Alex said, “The most famous and richest Jewish family in the world.”
“And known as the British government’s bankers of the day.”
So, Alex thought, Carter and Lord Carnarvon discover something sensitive. Carnarvon can’t keep it to himself but dies a few months later. Carter denies they found papyri, even going as far as to explain his embarrassment as rolls of undergarments rather than documents. When things became intolerable for him he threatens both the British government and possibly the House of Rothschild.
The professor said, “There’s no direct evidence, but Howard Carter’s financial concerns miraculously disappear. Officially receiving no spoils from the Tutankhamen find, he ends his days a wealthy man.”
“Wow!” Alex sat back and wondered where Ellen had gone with this theory. Did she find evidence to prove it?
“There’s more,” Thompson said, his eyes wide. “Lord Carnarvon’s death was suspicious.”
Alex knew he died of septicaemia. He’d been bitten on the cheek by a mosquito while at the site of the tomb. It became infected after he cut it shaving.
“There are a number of issues with the official version of what happened. The most obvious being that there were no mosquitos in the Valley of the Kings at that time of year! He allegedly failed to disinfect the cut and was reported by others as using iodine. Private notes held by the Metropolitan Museum report that Lord Carnarvon had trouble with his teeth just before he died. They chipped and fell out. That is not the symptom of simple blood poisoning but could be arsenic or, more likely, due to rare-metal poisoning such as mercury. Would you like to hear my theory?”
“Yes.”
“I suspect that Lord Carnarvon took the papyri. He travelled back and forth between England and Egypt more often than anyone else and he would be the logical choice as smuggler. If there were arsenic or mercury on the documents, it is conceivable that, with considerable handling, over time the poison would build up and Lord Carnarvon’s health would deteriorate until he eventually passed away.”
“But surely Carter and the translator—”
“He was called Breasted.”
“Surely they would have also touched the papyri and been poisoned?”
“Possibly. Breasted is responsible for some of the conflicting statements. He was also the one who reported the argument between his bosses. So maybe he wasn’t directly involved. Also, just a few weeks before his death, Carnarvon wrote in a letter to Carter:
I may have done many foolish things and I am sorry.
Interesting, don’t you think?” The professor stopped and looked deadly serious for a moment. “My theory is that they found the papyri and the documents were so politically sensitive that Lord Carnarvon—a member of the British establishment, remember, and related to the Rothschilds—read them, took them and destroyed them.”
“What did Ellen think?”
The professor leaned forward and dropped his voice, “Your friend thought Lord Carnarvon was murdered.”
TWENTY-THREE
On the journey back, Alex thought about the professor’s parting words. He told Alex to be careful. Not “Take care”. “Be careful”.
“Some things aren’t worth pushing.”
“What do you mean?”
“You will have noticed that I’m no longer employed by the institute. I pushed and someone didn’t like it. Anti-Semitism is an easy label and difficult to defend. I asked certain questions and it was easier for the institute to let me go than recognize that I was asking for legitimate reasons.”
Alex watched the countryside blur past the window of the train. Jesus! If Ellen hadn’t been murdered by the gang from the East End, he’d have wondered whether it was linked to what Professor Thompson was saying. That it was linked to the missing papyri. Of course, an alternative explanation was that the professor was using it as an excuse for being fired. Maybe it was nothing to do with his research.
When he arrived back at the flat, Vanessa was waiting for him.
“What do you think,” Alex asked, “is it anti-Semitic to suggest a link between the establishment of Israel and blackmail?”
Vanessa plopped down on the sofa. “Depends whether it’s based on evidence or is malicious. Is that what you found out today?”
“To be honest I’m not sure what I found out. What I do know is Ellen thought she was on to something. There appears to be a link between things either missing from or stolen from Tutankhamen’s tomb and Exodus.”
“Really?”
“Howard Carter threatened to reveal the truth about Exodus. And it looks like he was paid off to keep him quiet.”
“And going back to evidence, did he have any?”
Alex sat and stretched. “That’s the frustrating bit. That’s where we hit the speculation. It could have been a bluff but if there was evidence then it was either lost or destroyed. And Ellen appears to have believed that Lord Carnarvon was killed for what he knew. Carter refused to talk whereas Carnarvon seems to have been all too willing to tell.”
“Wow! I wonder whether Ellen found something at Highclere Castle that confirmed it.”
“I don’t know, but after you dropped me off yesterday I had an interesting meeting with the detective. He told me that there was something missing from the exhibition, and based on what the aviator thug said, the East End gang knew it was missing. They wanted it.”
Vanessa moved and sat on the coffee table, her legs close to his. “What was it? What was it?” She was like a child eager to receive a birthday gift.
Alex waited until she settled, milking the moment of expectation. “A ceremonial block used in the embalming process.”
Vanessa looked disappointed. “A what?”
“I know. Not as sexy as missing papyri, but missing all the same. I think we’re making progress.”
Vanessa leaned forward and gave Alex a long hug. Her hair smelled clean and fresh.
She said, “This is so exciting.”
He held on until she released and gently pulled away. He grinned. “If only I could understand the relevance of the block. I’ve tried searching the web for inspiration, but nothing. I’m sure Ellen put this all together. Maybe the numbers come from the block. Maybe she converted them into words using gematria or something else.”
“She was smart, your friend?”
“In a way most people wouldn’t get.” He described her personality and saw Vanessa nodding. Of course, she was into psychology!
“Bipolar?”
“Amongst other things. Also diagnosed as high-functioning autistic.”
“Did she have therapy?”
“Definitely as a teenager, but I’m not aware of her attending since.”
Vanessa’s eyes creased with concern. “Ever attempt suicide?”
“She took an overdose of medication at seventeen. Her parents found her before it was too late. A few years ago she also went camping alone in the Arctic—deliberately didn’t take adequate equipment and expected to die of hypothermia.”
“What happened?”
“Came to her senses.” He laughed wryly. “She told me it was too damn cold!”
She smiled but her eyes were still serious and concerned. “Sad,” she said. “Sounds like a very troubled genius. But then again aren’t they all like that?”
He said nothing for a moment and then: “Now I need cheering up. Let’s go out. I’d like to treat you to a nice dinner—I know a great place in Primrose Hill.”
The threat of rain in the distance gave the dark sky a surreal glow that reflected in the window of the Thai restaurant Alex had chosen.
“How did you know Thai is my favourite?” she asked as he held the door open for her.
“Call me psychic.” He laughed, pleased to have impressed her, although he had to confess. “Actually, it wasn’t too difficult to guess. You told me your favourite place was in Thailand. I was pretty sure you wouldn’t have stayed four months if you didn’t like the food. And I’m sure you’ll like thi
s place. It’s unpretentious and authentic.”
They were shown to a table at the rear and were handed menus. Vanessa chuckled over his pronunciation of some of the dishes, but when they ordered he was disappointed she just gave the numbers.
“Languages aren’t my thing, I’m afraid.” She shrugged at the look on his face. “I survived in Thailand by pointing at what I wanted and using a handful of words. I had to eat rice and fruit the whole time.” Her light laughter made him suspect she was joking, but then she suddenly looked serious. “Do you mind if I ask another question about Ellen?”
“OK,” he said with some trepidation, disappointed that the tone had changed.
“What medication was she on?”
“Venlafaxine.”
She waited as the food was served and then asked, “How did it make her feel? Do you know?”
“She hated it—said it was a feeling of restriction and confinement. On the meds, it wasn’t the real her.”
“And sometimes she didn’t take it?”
“Her head was clearer when she was off the medication. She thought faster too—sometimes too fast and could seem all over the place and talking fast. I always knew when she wasn’t taking it even when she said she was.”
“And what about you?” She gave a coquettish smile. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Alex was unsure what she meant.
She said. “You’re pretty smart yourself—and that thing with the numbers. Tell me something interesting.”
He laughed. “Nothing like putting a guy on the spot. Let’s see… OK, take three consecutive numbers where the largest is a multiple of three. Say ten, eleven and twelve. Add them together. If the answer is a single digit, it’ll be six. If it is more than two then add them again and again until you have a single number. And that number will be six. So ten plus eleven plus twelve equals thirty-three. Three plus three equals six.”
“Any consecutive numbers?” He nodded and could see her mind processing. Then she said, “Six! What’s the explanation for that?”
“The magic of numbers,” he said.
“You know that it’s a special skill to see numbers the way you do. Don’t be offended, but it is also often an indication of autism.”
They exchanged looks and he shrugged.
She said, “Have you ever been in therapy?”
He stopped eating. “Briefly, after my dad took his own life. Although it was more counselling than therapy as far as I remember. But no concerns over autism or my mental health. And, unlike Ellen, I’m certainly not a manic depressive.”
He could see she wanted to probe further but felt unable. She said, “Another question: why did you go to stay with that odd guy Pete when you couldn’t stay in your flat? Why not go home to your mum?”
“It’s difficult. She’s struggled a bit since Dad died. Mum never worked, and he left a lot of debts. I also have a brother who has Duchenne muscular dystrophy.”
She looked awkward. “Oh, I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine. Of course you didn’t. Duchenne only affects boys and most only make it until their late teens. Andrew is doing well in his mid-twenties but is totally dependent on Mum.” He shrugged. “I’m very lucky. I had a fifty per cent chance of having it. Anyway, the point is home would be difficult and there’s no spare room.” He paused. “Just so you know, I send money home every month. I try and help as much as I can but I can’t live there. Of course, there’s also the fact that they live in Surrey and”—he grinned, trying to make light of the subject—“I’m a Londoner now. I’d feel lost out there.”
“I know what you mean.”
After a while, and a relaxing glass of red, she said, “When I was a little girl, I used to have a terrible phobia of spiders. Not just the usual. I used to see them in webs even when they weren’t there—cobwebs with hundreds of little black babies crawling all over them. I used to be afraid that the web was closing in, that it would surround me, suffocate me.”
“Sounds awful.”
She looked pale recounting the story. “It became all-consuming. My whole life became a state of fear and panic. At any moment the cobwebs would get me.” She took a slow drink of wine. “It was a type of anxiety disorder linked to a fear of separation. A fear of losing everyone.”
Alex touched her hand. He could see this was difficult.
She smiled weakly. “My parents were killed in a car crash when I was three. I was raised by my aunt and uncle. I can’t recall my parents. I don’t remember the crash—”
“You were in the car at the time?”
“Yes, but like I say, I don’t remember. I thought I was doing fine. Thought I was OK without my parents, but the point is I was dealing with it in an unhealthy way. I was seven by the time they realized I had a problem: not sleeping and showing signs of OCD. Anyway, therapy sorted me out. I’m fine now. Though I still hate spiders!”
She took another sip of wine and squeezed his hand.
“Tell me to mind my own business, but I think you’re handling a lot of issues. When everything settles down, I think you should try a bit of counselling again.”
“You think it’ll help?”
She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “It might.”
On the way back, he asked if they could go via his house in Maida Vale. “I’m going crazy with so little stuff in Simon’s flat. I’ll pick up some clothes and more reading material. I’ve some books that might help with solving what Ellen was doing.”
Because he was concerned that the paparazzi might be around, Vanessa suggested she go in and Alex wait in the car. She was only gone a few minutes when his phone rang.
When she spoke, her voice didn’t show the enthusiasm he anticipated. In its place was something very different—shock.
“Alex… Oh my God. You need to get here. You need to see this!”
TWENTY-FOUR
Alex took no chances and kept away from the front of his house, cutting through the backyards to the rear of his property. The first thing he noticed was his kitchen window. It was open.
He stepped on a garden pot, looked in and saw the chaos that had once been his flat.
Vanessa opened the back door, her face ashen. “Don’t touch anything,” she said as she led him to his front door and into his wrecked flat. “Looks like they came in through the kitchen window.”
The curtains were closed and the lights were off so as not to attract the attention of anyone outside. However, there was enough light through the gaps in the curtains for him to see the mess. In the kitchen, every cupboard door was open, every drawer was upside down. Utensils, paper, cans of food, packets and a host of odds and ends covered the floor. Even Topsy’s dry dog food had been emptied out. Nothing was left untouched, unturned or unemptied.
The fridge freezer doors were open and a large pool of water had gathered around the base.
“They look for fake tins,” Vanessa said. “People often hide valuables and money in tins—like leaving a key in a fake stone by the front door.”
“The fridge and freezer?”
“Same thing.”
He tiptoed past the mess into the lounge. The sofa was criss-crossed with gashes sprouting white cotton wool stuffing. The cushions were slashed and strewn on the floor. The TV was on its side and the back prised open. The books looked like they had been methodically searched and flung into a corner. Alex’s only plant, a twisted fig tree, had been pulled from its pot and the compost scooped out.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking into his eyes. “This is awful for me so I can only guess how bad you must feel.”
He shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. When he found his voice, he said, “The rest of the flat?”
“Just the same, only where you have floorboards they’ve been pulled up in places. Everything looks like it’s been thoroughly searched.”
“What were they looking for—valuables? They didn’t take the TV.” He wondered if his voice sounded as quiet and stra
ined to her as it did to him.
“The TV was probably too big.”
He walked through to the second bedroom—Ellen’s room. It was a scene of devastation. Some floorboards were jammed at angles or broken. The bedside cabinet was on its side, the drawers were out. Everything from the drawers was on the floor. He picked up the Isis puzzle-ball he’d bought for Ellen and placed it back on its base on the window ledge.
Vanessa said, “Can you tell if there’s anything missing?”
He shrugged.
They went back into the lounge
He said, “Surely it wasn’t valuables they were looking for—” He pointed to a clump of stuffing hanging from the back of the sofa.
Vanessa said, “They were looking for something hidden.”
“What did they think I had hidden, for Christ’s sake?” He shook his head and then sank down onto the sofa. She moved a couple of books, dusted the seat and sat beside him.
“Maybe it’s all linked. Maybe it’s about Ellen’s research. Maybe someone else thinks it’s important. Maybe they think the clue is here.”
He rubbed his face and pressed his temples to ease a growing ache there.
He said, “Who else would know about her research?”
“Think.” Her voice was soft and encouraging.
“I really have no idea.” He rubbed his face again and left both hands over his eyes.
After a while he said, “The people who murdered the East End gang. Who were they?”
“I know you don’t want to believe it, but what if it is linked to your dog walker—the Polish woman? What if she does have connections to organized crime?”
He shook his head. Surely it couldn’t be Nadja. When he had spoken to her she had been genuinely distressed. Hadn’t she?
Vanessa put her arm around him. “Should we call the police?”
“Do you think there’s any point? All I can see coming from this is more media attention. There’s no way the police will find anything—and if it is linked to the East End murders, then it’ll just confirm for them that I was involved somehow.”
Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner Page 13
