Chapter Two

October 15, 1936

Hanwell Mental Hospital

London, England

Every time Imogen Riley visited Hanwell, she clung to the hope that this time would be her last. As she pulled up to the gate’s stone archway, she took a deep breath and braced herself for what lay ahead. A guard checked her papers, then opened the wrought iron gate. Imogen drove down a driveway bordered with leafless trees. Bruised gray clouds hovered over the old Victorian insane asylum, and a light mist dampened its high walls. A clock tower loomed over the main building’s entrance. She parked out front and gave her keys to the front door attendant. Imogen felt someone watching her. Movement in a second-story window caught her eye. A pale shape quickly slipped out of sight.

Inside, a tall, heavyset orderly escorted Imogen down a long hallway. The hospital was agitated with constant noise. Mental patients gabbered. A few cried out. From somewhere nearby came the sound of metal striking metal. Crackling from above made Imogen look up. A caged light bulb, secured to the ceiling, flickered and went out, casting the hall in gloom.

“Bloody lights. They’ve been going on and off all morning,” the orderly muttered. He led Imogen through a gated doorway and past the guard’s post. In the farthest wing, the halls echoed with patients howling from their padded cells. The smell of body odor and sickness clung in the air. Through a door’s square window, a grinning man with crooked brown teeth leered at Imogen. His eyes followed her as she walked by. She shuddered and turned a corner where a team of doctors and nurses were gathered. They fell quiet when they noticed Imogen approaching.

“Welcome back, Miss Riley,” Dr. Fetter, a short, ginger-headed man in a white coat, greeted Imogen.

“Thank you, Doctor. How is he?” she asked.

“Having a good day, no outbursts. You’re welcome to visit him.”

“Has he improved?”

“He’s making slow progress, I’m afraid. But he’s been calm today, so that gives us hope.”

Imogen’s spirits lifted. Any day she was allowed to visit Grandfather was a good day. She’d been coming to the hospital a few days a week for the past three months. She often visited him in the morning before going to work at the museum. On Saturdays, she stayed and sat with Grandfather and read him a book or newspaper until the staff made her leave.

Taking a deep breath, she followed Dr. Fetter down another hallway. The light bulbs along the ceiling all flickered.

“Is that from the storm?” Imogen asked.

“Electrical system’s been on the blink lately,” Dr. Fetter said. “It’s turning this place into a madhouse.” He chuckled at his own joke.

The hall ended at a closed metal door. Light flickered from the gaps in the doorframe, more erratic than in the hallway. Dr. Fetter unlocked the door. When he opened it, the bulb on the ceiling buzzed and returned to normal, illuminating the sparse visitation room with its scratched-up walls, small wooden table, and two chairs.

Imogen followed the doctor inside the room. Grandfather stood in the far corner, whispering to the walls. He wore white hospital-issue pajamas. What little gray hair he had left grew in patches of stubble. The strange scars that covered his head and body still unnerved her. She barely recognized the man who had raised her. It was harder still to imagine that this poor creature had once been the highly intelligent archaeologist and professor who had led expeditions for the British Museum for decades.

Dr. Fetter approached him cautiously. “Harlan, you have a visitor.”

Grandfather kept his back to them, mumbling phrases of the strange language that he had spoken since his time in the caves.

Dr. Fetter motioned for Imogen to take a seat at the table. Then he gently took Grandfather’s arm. “Come sit with your granddaughter.” The doctor guided him and sat him down across the table from Imogen.

“Hello, Grandfather.” She touched his arm. “It’s me.”

His eyes darted about the room, looked everywhere but at her. It broke her heart to see him so frail. He trembled as he mumbled to himself.

Her temper flared and she shot Dr. Fetter a disapproving look. “You said you were going to reduce his medication.”

“We tried. He became violent, so we had to up his dosage. For now, at least.” He gave Imogen a weak smile, then glanced at his pocket watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have rounds to make.” Dr. Fetter left her alone with Grandfather. The orderly sat in a chair just outside the open door.

Imogen opened her handbag and removed a newspaper, wrapped pastries, and a thermos of Earl Grey tea. “I brought you the London Herald and breakfast from J. Lyons. An English muffin spread thick with raspberry jam, just like you like it.” She set the items on the table, hoping the familiar things would jar his memories and bring him back. Before his last expedition, Imogen and Grandfather had met for breakfast at J. Lyons and Co. every Saturday, a tradition they had maintained for years. They enjoyed doing crossword puzzles together, chatting about their shared work, or just sitting in companionable silence. They were the only family either of them had left in the world.

Imogen opened the newspaper to the puzzle page. Grandfather paid no attention to the paper or his muffin. His gaze flitted around her, like he was watching a fly buzzing about the room, but the windowless room had no flies. The light bulb crackled and blinked a few times. Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, Grandfather looked directly at Imogen. His gaze seemed to register her presence. “Immy…”

Tears welled in her eyes at the sound of her name, after so long. “Yes, Grandfather, I’m here.”

He reached for her hand. “I’ll be so sorry to leave you, but I don’t have much time left.”

“Of course you do. The doctors say you’re in good health. You just need to rest here until you get back to normal.”

“I will never be normal again. Not after what I’ve seen.”

“What did you see?” She desperately wanted to know what had happened to him and his team in those caves. Where had he spent the past year? And how did he get all these peculiar scars that covered nearly every inch of his skin? Her fingers traced the raised welts on his right forearm. The symbols looked akin to a mixture of hieroglyphs and Sanskrit, only older perhaps. Anthropologists at the British Museum had been at the task since Grandfather returned from the caves of Kahf Alssulta. Apart from a few symbols – the all-seeing Eye of Horus carved into Grandfather’s forehead and an ankh and scepter into each cheek – none of the writings matched any known language. The way the symbols covered his head and back, it was clear the markings had not been self-inflicted. Someone had done this to him.

“Grandfather, please…tell me what you discovered in the tomb.”

“The only way to understand is to go there.” Grandfather took her hands in his and looked at her deeply. “Dr. Trummel will take a team next month. You must go with them, Immy. Promise me.”

For months, she had requested that the British Museum’s board of trustees let her lead a return expedition. They had said no, citing safety concerns. Would they really back Trummel? After Grandfather was found wandering the desert and taken to a hospital in Egypt, Trummel, who had been working a dig near Cairo, had brought Grandfather safely back to London. For that, she was grateful. But she and Trummel were competitors too, both vying for the museum’s strained resources, both interested in the same site. To make matters more complicated, not long ago they had been lovers in a secret affair, and she was reluctant to work with Trummel ever again.

Grandfather dropped his voice to a whisper. “I am leaving you something. Use it to secure a spot on Trummel’s team.”

“It should be our expedition, yours and mine.” She desperately wanted to believe he could recover and they could work together again. “You’re getting well. We’ll have more adventures in Egypt. Like before.”

“I would love that too.” He gave her a tired smile. “If I were only able. But we must be honest with each other. I won’t be returning to the desert. Go with Trummel. I need to know that you will carry on my work. Promise!”

“Of course. I’ll go whether Trummel bloody likes it or not.”

“That’s my girl.” He gripped her hands tight. “Go forth, Immy, but be wary like the rabbit, always alert of face.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, not understanding his cryptic warning.

But before he could answer, the awareness left his eyes.

In seconds, he was gone. He crossed the room and resumed the strange whispering.