by Gill Paul
Eve considered contacting Sirenia, but decided against it. The woman was an actress who would say whatever she thought Eve wanted to hear, and she couldn’t face the thought of all her moaning and wailing and regurgitating fake ectoplasm. If she was going to do this, she should consult the most reputable medium she could find and give it a serious chance, for Pups’s sake. So, once she was back in London she telephoned Emily and asked her to seek advice from their family friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, since he was the country’s best-known advocate of spiritualism.
Sir Arthur sent a message that he was glad to be of assistance and extended an invitation for Eve to join him for afternoon tea in the Ritz. She was nervous about the meeting, her grief still so raw that tears flowed at the slightest triggers. Sir Arthur had booked a private room, and greeted her with such warmth that she was dabbing her eyes even before they sat down.
He was a tall man with a silver moustache, and his old-school manners reminded her of Pups. Eve explained about the letter from Marie Corelli, saying she had never been a believer in spiritualism but that her father had. She said she felt she owed it to him to at least try to make contact but she did not want to risk being manipulated by charlatans.
Sir Arthur immediately understood. “I know just the place,” he said. “At the Society for Psychical Research, based in Kensington, they conduct scientific investigations into psychic phenomena. You can trust them to be honest and avoid histrionics.”
That sounded encouraging but Eve was still wary. “Would they be discreet? Not a whiff of this can end up in the press.”
“I can personally vouch for their discretion,” he assured her. “Would you like me to make an appointment for you and accompany you there?”
“Please,” Eve begged. “I would be ever so grateful.”
Over tea, he explained a little more to her about his own beliefs, and about the comfort it had given him to be able to contact his beloved son and brother. He told her that in the spiritualists’ view, death is a mere transition into another realm where spirits can evolve to a higher plane, and that they continue to watch over their loved ones on earth.
“They come to us in idle moments,” he said, “as a voice in our heads, or a beam of light traveling across a mirror, or sometimes by making a much-loved scent appear. The terrifying ghosts of popular imagination are a far cry from the much gentler truth.”
By the time they parted, Eve couldn’t wait for the appointment. She yearned to speak to Pups again and know that he heard her. If only it were possible!
* * *
Sir Arthur picked her up from Seamore Place in his motorcar, a Daimler Landaulette with bright blue paintwork. She admired it, and told him that Pups had taught her to drive after the war. All the way to South Kensington they chatted about cars, which helped take her mind off her nervousness about the appointment.
The Society was based in a tall, dark-stone terraced house, with a library on the raised ground floor. Eve was glad of Sir Arthur’s steadying arm as they announced themselves at reception. Nerves were jangling in the pit of her stomach. They were ushered straight up to the first floor, and into a room where a small, bearded man of indeterminate age sat in an armchair. He rose to shake her hand and introduced himself as Leonard Farinelli, but all the while he seemed, disconcertingly, to be looking at something over her left shoulder.
“Would you like me to wait downstairs?” Sir Arthur asked.
“No, please stay,” Eve said. She glanced around, looking for a table at which the séance might be held, but there was no furniture other than some worn armchairs.
“I’ll make notes, if you like,” Sir Arthur offered. “To remind you afterward.” He guided Eve into the chair opposite Leonard Farinelli, and took a seat off to the side. She swallowed hard.
“Pups is with you,” the man began abruptly, his eyes unfocused. “He came into the room with you.”
Eve was startled and tears sprang to her eyes. How did he know she had called her father Pups? Was he really there? She turned but couldn’t see anything.
Still looking over her shoulder, Leonard Farinelli described Pups’s appearance. He said he was wearing a tweed suit with a waistcoat and bow tie and a hat with a wide ribbon around it. It sounded like the way he always dressed. Her skin prickled. He described Pups’s complexion, pitted from a bout of smallpox in his teens, and his neat moustache.
Eve looked behind her again but there was nothing there. “Why can you see him but I can’t?” she asked.
“I only see a vague shadow,” he told her. “It takes a lot of energy for spirits to make themselves visible. They can’t maintain it for long.”
Suddenly, Eve felt sure she could smell the brand of cigar Pups smoked. She sniffed the air. It was definitely there. He was with her. She gasped. “Pups? Is it really you?” She sniffed in one direction, then another, trying to find the source of the smell. “Can he hear me?”
“Of course,” the psychic said. “He senses your thoughts too.”
Eve closed her eyes and thought about how much she loved him, how much she missed him, praying he could sense that.
“He wants to tell you he is at peace,” the man said. “It was his time to pass, and he has no regrets.”
Eve shook her head. That was hard to believe. Surely he must be frustrated to die before the opening of Tutankhamun’s shrine, without seeing all the wonders it might contain? She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
The man’s eyes were closed now as he concentrated on hearing the messages. “He wants you to tell your mother that he loves her very much, and that he is grateful for their long and happy marriage.”
That was odd. She couldn’t imagine her father saying that. But perhaps that’s the kind of thing he might say after death, once he was a spirit.
“And he says to tell your brother that he will be with him, to guide him, as he works to preserve the estate.”
The man was scarcely moving, scarcely breathing. Eve was grateful to be spared the dramatic displays she heard other mediums practiced—the table tilting, the ghostly apparitions. This, at least, was peaceful and dignified.
“Pups says he wants you to marry Brograve as soon as possible, and is only sad he will not be able to walk you down the aisle. He said he is a good man and you have chosen wisely.”
A sob burst from Eve’s throat. Sir Arthur leaned across to grip her forearm briefly.
In his low, accentless voice, Leonard Farinelli talked of Pups’s love of motorcars and horses, of his dog, Susie, now with him in the spirit world, and he mentioned others from the past with whom Pups had been reunited: an old friend of his, Prince Victor, who had died in 1918; his mother, Evelyn, after whom she was named. Eve felt a warm glow. All she had wanted was to know that her father was at peace, and not troubled by the sudden manner of his death. It seemed that was the case.
Then the man’s expression changed. He gasped out loud as if he had seen something that terrified him. “Your father says it was foolish of your party to enter the tomb of Tutankhamun. He says the spirits within were disturbed and he worries that harm could come to those who ventured inside. He insists that no goods should be taken from the tomb, to avoid the worst of the pharaoh’s curse.”
Eve frowned. That didn’t ring true. Pups knew they had already taken goods from the tomb—and he would never have called Tutankhamun a pharaoh, a term that was not used about kings of that dynasty. Perhaps the man had misunderstood.
“Could you ask Pups what we should do about the tomb, now that it is open?” she asked.
There was a long pause before the answer came. “He suggests you consult holy men who may be able to exorcise the evil.”
Eve shivered at the word evil. Her father had mentioned malevolent spirits when he was hallucinating during the fever of his final days. It didn’t mean it was true, though. How could it be?
When the session was over, she shook Leonard Farinelli’s hand and thanked him for his insights. Sir Arthur led her downstairs to t
he library, and someone produced a pot of tea. She felt very shaken. She was convinced that Pups had been present in the room in some form, but overall it wasn’t the reassuring experience she had hoped for.
“How could a tomb retain a spell placed upon it three thousand years ago?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” Sir Arthur said. “Much of the ancient knowledge has been lost, but I do know Egyptians used to cast spells by creating unguents imbued with elemental powers.”
“Mr. Farinelli seems to think that evil spirits were disturbed when we entered. Do you believe that? Could Tutankhamun’s spirit still be there?” The thought made her shiver.
“Any spirits from the ancient world will long since have passed to another realm,” Sir Arthur assured her. “But it could be that their negative emotions were absorbed into the stones themselves. We have proved that walls can hold the memories of deeds that have been committed in buildings centuries earlier. I’m sure you must have sensed the history of Highclere as you walk around.”
Eve considered that. She grew up knowing the history of Highclere; it was hard to decide what she might have sensed if she had not already known about it.
“How would we find a holy man to exorcise the tomb in Egypt?” she asked. “And what about those of us who have already set foot in it without such protection? Are we in danger?”
“I will ask around for you,” Sir Arthur said. “If the tomb is not desecrated, but is treated with the respect it deserves as a burial ground, I am sure you will be spared.”
“But Pups wasn’t spared,” Eve reminded him. “He died of a mosquito bite. What kind of a senseless death is that?” She remembered something else. “And just before he fell ill, I came close to ending up in the jaws of a crocodile. Could that have been caused by evil spirits? Howard Carter’s canary was eaten by a snake, and he has since had stomach problems. My maid Marcelle fell ill too. Might they all be connected?” She felt hysterical at the thought.
“Please don’t let your fears carry you away,” Sir Arthur urged. “I want you to focus on the knowledge that your father came to you today, and that he is at peace. As for the rest . . . I’m sure all will be well.”
He drove Eve back to Seamore Place, trying to reassure her, but she was deeply troubled by the experience. Had her father been there? Were all the words his? When Brograve came to visit that evening, she couldn’t hide her distress, and she blurted out what she had done.
He listened to the whole story without interrupting, then read the notes that Sir Arthur had taken. When he’d finished, he spoke calmly. “The man told you nothing that he could not have read in the newspapers. He knew you were coming so he did his research beforehand and combined it with a few lucky guesses.”
Eve argued with him: “But how could he know I called my father Pups?”
“You may have called him that in front of a journalist, and it appeared in a news story. Or perhaps Sir Arthur had briefed him before your visit, based on what you told him when you had tea at the Ritz.”
That hadn’t occurred to Eve. “Do you think he would have done that? He told me the Society is there to promote research into whether or not the spirit world exists, but it seems to me that he and Leonard Farinelli already believe.”
“Of course they do. There’s nothing remotely scientific about their methods.”
Had she been conned? If so, it meant Pups hadn’t been there. But if there was any truth in it, then the whole thing must be accurate, including the warnings about evil spirits.
“What if it is true that Pups, Howard, and I were cursed because we broke into the tomb? I can’t risk you catching any bad luck through your association with me. I give you full permission to terminate our engagement forthwith and save yourself from any danger.” A sob burst from her throat. She couldn’t bear to think of life without Brograve, but she also couldn’t bear to think he might come to harm because of her.
“Oh, Eve,” he said, profound sadness in his voice. He reached out and lifted her onto his lap, then wrapped his arms around her, so their faces were inches apart. “Don’t you know yet that I would do anything for you? I’d go anywhere, and take any risk to be with you. If it is true that you are cursed, then you need me more than ever so that I can protect you.” He kissed her and held her close. “I love you, Pipsqueak, and I want to be your husband. No matter what.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
London, March 1973
During his constitutional around Regent’s Park, Brograve worried about Eve. She had become obsessed with finding that wretched gold box she brought back from the tomb. It clearly wasn’t in the flat but still she insisted on pulling down every last box from every last cupboard, and moving ornaments from surface to surface as if that might make it magically appear. He had overheard her muttering to herself and realized she thought it had some kind of supernatural power, although she would never say as much to him. She knew his views on the matter.
Back in 1923, he had been astonished at her decision to consult a clairvoyant after Pups died. She was normally a rational woman, and he had thought they saw eye to eye on the absurd notion of “spirits getting in touch,” but it seemed that she had been desperate for any crumbs of comfort.
Of course, contacting spirits was all the rage in the 1920s, with lots of folk providing Ouija boards and Tarot readings as entertainments at parties. Spiritualists had been around long before the war, but they became more respectable after authority figures who should have known better—like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—gave them credibility. Stories appeared in the papers about some mystical “angels” said to have protected British troops in the Battle of Mons, and clairvoyants sprang up on every street corner pandering to those who had lost husbands and sons in the trenches. Poppycock, all of it!
Growing up with a father who held séances at Highclere must have affected Eve’s thinking somewhat. She had disparaged them as over-the-top theatrical performances, but it was as if the notion of spiritualism had crept into the corners of her mind, the way a religious upbringing still colors the thoughts of those who claim to be atheist as adults. If asked directly, Eve would say that of course she didn’t believe spirits could communicate with us, and of course she didn’t believe there was a curse on Tutankhamun’s tomb, but at gut level she was suggestible.
That’s why he was worried when she became obsessed with finding the gold container from the tomb. It wouldn’t help her recovery. He wished he could think of something to distract her—and then an idea occurred to him.
Over lunch, he made his suggestion. “Did you realize that in April it will be fifty years since Pups died? Fifty whole years! I thought it might be nice if we go to Highclere for a visit around the anniversary, so you can spend time with Porchy, and walk around all the places you and your father used to love. It’s a fitting way to remember him.”
A smile lit up her face and her eyes sparkled. “I would adore that!” she said. She reached over to kiss him.
“I’ll telephone and arrange it,” he promised, pleased to have cheered her up. His primary goal in life was to make her happy.
* * *
Every marriage has its secrets, Eve supposed. Some men had mistresses and she guessed there were women who had lovers too, although she didn’t know any. She and Brograve had no secrets on that scale, but there were a few things she didn’t share with him: the cost of a new dress, sometimes, or the confidences of friends. She hadn’t told him about telephoning Ana Mansour because he seemed to have taken against the woman, whereas Eve felt sorry she hadn’t been able to help her. She was curious too; Ana was a lady archaeologist, just as Eve had always longed to be, and she wondered what it was like.
She telephoned her again, a couple of weeks later, and Ana came to the phone more quickly this time, almost as if expecting the call.
“I hope you’re not lonely in London?” Eve asked. “I think you said you have friends here?”
“I know a few people,” Ana replied. “Thank you for asking. It�
��s kind of you to take an interest.”
Her Egyptian accent was almost undetectable, Eve thought. Occasionally a vowel sounded vaguely foreign, but she never stumbled on a word or failed to understand anything that was said. “Your English is perfect. Did you learn it at school?”
“I had an English mother,” Ana replied. “She only ever spoke English to me so I became fluent quite young. It’s been useful over the years because many digs are multicultural and English is the common language.”
“Does your mother live in England now?” Eve loved hearing other people’s life stories, and Ana’s sounded exotic, crisscrossing two continents and two cultures.
“She died when I was fifteen.” Ana gave a sad laugh. “A long time ago.”
“Fifteen! I lost my father at twenty-one and thought I should never recover from the grief. It must have been so much harder at fifteen. . . .” Eve remembered feeling as if the bedrock on which her life was built had shifted and she was sliding off the edge and being swallowed up by an abyss. And then Brograve caught her, thank goodness.
“It was a time of great challenges . . .” Ana said. Speaking slowly, she explained that her father had immersed himself in religion after his wife’s death. Ana had grown up with religious freedom till then but suddenly he wanted her to take Quranic lessons from an imam, and wear a veil. “Needless to say, I rebelled. We argued for the next three years, but I managed to persuade him to let me study at university. I had always wanted to be an archaeologist, and he had encouraged me, so he could hardly refuse.”
“Me too!” Eve said. “It was my dearest wish to be a lady archaeologist when I was younger.” A memory came back to her of finding an old coin while digging in the grounds at Highclere. She’d pretended to anyone who would listen that it was the most significant find ever known to mankind, even after Porchy scornfully told her it was just a Victorian farthing. She must have been very young.
“So why didn’t you?” Ana asked. “You clearly enjoyed the time you spent in the Valley. Why weren’t you involved while Howard Carter was dismantling the tomb?”
