The Visitors (24 page)

‘Perhaps we should commence?’ the Egyptian official said, with magnificent courtesy and the faintest hint of impatience.

‘Right. Yes. Spot on. So if you two young ladies would just answer the questions from – my colleague here. Nothing to be nervous about. You should address him as––’

‘El-Deeb
effendi
,’ the official said crisply. Urquhart subsided, picked up a pencil, and said nothing further. Mr El-Deeb settled himself in his impressive chair, and gave us a toothy benign smile. He remarked that it was an honour to meet us, albeit under difficult circumstances; he hoped we would forgive him, but he had certain questions that he must put to us. They concerned someone he understood was our friend, a most beautiful and accomplished woman, of the highest social standing in England, an intimate of princes and sundry other illustrious personages, a lady well known and much admired in Cairo. Her name, he said, frowning at us in a sudden fixed way, as if he suspected us of some heinous hidden crime, was Mrs d’Erlanger.

He paused, and then informed us, as if it were an afterthought, that perhaps we should know he was a senior officer in the Egyptian police force, here today as an investigator… somewhat in the manner of the immortal Sherlock Holmes, a character whose deductions he was sure we enjoyed as much as he did.

‘Has something happened to Mrs d’Erlanger?’ Frances asked, interrupting him. We had both been transfixed, trying to make sense of this.

I leaned forward: ‘That’s what we both want to know, El-Deeb
effendi
,’ I said in an imploring rush. ‘I thought – you see, no one has told us anything, and we’d like to understand. What has happened? Is Mrs d’Erlanger safe? Is she in Egypt? Has there been some accident?’

The detective raised his hand, its palm towards us. He remarked, with less benevolence, that
he
would ask the questions. He asked us to think back to the last occasion on which we had seen Mrs d’Erlanger, at Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo. He consulted a notebook: ‘Today is 21 February. That would have been 7 February – two weeks ago. You can remember that occasion?’

‘Yes,
effendi
,’ Frances said meekly.

El-Deeb was not a man to be rushed. He explained that he had already spoken to Lord Carnarvon, to his gracious daughter, and to several other people who had been present in Shepheard’s dining room that night. He had also spoken, at length, to Mrs d’Erlanger’s maid, Miss Wheeler, who had provided him with a description of the clothes Mrs d’Erlanger had been wearing on the night she disappeared. Since he understood we had been present in her room when these clothes were selected, he would like to confirm certain details. ‘Dress?’ he said, so suddenly and with so little benevolence that both Frances and I jumped. ‘Describe to me, please, what dress Mrs d’Erlanger was wearing?’

‘It was a pink dress,’ I replied, in a small voice.

‘Shocking pink,’ Frances added. ‘A friend of Mrs d’Erlanger’s designed it especially for her. It was made in Paris. Poppy – Mrs d’Erlanger liked it because it was fast.’

The official wrote this word down, then frowned at it.

‘Look, I say, El-Deeb,’ Lieutenant Urquhart burst out in an anxious tone. ‘Don’t want to interfere, but that doesn’t mean a thing, old man. It’s just the way Poppy – Mrs d’Erlanger – it’s just the way she talked.’

‘Thank you, my English is fluent. I have been told it is Oxford irreproachable.’ The Egyptian gave Urquhart a quelling glance and, when he had subsided again, turned back to us. ‘So,’ he said. ‘A dress. Fast. Pink. Shocking. Made in Paris. What else?’

‘She had a fur with her,’ I said, anxious to be helpful. ‘A dark fur, a sort of wrap. I remember that, because Eve – Lady Evelyn – said she couldn’t possibly be needing it, it was too hot. But Mrs d’Erlanger said… ’ I hesitated.

‘What did Mrs d’Erlanger say?’

‘She said, yes, it
was
a hot night – but she needed the fur because she might be – she said she might be “trotting on somewhere”. After dinner, I think she meant.’

‘I see. And did you subsequently witness her with that fur, in the hotel dining room?’

‘Yes, we both did,’ Frances confirmed eagerly. ‘She was carrying it, then she put it over the back of her chair during dinner, and then she––’

‘She sort of tossed it over her shoulder, and took it with her when she left the dining room,’ I said. Should I mention the two men, the altercation between them and Poppy’s response? Better not, I decided.

‘Excellent. I commend your sharp eyes and your good memories.’ Benevolence restored, El-Deeb beamed at us again. ‘We will continue. Think very carefully, please. Was Mrs d’Erlanger wearing jewellery, and was she carrying a bag that evening?’

‘She was definitely carrying an evening bag,’ I replied. ‘It was very small, a tiny thing, like a doll’s almost.’ I stopped. I’d been slow but suddenly I’d understood the reason – the only possible reason – for these questions. ‘It was… very pretty.’ My voice faltered. ‘It had embroidery on it, something that sparkled and – and – I can’t remember if she was wearing jewellery.’

‘I can.’ Frances reached for my hand and squeezed it. ‘I remember exactly. She was wearing earrings made of priceless Burmese rubies, and a beautiful ring that matched, a square one. They came from Cartier. I recognised them because I’d seen them before, and she’d told me they were a wedding present from her husband, Mr d’Erlanger.’

‘Most interesting.’ El-Deeb made a small note. In a casual tone, he added: ‘Wedding ring? Was she also wearing her wedding ring?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s
sake… ’
Urquhart burst out. He threw up his hands and turned to stare mutinously at the wall opposite.

‘A small point,’ El-Deeb said, with a cold glance. ‘It is the small points that speak. I pay them the closest attention, always. I advise you to do the same. So, Miss Payne, Miss Winlock: the wedding ring – was this a detail you noticed?’

‘Yes, it was,’ Frances confirmed, as I shook my head. ‘When we were in her room that evening, I noticed her wedding ring. Mrs d’Erlanger wanted to give us presents when we left and she asked us to choose something pretty from her dressing table. The ring was there, lying on the table, next to some scent bottles, and under––’

‘Was that unusual? Did Mrs d’Erlanger not make it a habit to wear that marriage ring?’

‘She hadn’t worn it while she was in Cairo, no. But she put it on that night – and I saw her do it. She gave us our presents, and then she noticed the ring. It was underneath a swansdown powder puff and when that was moved, she suddenly saw it. She gave a little cry and said, “Oh – so
that
’s where you’ve been hiding!” She snatched it up and put it on, and she – she winked at Wheeler. And then we left.’

I stared at Frances in astonishment. How observant she was. How much she noticed that I missed. I wasn’t sure if she’d understood the purport of these questions: her expression was unreadable. El-Deeb bent over his notes and wrote. A silence ensued, during which Lieutenant Urquhart showed signs of mounting consternation. He wriggled in his seat, coloured hotly and eventually burst out: ‘Look here, I’d just like it on the record: in my opinion we’re galloping straight down a cul-de-sac. This ring, that ring – what difference can it possibly make? Poor Poppy wasn’t––’ He broke off. ‘I just jolly well don’t see any possible relevance. I object to this line of questioning. And I want that formally noted on the files, El-Deeb.’

El-Deeb made a mark in the margin of the page. ‘Duly noted,’ he replied. ‘And – let us agree to disagree, Lieutenant Urquhart – the information is germane. Miss Winlock is an excellent witness. Truly an archaeologist’s daughter,’ he continued, with a bow of the head to Frances. ‘She understands the importance of the substrata. She does not just examine the surface, oh no, she examines the information that lies hidden beneath. She examines it,’ he paused magisterially, ‘and then she allows it to speak to us.’

He looked intently, first at Frances and then at me. His expression became less severe, and for a moment I thought he might relent and explain; the possibility seemed to cross his mind. He hesitated and then said: ‘This is hard for you both. You are young, and I can see you find these questions alarming. I apologise. I am doing what I came here to do, and I hope in due course you will understand that.

‘As you will have gathered,’ he continued in a cautious way, ‘there are – concerns as to where Mrs d’Erlanger went, and what happened to her after she left Shepheard’s Hotel that night. I should stress, no time has been wasted, no stone left unturned. Lord Carnarvon informed the Cairo police of Mrs d’Erlanger’s absence within a day. He also alerted his friends at the British Residency… and initially no one was greatly alarmed. Mrs d’Erlanger had a history of such sudden and unexplained departures, it seemed. Enquiries were made, and this took time, cables had to be sent, letters written… When none of the many friends and family Lord Carnarvon contacted proved able to explain her whereabouts, and when police enquiries met a similar blank wall, it became clear that Mrs d’Erlanger’s disappearance might, after all, give cause for alarm.

‘In recent days,’ El-Deeb continued, exchanging a glance with Urquhart, ‘there have been certain developments – I will say no more than that. They indicate Mrs d’Erlanger may possibly have met with an accident. That possibility remains to be confirmed. At the present moment, we continue to hope that your friend will be found safe and well.’ He flashed a reassuring smile. ‘Meanwhile, the details as to what she was wearing, and her – demeanour that night are vital to establish. So if I may just be completely certain: in your recollection, that was the
only
jewellery Mrs d’Erlanger was wearing? No necklace or brooch? No bracelets? No wristwatch?’

‘No, none,’ Frances replied in a flat voice.

‘And, finally, was there anything else that was notable about Mrs d’Erlanger’s behaviour or appearance that evening? Anything, however small, that struck you?’

‘She was very worried about what to wear that night,’ I said, after a pause. ‘It seemed to matter a great deal to her. She was nervous. Excited.’

‘She was wearing scarlet lipstick,’ Frances said; she cleared her throat. ‘Bright scarlet. Might that be important?’

‘Ah. Lipstick.’ El-Deeb exchanged a glance with Urquhart, and for once both men seemed in accord: it was a glance of understanding and sympathy. Urquhart buried his face in his hands. El-Deeb shook his head and bent over his notebook. ‘A very valuable piece of information,’ he said gently, and without looking up. ‘I shall certainly make a note of it, Miss Winlock. And now, I need detain you and your friend no longer.’

That was the end of our interview. There were no further questions or reassurances – and no further explanation was proffered by either El-Deeb or Urquhart. By then, neither Frances nor I was expecting one.

When we left, we found Frances’s parents were waiting for us. They sent us ahead to Miss Mack’s room, where they said they would join us. Halfway down the stairs, which were crowded as always with hotel guests, Frances caught me by the hand, and drew me aside; we fled into a quiet, deserted corridor. We came to a halt in a window embrasure overlooking the Nile; below, the ferryboat was about to depart; a whistle sounded.

‘When did you know?’ Frances said fiercely.

‘When I began describing Poppy’s handbag. Then. As soon as I said how small it was.’

‘I knew then too. That exact same moment.’ She turned away.

‘They’ve found her, I think. That’s why he asked all those questions about her clothes.’

Frances did not reply. She was staring out of the window at the river below, her face chalk white and her expression fixed. I still wasn’t sure how much she’d understood, so I said quietly: ‘Poppy’s dead, Frances. I think she must be dead. Cairo isn’t safe, especially at night. Everyone said that. There must have been some terrible accident. Maybe they haven’t confirmed her identity yet, but —’

‘I know she’s dead.’ Frances continued to stare fixedly at the river below. ‘We’ll never see Poppy or speak to her again. When she left the dining room that night, when she gave that toss of the head and walked out – that was the last time. And neither of us knew.’ She took a deep breath. ‘She was magnificent then, Lucy. All those hateful people in the dining room staring at her – and she was so brave and defiant. I shall always remember her like that. I’m glad they’ve found her in that dress, with her wedding jewels and her red lipstick. Looking beautiful. As she always did.’

I couldn’t bring myself to reply. I was thinking of the two weeks that had passed, of the fierce Egyptian heat. If Poppy had died that same night, or the following day, and, given the questions as to her clothes, I thought she must have done, then this image of her was sadly wrong. How strange that Frances, so knowledgeable as to embalming, the preservation of bodies and the ancient ways of death, should be mistaken now. I could imagine, only too well, why it might be taking time to confirm Poppy’s identity.

‘We’d better go back, Frances,’ I said gently. ‘Otherwise they’ll come looking for us.’

Frances did not move, or look around. ‘Our spells worked too. I knew they would. I asked Isis and Nephthys to bring Poppy back. Without delay. And they did it that very same day… ’ She hesitated. ‘Just not in the way we expected, Lucy. But then I guess the gods are like that.’

I was thinking that if Frances’s gods were given to that kind of trickery, I’d avoid them in future: they’d get no more sacrifices from me. How stupid to get caught up in Frances’s schemes: to steal pages from a book, to bury them in the desert; to invoke the powers of gods who’d never existed, gods I didn’t believe in anyway. Frances had made these actions seem meaningful, but now I saw them for what they were: a foolish game, childish delusions. I thought of the story Carter had told us the previous day, of Carnarvon’s seance, and a stream of words that might have been a warning. There could be
no such warnings, I decided, because there were no gods to make them. I’d felt the presence of gods, of
something
, when I’d explored the tombs, but that too was an illusion.