Waking the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  The woman studied the receipt. “I can see someone has paid it, in cash, but that could not be my husband. He never carries so much money around with him. Especially in Egypt.”

  The hotel manager clearly didn’t appreciate the slur on his fellow countrymen. His lip curled. “Madame, I wish I could help you further but, as you can see, the gentleman is no longer our guest. Maybe he has moved to a different hotel.”

  “Show me his room.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I demand to see the room he stayed in.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Another guest is checked in there now.”

  “Either you show me his room or I will inform the police.”

  “Then that is what you will have to do, because I will not disturb my guest.”

  The woman stamped her foot hard. “You have not heard the last from me,” she said, and stomped out of the hotel.

  Lizzie sidled up to the desk. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  The manager looked wearily at her. “Yes, Miss?”

  “The lady who was just here. Frau Ziegler. You said her husband checked out three days ago?”

  “That is correct, Miss.”

  “Did you personally see him settle his bill?”

  “No, Miss.”

  The concierge hovered nearby. Lizzie addressed him.

  “Perhaps you served him?”

  The young man shook his head. “I believe it was my colleague. It was my day off then.”

  “And is your colleague on duty now?”

  “He has been away. Sick. He has a fever.”

  “Thank you.” Lizzie moved away. A sense of trepidation niggled at her. For the life of her, she didn’t know why.

  Dr. Quintillus had taken to having his meals in his room so, after dining alone, Lizzie decided on a stroll before turning in for the night.

  A full moon lit up the gardens, night jasmine scenting her progress. Not a soul passed her as she made her way along the path. In the distance, waves broke against the shore. The leaves barely rustled in the still air. She went farther than she had ventured previously and came upon a flight of stone steps. In the murky gloom, she could just make out that they would take her down onto the beach. The sky looked clear enough so she would have the moon to light her way.

  She held onto the handrail and slowly made her descent. In the soft sand, she sank below the level of her low-heeled shoes. With some difficulty, she trudged along the beach, keeping to the cliffs.

  She came upon a cave and peered in but found it difficult to make out anything in the dark and eerie gloom. She was about to move off when she heard a cry.

  A man in obvious distress. In the cave.

  “Hello?” Her voice echoed off the stone.

  The cries were unintelligible. Whimpering and sobbing from someone in extreme pain. Lizzie strained her eyes but still could make out nothing. She took a few hesitant steps, and her right foot knocked against something hard and metallic. She bent down and felt around. Her hand brushed against a long, cylindrical object, which she picked up. She held it out of the cave entrance, and the moonlight revealed a flashlight. She switched it on and mercifully the bulb worked.

  She lost no time, and shone the beam on the ground and around the walls. Then she saw him.

  The man was hanging on the wall, suspended by his hands. As she approached, she gagged. Someone had driven spikes through his palms and pinned him to a large wooden board. Streams of dried blood stained his arms, and his chest was a bloodied mess. His shirt and trousers hung in tatters. On the ground lay a vicious-looking whip, with small spikes that had been used to virtually flay the man alive.

  The stench of feces and urine assailed her nose and she gagged again. The man’s agonized eyes stared out at her from a face swollen, bloody and bruised.

  “My God, who did this to you?”

  He struggled to speak, his lips cracked and bleeding. “Qui…Quin…till…us.” His head lolled and, as she brought the flashlight closer, she recognized him.

  “Herr Ziegler? It’s Miss Charters, Herr Ziegler. I’m going to fetch help.”

  Lizzie scrambled out of the cave and along the beach to the steps. Back in the hotel, she hurried to the concierge’s desk. The man looked startled at her disheveled appearance. “There’s a man,” she said, panting. “Someone has tortured him and he is in a cave on the beach.”

  “I fetch the manager.”

  “Yes, but hurry. There may not be much time.”

  A few minutes later, the manager and two members of staff followed Lizzie into the cave. They all carried flashlights and, with the enhanced illumination, Lizzie could see the horror that was Hermann Ziegler all too clearly. The hotel staff gasped, and one of them retched.

  He hung exactly as she had left him, his head lolled to one side, his hands bearing the strain of his body. His feet were bare, and filthy like the rest of him, and his legs bent unnaturally. Battered and broken, no doubt. He appeared unconscious—or worse.

  The manager hesitantly touched Ziegler’s neck, feeling for a pulse. The spikes had dragged farther, tearing his hands so that more blood had flowed and was congealing.

  The manager withdrew his hand and shook his head. He spoke in rapid Arabic to one of his colleagues, who dashed off.

  “I am sorry. This man is dead.” The manager lowered his head.

  Lizzie covered her mouth with her hand, then removed it. “That was Herr Ziegler. The man who disappeared.”

  The manager looked up, startled. He glanced again at the tortured man. “I would never have recognized him. Who could have done such a thing?”

  Lizzie refrained from telling him what Ziegler had said. The last thing Ziegler had said.

  “The police will be here soon. I have sent the boy for them. I think we must wait until they arrive.”

  “Of course,” Lizzie said. Now what should she do? Tell the police and risk Quintillus being arrested? Or keep quiet? But what if—God forbid—Quintillus had committed this terrible crime? Unthinkable, of course. What reason could he have to do this to Ziegler? Preposterous idea. Ziegler was jealous of him. The doctor had told her so. But what if…

  Her mind still raced in turmoil when three police officers and—judging by the bag he carried—a doctor hurried into the cave. They had brought more flashlights. The senior officer spoke to the manager in Arabic and, by the way they kept glancing at her, Lizzie knew she had become the topic of conversation. Any second now and she would have to give her account of what she had seen. The doctor checked for a pulse and found none. A brilliant flash of light bounced off the walls of the cave as a policeman with a camera proceeded to take shots of the body and murder scene.

  The manager spoke to Lizzie. “The police would like you to attend the station tomorrow morning at nine. They will take a statement from you at that time and request that you do not leave the hotel before then.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  “They have asked that I accompany you, as they need a statement from me, too. Such a terrible business. He could have hung there for weeks, months, maybe even years. No one usually comes down to this end of the beach.”

  “I went out for a walk and, quite by chance, decided to go this way.”

  “Fate perhaps.”

  Lizzie didn’t answer.

  She knew Dr. Quintillus was due to attend a meeting with an official representative from the Egyptian Antiquities department the following morning. As usual, he stayed in his room and she didn’t see him for the rest of the evening. That was probably just as well. It would have been awkward facing him after what had happened. The next morning, though, she had no option but to knock on his door. She had planned to accompany him back to the dig later in the day, and now wouldn’t be able to. Lizzie braced herself when she heard the key turn in
the lock.

  Dr. Quintillus had dressed and looked ready to begin the day. “Miss Charters.”

  Lizzie took a deep breath. Now she had come face-to-face with him, her words tumbled out in an unexpected rush. “I found a body. Last night. Herr Ziegler. He’d been tortured and left to die in a cave on the beach.”

  Dr. Quintillus’s expression gave nothing away. He merely nodded. “That must have been most traumatic for you.”

  “Yes. It was. I have to go to the police station this morning and give a statement so, I’m really sorry, I won’t be able to go to the dig today.” How inane she sounded.

  “Of course. I quite understand. Good day, Miss Charters.”

  She faced the closed door, not knowing what to make of his reaction. Or lack of it.

  At the station, she gave her statement to the senior police officer she had seen the previous night.

  “You say the victim spoke just before he fell unconscious. What did he say?”

  Lizzie’s mouth ran dry. “He was mainly incoherent. Delirious, I suppose, with all the pain. He mostly cried out. No words as such until I asked him who had done this to him…” Her voice faltered. There would be no going back now.

  “What did he say?”

  Lying had never come easily to Lizzie. She could tell from the police officer’s expression that he knew she wasn’t telling him something.

  He fingered the gun he carried in its holster. “I should warn you, Miss Charters. If you do not tell me some information that will assist us, I shall take a most serious view. What did he say? Clearly, he said something to you before he died.”

  Lizzie squirmed. “He was incoherent. In so much pain… Nothing he said made any sense. He had approached me a few days earlier and…”

  “Yes, Miss Charters? And what?”

  Lizzie shook her head. She was trapped. If she continued to say nothing she could end up in prison. And God alone knew what an Egyptian prison was like or whether they would ever let her out. If she lied, this man would know. She was certain of it. Surely, if Quintillus was innocent, he would be able to prove it.

  “My patience is not without end, Miss Charters.”

  Lizzie licked dry lips. “He made contact with me because he also knew Dr. Quintillus, the archaeologist. That was our connection. He saw me and said the one thing we had in common.”

  “Yes? What was that? Come now, you are doing yourself no good at all. I can tell you are trying to protect someone, and it will not work. Now, for the last time, what did he say? Was it a name?”

  Lizzie nodded.

  “And that name was?”

  Forgive me. “Quintillus.”

  “This would be Dr. Emeryk Quintillus, also staying at the hotel?”

  Lizzie’s reply was barely audible. “Yes.”

  “You say you are also acquainted with this man?”

  “Yes. I am here as his assistant on the dig.”

  The policeman made hurried notes. He said nothing. Lizzie sat with her hands in her lap and her heart thumping. What had she done?

  When he had finished transcribing, the police officer read out her statement, translating from his own Arabic. Agreeing it sounded accurate, she signed it.

  “Thank you, Miss Charters. You have been most helpful.”

  “What will happen now? Are you going to interview Dr. Quintillus?”

  “Leave this case with us, Miss Charters.”

  She had been dismissed. Now she must face Dr. Quintillus.

  Chapter 10

  The doctor didn’t leave for the dig as planned. Lizzie heard him return to his room in the late afternoon. Had he also been interviewed by the police? She kept expecting a knock on her door and a furious Dr. Quintillus demanding to know what she had done.

  In the end, the stress of the previous twenty-four hours took its toll and she retired early, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ziegler hanging from that board, the cruel spikes tearing his hands apart. Why had he mentioned Quintillus’s name if not to reveal his murderer? Although she had heard it with her own ears, Lizzie fought to find an alternative explanation, but even she had to admit the evidence was damning.

  Eventually exhaustion took over and she fell into a deep and troubled sleep. Her dreams swirled in billowing mists, then cleared. Her door opened, although she knew she had locked it. She shrank back, clutching the sheets. The familiar tall figure entered. He stood by her bed, his eyes blazing.

  “You betrayed me.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no choice. Herr Ziegler said your name…”

  “Ziegler was a fool. He sought to undermine me. He intended to report me to the Egyptian authorities and have my dig shut down when I am about to make the greatest find the world has seen. I had such great hopes for you, Miss Charters. But now you have shown your disloyalty, I shall never be able to trust you again.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor.” For the first time since she had met him Lizzie felt real, tangible fear of what this man could be capable. “What will you do?”

  Dr. Quintillus took out a cheroot from his cigar case and lit it. He took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Nothing. This does not concern me. They have no evidence I was anywhere near the man when the crime was committed. The only thing they have to go on is your statement. The word of a woman counts for precious little when compared to that of a person of standing such as myself. The case will remain open.”

  Lizzie blinked hard. In Britain he would never have got off so lightly. There would have been an investigation at least. She wondered briefly if he had bribed the police but, if he had, he was right. No one would listen to her. Suddenly, she wanted very much to return to England.

  Quintillus stubbed out his cheroot. “As for you, Miss Charters, you will remain here and not leave the hotel for any reason until I say you may do so. Do I make myself clear?”

  “It was not a betrayal, Doctor. I would never do that.”

  “Nevertheless, you told them my name.”

  “Only under duress.” Could she feel any worse about herself? She had never seen him like this. So cold. Hostile. And it was all her fault. But somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, doubt was growing and with it, fear.

  Quintillus made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It will only be a matter of days now and then all that I have dreamed of will come true. You will not interfere with my plans any further.”

  He turned and left the room. Lizzie sprang out of bed and turned the key.

  * * * *

  She awoke suddenly—certain she had dreamed the whole encounter. The room was in semi-darkness and she sat up. Lizzie peered at the clock on her bedside table. A little after five. She plumped the pillow and made to lie down again when something caught her eye. The ashtray. In it, a stubbed-out cheroot.

  Lizzie slept no more that night.

  * * * *

  She dragged herself out of bed at eight the next morning. Dr. Quintillus’s nocturnal visit had been deeply disturbing. She knew he hadn’t finished with her yet. That experiment he kept talking of. Presumably he still needed her help with it. He didn’t give the impression of being a man to abandon his plans, especially where they concerned Cleopatra.

  Lizzie spent her days trying to read books she found in the hotel’s library, but concentration came hard and the words swam in front of her eyes. She walked in the grounds—although never down to the beach—and sipped tea in the sun lounge. Nobody bothered her and she saw nothing of any police investigation. She could almost have believed the murder hadn’t happened. She wondered if anyone had informed Frau Ziegler but, although she read the English language newspapers every day, she had seen no mention of his death. Peculiar to say the least, but maybe they did things differently here in Egypt? Whatever the answer, it had become clear she would get nowhere by pursuing it.

  Finally, on the evening of
July 19, she saw Dr. Quintillus for the first time in over a week. His coat appeared dusty from riding but he had a look of sheer euphoria on his face as he advanced toward her in the lounge, his earlier anger with her apparently gone. Swept away by personal triumph.

  “It is done,” he said. “I have seen her. I have looked into the face of the queen and now she is safe forever.”

  “Congratulations, Doctor,” Lizzie said cautiously. “How is she safe forever?”

  “The tomb has been resealed and buried. It will not be found for many years. If ever. He was not with her. The Roman upstart who dared to think of her as merely his equal.”

  “Mark Antony.”

  Dr. Quintillus’s lip curled. “I have work to do, and you shall assist me. Tomorrow morning we will meet here at nine.”

  He left her alone. For the rest of the evening and long into the night, Lizzie wondered what he intended. While he had made no mention of his earlier anger with her, Lizzie couldn’t suppress the strong feeling that he wouldn’t forget—or forgive—easily. She would have to exercise great care in future.

  By nine o’clock the next morning, the fierce July heat had already asserted itself. Lizzie dressed in a cotton outfit that she hoped would keep out the worst of the sun’s rays. The doctor arrived, punctual as always, and led her through the gardens and down onto the beach. Lizzie felt a pang of apprehension as he took them along the same route that led to the fatal cave.

  She could almost taste her relief when he strode straight past it and on for another hundred yards to a larger cave. He led her inside. This one had a mostly even floor covered in sand. At the far end, a giant slab lay on the ground.

  “Sit down on that,” he ordered.

  Every instinct told Lizzie to refuse. Whatever he had in mind, she wanted no part of it. She stood still.

  “I told you to sit down. Do it. Don’t make me have to repeat myself.”

  If she had retained any lingering doubts of his guilt, they fled in that moment, when Lizzie realized the nature of this man. A wretched sense of betrayal and shame at her own naïveté tore at her insides.