But Hetty shook her head, setting the fringe of her turban to swinging. “It was not Lady Cordelia, although she provided the necessary second to the nomination for membership. You were put forward by Her Royal Highness, the Princess Louise.”
I smiled in spite of myself. My last interview with my aunt had not been pleasant. Stoker and I had undertaken our last investigation at her behest, and she had been a less-than-appreciative beneficiary of our efforts. She had also made it clear that our association was not to continue. I would not be presented to my father, nor would she receive me publicly. But this was no little thing, I realized as I slipped the envelope into my pocket. This club was her sanctuary, and to admit me here was almost a more intimate act than introducing me to the family.
“Thank you, Hetty.”
“The favor of a reply is requested within a week’s time,” she told me. She gestured for the page to guide me to Lady Tiverton. The Map Room was located on the ground floor, just behind the stairs, a high-ceilinged chamber that overlooked the back garden, its aspect bleak just now with the leaves stripped bare and the limbs of the trees blackened with cold. But the fire was built high and the lamps glowed warmly, casting an amber light over the walls hung with enormous maps of the known world, the British bits picked out in pink, a chain of pearly possessions girdling the waist of the world.
Pairs of deep leather chairs were scattered about the room, but Lady Tiverton had chosen a sofa, a handsome Chesterfield drawn close to the fire. A low tea table stood in front of it, and on that rested a tray of light refreshments and a bowl of chrysanthemums, the petals a rare shade of deep blue-red.
“It is pleasant, is it not?” she asked as she rose to greet me. “All the color seems to banish the grey of winter, and I feel almost warm.”
She gestured for me to join her on the sofa, and I settled myself against a flame-stitched cushion. “Do you suffer from the English climate?” I asked.
She nodded. “Dreadfully. I was brought up in Egypt, you know, and every winter was spent with my mother’s family. My father’s people were Scots, and a winter there was not to be borne,” she added with a smile. She moved to offer me some refreshment, and I took the chance to study her. She was dressed once more in grey, but this gown was fashioned of heavy velvet, only a year or two out-of-date, and she had pinned the scarab at her throat.
“Your brooch is very unusual,” I told her. “And quite lovely.”
One graceful hand went to the jewel. “A heart scarab,” she told me. “They are buried with mummies. It is said that in the afterlife, the goddess Maat weighs the heart of the dead. If the heart is as light as her feather, the dead will be given entry into the fields of Hetep and Iaru.”
“Hetep and Iaru?”
“Think of the Elysian Fields of Greek myth,” she instructed.
“What happens if the heart of the dead is heavier than the feather?” I asked.
She gave a little shudder. “Then the heart of the dead will be snatched and devoured by Ammit. He is a monstrous creature with the head of a crocodile and the body of a lion.”
“Monstrous indeed!”
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Even more when you know that Ammit’s back legs are those of a hippopotamus. He is called the Gobbler because he does nothing but sit and wait to gorge himself on the hearts of the unworthy.”
“What, then, is the purpose of the heart scarab?” I asked.
“It is inscribed with prayers, pleas to the heart to weigh lightly so that the dead may walk freely into the afterlife.” She touched the scarab at her throat with a light fingertip. “I admired this particular piece, so my husband had it fashioned into a brooch as an engagement present.”
“A generous and thoughtful gift,” I said.
“A trifle ghoulish, you mean,” she said with a knowing look. “But it suits me far better than more conventional jewels. It is a piece of my history, after all.”
We fell silent a moment, and her ladyship kept her finger resting upon the scarab brooch, stroking the dark green stone absently.
Then she roused herself, setting a smile to her lips. “I believe congratulations are in order,” she said brightly. “I understand you have been put up for membership.”
“Yes. I was rather surprised, but pleasantly so.”
“And with such a sponsor,” she added. “Her Royal Highness has never before nominated a member. She must hold you very dear.”
I made a noncommittal noise, and Lady Tiverton went on. “I hope you do not mind my inviting you without Mr. Templeton-Vane, only I find sometimes it is easier for ladies to speak without the interference of gentlemen.”
Her expression was very nearly apologetic, and I gave her an encouraging look. “Do you have something to tell me? About the investigation?” I asked.
She spread her hands. “I rather hoped you would have something to tell me. The newspapers have been full of such dreadful stories—” She broke off and looked at me expectantly.
“You mean about Mr. Templeton-Vane,” I supplied.
A faint touch of color rose in her cheeks. “I do not mean to suggest that he is guilty of any of the atrocities the newspapers report. In fact, having met him, I cannot imagine him guilty of any of them.”
“He is not,” I returned sharply.
She gentled her voice. “And it does you credit as his friend and associate that you believe him. Having spent time in proximity with the de Morgans, I can only say that I found them to be a most unusual couple.”
“How so?”
She hesitated, searching for the proper words, it seemed. “If I were a painter choosing a couple to stand together in a painting, I would have selected them out of a thousand. They were striking, her with a sort of ethereal blondness and him darkly handsome. You could not help but look at them when they appeared together, they were so attractive. And they were clearly devoted in spite of their quarrels.”
“Some couples seem to thrive upon conflict,” I remarked mildly. Heaven knew Stoker and I were none too gentle with one another, although we were certainly not a pair in the conventional sense of the word.
Her ladyship nodded slowly. “I suppose what you say is right. My own parents were frequently quarrelsome, but a more devoted couple you cannot imagine. I could never be content with such an arrangement. I have a horror of scenes and dramatics.”
I chose my words carefully. “Sir Leicester is a very energetic man,” I ventured.
She smiled. “But never out of temper with me. I had the advantage of seeing him for many years in the intimacy of his first marriage. He was always kind and solicitous towards the first Lady Tiverton. I never intended to marry,” she confided. “Such a thing seemed beyond possibility. When he proposed, it was the most absurd good fortune. I promised myself I would always be as serene and peaceful a helpmeet as I could. I owed him that much.”
I had not expected her to be so forthcoming about her marriage, but it suddenly occurred to me in a flash of intuition that Lady Tiverton was lonely. Lady Wellie had suggested that Sir Leicester’s friends had not all been accommodating of his new connection. I wondered how many friendships had been sacrificed because people could not reconcile his marriage to this tranquil and kindly woman.
I decided to trespass a little on that kindness and venture an indiscreet question or two. “You were a sort of companion to the first Lady Tiverton, were you not?”
“Indeed,” she said promptly. When she spoke of her husband’s first wife, she did so with real warmth. “Or, rather, a secretary companion. I attended to her correspondence, helped her to write her books.”
“I understand she was ill for much of her life.”
“Consumption, a dreadful way to go,” she said, her eyes suddenly bleak. “It is a terrible thing to witness in a person you love, and I will own that I loved the first Lady Tiverton. She was like an elder sister
to me. We shared confidences and secrets. Oh, nothing important. Just silly things. But they meant everything to me. She told me once, when she had grown very weak, that she feared most of all leaving Sir Leicester behind.”
“Not her child?” I asked sharply.
She shrugged. “Lady Tiverton always said Figgy took after her, resourceful and clever. And a child whose mother has been ill for the greater part of her life is not surprised by death. Sir Leicester, however, always seemed to think the worst would never happen, that somehow she would go on forever, just as she always had. It came as the most wretched shock to him when she died.”
“But you were able to console each other,” I suggested, careful to keep my voice neutral.
She folded her hands together. “Impossible. He was inconsolable. I sometimes think if it weren’t for the work, he might have done something terrible to himself.”
The work! I felt impatient with the Tivertons, people who had made a child and seemed to give her no more thought than a stray dog.
“His daughter was not consolation enough?” I could not hide the touch of asperity in my voice.
She shrugged again. “Sir Leicester adores Figgy, but he does not always know how to handle her. Particularly now. She is at such a difficult age, half a child, half a woman. He tries to talk to her, but most often they end up in a quarrel. I have hopes she will grow out of it. I make allowances because she has lost her mother.”
“And does not accept you in the role of replacement?”
She looked aghast. “I would never presume! You must understand, Figgy is like the Wards, her mother’s people. They are very self-contained, very stoic. It was only because of the effects of her illness and her medications that the first Lady Tiverton ever spoke as openly to me as she did. She very much just got on with things as she had been taught, as she taught Figgy.”
“As you now do,” I observed.
Her lips parted, then pressed together, as if she were about to say something, then thought better of it.
“It can be a thankless and tiresome task, always being the person who holds the world together,” I said gently.
Her smile was wan. “If I do not, who will? I promised the first Lady Tiverton that I would always take care of Sir Leicester. It was a deathbed vow and one I will keep until the end of my days. She knew how important the work was to him. She knew how much he needed someone to support him in his work, to look after him. That is why it is so essential that the exhibition goes forward.”
“Is there a danger of its being canceled?”
Her hands were still folded neatly in her lap, but the knuckles were white, the skin stretched taut over the bone. “I fear that if the newspapers make too much of this, if there are too many more stories of the curse, that somehow it will be ruined.”
“Surely the opposite will happen,” I argued. “The more people talk about the curse, the more they will want to see the collection. Whoever this J. J. Butterworth is, Sir Leicester owes him a debt of gratitude. He is single-handedly providing the expedition with more press than you could ever possibly purchase.”
“I suppose,” she said. But her expression was doubtful. “I cannot rid myself of the fear that something else is at work here, something darker.”
“You cannot mean that you believe the curse might be real?”
Her lips thinned. “I am half Egyptian, Miss Speedwell, but I assure you my education was not neglected. I know there is no such thing as a curse. Whatever is done in this world is done by the hands of men.”
There was something chilling in her words, and I swallowed hard. “You fear an enemy?”
“I do not know what I fear,” she burst out, the tranquil façade deserting her briefly. She drew in a deep breath, mastering herself. “Forgive me. My nerves are worked to pieces.”
“And still you are one of the most composed women of my acquaintance,” I told her truthfully.
“Composure that is hard-won and the result of long practice,” she assured me. “I learnt long ago that when one is only half British, the other half will be blamed for every evil of temper or habit. I schooled myself in deportment so that the part of me that is Egyptian may never be held up as a pattern for degradation or vice. I became more British than any Englishwoman I knew, and still every syllable I speak, every gesture, every thought is examined by Society. I could take tea with the queen at Windsor every day and twice on Sundays and I would still not be English enough for some.” She spoke without bitterness, but there was a fatigue to her resignation, and I began to understand the weight she carried with her at all times.
“Sir Leicester, I hope, appreciates the difficulties you have faced.”
“Sir Leicester is blind to them,” she said simply. “For all his faults, he is without bigotry, and I honor him for that. He would never register a slight because he would never inflict one.”
“A noble thing, but it means you must contend alone with whatever insults you encounter.”
“A small price to pay, Miss Speedwell. After all, I am content in the love of the man I esteem most in the world. Can every woman say the same?”
“I wonder if Caroline de Morgan can,” I mused.
“I cannot imagine her fear, her confusion just now,” she said, the knuckles turning whiter still. “Not to know what has become of her husband—I only hope that she may be provided with an answer. However painful the truth, it must be preferred to the horror of not knowing.”
“And all the more necessary now,” I said carefully. “Caroline de Morgan is going to have a child.”
Lady Tiverton paled. “How do you know that?”
“Mr. Templeton-Vane and I called upon her yesterday. She is in seclusion with her parents, but we managed to gain entry. If I had to guess, I would say she is in her fifth month.”
Lady Tiverton covered her face with her hands and said nothing. No sniffle, no sob broke the silence. Only the rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock, measuring off seconds and heartbeats.
“You did not know?” I asked.
At last Lady Tiverton lifted her head. “No. She wore her gowns rather loose, but many do in Egypt to throw off the heat. I am sorry to hear she is expecting,” she said. “I cannot think that bringing a child into her present situation is at all desirable.”
“I think she is happy,” I said. “If her husband is dead, she has some remnant of him in his child. Of course, if he has deserted her—”
“He has not,” she said flatly. “I did not know him well, but intimacy grows quickly in the field. I saw enough of him to know a little of his character, and John de Morgan loved his wife, and he loved children. His dearest wish was to become a father.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
Her voice was dull and she spoke as if she were reciting facts by rote. “At dinner one night. It was Patrick Fairbrother’s birthday and I had asked the cook to make him a cake. He blew out the candles and made a wish and we fell to talking about wishes. Mr. de Morgan was seated next to me, and he confided that he hoped above all things that he and his wife would be so blessed.”
“Did anyone else hear the conversation?”
“No.” She fell silent again, but I could tell her thoughts were working furiously. After a long moment, she seemed to come to some sort of decision, for she rose abruptly.
“Perhaps you would like to accompany me to Karnak Hall. I must see how preparations for the exhibition are progressing, and you might enjoy a little foretaste of our efforts.”
“Thank you, my lady. I would indeed.”
• • •
We secured a hansom and very shortly were being whisked through the streets towards the Hall. The route took us down a major shopping street where traffic was thicker, and our pace was slowed. I did not mind, for the delay afforded us a chance to look at the gaily decorated windows of the shops. The display of a
fashionable milliner caught my eye.
“Look there, my lady! A decidedly Egyptological homage,” I said, nodding towards the window. A trio of hats was featured, each fashioned in a distinctive motif. One had lotus flowers and a ribbon trim printed with hieroglyphics, another was vaguely shaped like a pharaoh’s headdress with lappets to frame the face, and the third was a red wicker affair surmounted by a stuffed vulture.
“That may well be the most hideous thing I have ever seen,” Lady Tiverton said acidly. “And I have seen a jackal eating a cat.”
I grinned. “It is dreadful. Do you suppose anyone will actually buy it?”
She shook her head. “I would hope not. Good taste ought to count for something, but I am told our expedition has generated quite a fashion for such atrocities. Heaven help us, Miss Speedwell, but we are modish.”
In a short while we drew up in front of Karnak Hall, a modest exhibition facility of some antiquity in a street just off Leicester Square. The Hall had been built in the style of its namesake temple, the edifice set with a series of recesses, each featuring a great statue of Ramses in a different pose. The rest of the façade was painted terra-cotta to resemble the walls of the temple and decorated with fanciful Egyptological friezes. We passed between the legs of one of the Ramses to enter, and I resisted the urge to look up.
The front doors of the Hall led into a wide foyer, a sort of anteroom to the main exhibition space. Workmen were clattering about with lumber and hammers, making an unholy din, but even above the noise I could hear the outraged voice of Sir Leicester Tiverton.
“I’ll thank you not to trouble me until you have something of interest to report!” he thundered. He was standing toe-to-toe with Inspector Archibond, who looked distinctly unhappy. Patrick Fairbrother stood a little apart, clearly torn about intervening in his employer’s verbal brawl with a member of the Metropolitan Police.
“Certainly, Sir Leicester,” Archibond said in clipped tones. “I thought only to keep you informed of the results of our investigation,” he began.
A Treacherous Curse Page 15
