| |
‘W
ould you say that again, please, Norroy?’ Emma Lestrade said, gazing into his dark eyes.
His face resembled a beetroot by now and the muscles in his neck, still not fully restored after his altercation at the Mosque El-Muayyad, were rigid as a dirigible.
‘I said,’ he just about managed to repeat, ‘will you m . . .’
‘That’s enough of that!’ A whirlwind in a sodden jacket and a dripping Panama hurtled past him.
‘Daddy?’ Emma broke free of the Inspector’s clutches.
‘Guv?’ The Inspector broke free of hers.
‘Sholto?’ Fanny put her head around the door. ‘Are you all right, dear? You appear to be steaming. I know it’s July, but . . .’
‘Shut up, woman, and pass me that shirt.’
She did, while he hauled at button and stud. ‘If you want to know, I fell in the river.’
‘Daddy, are you all right?’
‘You turn your back, young lady,’ her father snapped, down to his combs at this point. ‘God, you’d think I’d have dried out by now, wouldn’t you? It was standing room only on the train, even if everybody else was standing upwind of me.’ He grabbed his old bowler, out of season though it was. ‘Don’t ask me how it happened.’ He put a hand on each of his ladies’ shoulders. ‘If you ever smell this smell again,’ he said, ‘you’ll know it’s Avon calling and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll run like merry hell. I’ll have to borrow your copper, Emma. Got your station wagon, Norroy? Good, I can use your considerable powers of arrest.’
And then he was gone.
‘Oh, Fanny.’ Emma stood there, staring after Macclesfield’s exhaust.
Fanny put her arm around the girl’s neck. ‘He’ll be back,’ she said. ‘I promise you.’
It was a little after ten that the Yard men, past and present, knocked on the door of the suite at the Grand. It was opened to them by a sultry-looking woman in dark glasses.
‘Mr Lestrade,’ she said. ‘Mr Macclesfield, how nice!’ And she kissed them both. ‘I’m afraid Jack’s not here at the moment, but he shouldn’t be long.’
‘It’s not Jack we came to see,’ Macclesfield told her. ‘It’s you, Tilly.’
‘Oh.’ Her smile froze. ‘How lovely. Do come in. Can I get you a drink?’
She showed them into an opulent lounge, Art Deco lamps illuminating the walls, slashed with hideous Art Deco wallpaper.
‘Matilda Holinshed,’ Macclesfield said, ‘I am arresting you in connection with the murder of Alain Le Clerk on or about . . .’
‘What?’ Her shriek cut Macclesfield’s sentence short. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’
‘Poison, Tilly,’ Lestrade said. ‘Hyoscine. Though how you passed yourself off as a man to obtain it I’ll never know.’
‘If that’s a compliment to my femininity, Mr Lestrade,’ she said archly, throwing her head back, ‘I thank you for it. Are you seriously suggesting that I killed . . . what did you say his name was?’
Lestrade sat down uninvited. ‘His name’, he said quietly, placing his bowler on the table beside him, ‘was Alain Le Clerk. It’s my guess you met him in Cairo and when you told my daughter you were visiting the Fahmy Beys in Damietta, in reality you were accompanying Le Clerk to the Valley of the Kings.’
‘Was I really?’ There was cold hatred in her voice and she sat down too.
‘What you didn’t bargain for was Harry Burton and his camera. He took a snap, didn’t he? A photograph of you and Le Clerk quite obviously not getting on. And that was odd.’
‘It was?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Macclesfield said. ‘You see, Monsieur Le Clerk got on with anybody in a skirt. Except you.’
‘We had to work out why,’ Lestrade said. ‘It’s my guess that you poisoned him over luncheon. Slipped henbane into his coffee and then, for whatever perverse reason I can only guess, told him you had.’
‘Enough to cool any man’s ardour, I would think,’ Macclesfield said.
‘You can’t prove it,’ she said levelly.
‘We can have the photograph blown up, Mrs Ralph,’ Lestrade said.
‘Who?’
‘The sobrickay you used when you visited the Valley of the Kings. Oh, I must confess I’ve been up a few blind alleys over the past months. Hortense Weigall, the archaeologist’s wife; Corinna Smith, the archaeologist’s wife . . . even Madame Fahmy . . .’
‘. . . the dead bugger’s wife,’ Macclesfield chipped in.
‘Quite,’ Lestrade said. ‘Thank you, Norroy. But you gave yourself away by using the name “Ralph”. I’m not much of a Shakespearean scholar, I will admit, but the world’s greatest living writer told me only this morning who Ralph Holinshed was – and everything fell into place.’
‘How nice for you,’ she scowled. ‘You’re clutching at straws, Lestrade.’
‘No, I did that this morning,’ he smiled. ‘Or was it lilies? Would you take off your glasses, Miss Holinshed? I’m sure you don’t need them in this subdued light.’
She looked at them both, her interrogators, her inquisitors and she did as she was asked.
‘Matilda Holinshed,’ Macclesfield said, ‘I am arresting you also for the malicious wounding of Emma Bandicoot-Lestrade,’ and he blushed crimson at the name, ‘and the attempted murder of Almina, Lady Carnarvon, at Wembley Stadium . . .’
‘This is preposterous!’ Tilly was on her feet, still elegant, still cold, lighting a cigarette with a slightly shaking hand.
‘There’s a little boy I know,’ Lestrade said quietly. ‘His name is Algie. Observant little chap. I think he’d know those eyes anywhere. Those weak eyes that had to be kept out of the sun. Those poor, dear eyes that my daughter assumed were so badly sunburned. But they’re not sunburned, are they, Tilly?’ Lestrade was leaning forward, whispering. ‘They’re tattoos. Dr Smith, the legal doctor in Cairo told me it’s a custom, especially among high-born Egyptians. Mr Macclesfield here has the power to arrest you under any name you like, but it would be nice to have your real one.’
‘Smenkhkare,’ a voice thundered behind them.
‘Jack!’ Lestrade called, but he was too late. There was a crash of gunfire and Norroy Macclesfield went down, a dark red stain spreading over his shirt, his left arm flailing uselessly.
In a second the muzzle of the gun was inches from what was left of Sholto Lestrade’s nose. ‘Not Jack,’ its firer hissed. ‘Horemheb.’
‘Let me go to him,’ Lestrade asked.
‘Let him bleed to death,’ Holinshed growled. ‘You’d better sit down, Lestrade. I’d hate you to go to your grave only partially aware of why I’m sending you there. Smenk, the door.’
She ran past Lestrade, flicking the lock.
‘If you’re wondering why no one’s come to investigate that shot’, Holinshed smiled, easing himself back on to the settee as the gunsmoke cleared, ‘you have to realise that we are on the fifth floor. Our suite occupies all of it – a rather discreet penthouse. There’s also a Ball on the ground floor,’ he flicked his expensive evening-dress lapel, ‘which is why I was late.’
‘You can’t have expected us.’ Lestrade frowned, trying to see how Macclesfield was.
‘No,’ Holinshed conceded. ‘No, we didn’t. But’, he waved the gun, ‘we were ready.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Lestrade nodded. ‘Madame Fahmy’s Browning automatic. Which one of you did that?’
‘I did,’ Tilly said, pouring a drink for Jack and herself. ‘I always had a stronger grip than dear, simpering Marguerite.’
‘Are you going to tell me why, then?’ Lestrade asked, sinking his back against his chair.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said icily, passing her brother a scotch.
‘I don’t know,’ Holinshed said. ‘Perhaps he would. You’ve been there, Lestrade. To Egypt. To the Valley of the Kings. Our Valley.’
‘Your Valley?’ Lestrade frowned.
‘Our country, right or wrong,’ Holinshed said. ‘It must be a long time since you were in school, Lestrade, so I hope you won’t be bored by the following little lesson in history.’
‘Ooh, goody,’ Lestrade said, without smiling. ‘History! My favourite.’
‘Once upon a time,’ Holinshed began, ‘there was a great Pharaoh called Akhenaten. Oh, he was a heretic, but a great one. Unfortunately, he had a feeble-minded son whom he called Tutankhamun . . .’
‘He of the tomb,’ Lestrade said.
‘I’m glad you’re following this,’ Holinshed grinned, ‘because I shall be asking questions later. Tutankhamun, the likeness of the living God, was only fifteen or so when his skull was caved in by the boy-king’s personal tutor, Ay, who was also his step-grandfather. I suspect that had we allowed Carter to get any further with his digging, he’d have found a hole in the mummy’s head.’
‘I’m riveted so far,’ Lestrade told him.
‘When Ay killed the rightful king and usurped his throne, there was a faithful general, away fighting to the south of Thebes.’
‘General Horemheb.’ Tilly had crossed to her brother and draped her long, sinewy fingers around his neck.
‘He was a great warrior,’ Holinshed said, sipping his whisky. ‘His victories are emblazoned all over the inner chambers of Tutankhamun’s tomb. He fought his way north, and hacked off, according to legend, the bald head of Ay and his son, Nakhtmin. This was some time around 1319, before the birth of your Christ. Horemheb founded the Nineteenth Dynasty, and all trace of Ay and his cursed line was destroyed for ever. Rather like you and Macclesfield,’ Holinshed smiled, ‘it was as though they never existed.’
‘There’s a comforting thought,’ Lestrade nodded soberly. ‘I don’t see where you and Tilly fit in.’
‘“Jack” and “Tilly” were just convenient labels,’ Holinshed said. ‘As was the surname. The world turns, Lestrade. Three thousand years ago, the world was Egypt. Now, it’s Britain.’ A mocking smile crossed the man’s face. ‘I note however that the Empire is cracking. The Union Jack will cease to flap over a quarter of the earth soon . . . to be replaced by . . . who knows? The stars and stripes? The hammer and sickle? When Smenk and I were young, our parents, like ourselves Guardians of the Gate, taught us to be English. We went to the British School in Cairo, then I to Harrow and Smenk to Roedean. We even dyed our hair to make us more British. And our thorough immersion into your Shakespeare gave us the name of the chronicler Holinshed. And it worked . . .’
‘. . . Except for the eyes,’ Lestrade reminded him.
‘Except for the eyes,’ Holinshed acknowledged. ‘It was the custom among the Pharaohs and has been among people of our class for generations. We were waiting, Smenk and I, for the world to turn again. For the time we could take our rightful places on the thrones of Upper and Lower Egypt.’
‘Where does Zagloul fit into this?’ Lestrade asked. ‘And isn’t there some sort of Sultan chappie?’
‘There is a king, yes,’ Holinshed growled contemptuously. ‘But Fuad the First is in reality Ahmed Fuad, a jumped-up little nobody who has been placed on the throne by you British – a puppet of a dying Empire. As for Zagloul, he is the worst of hybrids – an Egyptian in his preparedness to kill and to scheme and to lie, but an Englishman in that he is prepared to embrace democracy.’
‘We,’ Tilly said, running her hands around Jack’s face, ‘are the rightful rulers of Egypt. My brother, my husband and I.’
‘There are three of you?’ Lestrade appeared to have missed something.
‘According to the old laws’, Holinshed smiled, ‘we Pharaohs take our sisters to wife. That way the line runs pure.’
‘I see,’ Lestrade said, remembering Marshall Hall’s rhetoric in his study that all this was something difficult for an Englishman to understand. ‘Then Carter found the tomb.’
‘Yes,’ Holinshed’s Browning had not wavered one iota from Lestrade’s head, for all the ex-Yard man hoped it would. ‘And that at once opened old wounds and posed problems. Who would have thought that the very grave of the boy-king so defiled, whose death led to Horemheb’s rise to power, would still be there, unviolated? But it was an Englishman who found it and an Englishman who financed the finding.’
‘But Carter – and Carnarvon come to that – intend to keep the finds in Egypt,’ Lestrade said. ‘You wouldn’t have lost them.’
‘If the infidel looks on the trappings of the boy-king,’ Holinshed said, ‘then that is defilement. It is not where the trappings go that is important, but the very fact of their going. Carter will prise out the body of Tutankhamun from its sarcophagus. He will unwind the winding sheets, the resin-soaked linen, with their secret amulets and he will bare the boy-king’s corpse to a greedy and alien world. Lindsley Hall will draw it; Burton will take his cheap, tawdry pictures. The sanctity and the heart of Egypt will have gone.’
‘So . . . Carnarvon had to die?’
‘Anyone connected with the tomb,’ Tilly said. ‘Although some were more important than others. Without Carnarvon, the money would dry up. Even then, we hoped that his death would end it. That they would reseal the tomb and leave Tutankhamun in his slumbers.’
‘So you killed Carnarvon with henbane?’
‘Yes,’ Holinshed said. ‘But he wasn’t our first victim.’
‘Ah,’ Lestrade nodded. ‘Albert Weez, the nightwatchman at St Bart’s.’
‘Precisely. We chose henbane because it grows so freely in Egypt – is the most common form of poison there, in fact. But I needed to have a readily usable form of the stuff. I’m no chemist.’
‘You obtained it from Pargetter, the pharmacist.’
‘Correct. He was suspicious, but corruptible. Every man has his price, Lestrade. Pargetter’s was one hundred pounds.’
‘But Weez disturbed you?’
‘The silly old duffer wanted to know what I was doing there, at that hour. The hospital was too busy during the day and Pargetter insisted that I come to get it myself.’
‘Because he intended to blackmail you,’ Lestrade said. ‘And having you on his premises gave him an extra edge.’
‘Correct again. I suppose I panicked and I smashed in Weez’s skull with a lead pipe. Then I smashed a window to make it look as though I’d forced an entry. I dragged Weez’s body away from the pharmacy to confuse the issue. But there was no confusing the bloodstain on the floor. It was obvious where he’d died. Pargetter said he’d smash the cabinet too, to make it look like a break-in and he’d falsify the records so that it appeared that something other than hyoscine had been stolen.’
‘He doctored the records, all right,’ Lestrade said, ‘but he didn’t break the cabinet.’
‘Why not?’ Holinshed asked him.
‘I don’t know,’ Lestrade said. ‘Perhaps he intended to throw suspicion on a colleague, a doctor perhaps. All it did, of course, was to throw suspicion on himself. He was trying to be too clever. But what I don’t understand is how you were able to get out to Egypt and back again to engage me.’
‘Simple,’ Holinshed smiled. ‘Remember the curse of the Pharaoh – “And death shall come on soft wings . . .”? The soft wings were mine. Fahmy Bey didn’t have a monopoly on money, Lestrade. Our parents left us nicely provided for. I have a yacht and a plane.’
‘Soft wings,’ Lestrade nodded.
‘Precisely. I flew out to Egypt. I’d known Carnarvon for years. Smenk had been to school with his daughter, remember. Odd that, Evelyn not telling you we were Egyptian; that was something that bothered us rather. Still, she’s rather a daffy girl, I’m glad to say, and all was well. I borrowed Carnarvon’s razor one morning and smeared it with the hyoscine I’d got from Pargetter. The hyoscine and something else.’
‘Ah yes,’ Lestrade said. The something else. What was that?’
‘It need not concern you,’ Tilly said, perching beside her husband-brother. ‘It is a concoction of the ancients, handed down through the centuries. It is not for infidels to know of it.’
‘I may not be a chemist, but I knew how to mix the two,’ Holinshed went on. ‘It is the most ancient poison that causes the delirium, the madness. I wanted Carnarvon to suffer before he died.’
‘As you wanted me to suffer,’ Lestrade said.
‘You were a pawn, Lestrade,’ Tilly dismissed him. ‘A mere shuttlecock in our game.’
‘I didn’t, at that stage,’ Holinshed continued, ‘want any other poison to be detected. So I wiped the razor clean and resmeared it with hyoscine only.’
‘That’s why it was still in Carnarvon’s tent in the Valley of the Kings.’ Lestrade realized aloud. ‘You were playing cat and mouse with me.’
‘I took the razor with me after Carnarvon had opened the old mosquito bite. He had others, should he be able to shave in the days left to him, so he wouldn’t notice the disappearance of one. I kept it, ready to slip back into his tent later. The schedule was punishing, but I made it. I probably set up a new flying record in getting back to England in time to meet you and Emma at Highclere.’
‘I sent the telegram.’ Tilly said, ‘as though from Evelyn. We knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.’
‘I still don’t understand,’ Lestrade said. ‘Why engage me at all?’
‘Remember we’d planned a number of deaths.’ Holinshed crossed to the table to pour himself another scotch. Still the gun did not waver. ‘Oh, the gullible might be frightened away by superstitious nonsense about the Pharaoh’s curse, the Kiss of Horus, guardian of the tomb; but the Parquet? Scotland Yard? That wasn’t likely. We knew of you, as we said we did, from Evelyn Herbert. If we had a famous detective, albeit a private one, and slightly gaga, working on Carnarvon’s death and those of the others, then something could be seen to be done. A string of “accidents” would only provoke suspicion and we’d have God knows how many policemen trampling everywhere, snooping. We had to show it was murder – hence the hyoscine smeared back on the razor. The hyoscine that would point in any direction in a land of henbane poisonings.’
‘But then
‘But then,’ Tilly said, ‘you got too close. So did Alain Le Clerk. He was entering into a deal with Carter. He’d promised him the backing of the French government if he signed over the tomb’s treasures to him. He was boasting of this openly in Cairo. As Mrs Ralph, I knew of his proclivities. With his revolting, clammy hands all over me, I accompanied him to the Valley, having doctored his drink in the morning with our potion. During the day, he became so nauseating that I cracked. I told him what I’d done, that he was dying. He had been kissed, not by me, but by Horus, and his only hope was to leave the Valley fast. He did. And he rode to hell.’
‘We had the plane waiting at Luxor,’ Holinshed said. ‘“Mrs Ralph” got there by donkey and we flew to Highclere as you’ve heard.’
‘And Aaron String was next?’
‘Another interloper,’ Holinshed said. ‘This time he offered to buy the tomb outright with his ill-gotten millions. Carter had refused, but he was a desperate man. He couldn’t be sure that Lady Carnarvon would continue to finance the expedition, so he might have given way. After all, he’d already shown himself susceptible to the blandishments of Le Clerk. I laced his drink.’
‘And he nearly blew my head off.’
‘That would have saved us a great deal of trouble.’ Holinshed sat back down on the settee. ‘You see, the hyoscine I’d stolen from St Bart’s was running low. Clifford Hanger was posing a threat because he was preparing to cheapen the find, selling his repulsive little Carnarvon razors and Tutankhamun propelling pencils. He was to die first and then the insufferable Merton of The Times.’
‘And the insufferable Lestrade of the Yard?’
‘Smenk and I split the dosage. We hoped it would be enough to kill you both. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. It merely caused delusions. Delusions from which you both recovered.’
‘So you used a gun.’ Lestrade said. ‘Nearly gave yourself away there, didn’t you?’
‘How so?’ Holinshed raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, you knew all about Aaron G. String’s brace of Colts in the Valley of the Kings when he blew his brains out, then suddenly, in Shepheard’s Hotel, you knew nothing about powder burns or bullets or anything else.’
Holinshed laughed. ‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘I will concede that I was working under pressure. Hanger had discovered I’d been out to the plane.’
‘To doctor the de Havilland’s engines.’
‘Yes. The perfect way to stop Carter once and for all.’
‘Tell me,’ Lestrade leaned forward, trying to see how Macclesfield was from the corner of his eye. ‘Did you kill Hanger with that gun?’
‘With my Browning, yes. This’, he clicked back the hammer, ‘is Marguerite Fahmy’s, remember.’
‘How could I forget?’ Lestrade sat back again.
‘Unfortunately, of course, in all the hoo-ha at the airport, I couldn’t defend myself with it. It might, even in those hysterical moments, have given the game away.’
‘But then’, Lestrade said, ‘you were on the plane, forced there by Zagloul’s boys. And the plane was due to stop in mid-air.’
‘So at that point’, Holinshed admitted, ‘I had to suggest to Mainwaring that we release the prop.’
‘And having your own plane, you knew this was possible. And having brazenly passed the Sirdar’s troops the night before on some pretext of checking the aircraft, you knew exactly how to put right what was wrong.’
‘Of course.’
‘But you were thoroughly rattled by this time,’ Lestrade smiled. ‘Come on, Holinshed, admit it. Your cool poisonings had given way to messy gunshots,’ he glanced at Tilly, ‘and feeble attempts at stabbing.’
‘Smenk did her best,’ Holinshed defended his sister-wife. ‘You kept Lady Carnarvon and Carter well under protection. A veiled Egyptian woman in a crowd under the VIP awning, though – well, that might work. It was unfortunate that Emma moved at just the wrong time.’
There was a moan from Macclesfield.
‘Oh dear,’ Holinshed frowned, ‘I must be slipping.’ And he swung the Browning sideways.
‘Then’, Lestrade shouted, ‘Pargetter got greedy, didn’t he?’ His heart sank a little towards the right place when he saw Holinshed’s gun muzzle swing back to him.
‘He did,’ the English-Egyptian said. ‘He’d read those busybody accounts in the papers by Merton and Weigall. He’d put two and two together. My name was there, together with mention of hyoscine. It didn’t take a genius.’
‘So you went to see him?’
Holinshed nodded. ‘Taking my trusty lead pipe.’ He smiled. ‘Pargetter thought I was reaching for my wallet. You’ve never seen a man look so surprised.’
‘Fahmy Bey was the riskiest of all, wasn’t he?’
‘In a way,’ Holinshed nodded. ‘But he had to go.’
‘He was another despoiler of tombs,’ Tilly said, her arm lolling round Holinshed’s neck. ‘You see, I did visit the Fahmy Beys when I was in Cairo. And he told me of his plans to force Carter to hand over the tomb’s contents which he, Fahmy, would then sell to the highest bidder.’
‘We knew how he treated Marguerite,’ Holinshed said. ‘The man was an animal. Ernani told us . . .’
‘Ernani,’ Lestrade frowned. ‘You mean . . .’
Holinshed nodded. ‘I was the third man,’ he said. ‘The Shadow of the Shadow of the Light. I got as close to Fahmy Bey’s secretary as Egyptian custom would allow – I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to be too graphic on that score. And I discovered that the Fahmy Beys were bound for London. Ernani handled all the bookings. He even arranged the row on the night of 10 July with his usual insidious remarks to Fahmy about his wife’s behaviour. All Smenk had to do was await her opportunity. I must admit, their row on their front doorstep, as it were, did play right into her hands.’
‘We knew that Marguerite had a Browning automatic,’ Tilly said. ‘Horem bought one just like it in Cairo, waiting for a chance to use it. Marguerite knew nothing about guns. It was perfect.’
‘But this,’ Lestrade waved his hand to the fallen Macclesfield, ‘this is far from perfect. How are you going to explain two dead policemen in your suite? After all, Horem . . . this isn’t the Valley of the Kings or some back alley in the Old Native Quarter. This is the Grand.’
‘You broke in,’ Holinshed said. ‘Barged your way through. Smenk was alone. You bullied her, making outrageous claims and accusations. Macclesfield became abusive. He hit Smenk and in a blind panic she retaliated, with the gun she keeps, like Marguerite Fahmy Bey, for her own protection.’
‘A British jury will never wear that,’ Lestrade said.
‘With Marshall Hall as Smenk’s defending counsel, they will.’
‘Well,’ Lestrade saw the sands of the desert running out before his eyes. ‘That all depends on how realistic you can make it, doesn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’ Holinshed asked.
‘How well Tilly . . . er . . . Smenk . . . can act and how convincing her injuries are.’
A cruel smile burst over Holinshed’s face. ‘We’ll see,’ he said and slapped her hard across the cheek. It was exactly the moment Lestrade had been hoping for – the moment when, almost for the first time, the Browning’s muzzle left him. He launched himself at the younger man, throwing all his weight against his gun arm. The Browning erupted, the second bullet in the automatic’s chamber crashing into the doorframe. Then the gun, knocked from Holinshed’s grip, slid across the floor.
Lestrade could give Jack Holinshed thirty years or more, but the latter had more height, more strength, the will of the born fanatic. While Tilly was still reeling from her brother’s slap, Holinshed and Lestrade struggled together on the Axminster.
‘Get the gun!’ Holinshed roared, grabbing Lestrade’s hair and battering his head down on the carpet.
Tilly dashed for it, but to do so she had to cross the fallen Macclesfield and with whatever strength remained to him, the fallen Macclesfield swung up an arm and Tilly went down. It was all he could manage, however, and the next instant she’d knelt upright, steadying the gun Lestrade knew she knew how to fire. The room was spinning, his spine jarring with each successive crunch of his head on the floor. With one desperate lunge, he clawed free his brass knuckles and drove them up under Holinshed’s rib-cage. There was a crash of gunfire and the English-Egyptian straightened, his eyes glazing, blood oozing from his mouth and nose.
Lestrade could hear Tilly gasp behind her dying husband- brother. He knew that she still had the gun in her hand, and Jack Holinshed, the last of the Horemhebs, toppled forward on to Lestrade’s legs.
The ex-Yard man lay slumped against the wall, one murderer pinning him to the floor, the other still kneeling, facing him across the room. His brass knuckles were still in his fist. Could he hope to throw the switch-blade inside them across to Tilly before she fired? He’d never followed his science lessons at school, but in his heart of hearts even he realized that the velocity of a bullet was likely to be faster than anything he could manage.
‘It isn’t over,’ he heard Tilly growl. ‘We have a son, Horem and I. He is now the Guardian of the Gate. What we have begun, he will finish.’
Lestrade closed his eyes, waiting for death. It was the way he’d rather go, if he had to go at all that is, come wind, come wrack, with his knuckles on his fist and his Donegal on his back. Except that it was a balmy July night and he’d left his Donegal at home. He didn’t expect to hear the shot that killed him, but he did. And the odd thing was, it didn’t hurt at all. The even odder thing was that he was still able to open his eyes. Tilly, Smenk, whatever the harsh world would choose to call her, was lying against the door, a neat black hole in her right temple. Her blood was trickling through her curly blonde hair and running down the doorframe to form a widening puddle on the floor.
‘Guv,’ Lestrade heard Macclesfield say, ‘are you all right?’
Lestrade hauled Holinshed off his legs and crawled across to the Inspector. ‘Tsk, tsk, Norroy,’ he said. ‘Lying down on the job again.’
Inspectors Hambrook and Fabian solved the Old Fogey Murders between them that summer. The torn warrant card had belonged to Inspector Dicky Tickner of P Division after all and after his trial, while he was trying on various types of straitjacket in Broadmoor, he explained to Percy Merton of The Times, just before the journalist went back out to Egypt with Howard Carter, how he’d just about had enough of old people. They were always shopping when he was. Always bought the last cream doughnut he’d got his eye on. Always in the post office picking up their pensions. He’d have got even more of them if he’d had time, but Merton, he was sure, knew how it was. With a full-time job and all, there just weren’t the hours in the day. But Tickner was one of their own. And so it was that neither Hambrook nor Fabian, when they came to write their memoirs years later, mentioned him at all. Neither, because of a certain few days spent in the Souk El Khasher, did they mention their adventures in Egypt.
The Carter expedition went ahead and the following year an astonished world looked for the first time in three thousand years on the golden face of the boy-king, the living image of God, Tutankhamun.
The Bandicoots came back from their extended safari in Africa, just in time to attend the wedding of their adopted daughter, Emma Bandicoot-Lestrade to Inspector Norroy Macclesfield of Scotland Yard. ‘Thank God,’ Lestrade had gasped when Macclesfield had come to him to ask for his daughter’s hand. ‘I thought you wanted to borrow some money.’
Sir Edward Marshall Hall got Marguerite Fahmy Bey off in September, as he said he would. There were three women in the jury and the usual howls of protest from the Egyptian government. The greatest defence lawyer in the world had a broad back. He could cope with that.
No one noticed, over the years, how the Kiss of Horus lingered on. As Madame Fahmy Bey went to trial, Aubrey Herbert, Carnarvon’s younger brother, died, quite suddenly. An X-ray specialist sent out to photograph Tutankhamun’s sarcophagus died en route to Egypt. Arthur Mace, working at Carter’s right hand, died before the tomb was fully cleared. Carter’s secretary, Richard Bethell, died in the Bath Club in 1929; his father, Lord Westbury, committed suicide soon after. And at Westbury’s funeral, the horse-drawn hearse collided with a little girl and killed her.
Others lived longer. Carter fell in 1939; Burton the photographer, a year later. Lady Evelyn Herbert, one of the first to enter the tomb, died in 1980.
These deaths were widely scattered, in place and time, from the Valley of the Kings. The stories of the curse of the Pharaoh died away, in the face of science and rationalism. No one really noticed the brown-eyed, fair-haired boy who grew into a brown-eyed, fair-haired man. ‘So good looking,’ some said, and Evelyn Herbert, before she died, did confide to her diary: ‘That charming man who poured me a Bucks Fizz at Stringfellows the other day . . . I wish I could think who he reminds me of . . .’
Other titles in the Inspector Lestrade series for your consideration: