Elizabeth meets Sir Malcom, Rookfield's contact in Cairo, and is not impressed. Jon is dealing with Elizabeth's mother now, as well as George and Lily and is feeling swamped by it all. Elizabeth visits the bazaars in search of the cure. And who is the veiled woman watching them all?
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
Elizabeth meets Sir Malcom, Rookfield's contact in Cairo, and is not impressed. Jon is dealing with Elizabeth's mother now, as well as George and Lily and is feeling swamped by it all. Elizabeth visits the bazaars in search of the cure. And who is the veiled woman watching them all?
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
THIS HOUSE WILL DEVOUR YOU: THE HUNGRY TOMB Season Two
A Podcast concerning love, madness, mystery, murder and dead gods in 1920's Ireland, England and Egypt.
THWDY Episode 2.02
'The Veiled Lady'
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Shepheard’s Hotel,
Cairo.
15th January, 1926
Dear Jon,
After the fresh air and balmy breezes of the Mediterranean Sea, Cairo is hot, dry and dusty. Today being a Friday the muslims are at their day of prayer, which means there is no milk arrived from the dairy for tea and I am having to adjust to drinking it without, which I am told is quite usual.
The hotel is comfortable and the public spaces highly ornate, but my Budget room is spartan and has seen better days – I think the cabin on the Nereid had nicer decorative touches! However I don’t intend to be here for long – I am aware of the urgency to obtain the charm that will restore George to good health and then perhaps I may return with it direct to you and George in Waterford. I must confess the green hills of Ireland have a nostalgic appeal as I gaze out of my window overlooking the bright, dusty street and see a group of men arguing with a vehemence that suggests it can only be about politics, while a three-legged dog hangs around them forlornly. To the southwest, looming over the city, are the mighty walls of the Citadel and the twin minarets and dome of the Alabaster Mosque.
I have not yet ventured to the cloth markets but I do have an appointment to accompany Sir Malcolm Whitton to the attar bazaar – the perfumers’ market – because he says therein may lie a clue to the requisite antidote. I had expected to be seeking an ancient ritualistic piece – an amulet, essentially – rather than a mystery potion, and I hope his direction is correct. We met yesterday for afternoon tea on the terrace at Shepheard’s. The place was busy with English tourists. I am told it is the place to be seen, and to watch the world go by. It was uncomfortably hot if you ask me and I was perspiring in a rather unladylike way, all the time waving away ubiquitous flies. There was milk then and some rather nice sticky sweet cakes, dates and oranges.
I was relieved to have a local contact in this foreign city, though I must confess Sir Malcolm did not inspire confidence. He is a large, well-built man, in his mid-forties, I would guess, with a North Country accent and the blustering air of the mill-owner about his demeanour. This I could fully accept given his business is in the cloth trade, but his overbearing manner also seemed directed at his poor wife, a thin, pasty-looking waif of a woman dressed in a very dull manner and as colourless in her personality as her dress. I would have thought a cloth baron to have been able to provide a finer wardrobe for his nearest and dearest! For all that he has been in the country for some time, he does not seem to have taken to the climate. He was red-faced in the heat with sweaty patches on his shirt at the armpits. I cannot relate this no-nonsense, bluff, domineering man to be someone who is a skilled seeker of esoteric knowledge.
There is something odd about him. He had a tendency to slip into morose silences and stare daggers at his wife, who ignored him. I had this feeling then of violence, that he desperately wanted to cut loose and roar at his wife. I can only conclude theirs is not a happy marriage on either side. It was all most uncomfortable. Sir Malcolm offered the tea and cakes around, proffering the tray directly toward me, completely excluding his wife who sat to my right. Then, in a rather clumsy performance, he put the tray down, picked it up with his right hand and said, “I’ll never get used to the “clean hand, dirty hand” etiquette in this place,” before once again offering it to me. I took a pastry with a slightly apologetic look at Mrs Malcolm, whose name, it turns out, is Mabel.
“Aye, lass,” said Sir Malcolm when we’d exchanged these formalities and he’d referred to Rookfield’s letter of introduction. “We’ll need to be helping that brother of yours without more ado. Each day asleep will take him further from a normal life and tha’ve already lost a fair bit of time in travelling here. A pity thee dissnt send a cable. Then again, it wouldnae have made much difference as we’re only back from the desert ourselves.”
Mabel then tried to ask something but was curtailed by such a rough “Silence, woman!” from her husband that I too, cowered in my seat. I tried to give her a bold glance to encourage her to speak again, but she shrank back into her seat and started fiddling with the thin gold band on her ring finger, seemingly retiring from the discussion.
I was worried about Sir Malcolm’s comment on the time factor. Do you think George is deteriorating? Perhaps once I have the required object I should fly home with it? There are some Air Force chaps here in the hotel and they seem far more companionable than anyone else I have met so far. It would be exciting to be in the air. I do believe there is a new sea plane passenger route via Athens and if it shortens the duration it would surely justify the expense. Anyway that’s the next step - the first thing is to secure the amulet.
“Do you know,” I asked, “what it is that will be the cure?”
“Coma,” said Sir Malcolm, “bought about by – what did tha say happened? Fire, was it? Fire will be quenched by water. Tis a watery solution we need. The Attar Bazaar will have the right eau de vie to restore the lad.”
“I am pretty sure I haven’t come all the way to Egypt simply to go sniffing perfumes in a market,” I said, sniffily. “I was led to believe we were looking for an ancient artefact with special powers – a talisman, essentially. If I wanted some smelling salts for George I could have got them from the local chemist and pushed them under his nose myself.”
“Ah well,” said he. “‘A talisman essentially’ so tha says. Tis the essence that could be the talisman, lass.”
I’d had quite enough of his riddles but I will nonetheless accompany him to the Attar Bazaar, as it will be educational, and who knows, perhaps there is something in his theory. However I have made a secret vow to seek out the talisman myself. I am sure from our experiences with the Kronos amulet in Kilphaun that it has to be an ancient, solid object that can be worn about a person.
We agreed to go soon as he is quite busy with other business, he claimed. Meanwhile I am at a loose end for the rest of the day. There is tennis that can be played in the gardens behind the hotel, but I don’t feel I came all this way for racquet sports either! Even in the cool of the hotel, the thought of voluntarily running around does not appeal. I have received a note from Irina, who is staying in some rooms in the artistic district, an area called Ezbekiyya, which I believe to be not so far away. I will send back and perhaps arrange to meet her for dinner tonight when there will at least be a pleasant chill in the air.
In the meantime, dear Jon, look after yourself and George and I will endeavour to be home again soon.
With love,
Elizabeth.
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3 Devlin Place
Waterford
January 21st
1926
My dearest Elizabeth,
I am very glad to hear you are safely ensconced in Cairo. I would have added, and in the care of Sir Malcolm, except he does not seem to be the ‘pleasant chap’ Rookfield described him as. But why am I not surprised at the company Rookfield would consider pleasant, your’s excepted of course? I hope you have sunshine, for it rains and it rains here. The days are short, damp and dark; none of it good for my lungs, I’m afraid.
I have spend some of that time in the library both to get out of the house but mainly to understand better the local situation you will find yourself in. Well, I had vaguely thought the turmoil in Egypt to have been resolved soon after the end of the Great War, but if anything it has become more complex. There is now an independent king and parliament, but Britain still controls the army, the police and much of the Administration. It would seem that Ireland was not the only part of empire in revolt in 1919.
My advice Elizabeth, would be to confine yourself as much as possible to the environs of one of the safer hotels. I understand the Shepard to be a little bit of England in Cairo. Let Sir Malcolm do the searching for you. I am told that Cairo is rife with secret societies fomenting political unrest. Please stay away from them! Your Esoterica Club will be nothing compared to these groups. It would be wise to assume that anyone in the administration who tries to cultivate friendship with you is, if Egyptian, working for the secret police, and if English, working for its equivalent: Special Section. They will be curious about a woman travelling on her own, especially once you start enquiring after unusual artefacts.
Why though, do I get the feeling you will ignore all my advice?
I have been asking around my contacts, meagre as they are, for anyone I might know in Cairo. If you do get into trouble, please find a Mr William Clarke in the Ministry of the Interior. He was a lieutenant in my company and a good friend at the time.
On more domestic matters, we had settled well into the town house. George has been set up in a comfortable room and I think his nurse, Mary, was a good find. She is no-nonsense and I am happy to let her get on with it. Your mother arrived two days ago and is as distraught as you can imagine with one child in a mysterious coma and the other gallivanting around the Middle East. It’s not as if I can explain it to her and I fear your mother blames me for everything that has happened. I am surrounded by Sandersons, except for the one I most want to be with!
She met with George’s doctor this morning and has convinced herself that the man is a charlatan. I fully expect her to start planning to get George back to England immediately. This may be a good thing, with all the accusing glares and silences she gives me. I have taken to long walks in the morning and evening.
I went to see Lily today in that dreary establishment. Rookfield has visited her again and seems to have been good for her, especially as he believed her story.
After she told me of his visit, she paused and drew on her cigarette, the smoke spiralling up in that dingy room.
“Do you believe me, Jon?” she asked.
I said, “I preferred it when I didn’t believe such things, but yes Lily, I do. How can I but, with what we have seen?”
Her shoulders had slumped in relief.
“Thank god!” she said, “though I suppose the question these days is which one…”
She said Rookfield, and I have to say I agree with him here, encouraged her to lie through her teeth to the doctors, that all her talk of dead gods underground was just a brain disturbance brought on by the fire and that she’s better now.
And here’s the nub of it and is in danger of drowning Lily in melancholy. Mts Southcliffe, her mother, is dragging her heels on sorting out Lily’s situation. I assume it is because bad enough that there is the whiff of scandal around the death of her brother, Lord Clonlaw, but scandal even closer to home must be avoided at all costs. She must be hoping to keep Lily out of sight until she has returned to her senses.
You hear stories of these places - no mother who ever loved her daughter would allow her stay left in one. So you can imagine how Lily feels. She is trapped between the State and her mother. She is not mad but she will be if she stays there much longer.
I told her again that Rookfield is working on a plan to help her, though I refrained from saying I wasn’t sure what he could do. Shamefully I myself am at a loss of how to get her out, bar dynamite.
When I got back to Waterford, Murphy was just taking leave of Mrs Sanderson. We exchanged a few words having arrived in the last while at a sort of armistice. Tragedy will do that sometimes. The Kilphaun household has been disbanded as the hall is no more and hopefully will never be rebuilt, but Murphy is being retained as a manager for the estate itself. What land has not been rented out to farmers already, will be now. Your mother would sell it all, but legally that is George’s prerogative. As Murphy left, it did occur to me that in fact I might know a man who could lay his hands on a few sticks of dynamite, if it came to that.
A message was waiting for me from Rookfield, hastily scribbled on a sheet of paper and stuffed in an envelope.
“Where were you Jon? I called this AM. I have a really bad plan. Get a damn haircut, shave off moustache and meet me outside the Wrenville in your best suit at 4pm tomorrow. Pack light bag for travel.”
God knows what that madman is planning. I have not been able to get hold of him. I hope a bad plan is better than no plan, for Lily’s sake. He is right about one thing though. I do need a haircut.
I am looking forward to your next letter both to know you are safe and that you will be returning home soon. I am beleaguered here but perhaps when I write again I will have better news.
All my love,
Jon.
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Shepheards Hotel,
Cairo
27th January
My dear Jon,
I hope you and all in Waterford are well or at least, continuing to show improvement. I have a small perfume bottle containing a potent essence which I am reliably informed will lift George from the evil spirits that have settled on him and restore him and hopefully also Lily to full health. I think the best thing is to despatch it post haste via the diplomatic bag which leaves tomorrow morning – an Air Force chap I have met, Stephen, recommends that as the quickest way to get stuff home. I could bring it myself and that was my original intention, but I am still concerned that a potion will not do the trick and an amulet is what is required. To that effect I am going to search the bazaars of Cairo myself as I have only scratched the surface of this incredible city.
This morning I am resting in my room with some cooling sherbet drink and taking it easy. Yesterday I was in at the deep end of local Cairo, with my trip to the bazaar along with Sir Malcolm’s factotum, Ali Ashraf. Sir Malcolm had cried off first thing in the morning, stating that his wife was ailing and needed attention. From the way he had treated her at tea on our first meeting, I thought his attentions to be the last thing she needed and I have to confess I was feeling very let down by men on this trip – not just Sir M but also thinking back to Dr Rookfield’s no show in Cork. Indeed, I know you meant well with your advice on who I should talk to, Jon, but I am doing quite well on my own so far I think. I reminded Sir Malcolm that time was of the essence - in his words - and I think he sensed my discomfiture, as he said as long as I was happy for Mr Ashraf to accompany me, we could go today.
Well I think it was much the best thing, as Mr Ashraf, being a true Cairene, born and brought up in the shadow of the bazaars, was a far more engaging and informative guide than I could ever have expected the Yorkshire mill-owner to be. Dressed in the standard local manner of a cotton tunic with various robes and scarves about his person, all topped with a fez, it was difficult for me to ascertain his age, but his general bearing was quite lively and I would say he was not much more than thirty, if that. When Sir Malcolm introduced us, he bowed low to me and said, “It would be an honour to accompany this lovely young lady to the attar bazaar where only the sweetest perfumes will be sufficient to enhance her beautiful countenance”.
Well, Jon! I was quite flattered but managed to retain my sense of purpose, which, as I reminded them, was not for delicate perfumes but for a cure for my poor stricken brother. Sir M muttered something to Mr Ashraf in the local dialect and both nodded agreement, so I trusted the objective was understood. Although, I must confess, I found myself wondering whether rose, jasmine or exotic patchouli would be nicest on our wedding day!
I scolded myself for such inappropriate thoughts and agreed that I was ready to set out immediately, so we did. Mr Ashraf hailed a small pony and trap and in we climbed. It was only a short journey though the streets were crowded and I felt for the poor animal, but I was glad when we alighted at the walls of the bazaar and was pleased to reward my nostrils with a finer aroma than that of the pony trap! Mr Ashraf said this was the Muski Bazaar and we would cut through it to the perfume market.
Well – my first time in an Egyptian market and I can only say it knocks Marlford’s weekly affair into a corner! Such fresh, luscious fruits and vegetables, glowing with colour and gleaming with freshness, piled high and overlain by an exciting scent of fresh spices – ginger, I suppose, and cinnamon, but many others too, with which I am not familiar. But this was just the entrance hall, beyond which we passed, jostling amongst the crowds, under an elegant arabesque arch inlaid with mosaic tiles, into a shadowy area in which the mixture of scents: fragrant, sweet, spicy, musky and pungent, combined with the throng of stallholders and shoppers, was frankly overwhelming. I felt slightly faint and grabbed Mr Ashraf’s arm, which seemed to surprise him, though he quickly regained composure and said to me, “Are you all right?”
I needed to take a few breaths before my senses adjusted to the conditions, whereupon I was overtaken by a powerful exuberance and knowledge that everything was going to be all right, that somewhere in here, and only here, was the right stuff for George, and that there was a magic in it, not just a simple chemical product such as you could buy in any old pharmacy. It had been bewitched by the gods themselves.
With Mr Ashraf leading, we crossed a busy market aisle that was full of antiquities from little trinkets to life size statues of animal headed men and women. Real or fake I didn’t know. I had a funny moment when I thought I saw a familiar face amongst the tourists. But when I looked again, there was no sign of him and anyway, Roland is helping the police with their enquiries in London, not gadding about here in Egypt.
We went past tiny shops and workshops. In some men made shoes and slippers, or jewelry, in others boys sat at small brass tables engraving intricate designs into them. All were keen to sell to the ‘English Lady’ but Mr Ashraf steered me past them all, occasionally calling out a greeting to one or two.
“This way,” said Mr Ashraf, leading the way down a narrow, quieter, avenue between stalls laden with small jars and clay pots, balanced precariously on narrow shelves and tables, into a darkened recess where the jars suddenly became much larger, like the amphorae of ancient Greece in which they carried olive oil and wine. They were almost at head height, and I hoped that George’s essence wouldn’t be required in such large quantities. We saw less and less people and I became increasing conscious of being the only foreigner, and a woman at that, in this part of the market as we pushed deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.
Mr Ashraf stooped suddenly and squeezed his way in between two of the larger jars, gesturing for me to follow. I was scared of tipping them over but they seemed solid enough and I realised that behind them was a small vestibule, lit by a single lantern, filled to the brim with small jars and pots, and a smoky, sensuous vapour filled the small space. But I could see no-one and I wondered, if this was the magic essence place, where the provender might be. I did not have long to wait. Mr. Ashraf tapped his foot on the floor three times and called, “Bastet! Bastet!” At first I thought he had said something slightly different and was concerned about invoking divine wrath, so was curiously relieved when a skinny grey cat insinuated its way into the room through a space in between some jars and sat down in front of us. Mr Ashraf felt in his robes and pulled out some dry biscuits or nuts, I couldn’t see which in the dim light. The cat sniffed and ate them eagerly, as cats do.
I was somewhat surprised to see the cat was wearing a collar round its neck, as our domestic pets do at home, and was even more surprised when Mr Ashraf tucked a small slip of paper, with a pencilled note on it, into it, muttering a faint tsh, tsh to the cat, which disappeared whence it had come. I looked at Mr Ashraf, who placed a finger in front of his lips, in the timeless gesture for silence. I kept very still, sensing I was in the middle of something liminal, a boundary between worlds. The noise outside of the bazaar and its business were gone, as nothing to the atmosphere in the small space, which was highly charged and yet calmly peaceful at the same time. Somehow it came as no surprise when the cat returned, this time bearing a small vial fastened to its collar with a red thread. Mr Ashraf bowed to the cat and relieved it of its load. He kissed the bottle and for a minute I thought he was going to kiss the cat but instead he bowed again, silently and said solemnly, “Meow”.
I almost felt like bursting into laughter at this point as the tension, so palpable a few minutes before, seemed to have eased. But I managed to restrain myself as the cat ignored this indignity and stalked off, its tail held high. Ashraf nodded to me and gestured we too should leave.
Outside the world of the bazaar was there as before, the cries of the vendors becoming more strenuous as the day wore on, anxious to do brisk trade before the midday break. I wanted to ask Mr Ashraf all about what had just taken place, but was reluctant, feeling there was some spell involved, and perhaps its powers lay in its secret nature. Instead I said “thank you”.
“Please do not mention it,” he replied. “I hope it is the right one. Bastet is usually most reliable, but sometimes she gets confused. I will let Pasha Malcolm know what took place and I am sure he will see fit for you to have the essence. Do you wish anything more before we leave?”
By now I was actually bursting for some fresh air, untainted by aromatic oils and powders, and although I would have loved to explore more, I remained aware that we had come on a specific, enchanted, mission, and we should not dilute its effect by mere sightseeing, so I agreed with him that we should return to the hotel. I fully intended to keep my eyes very closely on the vial however, not entirely trusting “Pasha” Malcolm’s intentions. I’d like to have seen him squeeze between those jars and bow to a cat!
In the end it was fine. We returned to the hotel and Sir Malcolm appeared promptly, glanced at the vial Mr Ashraf produced, and after a brief discussion, the bottle was mine. “Wrap it well,” said Sir M, “send it by quickest means, and by Jove let’s hope it will cure your brother. You must excuse me, I have an appointment,” and he abruptly took his leave. I was a bit startled by this but Mr Ashraf, in a confidential voice, told me that a member of Sir Malcolm’s expedition team had died unexpectedly during the night. Apparently he threw himself from his hotel window!
I didn’t really know what to make of this information and neither was I sure how to thank Mr Ashraf for his assistance. Mere money seemed crass, and I assumed he wouldn’t take a drink if I suggested it. However he saved me the bother by nodding vaguely and saying “It was a pleasure, Miss. I’ll see you again,” before departing.
This evening I was a bit at a loose end – I am seeing Irina tomorrow – so I took a stroll in the dusk around the gardens of the hotel – the hearty tennis players having all departed for their refreshments. It was very pleasant among the verdant foliage, tropical palm fronds and bright, bold hibiscus, together with a heavy night scent of frangipani. But the nights are surprisingly cool, I suppose it is still early in the year, and I only had a light shawl over my shoulders, so after only a little while I headed back inside.
The hotel lobby is large, opulent, and brightly lit by chandeliers and at that moment it was mayhem. A train must have arrived very late from Alexandria as new guests, laden with luggage, were blocking the doors as they queued to check in at reception, and in the opposite direction was a steady flow of existing guests heading out for the night, or at least trying to such was the crush at the main doors. Harried staff were rushing around trying to impose some order without any success, as the good cheer of guests turned to annoyance.
Two of the guests leaving were the Wittons. His wife was in the lead, her head down while Sir Malcolm, with a face fit to sour milk, trailed at her side. Thankfully I was aiming for the stairs not the street, so I pushed my way through the throng in the opposite direction. Glancing to my right I noticed in the busy lobby an Egpytian woman staring intently at the departing Wittons, Sir M by now carving a wake through the grumbling guests. She was a head taller than most of the guests and her face was obscured by a guazy black veil. She must have realised I had seen her because her head suddenly snapped around to now stare at me. Given I was in a crowd, it was all the more disturbing.
The hubbub of voices seemed to fade away as I kept going, aiming to get past whoever this strange, rude woman was. The crowd thinned out between us, people veering around her while at the same time not noticing her. I caught a proper glimpse of her now. She was standing straightbacked and still, her arms at her side, but something about her posture spoke of coiled energy. S he was wearing an antique, long red dress and chunky jewellery, both a necklace and bangles on her strong looking arms. The veil draped over her head was not what the local women wear here, but a lighter affair, like one might wear with a hat to a funeral. I could not make out her features but I could see the whites of her eyes as she turned her head to track my slow progress across the lobby floor. I felt unaccountably very afraid and there was a whispering at the edge of my hearing.
I had gone safely past her, feeling her eyes boring into my back all the time but when the stairs appeared in front of me, I suddenly became very annoyed at this rude woman and turned around intending to confront her. The lobby was mayhem again, the noise rushing back in and no sign of the veiled woman at all.
You will probably think me silly, Jon, and perhaps it is just Egypt overpowering me with its wonder and foreignness after a busy day. She was probably just a performer from one of the cabarets, here to advertise a performance on ancient Egypt. Still I am quite unnerved and have made sure my door and windows are locked.
With love,
Elizabeth.