice. The next thing I knew I was curled up in a ball, seeking solace in the protection of my own limbs. All I could hear was the white ball tumbling, tumbling, tumbling, never coming to rest. All I could feel pressing in on every side was anticipation and fear. Notes of triumph and failure. If only the ball would stop, stop, come to rest! The clattering was driving me mad.
And then I heard my name called. Had Red Cloud come to me at last? Lead me away!
No. I heard my name again and realized it was a man’s voice, from across the table. I opened my eyes and found that I was still standing upright, just behind Lady Evelyn’s chair. A little man with a French accent was trying discreetly to get my attention. He wore a pince-nez and had a large, carefully waxed moustache flourishing hedge-like on his upper lip. He seemed almost a caricature of a Frenchman. In fact, he put me in mind of Max Linder, the film star. His hands moved in the air as though he were conducting an orchestra or perhaps fighting off a swarm of bees.
“You are Madame Estelle Roberts?” How long had he been calling me?
“Yes, yes. Oui,” I spoke up. How did he know my name? Who was he?
“I am with the casino. Might I have a little word with you?”
I looked around at my cohorts, but everyone seemed focused elsewhere, as if they had not heard—perhaps as if they had not seen him! Could he be from the other side? I stepped forward uncertainly.
“Just the one word. In private,” he coaxed.
Sir Sherlock cast my way a look of reassurance, which calmed me. The man was flesh and blood. I followed where he indicated. I thought I might be led to some to some secret chamber deep within the entrails of the casino, perhaps to face accusations of stealing my spangly dress, but he only guided me to a quiet corner and halted peremptorily, so that I found myself uncomfortably close to him. I could smell the garlic on his hot breath.
“I will be brief. You are Mrs. Estelle Roberts of Londres, Angleterre?” He had my entry form in his hand.
I nodded. Wide-eyed. “Born in Kensington,” I said.
“The medium psychique?” He whispered it as if it were something shameful.
“Yes, I’m a medium,” I said loudly and clearly to show that I was thoroughly unashamed.
“Ah, yes. A thousand pardons, Madame, but in that case, you must depart the casino. Tout de suite.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“I shall endeavor to explain. Your . . . gift places you at an unconscionable advantage here. These are after all the games of chance, not of skill, no?”
I must have turned scarlet. His imputation was obvious. “Oh, but . . . but I’m not playing. I’m only here with friends.”
“Oui, I am witness to your friends. One of them, I believe, is the lady Evelyn Herbert, is it not?”
“Beauchamp,” I corrected him. He paid no heed.
“A long-standing patron of our club. I believe you English say, a very good sport, is it not?”
“We’ve only just been introduced,” I countered.
“Ah, very likely. I cast no aspersions. But our rules are our rules, Madame, surely you see that?”
I was about to make a strong objection when I remembered that I had just been attempting to do exactly as he’d implied, tipping the scales toward Lady Evelyn. That I had failed miserably hardly cleared me of culpability. I’m afraid tears were starting in my eyes.
“All right,” I said, subdued. “May I have a moment with my friends, to explain to them?”
“But of course. You are free to go wherever you please, Madame.”
That was hardly the case. I started back, then turned. “How did you know who I was?”
“I have studied your picture, Madame. We keep dossiers on all the celebrated psychiques.”
You will think me silly, but I could not help being flattered by his portrayal of me as celebrated. I had thought myself rather obscure at that point in my career. But apparently my reputation had spread to the continent. I tried to keep a smile from my face.
As soon as I had rejoined the party and explained my predicament, the baronet seized the opening to carry his wife away from the gaming tables, insisting we were finished for the evening. I apologized profusely to Lady Evelyn while her husband scooped up her tiles, but she took it in stride.
“You were marvelous,” she said. “We would have broken the bank at Monte Carlo had that odious little man not intervened.”
“What . . . what are you talking about?” It sounded like she was making fun.
“The way you took over with such assurance, placing those plaques on all the right squares. Magnificent.”
“No, I—”
“I’m none too nimble at converting francs, but I think you must have made three hundred pounds on those three spins,” Captain Shaw said with a charming smile that won my heart.
“I believe I shall have to share some of my winnings with you. How much does one tip a medium?”
She was serious. While I thought I was lying on the floor in dread, I had apparently been throwing around her tiles with wild abandon. It must have been something akin to automatic writing. My God! My legs shook thinking of what could have happened. I nearly fainted to imagine it. Now I understood what had alerted Max Linder, or whatever his name was.
We stopped in front in front of the cassier’s cage. The baronet shoved the plaques in front of a bored-looking cassier, who sorted them swiftly and methodically.
Well, I thought, at least I had won her confidence. I had no idea the performance I was yet to put on that night for the Beauchamps’ benefit.
His chips cashed in (I say his, for Beauchamp pocketed the winnings, at which his wife made not a peep), we proceeded to the exit. Leaving the casino was a much more arduous task than getting in had been, however. We were stopped every few feet by old friends of Lord Carnarvon who wished to pay their respects or relate some amusing anecdote about him. There were even some who recognized Sir Sherlock and wanted some aspect of a long-ago case explained in detail. I thought it curious that none of them appealed to Dr. Watson, since he had recorded, and no doubt embroidered on, the adventures in question. But he deferred to Sir Sherlock, which I gather was his customary role. The baronet stood by, tapping his foot, visibly exasperated. He did not strike me as a stoic. If he were incommoded, he would make certain the world knew it. He traded commiserating looks with Captain Shaw, who was relegated to the shadows as well— although for his part, he seemed quite content with his role. He even seemed to prefer it.
And from afar I glimpsed the manager, or detective—he never had said which, or even given his name—watching my every move, seemingly equally anxious at our slow parade toward the exit. What did he think, that I might pick a pocket or two along the way?
