A Treacherous Curse

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Exactly that. Individuals. There has been no empirical study done on the subject.”

  “And how, precisely, would one conduct such a study?” I asked in an acid tone. He did not bother to reply, and I turned back to George. “Tell me about the curse.”

  George and I had become fascinated by the exploits of the Tiverton Expedition in Egypt. Led by Sir Leicester Tiverton, an excitable baronet of middle years, the group had found a cache from the Eighteenth Dynasty. The burial was incomplete, but the sarcophagus of a princess and an assortment of grave goods were enough to ignite a furor of international interest. Sir Leicester had become something of an instant celebrity. A series of calamities had forced the early return of the expedition, and stories of their misfortunes had kept the reading public enthralled.

  “It is said that the site of the dig was visited by one of the Egyptian gods. Can’t remember his name, but he wears a dog on his head,” George said, gesturing to the lurid illustration in the newspaper. I skimmed the article quickly.

  “Anubis,” I told him. “God of the underworld, and that is not a dog on his head. It is a jackal.”

  I pointed him to the Greco-Roman sarcophagus Stoker and I used as a sideboard for our meals. Incised on its side was a parade of ancient gods. George had little trouble spotting Anubis.

  “Is this cursed too?” he asked.

  “I doubt it. The thing is a late Greco-Roman copy of a much older piece.”

  “Is there a mummy inside?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said absently as I studied the drawings in the newspaper. “Just a collection of early prosthetics.”

  “Pros—what’s that, miss?”

  “Prosthetics, George. Fake arms and legs meant to replace those that have been lopped off.”

  “Blimey! But no mummy?”

  “No mummy,” I assured him. “And don’t say ‘blimey.’ It’s common.”

  “I’m common, miss,” he returned cheerfully.

  Of that I had no doubt. For all I knew, Lord Rosemorran’s butler, Lumley, had found him squatting in a gutter under a cabbage leaf. But the boy was bright, nimble in understanding, and blessed with a solid ear and a head for figures. If he could curb his tendency to slang and the dropping of ‘h’s,’ he might well make something of himself.

  George turned back to the illustration. “They say that this Anubis fellow came into the workers’ camp at night, looking for a soul to take.”

  “Rubbish,” Stoker said succinctly.

  “No, sir, it’s true,” George maintained stubbornly.

  I held up a hand. “The boy is right. The director of the excavation died a few weeks ago, and now the expedition photographer has disappeared along with a diadem belonging to the mummified princess. Apparently, the Egyptian workers blamed their troubles on a curse inscribed on the princess’ sarcophagus.”

  “Horsefeathers,” Stoker replied.

  “George, you’d better get on before you learn any new words of which Mr. Lumley wouldn’t approve,” I told the boy. He grinned and went on his way as I finished the article.

  “You oughtn’t to encourage him,” Stoker said as he returned to his platypus. “The boy already has a febrile imagination.”

  “No more than this reporter,” I said absently. “I do not recall seeing his name before, but J. J. Butterworth has made quite a reputation for himself writing about the Tiverton Expedition.”

  “‘Our man in Cairo’?” Stoker asked.

  “More like ‘our man in London.’ This was filed here in town. Apparently the Tivertons have returned to England after John de Morgan’s disappearance.” I would have said more, but I broke off as soon as I caught sight of Stoker’s face. Still bent over his platypus, his features had frozen into an expression so thoroughly devoid of emotion, it was impossible to interpret. His complexion had gone perfectly white, then flushed a quick and violent red. I feared he was well on his way to an apoplexy. “Stoker, what is it?”

  “Nothing,” he answered after a long moment and a visible effort. “Afraid I was woolgathering. What did you say?”

  I pressed my lips together, holding back the question that rose to them. Whatever had caused him to react so strongly, he had no wish to share it, and I had no wish to pry.

  (I have pledged myself to honesty in these pages, gentle reader, so I will admit that in point of fact I had a rather ferocious wish to pry, but I had learnt through painful experience that Stoker responded far better to the oblique approach than to more direct methods. Considering my extensive experience in hunting butterflies—notoriously skittish and elusive creatures—Stoker was less trouble than a Chimaera Birdwing.)

  I went on. “I said that the Tivertons, Sir Leicester and Lady Tiverton, have returned to England. The death of their excavation director loaned credence to the idea of the curse. The local workers have refused to reenter the tomb, and the director of antiquities in Egypt has agreed that it is best they seal it back up and leave things to settle until next season.”

  “And there is no sign of the photographer?”

  “John de Morgan? No. Apparently he disappeared from the dig site with his wife. At the same time, the jewel of Sir Leicester’s find, a diadem belonging to the dead Princess Ankheset, went missing, and no one knows if de Morgan and his wife stole it or if they met with foul play.”

  Stoker said nothing. His color slowly returned to normal, and his hands resumed their work. I turned to the post, sorting the various envelopes into pigeonholes. BILLS TO PAY. BILLS TO PRETEND I HAVE NOT RECEIVED. LETTERS TO ANSWER. LETTERS TO IGNORE. LETTERS FROM TEDIOUS PEOPLE. The rest I consigned to the wastepaper basket.

  But the last demanded my immediate attention. I will admit to a small groan as I recognized the imperious hand of our sometime friend and occasional sparring partner at Scotland Yard.

  “Sir Hugo?” Stoker guessed as I took up the lion’s tooth I used as a paper knife.

  “Sir Hugo,” I confirmed. “How did you guess?”

  “He is the only person of our acquaintance who could excite such a reaction. We are invited to call?”

  I skimmed the brief message. “We are not invited. We are instructed. He wishes to see us, but he is ill at home, and he summons us to his sickbed. Gird yourself, Stoker. We are about to meet Sir Hugo in his nightshirt.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  Sir Hugo Montgomerie, head of Special Branch, loyal watchdog of the royal family, and our sometime ally, was tucked up in bed when we arrived. His house stood in one of the quieter, leafier corners of Belgravia, so elegantly nondescript that one might easily pass it by without a second glance. I suspected that was a deliberate choice on Sir Hugo’s part. Whenever possible, he opted for understatement, and I was not surprised when the door was answered by a very correct parlormaid rather than a butler.

  “Miss Speedwell and Mr. Templeton-Vane to see Sir Hugo,” I told her. “We are expected.”

  She did not wait for a calling card. Cap ribbons starched and snapping, she led us to the stairs, past the public rooms, and up two flights, going directly into Sir Hugo’s bedchamber without pausing. The room was well proportioned and tastefully furnished with Regency fruitwood pieces and a very fine Aubusson. The draperies were the color of crushed mint leaves, and the counterpane a darker green. Against the soft apricot walls, the result was soothing elegance, but the effect was slightly ruined by the tropical temperature. The windows had been firmly sealed and the fire stoked high, so that the entire room was hot as Satan’s boudoir. A pair of small tables stood next to the bed and were crowded with bottles and bowls, various medicaments, stacks of handkerchiefs, and a spirit lamp. The smell of camphor hung heavily in the warm, damp air.

  Sir Hugo was sitting up in bed, surrounded by newspapers and holding a handkerchief to his streaming nose. Atop his head perched a nightcap with a lavish tassel of blue silk.

 
“Mith Thpeedwell, Templeton-Vane,” he said with a brusque nod. (For the duration of our visit, he proceeded to lisp as he breathed stentoriously through his mouth, but I will make no attempt to reproduce the ghastly noises he made.) He waved us to a pair of chairs next to the bed as the parlormaid waited at the door.

  “What is it, Carter?” Sir Hugo demanded.

  “Time for your tonic, sir. Lady Montgomerie is most particular,” she told him.

  He pulled a face. “Lady Montgomerie is not my mother. Get out,” he grumbled.

  The maid grinned as she left, and I suspected she was as amused by Sir Hugo’s pettishness as we were. I could feel Stoker suppressing a laugh as he stared in rapt fascination at the tasseled nightcap.

  “We are very sorry to find you unwell,” I told Sir Hugo.

  “At least you have some sympathy,” he said sullenly. “My wife fusses, the maid bullies, and Mornaday gloats. I’ll wager a guinea the little flea is sitting in my chair right now.”

  The fact that Inspector Mornaday longed for his superior’s job was one of the worst-kept secrets at Scotland Yard. No doubt he was relishing every moment of freedom from Sir Hugo’s watchful eye. But it would not do to upset the patient any more than necessary, I decided, so I ignored the mention of Mornaday altogether.

  “We should not keep you longer than necessary,” I said, setting a bright smile on my lips. “You need your rest.”

  “I need occupation,” he retorted, stabbing at the newspapers. “Do you know what is happening in my city? Murder! Mayhem! Misanthropy! And where am I? Stuck in bed waiting for Helen to dose me with Dr. Brightlung’s Pulmonary Tonic and force-feed me a blancmange.”

  “Heaven forbid we stand between a man and his wife’s blancmange,” Stoker murmured.

  Sir Hugo reached for a pillow to heave at him, but I lifted a hand. “Do not distress yourself, Sir Hugo. Stoker is merely teasing. I will drop something into his tea later to revenge you.”

  “Make it arsenic.” Sir Hugo fell to coughing then, a hideous bout that left him gasping for breath. Without a word, Stoker went to the windows and wrenched one open just a little. Fresh cold air rushed into the room, lightening the heavy atmosphere. While Sir Hugo regained his composure, Stoker busied himself with the spirit lamp and various bottles. After a few moments, he approached the bed, carrying a steaming bowl and a towel.

  “What’s that?” Sir Hugo demanded.

  “A remedy,” Stoker said. He put the bowl onto a bed tray and set the whole affair onto Sir Hugo’s lap. He draped the towel over the ailing man’s head. “Now, slow deep breaths and hold the steam in your lungs for as long as you can.”

  I sniffed the air. “Sage?”

  “And thyme with a little peppermint oil. I would have preferred white eucalyptus, but the stuff is devilishly hard to find outside of Australia.”

  We chatted for a few minutes, comparing herbal remedies we had collected on our travels, until Sir Hugo emerged, snuffling and red of face, but with markedly easier breathing.

  “That works,” he said in some astonishment.

  Stoker sighed. “I am a surgeon,” he reminded Sir Hugo.

  “Yes, I just didn’t know you were a good one.” Sir Hugo settled back against his pillows, still wreathed in fragrant steam. “Ah, that is better.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “I haven’t been able to do that for almost a fortnight.”

  “A little fresh air and regular herbal steam baths,” Stoker instructed. “And pour out that tonic. It’s poisonous stuff.”

  “I will,” Sir Hugo promised, clearly in better spirits. He looked to me. “You may be wondering why I asked you to call today.”

  “We are entirely at a loss,” I told him truthfully. “We haven’t meddled in so much as the theft of a tea towel since last autumn.” Our amateur investigative efforts were a thorn in Sir Hugo’s side. He veered between reluctant tolerance and frothy rage when we found ourselves at the business end of a murder. I could not resist the urge to tweak Sir Hugo’s nose a bit. “I presume it has something to do with my unwelcome connection to the royal family?” I suggested. My status as a semilegitimate member of that august group both rankled Sir Hugo and elicited his most protective instincts. “Is this my periodic harangue that anything I do might reflect badly upon them?”

  Sir Hugo looked hurt. “I do not harangue.”

  “You have upon numerous occasions. Shall I list them?”

  “I did not summon you to harangue you now,” he corrected. “In fact, I mean to offer you help.”

  Stoker and I turned to each other, blinking. “Stoker, is there anything in those herbs that might cause Sir Hugo to suffer hallucinations? It is the only explanation.”

  “I am entirely serious,” Sir Hugo protested. “I know I have been strict with you in the past—”

  “You had me arrested,” Stoker pointed out coldly.

  “Yes, well—”

  “Your men put me into a Black Maria and hauled me to Scotland Yard like a common pickpocket,” Stoker went on.

  “Be that as it may—”

  “My person was searched. My entire person,” Stoker finished.

  Sir Hugo fidgeted. “Perhaps I let the lads go a bit too far,” he admitted.

  I turned to Stoker. “They disrobed you?”

  “They stripped me mother-naked,” he affirmed.

  “Well, that must have intimidated them,” I mused. I had had the pleasure of seeing Stoker’s undraped form on multiple, if innocent, occasions. Any man who stripped him would doubtless suffer by comparison.

  Sir Hugo was still gaping at my last remark when I pressed on. “What do you mean, you intend to help us?”

  “I mean exactly that. Something has come to my attention that might prove . . . difficult,” he said, seemingly at a loss. “I don’t know how best to begin.”

  “Sir Hugo! I have seen you at your bellowing worst, and I must say, I am far more discomfited by this avuncular consideration for our feelings. Spit it out, man.”

  “Very well.” He pushed himself higher up on the pillows. “I am sorry to bring to light things you have no doubt buried,” he began.

  I opened my mouth to ask what in the world he was wittering on about, but in that instant I realized Sir Hugo’s gaze was not resting upon me. He was staring at Stoker.

  I snapped my mouth shut. Stoker’s expression was as imperturbable as usual.

  “What things?” I demanded

  “Things that might cause Stoker to be a person of interest in a man’s disappearance.”

  “Whose?” I asked, but Stoker did not stir. He knew already, I realized, for there was a bleakness in his face I had never seen before.

  Sir Hugo went on. “A fellow by the name of John de Morgan. He was most recently employed as a photographer with the Tiverton Expedition in Egypt.”

  At that I did burst out laughing. “What nonsense! Stoker has no connection to John de Morgan.”

  “Veronica—” Stoker began softly.

  I flapped a hand. “Hush, Stoker. I am berating Sir Hugo.” I went on in the same vein, poking fun at Sir Hugo for the sheer ridiculousness of the notion that Stoker might be involved in de Morgan’s disappearance. After a minute or two, I realized Stoker and Sir Hugo had been suspiciously quiet, the silence between them hanging heavy in the room.

  I whirled on Stoker. “You mean it is true? You have a connection to John de Morgan. Why didn’t you say?”

  “As Sir Hugo said, I buried my dead,” he told me simply. I waited, but he said nothing more. I turned back to Sir Hugo.

  “Very well, they have a connection. But you cannot seriously suspect Stoker of harming the fellow. Might I remind you that you are speaking of Revelstoke Templeton-Vane? The Honourable Revelstoke Templeton-Vane? His father was a viscount and his maternal grandfather was the Duke of Keswick.”

&n
bsp; “I am aware of his antecedents, Miss Speedwell. That will not immunize him from suspicion if certain facts become public knowledge.”

  I took a deep breath. “Very well. We must have a clear understanding of these facts. Proceed.”

  Sir Hugo looked a trifle relieved, as if he had expected hysterics. He should have known better. I was a scientist, after all. I had learnt early in life that facts were the only things one could truly rely upon in this world.

  Stoker said nothing. He merely sat and waited for Sir Hugo to speak.

  “John de Morgan was hired at the beginning of this Egyptological season to act as photographer for Sir Leicester Tiverton’s expedition. He traveled to Egypt with the Tivertons in November and was permitted to bring his wife, as Lady Tiverton and Miss Iphigenia Tiverton were expected to join the party after Christmas. As you have no doubt read in the newspapers,” he said with a twist of the lips, “a discovery was made. The Tivertons located the partial burial of a princess. Two weeks ago, de Morgan departed Egypt abruptly, accompanied by Mrs. de Morgan. They left without a word to the Tivertons, taking only a single carpetbag each.”

  “Curious,” I murmured.

  “At the same time, a priceless diadem belonging to the dead princess went missing. It is the most significant piece in the collection, and it was regretfully presumed that de Morgan had stolen it.”

  “Presumed by whom?”

  “The Tivertons. They did not like to point fingers, but as the collection must be cataloged for the benefit of the Egyptian authorities, they had to report its theft.” He cleared his throat, resuming his narrative. “De Morgan and his wife traveled by a fast steamer as far as Marseilles, where they boarded the train for Paris and then to Calais. From there they took a Channel steamer, arriving in Dover at just about midnight. They proceeded to a small private hotel in Dover, where they took separate rooms, as de Morgan was suffering from ill health and did not wish to disturb his wife.”

  I pursed my lips but said nothing. What sort of woman accepted a separate room for her own comfort when her husband was ailing and in need of attention?