Wicked

by Shannon Drake

  “But—”

  Too late. She heard the outer door open and close, then Evelyn’s voice in the hallway. Camille leaped up in a fury, hastily scrambling around for the clothing she had shed. To repair her hair took some effort. But at last, groomed to respectability, she walked back out into the hall, her heart hammering. But no one was in sight.

  She hurried down the hall to Alex’s room and peeked in. Alex himself was back in bed. Tristan and Ralph were at their chess game before the fire, whispering to one another, glancing over their shoulders now and then to see that Alex slept.

  She was about to announce herself when Tristan said, “It’s not insanity. Not with a man dead in the streets, and the Earl of Carlyle right there—well, there disguised as Arboc as it were, following us.”

  Camille froze in the doorway, stunned.

  “It’s time to get ourselves and the lass out of here, Tristan. I’m telling you.”

  “He’s engaged to her!”

  Ralph looked sadly at Tristan. “Is he? He risks his life. Now, he is risking hers.”

  “He’s looked out for her at the museum, playing at being the old fellow,” Tristan said.

  Arboc! Her blood chilled to ice. He was Arboc, and he had never told her. He had been at the museum yesterday morning, when Sir John had received the wound to his head.

  Brian Stirling was Jim Arboc. And according to Tristan’s words, people died when he was near.

  She closed the door and ran to her room. Inside, she walked fretfully to the mantel and leaned against it, shivering. Alex, with the toxin from the cobra racing through his system, had said, He wants vengeance. He wants to kill us all.

  And though her heart denied it, she was forced to acknowledge that the Earl of Carlyle was always a man in disguise, whether he wore a mask or not.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THANKFULLY THEIR TRIP to church was quick and public. Back at the castle, Camille spent the remainder of the afternoon trying desperately to organize her thoughts and feelings about what she knew. Point one: Brian Stirling was Jim Arboc. And as she kept coming back to it, she became more and more disturbed. Arboc was cobra spelled backward. The name had been an anagram.

  Point two: Tristan had become involved in what was going on, and had told her nothing about it. That meant that tonight or first thing tomorrow, she was going to have a good row with Tristan!

  Point three: She had found mention of a golden, jeweled cobra while transcribing. There were cases from the expedition in two places, the museum and the castle.

  Point four: They had all been there when the late Lord and Lady Stirling died.

  But what was her part in this? She knew that she was being used! He had intended to use her, of course, and had openly stated that from the beginning. He could not be accused of taking his actions in more than one direction. And she had made her own choices.

  Still, how did she trust him? He questioned her mercilessly, but gave nothing of himself. He wore a mask he did not need. And more than one person thought that he really was insane. God knows, he was bitter enough.

  She prowled her room, more anxious than ever to get back to her work. Hethre had been the concubine, the mistress with the power. Hers had been the name used to strike terror into the hearts of would-be tomb robbers. She stopped pacing, suddenly certain that she knew where to find the gold and bejeweled cobra.

  She was anxious, desperately anxious, to prove her theory be fact. But there would be no question of her leaving the castle this evening. So she would have to wait. So she went back to her notes.

  If the Stirlings had indeed been murdered, it had surely had been for the golden cobra. What better, more sadistic way to kill than with cobras.

  That thought was with her when she came down the stairs at last.

  CHAMPAGNE WAS BEING PASSED about in the entry. Evelyn, who was serving as hostess, handed her a flute. She was instantly hailed by Brian, elegant in attire once again, and summoned to meet a stranger by the doorway.

  Brian set an arm around her shoulder. It was a natural move, as if she were cherished, truly the woman with whom he intended to spend the rest of his life. It felt wonderful. And she felt…a little ill. She was in love with him, and she was afraid of him in oh so many ways!

  “My dear, I’d like you to meet Monsieur Lacroisse. He is an envoy from France, and a man as dedicated as any at our own fine museum in the pursuit of all things from ancient Egypt. Monsieur, Miss Camille Montgomery, my fiancée.”

  The Frenchman was trim, tall and elegant, as well, with lean, aesthetic features, a mustache and a trim little goatee. He bowed elaborately over Camille’s hand. “I am enchanted, mademoiselle.”

  Lord Wimbly strode up. “Henri! Congratulations! They have said that you managed to acquire one of the finest pieces in recent history, a mammoth bust of Nefertiti. Was there no difficulty with the department of antiquities in Cairo?”

  “I have worked with the department often,” the Frenchman told Lord Wimbly. “The bust has been purchased legally—there were actually many in the cache.” He shrugged. “At least, when the Egyptian scholars deal with us, we English and French, they are paid. Too often, the difficulties lie with their own poor, desperate to sell anything. There is an entire city of grave robbers, you know—families who have survived through the centuries by slipping into ancient tombs and selling what they find to foreigners. But, Lord Wimbly, you and your group of curators, trustees and explorers are far more to be congratulated. There has been no find to rival that made by Lord and Lady Stirling in years and years!”

  “Quite right,” Lord Wimbly said. “Ah, and here is our true adventurer, Sir Hunter MacDonald. Hunter, have you met Henri?”

  Hunter moved into the group. “No, I haven’t as yet had the pleasure,” he said, shaking the Frenchman’s hand.

  Aubrey Sizemore stepped forward. “I believe we’ve met, in the Cairo museum, Monsieur Lacroisse. I’m Aubrey Sizemore.”

  Lacroisse looked perplexed for a minute. “Yes, yes…of course. I remember you.” The look on the man’s face implied that he did not, really, but that he was being polite.

  “Where on earth is Sir John?” Evelyn demanded. “Lord Wimbly, you did go to his flat and request his presence?”

  “Well, of course I did, Evelyn. Sir John wasn’t there, or at least, he wasn’t answering his door,” Lord Wimbly said. “I did, however, slip a note beneath it.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t receive the invitation,” Evelyn mused. “But that wouldn’t be like him! When he’s not at the museum, he’s working at home.”

  “We’ll hold dinner a few minutes longer,” Brian said.

  “He’s brilliant. Just a brilliant man!” Lord Wimbly said of Sir John.

  “An incredible speaker,” Hunter agreed.

  “Excuse me, please,” Camille murmured. She hadn’t seen Tristan and Ralph as yet, nor Alex Mittleman. And it seemed that the forced enthusiasm of the others for the missing Sir John was a bit on the cutting side, no matter what the words. “I’ll just see if I can find Tristan.”

  “Camille,” Brian murmured with a frown.

  But she ignored him, and hurried up the stairs.

  Alex was not in his room. Neither could she find Tristan or Ralph. However, when she returned downstairs, the diners were gathering in the ballroom. She had no choice but to join them.

  The ballroom had been completely transformed. A long table, set more elegantly than even those at the fund-raiser just nights before, had been set out, resplendent with a fine cloth, delicate china and place settings in etched silver. Servers had been hired for the night, and everyone within the household, including Shelby, Corwin, Ralph and Evelyn Prior, had a place set.

  Brian was seated at one end of the long table, she was seated at the other. And a number of others had arrived, trustees from the museum she had never met, several with wives and daughters. Two place settings were removed. One, of course, had been Sir John’s.

  She searched the company and discover
ed Shelby, too, was gone.

  Talk about the subject filled the room. Arguments about the death of Hatshepsut—had she, or had she not been hastened to her death by her stepson, Tuthmosis III, who believed that she had usurped the throne at the rightful time for him to become pharaoh? And what of his rule in Egypt? He had been a great warrior, vastly expanding his empire.

  Of course there was excitement in the talk because the find the Stirlings had made involved the reign of Tuthmosis III, and the powerful man who had stood behind the pharaoh, followed him into battle and, according to an ancient legend, lent him more than a touch of sorcery.

  “No one has identified Hatshepsut’s mummy as yet,” Henri Lacroisse mused. “Now that would be a find!”

  “So many were identified from the cache of mummies discovered in the 1880s near Deir el-Bahari, around Thebes,” Lord Wimbly provided for Camille’s benefit, since most of the others—those, at least, who knew what he was talking about—had been to Egypt. “So many pharaohs from the New Kingdom, hidden away by priests two thousand years ago! Still, a mummy is a mummy, and therefore fascinating. And any great tomb that is found intact…well, that is magnificent. Ah, my dear! You can’t imagine the heat, the frustration, the terrible conditions, and then the delight of discovery! Perhaps, once you’re married, your husband will set out on a new expedition, in honor and memory of his parents!”

  Camille stared at Lord Wimbly, who apparently had decided that there was nothing odd in the least about Brian Stirling’s startling and sudden announcement of the previous evening.

  Brian was watching her down the length of the table. She saw his fingers locked around the stem of his wineglass so tightly that she thought it would shatter.

  “Such an expedition would be entirely up to Camille, Lord Wimbly,” he said.

  Excited chatter rose about the possibility of a new expedition being mounted. Hunter seemed bemused, Alex looked ashen. Aubrey seemed fascinated with his food, and Sir John had yet to make an appearance.

  Camille wanted to scream. She didn’t believe that the evening would ever come to an end. Brian was being an exceptionally gracious host, drawing their French guest into very polite and animated conversation about different finds and purchases, and French and English relations with one another and with the Egyptians. At last, it was suggested that the gentlemen retire for cigars and brandy, and that the ladies should enjoy their coffee and tea in the pleasantry of the upstairs solarium.

  Her mind raced. She smiled and rose, and with Evelyn, tried to be the most pleasant hostess, guiding their guests up the stairs. But it was all a charade, perpetuated by a man with a mask.

  At last, people began to leave. Camille was with the others in the entry, but Evelyn Prior had taken over her natural duty, seeking wraps and overcoats, and bidding their guests farewell. With the confusion at the door, Camille thought she might have found her chance.

  She walked through the great ballroom where caterers were cleaning, and slipped into the chapel room off the side. The door to the winding stairway to the crypts was closed. She eased it open, and started down. But then she halted. Someone was down there already. No, two people. And they were whispering fervently.

  “She knows too much! Something must be done.”

  “Good God, you can’t mean…”

  “I do!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There are too many dead!”

  “But there’s a curse, isn’t there? And it’s easy to cause an accidental death.”

  How had these two gotten down there? Taken the winding stairway, as she had done? Or was there another entrance?

  Her heart slammed against her chest. There was a chance they had slipped down here, and all she would have to do is wait at the doorway to the chapel, where caterers were moving about, where a scream would bring someone, and the killer…killers would be unmasked.

  As she stood there, she heard a sudden uproar of horror coming from the front of the house. Shouts ripped through the old stone of the castle, tearing through the very night. Cries rose high in denial. The whisperers stopped speaking. Any minute, they would come up the steps; they would catch her standing there.

  She turned, frantic, and headed up. The sound of her own footfalls and the thunder of her heart drowned out the sound of someone coming behind her. She reached the chapel and flew for the door out to the ballroom.

  And it was then that she was attacked. Blinded. Something came flying over her head. A sheet. A shroud, she realized, stolen from down below.

  She shrieked as loud as she could. She was shoved hard to the ground. Fighting the length of the ancient, stifling fabric around her, she tried to rise. She slammed into something. The altar?

  She was dimly aware of footsteps, someone running. In panic she continued to battle the cloth over her head, spinning madly to avoid the next blow that would come at her. Arms came around her, she was lifted. She struggled fiercely as she was carried several steps. And then she was falling.

  “SIR JOHN IS DEAD!”

  Tristan had enjoyed the evening incredibly, having found himself seated next to a lovely widow who had been invited as her son was on the board of trustees. And he had been seeing the widow to her carriage when the announcement was made.

  Shelby, who had apparently been sent to discern the whereabouts of Sir John, had returned with his dramatic and horrifying declaration as if on cue, right when everyone was hovering at the door, awaiting their carriages.

  Being such a huge fellow, Shelby was able to make the crowd fall back as he walked through it, looking around, seeking Lord Stirling but not seeing him. And he made his announcement because he could not keep the news quiet any longer.

  “Dead!” cried the lovely widow.

  Someone else demanded, “How?”

  “The police have not ascertained that as yet,” Shelby said. Then, for several minutes, he could say nothing else because everyone was shouting out questions and voicing horror and dismay.

  “My God! It can’t be true?”

  “Was it natural?”

  “The police haven’t said.”

  “Surely, he was murdered.”

  “Maybe another cobra bite.”

  “He was cursed!”

  “Oh, my God!” cried Tristan’s widow. “Perhaps they’re all cursed in truth, all involved with that dreadful expedition! Oh! Maybe it will fall on all of us to be cursed, all of us associated in any way with the museum.”

  “Nothing happened until Stirling became involved again!” someone shouted.

  Tristan looked around. Brian Stirling was not there to defend himself. But then he burst out into the entryway, tall and oddly forbidding in his beastly mask and elegant dinner attire.

  “There are no such things as curses!” he announced loudly and angrily. “Only men with evil intent.” His eyes shot out like blue fire around the crowd. “My parents were not cursed. They were murdered.”

  “My God, he believes it!” someone close to Tristan whispered. “Do you think Lord Stirling could have come out of his mourning and seclusion to kill the rest of them, one by one?”

  It was a man speaking, but people were milling tighter and tighter, and Tristan couldn’t see who had let out the explosive suggestion.

  “People, there are no such things as curses!” Brian Stirling repeated. He looked around the group. “But there are such things as murderers, and the police will find the truth behind Sir John’s death. When it is discovered, a murderer will face justice and swing from the hangman’s noose!”

  CAMILLE LAY AT THE FOOT of the winding stairs, stunned and bruised. Then, to her amazement, she realized that everything around her was silent. In panic, she fought her way out of the linen shroud. One small lamp burned on a desk, but for the most part, the room was in shadows and darkness.

  She was here alone, trapped if someone were to come down the stairs. She’d be dead now if it hadn’t been for the rise of voices so excited that they had filled the entire castle. Perhaps someone was hoping r
ight now that she’d broken her neck after she’d been thrown down the treacherous stairway.

  With that thought, she leaped to her feet. Her plan to search the cartons here for the mummy of Hethre now seemed insanely dangerous; she had to get out. Down here, in the dark, in the very bowels of the castle, she was trapped and in tremendous peril.

  She threw the ancient linen shroud far from her, forcing herself to run up the stairs with a modicum of control, lest she lose her footing and come flying back down.

  Someone had tried to kill her, someone who knew about Brian Stirling’s crypts, the office, the cartons. And whatever else went on down here!

  She had to get out, and quickly. Then the truth could be discovered. Yet at the top of the stairs, she found that the door was locked, bolted from the outside.

  Again, panic filled her. Did she dare bang on it? With all the other excitement going on at the castle entry, would she be heard? And by anyone other than whoever had cast her down here?

  She backed away from the door and returned to the office and storage area, looking desperately around for an escape—and a weapon. She flew to the desk where the single lamp burned and quickly rifled through the drawers. Nothing! Unless she could protect herself from a cunning killer with a pen!

  She turned around to look at the room, praying for calm and an objective eye. The iron doors to the crypts were ajar, she noticed. Walking toward them, she saw that there was plenty of room for a body to slip through. It was dark beyond.

  She went for the lamp on the desk, then moved into the vault area, listening warily for the arrival of anyone at the chapel door. She walked down the length of the tombs. It was cold here, very cold. Despite her firm hold on logic, the dank darkness seemed to slip beneath her skin. These weren’t the ancient mummies of a different society, or a world so long gone that it was difficult to really feel the touch of the bygone lives.

  Here the dead were Brian Stirling’s family, knights, lords and ladies of old.