The cairo curse, p.19
The Cairo Curse, page 19
“Oh, you mean marry?” Mrs. Casper laughed too loudly. “You won’t settle for a bad man, I’m sure, and there are no good men.” Her tone suddenly hardened. “Only those who are useful and those who are not.”
Amelia had walked out of Grace’s sight. Mrs. Casper sat at her dressing table, fumbling through some vials. Where was Amelia? Grace’s stomach tensed. Quiet spread through the room, and to Grace’s utter horror, a tickle started in her throat. She bit down on her bottom lip. No, no, no! This was not quality sleuth behavior! Sherlock Holmes or Lady Molly of Scotland Yard never felt the urge to laugh when they were nervous. Why was it her lot in life?
“You don’t agree?” Mrs. Casper turned at her dressing table. “Oh, have you met someone who has given you false hope about the state of men? That valet, perhaps?”
The tickling sensation faded. Valet?
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed your attention being drawn to him.” Her laugh emerged again. “A valet? Yes, that seems appropriate for someone like you.”
“Like me?” Amelia came back into view, much closer than Grace realized.
“A thief.” Mrs. Casper stood, taking a long drink from one of the vials. “A liar.” She took an unsteady step forward. “A seducer?”
“I am what you and John have made me.” She spat out the words. “But I will remake myself. I have to. This thieving and lying and moving from one set of horrible circles to the other cannot be what life is about. Lillian would have hated this. And I don’t remember much about my mother, but I remember enough to know she believed in better things. Lovelier things than this.”
Grace’s stance softened, and she had the strongest urge to take Amelia, mostly likely against her will, into her arms for a long hug. Grace felt certain the woman could do with a few. Her mind flitted back to Mrs. Casper’s words. Could the valet be …?
“As if any decent man, your valet included, would have you.”
Elliott? Elliott and Miss Sinclair?
Grace raised her hand to cover her mouth but realized too late that she still held the photo. It slapped against her chin. The noise couldn’t have been large, but it felt as if it filled the entire wardrobe. Amelia flinched and looked over her shoulder toward the wardrobe.
If the woman could see Grace through the slit in the doors, she didn’t react except to take a step nearer. Grace froze, holding her breath, her mind spinning through various ways to respond to Amelia should she be found out. She was looking for a lost shoe? Grace crinkled her nose in rejection. Not only was that a lie, but it was also completely unbelievable. A rogue assailant determined to find the map to the mysterious tomb had locked her in? Again, a lie, but much more exciting.
And it would give away the fact that she knew about the tomb.
What about sleepwalking?
A loud bang sounded from the distance, pulling Amelia and Mrs. Casper’s attention toward the door. Raised voices followed. Male and agitated. Amelia rushed from the room, followed much more slowly by Mrs. Casper. Grace waited a second before pushing open the wardrobe door and stepping back into the room. The voices below grew clearer as she neared the door. Frederick was back.
Just before she reached the threshold, the bedroom door flew open, giving her only time enough to press her body against the wall. Mrs. Casper rushed past, completely ignoring Grace’s position, which was barely concealed by a table. Grace backed toward the door and was almost out when she met Mrs. Casper’s eyes through her dressing-table mirror.
All heat fled Grace’s face, and she slowly slipped the photo in her hand behind her back.
“Did you need something, Lady Astley?” Some of the previous edge in the woman’s voice had dimmed, likely from her self-medication.
Grace forced a smile. “Mrs. Archibald had mentioned how good you were at palm reading, and I’d always been curious about it.” The voices rose again, and Grace gestured toward the hallway. “But it seems my request will have to wait for another time, if you’re willing.”
The woman’s tense expression softened. “Oh, I should very much like to read your future, Lady Astley.” Grace sighed at the successful distraction. “I feel certain it would be most interesting.”
Mrs. Casper walked up to Grace, her gaze roaming with dull curiosity. “But I’m afraid we must tend to the future of Mr. Anderson at the moment.”
Georgia’s cry came from below. “Oh dear God, what’s happened?”
“Mr. Anderson?” Grace started moving more quickly down the hallway toward the stairs, with Mrs. Casper following more slowly.
“I predict he won’t live through the night.”
Trent Anderson had lost a lot of blood. Frederick had mounted Trent’s horse to keep the man from falling as he’d fought losing consciousness, a battle he’d lost as they’d brought the horses into the stables. A few other shots had followed them on their flight from the tombs. Elliott took the reins for Frederick’s horse and kept nearby as they rode in silence back to the house.
Whoever shot from the ridge had some skill with a gun. It couldn’t have been easy to fire on moving targets in the fading light, especially with the shadow of the mountain falling over Frederick, Elliott, and Trent. Did Andrews have experience with rifles? Who else could have been hidden among the tombs in the evening, as if protecting his secret hoard? It had to be him! Andrews must have gotten away from Timothy and the police and made his way to the tombs.
The idea didn’t sit well. Even though Andrews had left with the police a good half hour before Frederick left the stables, Andrews would have had to come back to the house, gotten a horse, and then remained ahead of them without being seen along the plain in order to take position.
What about one of the ladies? The only one among the bunch who might have the ability to ride ahead and then fire a gun, besides Grace, might be Amelia Sinclair, so if she’d been missing from the house, she might be the one sent to protect the treasure.
True suspects were down to a definite duo. And what had they done to Mr. Smallwood?
With Elliott’s help, they’d carried Trent into the house, shouting an alarm before placing him on the cleared dining table in the middle of the courtyard.
Amelia came into view first, from atop the balcony. “What happened?”
“Mr. Anderson has been shot.”
Even in the fading light, he could make out the pained expression on her face. She rushed down the stairs to Elliott’s side, staring down at Trent’s pale face. “How?”
“Someone was waiting at the tombs,” Frederick answered, ripping back Trent’s bloodstained shirt.
Amelia winced and looked up at Elliott. Their gazes caught for a second, before Elliott turned back to helping remove Trent’s shirt and proceeded to use it as a sponge for the wound. Amelia looked up at him, her expression slipping to neutral, but a slight darkening of her cheeks had Frederick making all sorts of assumptions related to the two. Especially now knowing some of Amelia’s history. And Elliott wasn’t easily tempted in his affection.
“Could you go for cloths?” Frederick asked, and Amelia straightened to attention.
“And whisky?” she asked, raising a brow.
“Thank you.”
She’d barely slipped from view when a soft cry came from the top of the stairs. Georgia stood wearing her pale blue gown, moonlight shining down on her like a specter of the night. “Oh dear God, what happened?”
“He was shot.” Frederick turned back to Trent as Elliott pulled back the cloth. “It looks as though the bullet made a clean entrance and exit.”
Elliott nodded. “And the bleeding is slowing, but we’d do well to clean the wound.”
Georgia wilted into a chair on the other side of the table. “I must leave this place.”
“I had some acriflavine in my bag.”
Frederick turned to find Grace at his side, offering him a small bottle as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And he didn’t even know what acriflavine was. As if in answer, she continued, “It’s an antiseptic. I bought some for my medicine bag after asking Dr. Peters back home what he’d recommend for our trip. I have some dried lemongrass too. It’s antibacterial. And a few other things, although I don’t remember what all of them are for.”
In the middle of this madness, he almost smiled. “Thank you, Lady Astley.”
“I would offer to suture the wound, but I’m no good at sewing,” Grace whispered. “Once I even sewed the glove I was wearing onto a handkerchief I was trying to repair and then into my skirt. It was quite the debacle.”
She looked down at Trent. “Did the shooting happen near the tombs?”
Georgia’s head came up. “How on earth could you know that?”
“They were retracing Mr. Smallwood’s steps,” Grace explained. “And I can only imagine what a terrific place it would be to hide from approaching people without their noticing. After all, if anyone was hiding on the mountains, they’d have long-range views of someone riding across the plain. It’s a very good idea for anyone with nefarious plans.”
Georgia stared and blinked, but any response, if she had one, was interrupted by Amelia returning with one of the servants, the latter carrying a pot of steaming water.
“Good thinking, Miss Sinclair,” Elliott said, taking a cloth from her and nodding to the pot. “That will be helpful.”
He and Frederick began using the whiskey and water to clean the wound.
“But who would be up at the tombs at night and shoot you?” Georgia stood. “What is happening here? First poor Mr. Graham, then Mr. Smallwood’s disappearance, and now this?”
Did she realize she’d left Sydney’s name from the list? Frederick caught Grace’s gaze and realized she’d noticed the omission as well, and if he was reading the look in her eyes correctly, she had an idea why. Is it possible that Georgia lumped the other three circumstances together, but not Sydney’s? Why? Unless, as he feared, she knew on a quite personal level how Sydney had died.
“Someone could be trying to protect something,” Grace offered.
Amelia sent a sharp look from Grace to Frederick and then away.
Grace raised a brow as she handed Frederick the vial of antiseptic.
“Protect something?” Georgia asked, her confusion apparently genuine, which made her involvement in the whole secret tomb less likely. Though Frederick hadn’t placed her among the possible suspects related to the tomb, her response confirmed her innocence.
The door to the courtyard swung open, and in walked Timothy, Andrews, and two other men—a policeman and the lead inspector, Randolph. Andrews paused as he took in the room, but Timothy ran forward, his gaze fastened on the body on the table. “What … what’s happened?”
“Trent’s been shot,” Georgia answered. “And it’s just another reason we need to leave this place as soon as possible. I am finished here.”
“Shot?” Inspector Randolph fastened his dark gaze on Frederick. “Where? By whom?”
As he held Trent’s body for Elliott to wrap the wound, Frederick gave a brief account of what had happened, answering questions from the inspector and Timothy as he did so.
“I would wager my life it was some tomb robbers,” Andrews announced, slamming his palm against the table. “They’re a notorious lot for showing up under cloak of darkness.”
“You are right, Professor, but there is nothing to find at the north tombs, is there?” This from Inspector Randolph.
Andrews’ eyes widened and Frederick caught him glance at Amelia before he began shaking his head and backing away. “They’ve found an undiscovered tomb. The one the natives had been telling me about.” He took a few more steps away. “And I will not have them steal those artifacts for something I’ve worked much too hard to find.”
“Andrews, it’s not safe,” Frederick shouted after the man. “You can’t go up there without some support.”
But Andrews ignored them all, and Frederick looked at the inspector as if waiting for the man to chase after Andrews to stop him, but the man sat down in one of the chairs.
“Peters, follow the professor to ensure he does not get himself killed.” Inspector Randolph waved toward the policeman, who gave a curt nod and left the room.
Timothy slid down into a chair, his gaze fastened on Trent. “What on earth is happening? This is a madhouse.”
“I am finished here,” Georgia repeated, her voice breaking with a sob. “I think we should take Sydney’s body and Trent back to Cairo tomorrow and be rid of this place for good.”
“I can’t have you do that, Madam Archibald.” Inspector Randolph lit a cigarette, the pale light flickering against his eyes. “After what Professor Andrews and Mr. Withersby shared about what has happened here over the past few days, I’m afraid no one will be leaving for Cairo until we’ve resolved Mr. Graham’s accident, Mr. Archibald’s death, and Mr. Anderson’s attack.”
“But”—Georgia shook her head—“Sydney’s death was from … from natural causes, and Mr. Graham’s was an accident.”
“Were they?” The inspector raised a brow. “I am not so certain. So many unfortunate events happening with only the people of this house in a matter of days?” He shook his head and scanned the room. “Oh no, I feel there are far too many coincidences, Mrs. Archibald, for this to be a series of accidents. Mr. Anderson’s incident may be the most obvious, but the rest are too coincidental to keep us from taking very careful note of all of you. So I believe you all need to settle in for the night.”
“You can’t keep us here against our wills,” Georgia announced, but she had lost some of the fire in her voice.
He shrugged a shoulder, clearly unconcerned. “The doctor has been called to see to Mr. Anderson and, I would suggest, give another examination of Mr. Graham. In the meantime, I will look forward to questioning each of you on all the events, and then we can discuss the findings together at breakfast.” He waved toward Mr. Anderson. “And perhaps Mr. Anderson will live through the night and give us some of his own information.”
Chapter Sixteen
The doctor arrived half an hour later and inspected Elliott and Frederick’s care of Trent’s wound. With the doctor’s approval, Trent was moved to his own room, where Timothy and Georgia offered to take turns keeping watch over him, with strict instructions to alert the house when Trent regained consciousness.
The inspector didn’t seem in a hurry and began his inquiries with the staff, encouraging everyone else to go about their usual business, as if there weren’t two wounded men in a house where a possible murder had happened only a day before. It was the strangest turn of events Elliott had ever imagined, even after listening to some of Lady Astley’s more creative stories.
Elliott had been so certain the rifleman at the tombs must have been Professor Andrews. With the list of clues against him, along with some of the information Lord Astley had shared, it seemed only fitting Andrews would attempt to protect his illicit find, but Timothy Withersby confirmed that Andrews had been with their group until they’d returned to the house.
Could the gunman have been one of the tomb robbers so endemic to this part of the world? He shot with skill. Was that typical of the tomb robbers? Perhaps Lord Astley would ask the inspector when he came to question them. He’d wanted Elliott to join Lord and Lady Astley during their turn.
As for Mr. Smallwood? Elliott had listened to Lord Astley question Mr. Withersby, who said their search near the docks and in town revealed nothing of Mr. Smallwood’s whereabouts except rumors, of which the natives seemed to have plenty. One stated they’d heard of an Englishman being sent down the Nile in ropes. Another shared the tale of an Englishman years ago who’d disappeared from the same area, and folks attributed his disappearance to the man’s disrespect for the tombs and Egyptian gods.
Elliott was following Lord Astley up the stairs to prepare for their meeting with the inspector when a sudden commotion came from Mr. Graham’s room. Heat fled Elliott’s body. Had what he feared come to pass?
“He’s awake.” The nurse appeared in the doorway, her eyes wide. “And he is speaking.”
Lord Astley caught Elliott’s attention, and they both rushed into the small room. Dr. Craven hovered over the bed, pressing a stethoscope to Mr. Graham’s chest, but just above the doctor’s hands Elliott caught a glimpse of pale blue eyes. Awake. Somewhat alert.
A very good sign. There was definite clarity in the man’s eyes.
“Looks like Mr. Graham is beyond the worst of it.” Dr. Craven nodded and pulled the light blanket up to cover Mr. Graham’s chest. “Some foggy-headedness, I should think, but he was able to answer some questions quite coherently.”
“That’s good news, Doctor.” Lord Astley moved farther into the room. “We have all been anxious for your well-being, Mr. Graham.”
Mr. Graham looked up at them, his brow creasing as he searched their faces. “I’m sorry?”
“We’ve not met, Mr. Graham.” Frederick stepped nearer. “I am Lord Astley and this is my man, Elliott. We only arrived on the day you had your … accident.”
“Lord Astley?” The man blinked a few times, and his expression cleared. “Yes, I remember Mrs. Archibald mentioning your impending arrival.” His words came slowly. “She was quite keen on meeting your new wife, as I recall.”
Elliott almost grinned. Lady Astley’s reputation preceded her.
“The feeling was mutual, I assure you.” Lord Astley sent an amused glance his way before turning back to Mr. Graham.
Despite their unconventional meeting and unexpected marriage, the two had become an admirable pair. An example for Elliott in how two unique individuals could become even better when sharing life with the right person.
“I don’t think I should have recalled much at all last night, when I first woke. My thoughts were jumbled, slipping in and out.” He took a deep breath. “But Nurse … what was her name?”
“Nurse Beaumont?” Elliott offered.
“Yes.” Mr. Graham nodded his thanks. “Nurse Beaumont talked me through the confusion, and I feel a bit more myself now.”
