Chapter Fifty-Seven

London, January 6, 1980

Eve had no idea where she was. The room was unfamiliar and it was full of strangers. She mostly sat at the window watching the rain. It was bucketing down, dripping off the eaves, gushing down the drainpipe, and bouncing off the surface of puddles on the path. She was pretty sure it was afternoon but they had the overhead lights on, and a television set was blaring away.

She shifted in her chair to look around. Some very old-looking people were watching television, hunched silently in their chairs. How dull they must be, not even making conversation. Earlier, a jolly girl had made them sit in a circle and asked them to throw a ball to one another, but Eve couldn’t be bothered. She didn’t even try to catch it, so after a while they stopped throwing to her.

Her husband came and went and she never knew when he would be there again. It made her sad when she thought about him. Why did he leave her? She knew he loved her, so why did he go?

“There’s a visitor to see you,” said one of the young ladies who worked there. “Her name is Ana Mansour. She says she’s a friend of yours. Shall I show her in? I could bring tea and biscuits.”

The name meant absolutely nothing to Eve. Was it her daughter? One of her grandsons’ girlfriends? Perhaps one of her brother’s children . . . They’d gotten married and she could never remember their married names.

“Alright.” She nodded. “Tea and biscuits would be nice.” Her voice was croaky and she realized it had been a long time since she’d spoken out loud, although there was a constant conversation in her head, going on and on until it tired her so much she dozed off.

She didn’t recognize the woman who was walking toward her, not even a flicker. Long dark hair, brown eyes, a black trouser suit. She’d never gotten used to women in trousers, showing their bottoms so clearly. This woman’s trousers were tight around plumpish thighs. A flowing skirt would have looked so much nicer.

“I never wore trousers,” Eve told her after they’d said hello. “We left that to the men. They’re not very flattering, are they?”

The woman seemed amused. “My generation is doing everything men used to do, and doing it better most of the time.”

“Not everything,” Eve said. There were things her husband could do that she could never have attempted, but she couldn’t think of an example at that precise moment.

A lady in a light blue uniform brought the tea trolley and poured cups for both of them. “Careful. It’s hot,” she said as she put one down beside Eve.

Eve found that rather patronizing. Of course tea was hot! But she didn’t comment. People often said things like that when you were elderly.

“Lady Beauchamp,” her visitor said. “One of your old neighbors told me you were living here now. Do you remember eight years ago I used to come to your house to ask you questions about your life?”

“Of course,” she said, although she didn’t. She had learned it didn’t matter what she said because people told her what they wanted her to know.

“We talked about you visiting Tutankhamun’s tomb. We were recording your memories, do you remember?”

Eve watched her talking, a look of studied concentration on her face. “Yes, of course.”

“Do you remember we talked about the missing gold container from the tomb, and I asked if you knew where it was? I think you did know. I wonder if you can remember now. Maybe you hid it somewhere?”

Had she? Eve was baffled. Why would she hide it?

“Or maybe you brought it here with you?”

“I very much doubt that,” Eve replied, looking around. “But I’ll have a think and let you know.” She had a gulp of tea but it burned her mouth so she spat it back into the cup. The scorched feeling on her tongue was unpleasant.

“I wanted to ask you more questions and see if I can jog your memory about that lovely gold container you took from Tutankhamun’s tomb. It would be nice to know where it went, don’t you think?”

The visitor seemed keen to ingratiate herself. She had good skin, Eve thought, with no pimples, so she couldn’t understand why it was coated in thick pancake makeup, like actors wore onstage. And those black smudges above and below her eyes made her look half-dead. Maybe it was the new fashion.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” she replied, when she realized the visitor was waiting for an answer. “I don’t remember anymore.”

The visitor mulled this over. “Could we at least try? Maybe something will jog your memory.”

“I won’t be much help,” Eve warned. “I know nothing now.”

It was true. She could remember that she used to know a lot of things, and that she’d had a busy life, but the details had gone. It didn’t make her sad; it was just a fact, like rain being wet and tea being hot.

“You don’t remember Tutankhamun?” the woman asked.

Eve shook her head. “No, dear.”

She seemed very disappointed at that. “Howard Carter? Do you remember him?”

Eve pretended to scan her memory. “No, sorry.”

She sighed. “If I show you some pictures, do you think it would help? Or I could read out to you the memories you told me last time.”

That sounded nice. Her daughter read to her sometimes. Eve found it impossible to concentrate on the story but she liked listening to her voice.

“I’m a bit tired today. Come back tomorrow. And could you bring some sherry?” she asked. “They don’t serve it here. I’ve no idea why not.”

The woman smiled. “I’ll come back tomorrow and bring some sherry, and read to you. That would be lovely.”

When she came the next day they sat in Eve’s bedroom—so no one could spy on them, the woman said. She had brought a bottle of sherry and a glass in her leather shoulder bag and Eve sipped it while she listened to the story. It was very relaxing.

When the woman had finished, she said: “I wonder if you remember anything about that gold container you took from the tomb. It’s very important you try to remember.”

Eve wanted to help, she really did. She had a trick of sliding her brain sideways; that sometimes worked. She thought about what she was trying to remember and let her mind drift away from it, and sometimes the answer came. “I might know,” she said. “Yes, it’s possible.”

“Where is it now? Can you tell me?” Her tone was urgent.

Eve tried sliding her brain, but she got distracted by the smell in the room.

“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” she asked. “It reminds me of something.”

“Patchouli,” the woman replied and held out her wrist so Eve could smell it up close.

“It smells like my old rose garden in the rain,” Eve said. Another waft of perfume reached her nostrils. Then she remembered the thing that she’d been trying so hard to remember. She remembered where the gold container was. There was a picture in her head, clear as anything.

In the memory, she was climbing up to the attic and searching frantically through boxes until she found it. The scent was overwhelming, making her giddy as she paused at the top of the attic ladder, one of those extending metal ones that slid down with a thud. She probably shouldn’t have been climbing ladders but she knew she had to get rid of the gold box because it was cursed.

She climbed back down the ladder, clinging on for dear life, and took the container out to the garden, where she dug a hole right in the middle of the rose bed and threw it in. That way, her family would be safe. Everyone would be safe. She covered it with soil and patted it down firmly.

Suddenly Eve became aware that her husband was in the room with them. “Don’t tell her where it is,” he said. “She’s trying to trick you.”

The visitor was giving her an odd look and she wondered if she was muttering to herself. She did that sometimes.

“She brought me sherry,” Eve told him. “She seems nice.”

“She lied to us,” he said. “She’s not who she says she is.”

“It’s in the rose garden. Don’t forget,” Eve said out loud.

The woman blinked. “What about the rose garden?”

“You know . . . the thing we were talking about.” Damn! What was the name of it?

Light dawned in the woman’s eyes. “The gold container is in the rose garden. Which rose garden?”

“I buried it.” She could hear her husband sighing. He was exasperated with her.

The woman cleared her throat. “You didn’t have a garden in London. Do you mean at your house in Framfield?”

Eve didn’t recognize the name, but she said yes all the same.

“Why did you bury it?”

“To make us safe.” She was surprised the woman didn’t understand.

Her face lit up. She was clearly very pleased. “You mean because of the curse?”

Eve smiled back. “Of course. Why else?”

“But that’s wonderful! Thank you for telling me.” She stood up as if she couldn’t wait to leave. “Would you like me to leave the rest of the sherry with you? You can hide it and have a drink whenever you like.”

Eve thought that was a splendid idea. “Thank you. Perhaps you could put it in there.” She pointed to a cupboard by the bed.

The woman put the bottle inside. “Thank you, Lady Beauchamp,” she said, shaking her hand. “It’s been a great pleasure talking to you.”

“Silly old Pipsqueak,” her husband said, as the visitor walked off into the corridor and turned toward the swinging doors that led to the outside world.