Chapter Four

Highgate Cemetery

London

A cold October dampness clung to the headstones and crosses and dripped from the ivy that enveloped the surrounding crypts and trees. As the chill seeped through his suit, Dr. Nathan Trummel felt mixed emotions. He mourned the loss of the man who had been his mentor and friend. Had their opposing views not divided them in recent years, perhaps Trummel might have shed a tear for Dr. Harlan Riley. Over a hundred people had come to honor and mourn him, including board members, curators and staff of the British Museum, as well as colleagues and former students from Oxford.

The museum’s board of trustees had spared no expense. Harlan’s final resting place was a free-standing tomb in Highgate Cemetery’s prestigious section called West Cemetery, in view of the gateway of Egyptian Avenue. His coffin, engraved with Egyptian gods and hieroglyphs, looked fit for a pharaoh. Centered on the casket’s lid was the ibis-headed god, Thoth.

Sir George Harington gave the eulogy. “It is with enormous sadness in our hearts that we say goodbye to Dr. Harlan Riley, one of the greatest scientists of our age, who discovered and amassed an astounding collection of historical treasures for the British Museum while at the same time teaching and mentoring the next generation of explorers and archaeologists. It is a rare individual who can manage both…”

Trummel found Imogen Riley in the crowd. She stood nearest the coffin. He could tell by her posture that Harlan’s thirty-two-year-old granddaughter was crying. Even in mourning, dressed all in black, her hair pinned beneath a pillbox hat and small veil, Imogen was a beauty. Beside him Bonnie seemed to sense that his attention had drifted. She glanced at him, then at Imogen.

Does Bonnie know? Trummel studied his wife’s expression. She held her gaze straight ahead, her features purposely blank.

* * *

After the final prayer, Imogen placed a bouquet of white lilies on her grandfather’s coffin. Then pallbearers carried the casket into the tomb.

An hour later most of the mourners had left the cemetery to attend a reception at the museum. Imogen stayed behind to be with Grandfather. A dozen bouquets adorned his tomb. The floral fragrance combined with the mossy dampness of the ancient stone made her think of home and the garden pond where Grandfather used to read her books. She still couldn’t believe the man who’d raised her, who’d been her whole world, was suddenly, impossibly, gone.

Her grandfather had been the last of her family. Imogen hadn’t felt this much sorrow since she’d lost her parents when she was eleven. It was as if her chest had been hollowed out.

Grandfather had been a kind man. He’d done his best to fill the void. Only as an adult was she beginning to understand all that the middle-aged widower had taken on when his young granddaughter appeared on his doorstep. He’d proven himself up to the task, though. He’d taken extra care to make sure she knew how much he loved her, to make it clear she belonged with him. I am yours and you are mine. Grandfather had said that every night when he’d tucked her into bed. Imogen had traveled with him all over North Africa and Asia. She had rarely felt alone. Until now.

From her purse, she pulled out the leather journal he’d written in during his months in the asylum. Most of the pages were scrawled with black ink and made little sense. There were many peculiar sketches among them, some of ancient Egyptian symbols, others too bizarre to comprehend. The final pages he’d written in his own blood were an even bigger mystery.

Still, Imogen treasured the strange book; it contained Grandfather’s last words to her.

Immy, when you lost your mum and dad, I did my best to be there for you. Perhaps, not in the way a child needs a proper parent. The memories I cherish most are of the expeditions when you came along as my sidekick. You seemed as excited about the treasure hunt as I. Whatever you choose to do in this world, my precious girl, know that your grandfather loves you.

She thought about his life’s work, his endless quest to find Nebenteru’s tomb. Imogen never believed, as others did, that her grandfather’s claims were gibberish, babblings of a departed mind. She still meant to prove that what he had witnessed in the cave tomb was real, that the symbols etched into his body were indeed, as he swore, “superior knowledge beyond man’s understanding.”

Imogen leaned into the crypt, pressing her hand to the coffin. “Grandfather,” she whispered. “Whatever it takes, I promise to see your work finished.”

“I echo that promise.”

Imogen turned, surprised. Nathan Trummel stood behind her with his wife.

Bonnie stepped closer and put a hand on Imogen’s arm. “I am deeply sorry. I lost my mum last year, and I still miss her. If you need to take some time away from the museum, I’ll make sure my father approves it. A week, a month, however long you need. And you’re welcome to stay at our country cottage in Cornwall. No one is there this time of year.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” Imogen had trouble looking Trummel’s wife in the eye.

Bonnie smiled. One corner of her mouth quivered. She knows, Imogen suddenly understood. Bonnie hugged her tight, then turned to her husband. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

Neither Trummel nor Imogen spoke until Bonnie passed beyond a row of crypts and out of sight. Alone for the first time in months, neither seemed to know what to say. The last time they were together, he had told her how much he missed her and tried to convince her to meet him at their favorite hotel. While Imogen had missed him too, she turned him down. They had quarreled and parted ways. He had barely spoken to her since.

“I’m here to pay my respects,” he finally said. “I owe so much to your grandfather.”

Imogen tried to read Trummel’s face. The archaeologist, who always wore khaki, looked out of place in a black suit and tie. The knot was slightly crooked. He’d slicked his dark hair back with too much Brylcreem. He had keen eyes, a commanding presence, and he lived solely for his passions – his beliefs, his work. For a short time he’d been passionate about her. Standing next to him stirred up buried feelings.

“I’m really sorry, Im,” Trummel continued. “I know how much he meant to you.” He opened his arms and she stepped into them.

“I feel so lost.” She was glad to share the burden of her grief with someone. But their embrace wasn’t the same. His body felt rigid; he held her at a distance. Nathan Trummel was unavailable, and not because he was married. His feelings for Bonnie posed the least of his barriers.

Imogen still believed that no two people were more right for each other than she and Nathan. They had split finally because he wouldn’t leave his wife. “You have to understand, divorcing Harington’s daughter would be suicide for my career.” Trummel had once confessed this in bed while Imogen lay with her head on his chest.

Since Imogen had refused to continue their affair, Trummel had been cold to her. Now she realized that he was here with an agenda. She pulled away. “What do you want, Nathan?”

“You know.” He nodded at the journal in her hands.

“I told you I won’t part with it.”

“Imogen, be reasonable. Some of what your grandfather wrote could be useful to the museum. There might be answers in the journal that help us understand what happened to him and his team.”

“I’ve combed through the book,” she said. “Most of it is indecipherable.”

Trummel placed a hand on her shoulder, softer now, a lover’s touch. “Think about it, Im; somewhere in Egypt’s Eastern Desert sits a mountain riddled with caves.” His tone had changed; now he spoke with the same charming enthusiasm as when they lay in bed together and he shared his ambitions. “In one of those caves rests a mummy’s tomb that King Ramses II secretly had buried and sealed away. Finding that tomb would be a great discovery for the museum. We must find it before the Yanks, the Egyptians, or bloody Hitler’s Reich claims it. You want to honor your grandfather by finishing his life’s work. So do I.”

“And you’re convinced that his journal is the key.”

“I’m willing to stake my entire career on it,” Trummel said. “Hell, I gave my word to the Crown and all of England.”

Imogen remembered his bold statement in the London Herald. She held the journal tight, unsure if she could trust him. “I couldn’t bear to lose this.”

“At least give me the last page,” Trummel insisted. “The map he drew in blood.”

She cocked her head. “What are you going to do with it?”

He sighed. “I told the board that Harlan’s map could potentially lead us to where his team disappeared and from there we will find Nebenteru’s tomb. They’ve agreed to fund another expedition.”

It still infuriated her that Trummel had not included her in the meeting. She tempered her anger. The last thing she wanted was to get into a row in front of Grandfather’s tomb.

She opened the journal and flipped to the last page. “It’s only a partial map. He didn’t finish it.”

“It’s a start,” Trummel said. “Give me the map and I’ll set out to find the tomb. When I do, I’ll send for you to join me. This will be our expedition. Whatever we find, we’ll share equal credit.”

“The credit should be Grandfather’s.”

“Of course. We’ll call it the Trummel-Riley Expedition. Harlan’s name will be included with ours. What do you say?”

Imogen broke Trummel’s gaze and stared at Grandfather’s tomb. The epitaph engraved on his vault’s plaque read:

DR. HARLAN ALDRIDGE RILEY

BEYOND THE MYSTERIES OF MAN AND GODS

AN EXPLORER’S QUEST NEVER ENDS

Teaming up with Trummel would allow her to carry on Grandfather’s work and hopefully learn what he had discovered. She recalled a passage in his diary: I have witnessed miracles. Nightmares. Forgotten realms. If I could but make you believe. They lie in Egypt, in Nebenteru’s tomb. Seek its knowledge for yourself.