A Treacherous Curse

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Results! What bloody results? You don’t know anything. You have got no information out of Caroline de Morgan because she’ll not see you. You haven’t found de Morgan, and you haven’t found my diadem! Until you do, you can go to—” The rest of what he said caused Lady Tiverton to intervene just as Inspector Archibond was opening his mouth, clearly bent upon expressing himself with vigor.

  “My dear,” Lady Tiverton said, laying her hand gently upon her husband’s sleeve.

  He turned to look at her, having the decency to look heartily abashed. “Oh, I did not realize you were about. You either, Miss Speedwell,” he added, catching sight of me. “Apologies, ladies.”

  “I must add my own as well for being the cause of Sir Leicester’s ill temper,” Inspector Archibond said thinly.

  “Not at all,” I said, baring my teeth in a smile.

  He turned to go but suddenly swiveled back again, eyes narrowing. “Miss Speedwell? I believe you and I have a mutual acquaintance. Did I not see you in the company of Inspector Mornaday?”

  I was just trying to decide whether or not to lie to him when Sir Leicester broke in, crowing a little. “You ought to remember her name, Archibond. She will be a match for you, and no doubt about it. Miss Speedwell is investigating the disappearance of de Morgan with my diadem and I’ll lay you a guinea she beats you to the mark.”

  “Is she, indeed,” Archibond said, and it was not a question. He gave me a stern look. “I am certain I do not need to tell Miss Speedwell that this is, in fact, a police matter. Any interference on her part will be viewed as obstructive.”

  “Not if she finds my diadem,” Sir Leicester retorted. “Good day to you, Inspector.”

  With that, Sir Leicester gave him his congé and Archibond departed, looking like thunder.

  “Of all the impertinence!” the baronet complained, turning to his wife. “The largest vitrine arrived with a cracked glass, the nurserymen seem to think that date palms are the same as coconut palms and have delivered the latter, and there is a fault in the gaslights which simply cannot be tolerated. I am being driven to distraction, and have had no help,” he finished peevishly. I thought that rather hard upon poor Mr. Fairbrother, but he merely grinned at me, ignoring Sir Leicester’s ruffled temper.

  Lady Tiverton gave me an imploring look. “Miss Speedwell, I wonder if you would mind touring the Hall with Mr. Fairbrother. There are a few matters I must attend to just now, and I fear they are rather pressing.”

  “Certainly,” I told her, and she hurried off with Sir Leicester while Patrick Fairbrother smiled wryly at me.

  “You chose rather a dramatic moment to make an entrance, Miss Speedwell,” he said.

  “Didn’t I, though?”

  He bent near, pitching his voice low enough that the Tivertons could not hear. “I am sorry about Sir Leicester landing you in it, though. I cannot think Inspector Archibond will take it at all well that you are involved in this investigation.”

  I shrugged. “He did not seem pleased, but I have a great deal of experience at infuriating gentlemen. Now, introduce me to your collection, Mr. Fairbrother, and I promise to make suitably admiring noises.”

  He led me into the great Hall itself, a spacious area that had been furnished with an array of vitrines and pedestals for the display of the collection. Gaslights had been fitted, as well as the newest in ventilators, shiny brass grilles that ensured a bit of fresh air even if they did spoil the impression of an Egyptian temple. A long gallery ran the length of one wall, while opposite it workmen were in the process of building a dais.

  “The sarcophagus of the princess will rest there. It will be quite dramatic when they finish, and the whole of the place will be hung with banners and decorated with potted palms, very atmospheric and suggestive of ancient Egypt,” he told me.

  He guided me to the few vitrines that were finished, the glass polished to a sheen and the shelves lined with small goods from the find.

  “We have put out only the most minor artifacts at present,” he told me. “Wooden boxes, pottery bowls, that sort of thing. But there is quite a bit of jewelry, pretty beaded things, and one or two rather lovely statues.”

  “It will be most impressive when it is finished,” I assured him.

  “Nothing will be as impressive as the sarcophagus,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”

  “It’s here? Now?” I looked around but saw nothing that resembled a coffin.

  He smiled. “The princess will not be coming into the exhibition proper until just before we open to the public. For now she is locked safely away, but I have the key,” he said, brandishing it.

  Beneath the gallery there was a long wall hung with draperies, and behind one of these lay a corridor, neatly screened from the main part of the Hall. “These are storerooms along here, and that leads to the alley behind,” he told me, nodding to a door at the end of the corridor. “We cannot be too careful with security, so we’ve kept the place locked tighter than the Tower of London.”

  He fitted the key to the lock and threw the door open with a flourish. Behind lay a darkened chamber, and he moved into it, turning up the gaslight. “There! Behold our Princess Ankheset,” he instructed.

  The sarcophagus was smaller than I had expected. It was crafted of gilded and painted wood, thickly decorated with hieroglyphs. At the head was the portrait of a woman’s face, her gaze distant, as if she saw and heard only those things which were invisible and inaudible to mere mortals. One end of the sarcophagus was badly scorched, the ancient wood blackened by fire that had destroyed part of the cartouche, the gilded oval bearing the names and titles of the princess.

  “The bitumen,” he said regretfully. “Dreadfully pitchy stuff and flammable to boot. The ancient Egyptians used it sometimes to mummify animals, and there must have been an accident when our princess was being moved by the priests because her sarcophagus was badly stained with it. Not surprising when you think of how improvised the whole thing was—hauling her from a proper tomb in the middle of the night to avoid raising the interest of the thieves. It must have been a real hole-and-corner affair, very hush-hush and everyone sworn to secrecy and working by the barest torchlight. It’s a wonder anything at all survived. A stray spark from a torch fell when we were shifting her out of the cave and nearly sent the whole thing up. We only just managed to save her, thank God.” It was not heresy; he spoke with fervent gratitude. “Here, you can just make out the more important bits of the cartouche, her name and honorifics.” He read them out to me, not quite touching the ancient wood with his finger. “And here is Anubis, guardian of the dead, protector of those who have moved to the afterlife,” he added, pointing to a familiar jackal-headed figure at the bottom of the sarcophagus.

  “I can see why he would make for an alarming apparition,” I told him.

  His face clouded a little. “It has indeed cast a shadow over our achievements.”

  “I am sorry for it. Our fields are very different, but I can well imagine how such cruel tricks can blunt the pleasure of your accomplishments.”

  “Thank you, Miss Speedwell. I am grateful for your kindness.”

  “And Sir Leicester’s, no doubt,” I mused. “It is surely a coup for so young a man to be afforded such responsibility in an expedition of this importance.”

  He nodded gravely. “I have indeed been the beneficiary of Sir Leicester’s generosity. By all rights, I ought to have toiled away for another few years under the tutelage of someone much more experienced.” He hesitated, his expression slightly abashed. “I must say, I was rather surprised when Sir Leicester handed over so much authority to me this year, but with all the difficulties with the workers and the loss of Jonas Fowler, I think he found it a bit overwhelming at times.”

  “He must have great faith in your abilities,” I said lightly.

  He grinned, a singularly charming expression. “I don’t know a
bout that,” he told me, his manner self-deprecating in the most attractive fashion. “I still have much to learn about hieroglyphics and Egyptology in general.”

  “Did you go to school for this sort of thing?” I inquired.

  “No, I did not. My formal education was a makeshift affair. My family were poor, Miss Speedwell. Genteelly so, but my mother married badly and my father abandoned his family. My sister and I were left to shift for ourselves.”

  “I am sorry,” I began.

  He held up a hand. “Don’t be. As much as I hated it at the time, the vagaries of my childhood forced me to be resourceful and to appreciate what I have.”

  “Your mother and sister must be very proud of your success.”

  “My mother did not live to see it,” he told me with a wistful look. “And I do not see my sister nearly as often as I would like. But I owe her everything. She worked tirelessly to find sponsors to pay for my education, to clothe and feed me and give me the proper introductions so that I could make something of myself. Unfortunately, that sort of ‘catch as catch can’ education leaves much to be desired. I am constantly finding things I wish I had learnt properly in school. But Sir Leicester is patient with me. He is determined to see in me a sort of successor he can groom.”

  “An heir apparent,” I suggested.

  “Heir presumptive,” he corrected with a rueful smile. “There is still Figgy.”

  “A somewhat thorny child.”

  “Who has scratched me badly enough to draw blood once or twice,” he admitted. “Metaphorically speaking. She doesn’t hate me quite enough to resort to physical violence. Ah, I should not jest! She does not hate me, not really. There are times when we are almost friendly. But she is wildly immature and her father’s affection for me is a sore point.”

  “I can well imagine. But perhaps in time she will come to appreciate your finer qualities.”

  He blushed an enchanting rose pink to the tips of his ears. He was standing near to me—a necessity when pointing out the small figures on the sarcophagus—and he seemed suddenly to recollect it. He straightened. “Forgive me. I ought to have considered the possible impropriety of inviting you here. Most ladies would have come over with an attack of the vapors, but I suspected that you—”

  He broke off suddenly, and I hastened to reassure him. “You judged, quite rightly, that I am every bit as much a scientist as a woman. I am intrigued by your work, Mr. Fairbrother. And heaven protect me from missishness!”

  “You are very understanding. But still, we ought to join the others before Lady Tiverton suspects I have eloped with you to Gretna Green,” he said lightly.

  “Do people still do that? What a delightfully old-fashioned notion of sin you have, Mr. Fairbrother.”

  He locked the door carefully behind us and we rejoined the Tivertons; her ladyship appeared to have everything well in hand, including her husband. Sir Leicester’s ruffled feathers had been smoothed, and he was deeply immersed in directing the workmen as to the proper installation of the dais.

  Lady Tiverton broke away and hurried over to me. “I hope Patrick has been an instructive host,” she said with a smile.

  “Very much so. He introduced me to the Princess Ankheset. I must confess it is the first Eighteenth Dynasty sarcophagus I have seen, and I found it most impressive.”

  “There are better examples,” Fairbrother said with a wry twist of his lips. “But we are fond of her.”

  Lady Tiverton gave him an appraising look. “Yes, well. I am certain that our princess will cause quite a stir. Patrick, Sir Leicester requires your assistance. There is some confusion about the decoration of the dais.”

  Mr. Fairbrother inclined his head to me. “Duty beckons, Miss Speedwell. Good day to you, and I hope we will see you at the exhibition.”

  I acknowledged that he would, and he hurried to his employer as Lady Tiverton watched, her expression inscrutable. He approached Sir Leicester, raising a calming hand, and produced a notebook from which he began to read, settling the differences between the baronet and his workmen.

  “Mr. Fairbrother seems indispensable,” I observed.

  “Sir Leicester relies upon him,” she acknowledged. “He thinks of him almost as a member of the family.”

  “That must be a relief, to have someone else to share the burden of the work,” I said mildly.

  She turned to me, her lips parted as if to speak. But she must have thought better of it, for she pressed her lips together and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Speedwell. I am sorry to have taken you from your work, but it was very kind of you to keep me informed of the latest in your investigation.”

  I shook her hand. For an instant she gripped it quite tightly, and I had the oddest fancy it was the grip of a drowning woman.

  “Lady Tiverton,” I said, looking her in the eye. “If you have need of a friend, you may count me as one.”

  She smiled, but the smile did not touch her eyes. “You are very kind, Miss Speedwell.”

  I returned the smile and pulled on my gloves. “If you knew me better you would not make the mistake of thinking so.”

  I took my leave of her then, picking my way through the workmen, dodging bits of lumber and pots of paint, and out onto the pavement. I hailed a passing hansom and climbed in, giving the driver the direction of Bishop’s Folly. As he sprang the horses away from the curb, a slim, boyish figure detached itself from behind a stray pile of rubbish to watch.

  I twisted around in my seat just in time to see a slender white hand raised in salute.

  CHAPTER

  11

  I had returned to the Belvedere and was hard at work on my gonerilla when Stoker finally appeared. The scales of the wing having been badly damaged, I had decided to remove the rest to expose the delicate tracery of the wings, leaving them transparent as a leaded window fitted with clear glass. I worked slowly, removing the scales carefully with the back of a silver fruit knife.

  “Go back to bed,” I told him shortly.

  “I am fine,” he returned in a low voice as he took a seat on his favorite camel saddle.

  “You are unshaven, bloodshot, and weaving.”

  “You have never before objected to my whiskers, my eyes still function, and I am very nearly vertical,” he said, pushing himself upright with a visible effort. “Veronica—”

  “If you speak another word, I shall fling this fruit knife at your head,” I told him pleasantly as I brandished the weapon in question.

  “Don’t be daft. You couldn’t hurt a caterpillar with that,” he replied. “You want something with a bit of heft. That brass cannonball, for instance,” he added, nodding towards the lump of metal resting on the desk.

  “Would it do any good to apologize?” he asked.

  “It would not.” I wrote out another card, blotting it badly. I tore it into careful pieces and wrote another, taking time to letter it perfectly.

  “So we both behaved badly and we are neither of us going to make amends?”

  “That,” I told him calmly, “is exactly right.”

  “Veronica—”

  “Do shut up, Stoker. I am in no mind to listen to your pathetic excuses.”

  He was silent a long moment. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I cannot fault you for that. I can only tell you that one day I hope you will forgive me for what I said. God knows I will never forgive myself.”

  I hurled the fruit knife cleanly past his head, causing him to sit up suddenly. “Don’t! Don’t you dare feel sorry for yourself,” I raged at him. “Self-pity is a gutter from which you will never arise. Do you know how hard I have worked to keep your head above the mud? But I was not the one who rescued you, you impossible fool. You were half-alive when I met you, a ruin of the man you could be. I have watched you claw your way back to life in the past months, taking an interest in your work, in your future. Y
ou have been the agent of your own resurrection, and you do not even see it. Have you no sense of your own gifts, of your own strengths? You are more blessed with natural abilities and native intelligence than any man I have ever met. You are a savage miracle, Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, knit together by the hands of Nature herself. But you cannot see it. In your mind, you are Samson shorn of his hair and Caroline has been your Delilah. Very well. Mourn what you have lost and pull down the temple on top of yourself. I will not weep for you. But neither will I watch you do it.”

  He stared at me in frank astonishment, his mouth open. After a long moment, he spoke, forcing the words out slowly, with obvious effort. “I hardly know what to say to that.”

  “Do not say anything. I do not require a response. I only wanted you to understand that I will do many things in this life, but watching you destroy yourself over Caroline de Morgan is not one of them.”

  I packed away my gonerilla with hands that were perfectly steady. “I have reading to do in my chapel, so unless you have anything of significance to add, I must beg you to excuse me.”

  I did not wait for a reply.

  • • •

  By mutual and unspoken understanding, we avoided each other for the rest of the day. Stoker worked on his balloon in the garden whilst I hid out in my little Gothic chapel, reading one of the first Lady Tiverton’s books on Egyptology. It was a pleasant distraction from my bleak thoughts, and I was keenly aware of the fact that—to a disinterested observer—what I was doing might appear to be sulking.

  My hand went more than once to the invitation I had been given. Membership in the Hippolyta Club was a mark of one’s standing as a woman of intrepid spirit and intelligence. It meant recognition for one’s achievements in fields that were too often the dominion of men. It meant regular meetings with kindred souls, and the making of friends. It meant putting down a root, slender as it was, into the soil of London. If I accepted, I should have a place of belonging, the first place I had known in the whole of my life that I had not been forced to create for myself. The idea was oddly unnerving.