The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “So who’s top of your list for the stalker?” asked Ike, this time managing to successfully avoid a pothole.

  “Harry Gibson,” said Poppy, bracing herself for the impact that didn’t come. She went on to tell the men about Harry’s various comings and goings relating to the shooting and the death of Sir James.

  “Harry?” said Rollo. “The man’s a snake, without a doubt, but I’m not sure he’s a killer. I could very easily believe he was stalking you, just for kicks, but why would he kill Sir James?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Poppy grimly, “but he was absent quite a bit over the weekend – he and Lady Ursula at the same time. He could have written the note for her. I think I need to come clean with DCI Martin about this as quickly as possible. I’ll take the notes over to Scotland Yard as soon as we’ve got them photographed.”

  Rollo was twirling an unlit cigar between thumb and forefinger. Oh, I do hope he’s not going to light that up, thought Poppy.

  “What is it, Rollo?” asked Ike.

  “I’m just trying to piece this all together. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but we’re assuming here that Poppy’s stalker is the same person who arranged for the shooting accident and is the same person who murdered Sir James. Is that correct?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, yes,” said Ike. “Poppy?”

  Poppy pondered this for a minute, then said: “It does seem like the most plausible explanation, yes. But the most plausible solution isn’t always how these investigations turn out, is it? For me, it all comes down to motive. So far we have sniffed out a monetary motive for Lady Ursula, and a ‘just because he’s a nasty bloke’ motive for Harry as my stalker. But, Rollo’s right, what motive would Harry have to murder Sir James?”

  “Maybe he was paid to do it?” offered Ike, then tossed out a “Hold on, folks!” as he swerved to avoid two large crows eating the remains of an unfortunate badger.

  Poppy pursed her lips in sympathy for the victim, then returned to the conversation. “Maybe he was paid. But by whom? Lady Ursula? Very possibly. On the other hand, if it is connected to the mask – which it does seem to be – who would have the most to gain by Sir James dying before the auction could go ahead?”

  “Well, Lady Ursula seems very keen on getting the auction underway as soon as possible,” said Ike. “So the idea that the murder took place to stop the auction doesn’t hold much water for me. I can accept that she might have wanted to delay it – so that she would be the sole beneficiary of the proceeds – but not to stop it completely.”

  “Agreed,” said Poppy. “But we’re just focusing on Lady Ursula here. And while I think she is still our top suspect – and that it’s highly possible Harry Gibson is working with her – let’s not ignore the other candidates.”

  “Such as?”

  “The people who didn’t want the mask to be sold in the first place,” offered Rollo with a jab of his still unlit cigar.

  “Exactly,” said Poppy. “And as far as I can tell, that would be the German and Egyptian delegations... but... it’s just a theory.”

  “It’s a good theory,” said Rollo. He grinned and lifted his bowler. “I’ll keep it under my hat, Miz Denby. But I think we need a lot more to go on before we start pointing fingers as Yazzie’s brother – or for that matter the Krauts - don’t you think?”

  “Yes Rollo, I agree. And...” she took a deep breath “...would you mind awfully, not lighting up that cigar in the motor?”

  Rollo grinned again and once more lifted his hat. “I’ll put that under here too then.”

  Fifteen minutes later – with Poppy’s watch approaching twelve – the Model T pulled up to a semi-detached house in Acton. This was the address that Mrs Chapman from Henley-on-Thames had given for her husband’s cousin, Minifred Hughes, aka Madame Minette. Ike stayed in the car to write up some notes on his interview; Rollo and Poppy went to knock on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a boy of around twelve, wearing a dressing gown. He had dishevelled ginger hair, red-rimmed eyes, and a raw-looking nose. There was something familiar about the lad, Poppy thought. She smiled at the boy and asked if Mrs Minifred Hughes was home. The boy shook his head and croaked: “She’s out.”

  “Are you off school with a sore throat?” she asked sympathetically.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Is Mrs Hughes your mother?”

  “She is, miss.”

  “And when will she be home?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “Oh,” said Poppy, “never mind. Can you give her a message for me please?”

  The boy shrugged. He didn’t look well. There was no guarantee he would remember a message.

  Poppy smiled again. “Don’t worry; I’ll write it down. Can I use your hall table?” she asked, spotting a semi-circular table with a telephone on it just behind the boy. The boy nodded and stepped aside to allow Poppy in. Rollo moved to follow her, but the boy blocked him. “Mother says I’m not to let anyone in. I’ll let the lady write the note, but that’s it.”

  Rollo nodded his understanding. “And rightly so, young man. You can’t be too careful.” Rollo took a step back and waited for Poppy.

  Poppy took out her notebook and leaned on the table, then wrote a note explaining how she came to have Madame Minette’s address and repeated the story that she wanted to book her for a séance. She also apologized for her rude behaviour on Friday night. She left a telephone number and asked Madame Minette to give her a call. Then she folded up the note and handed it to the boy. As she did, she looked up and noticed a watercolour painting on the wall above the telephone. Her heart skipped a beat. It looked very much like the painting she had seen in the Carnaby auction catalogue: Yachts on the Seine. No, correction, it looked just like it, except with colour. She fixed a benevolent smile on her face and said: “What a lovely painting. My mother would love something like that for Christmas. Do you know where your mother got it?”

  The boy coughed and sniffed. “Uncle Fox gave it to her.”

  “Uncle Fox?”

  “Yeah, he’s not my real uncle, just a friend of my mum. But they’ve been friends for ever – from before I was born. He’s a famous actor you know. And an artist.”

  Poppy remembered the beautiful portrait of Lady Ursula hanging at Winterton. Then everything began to fall into place. “Did he paint that?”

  The boy coughed again. Then croaked: “Yeah, I think so. Look miss, I feel proper poorly. I’ll give mum the note.” He gestured for Poppy to leave.

  Poppy smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder. “Yes, of course. Go back to bed. We’re sorry to have bothered you. Hope you get better soon.”

  The ginger-haired boy croaked his thanks, then shut the door behind Poppy. As Poppy and Rollo walked back to the car she could hardly contain her excitement. “Rollo,” she said, “I think we’ve just met a fox cub – and he might have solved part of our case.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Poppy, Rollo, and Ike grabbed a quick bite to eat at a pub in Acton before heading back to the office. They decided that there was too much to do to try to fit in a visit to the retired journalist from The Times and would try to do it tomorrow instead. The new lead with “Uncle Fox” and the painting had propelled the Renoir story up their list of priorities. While they were waiting for their takeaway pies to be served, Poppy used the pub telephone and contacted Jenny Philpott at the Hotel Russell. She asked for her to meet the journalists at the Globe office on Fleet Street before she went to the meeting at the museum. Poppy offered to pay the taxi fare – as it would be out of Jenny’s way – but the American lady declined. She said she’d meet them there in half an hour.

  Just over half an hour later Poppy and her two male colleagues arrived in the newsroom to find Daniel chatting to Miss Philpott over a cup of coffee.

  “Golly, sorry to keep you waiting, Jenny,” said Poppy.

  “The old Model T wasn’t built for racing,” added Ike.

  “There is nothing wrong with
the company car. However, if you and Poppy would like to donate three months’ salary each, I’ll be happy to get a new one. No? I thought not. Miss Philpott, this is Ike Garfield, senior journalist here at the Globe. Ike, Miss Jennifer Philpott from the Metropolitan Museum of New York.”

  Ike shook the American woman’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you ma’am.”

  “Trinidadian?” asked Jenny.

  The West Indian journalist smiled widely. “You’ve got a good ear, Miss Philpott. Yes, I’m from Trinidad. But happily living here in London now.”

  “Please, call me Jenny.” She pushed her spectacles up her nose as she turned to Poppy and Rollo. “I’ve only got about twenty minutes before I have to leave for the museum – sorry to rush you – but I’m intrigued to hear about this new development.”

  “No problem,” said Rollo. “Thanks for coming over. Shall we?” He indicated that they should all go into his office. “Danny Boy, can you arrange to have some more coffee sent in, then join us?”

  Five minutes later they were all seated in Rollo’s office nursing mugs of coffee. “Good heavens, are you sure it was the same Renoir?” asked Jenny.

  “It was identical, yes. But the boy said his Uncle Fox had painted it.”

  “Did you see the signature? Bottom right-hand corner?”

  “Unfortunately I didn’t manage to get that close. There was a signature, yes, but what it was I couldn’t say.”

  “So what are you thinking?”

  Poppy put down her cup on top of a pile of files on Rollo’s desk, hoping it wouldn’t spill; it was easier than trying to find a clear spot. “I’m thinking forgery, that’s what. The boy seemed certain it was Fox who painted it. It could have been an original, of course, but then we’d be looking at theft – either way it’s a crime.”

  “Why theft?” asked Daniel. “Couldn’t Fox have bought it and given it to his friend? Correct me if I’m wrong but some of these artists don’t start selling at high cost until after they’ve died. Like that Van Gogh chappy. Perhaps this was one of Renoir’s earlier works so wasn’t too expensive.”

  Jenny shook her head. “You’re right about Van Gogh, Mr Rokeby, but Pierre Auguste Renoir has been a big seller since around the 1870s. Durand-Ruel – probably the biggest art dealer in the world – gave him his first exhibition here in London in 1874. So in this case, if it was the original painting that Poppy saw, it would be very surprising to see it hanging in a semi in Acton.”

  “And the boy did say Fox had painted it,” added Poppy.

  “He’s a boy. Fox could just have told him that,” argued Daniel, continuing to play devil’s advocate.

  Poppy nodded. “Yes, that’s true. But if you recall at the séance on Friday night, Albert Carnaby said he had the painting and it was going to be put up for auction.” She reached into her satchel, took out the catalogue that Jenny had given her the previous day, and turned to the page she’d marked showing Yachts on the Seine. “See, here it is, listed in the official catalogue.” She jabbed her finger at the photograph. “And that – I promise you – is the painting I saw. So either the painting on the wall is the original or this is. My feeling is the latter.”

  Rollo templed his fingers. “So, to follow your line of thinking, this is all linked in to why the medium – pretending to be Carnaby’s mother – insisted he withdraw the painting from auction until next year.”

  “Exactly!” Poppy flicked through her notebook until she came to the interview she’d had with Jenny Philpott the previous day. She ran her finger down the page until she came to a note for the National Gallery. “Jenny suggested that the reason it was withdrawn was to give someone time to procure a companion piece to it. Renoir, it seems, used to often paint the same scenes as Claude Monet. If the two works were sold together it would inflate the price. Have you found out any more about that, Jenny?”

  “I have,” said the American woman. “I met with my friend – the Impressionist expert – for breakfast this morning. He said as far as he was aware there was no companion piece. So that’s a lame duck.”

  Rollo flicked his templed fingers together. “Which makes forgery seem increasingly likely. Madame Minette wanted to delay the sale of the original in order perhaps to – to – to what?”

  “To replace it with a forgery. Then she’d have the original which would be worth a packet,” suggested Poppy. “That’s my theory.”

  “Madame Minette and Fox Flinton – seems like the two are in cahoots,” observed Ike.

  “Agreed,” said Rollo, “but at this stage it’s all a theory. And no crime has actually been committed yet. All there is is a painting on a wall. It’s not illegal to copy a painting – as far as I know, as long as it isn’t passed off as the original for financial gain. So there’s not much we can do yet. I think it’s a bit too flimsy to give to the police. And we have no idea how, if at all, this fits in with Sir James’ murder… Jenny, would your friend be able to tell if a painting was an original or not?”

  Jenny nodded. “He would, yes. That’s part of his job at the gallery. To authenticate originals.”

  “Good. Then we’ll have to figure out a way to get him and the painting – or paintings – together.”

  Jenny looked at her watch. “I’m sorry Rollo, but I have to go. I’ll speak to my friend as soon as I can. But for now I’ve got the Nefertiti mask to deal with. Can you call me a cab?”

  Rollo grinned. “Better than that, Ike here can drive you over. Then, when he’s there he might be able to wangle his way in. Is that all right with you Ike? Driving the old jalopy again?”

  Ike laughed. “I’ll give it the old crank.”

  Poppy and Daniel were alone in his dark room. The small room, at the back of the art and photography department on the second floor, was known as the Lion’s Den – a pun on Daniel’s Den, rather than a warning about dangers that might lie within. Poppy never felt unsafe with Daniel.

  The room smelled of chemicals – acetates, nitrates, bromides – and a diffused red light gave it an other-worldly quality. Although there was no need to do so, people who entered the room felt compelled to whisper, in awe of the alchemy that took place within. Emulsified paper floated in metal trays; and if one watched for long enough, images would form and then be hung out to dry.

  Two images were forming now: one of the letter from Poppy’s stalker, and the other the note to the gamekeeper’s son. Daniel plucked out each in turn with a set of tongs and pegged them to the washing line strung across the room. “Right, that’s done. Now we can take the originals to the police station.”

  “We?” asked Poppy.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind the company. I’ve got nothing to do until the meeting at the museum comes out and that’s not for another hour. I’ll give you a lift on the motorbike. Not quite the comfort of the old Model T but I’ll wrap you up snug and warm.”

  Daniel tapped the tip of Poppy’s nose with his finger.

  She smiled at him and he put his arms around her, pulling her close. She felt the roughness of his canvas apron against her cheek, the smell of hessian sweetening the acridity of the air. “As soon as this story’s over, Poppy, we need to have some time alone. I need to talk to you.”

  Poppy had a flashback to the romance-charged moment in the boat house when she thought he’d been about to propose.

  “No time like the present,” she murmured.

  She felt him tense against her. “No, not now. I’ve got some things to say. Some things to explain. We need some time to process it all.”

  Process? What do we need to process?

  She pulled away from him and looked into his face. He looked sad – terribly, terribly sad. “Oh Daniel, what is it?”

  He blinked a few times and then forced a smile onto his face. “Nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. I can tell. Yes, we’ve got a job to do, but it can wait a few minutes more, because now you’ve got me worried. What’s wrong?”

  He pulled away from her and busied himself
straightening pegs on the line. “I don’t want to get into it now. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that...”

  “What?” She took his hands in hers and held them, resisting the urge to run her thumbs over the scars.

  He sighed. “You know Maggie is getting married, right?”

  “Yes. To the South African mine manager. Don’t tell me: she doesn’t want to invite me to the wedding. No surprise there.”

  He tried to smile but failed. “No, it’s not that. It’s to do with the children. Last evening when I got home she was waiting for me. After I’d said goodnight to Amy and Arthur she told me that she still wants to take the children with her – to South Africa.”

  “I know she wants to do that – she’s said it before. But that’s simply not possible, is it? They’re your children, not hers. I hope you told her that.”

  Daniel squeezed Poppy’s hands. “It’s not as easy as that. She may not be their natural mother, but she’s been the only mother they’ve known since Lydia died.”

  “Well yes, but she can’t expect you to let her take them away from you.”

  “She isn’t. That’s not what she was asking.”

  “What was she asking then?”

  Daniel paused, the tension thickening between them. “She wants me to move to South Africa with her and Charles. After they’re married. He has a daughter here in boarding school who they’ll be taking home with them too. Maggie wants to look after her – and Amy and Arthur. But she doesn’t want them to be separated from me either.”

  “Well, that’s good of her,” said Poppy, caustically.

  “Don’t be like that, Poppy; she’s trying to compromise. This is her chance at happiness. I can’t take that away from her. And I don’t want to deprive my children of her either.”

  Poppy’s heart felt like a late-autumn rosebud, frosted then crushed. “But what about me?” she whispered, knowing she sounded childish but unable to stop herself.