Jon and Rookfield attempt to spring Lily from the asylum while Elizabeth has some surprising news...
Additional Sounds:
Jazz Loop by Niko Sardar (Creative Commons 4.0) https://freesound.org/people/NikoSardas/sounds/456797/
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
Jon and Rookfield attempt to spring Lily from the asylum while Elizabeth has some surprising news...
Additional Sounds:
Jazz Loop by Niko Sardar (Creative Commons 4.0) https://freesound.org/people/NikoSardas/sounds/456797/
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 2.03
'The Dog Headed Man'
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The Gallery Hotel,
Bloomsbury
London,
February 2nd
1926
Dear Elizabeth,
You may be surprised to find I am now back in England, having left Ireland with some subterfuge. I will need to be careful for a while I suspect, before returning there! I’m staying in a hotel near the British Museum. I visited it this morning to try and clear my head and it worked wonderfully - the Egyptian Hall made me feel so much closer to you, but also very lonely without you. I have decided to leave for Cairo as soon as I can. Rookfield is already on his way. He is taking the boat initially and hopes to pick up a flight in Marseilles, but I will fly to Paris and the train south to the sea and then a boat or aeroplane from there. It will be quicker than going by ship all the way and I may even beat Rookfield to it if I can leave soon.
When last I wrote, I was due to meet him the next day at the Wrenville hotel in Waterford city. In the end we had to delay as George took a sudden turn for the worse, tossing and turning in his endless sleep and crying out in anguish. It was very distressing for your mother but Mary the nurse proved herself to be gold dust in how she comforted her while doing the best she could for poor George. After a couple of days he subsided into his normal unresponsive state, which was worse in some ways as one had the feeling that we might have see the last of the fight go out of him. Your esoteric essence cannot come soon enough and I pray it works.
I was groomed as requested and wearing my best suit when I met Rookfield on our rearranged date. Given I lost all the clothes I brought with me in the fire, this was actually a new and, for the moment, my only suit. As I waited outside the hotel, I could feel the cold especially on my newly denuded upper lip and the back of my neck. I hope you will not mind me without a moustache! Darkness had settled and the lights of the city were coming on when Rookfield finally arrived in a car, its headlights sweeping past and briefly blinding me.
He got out and shook my hand before examining me critically. I couldn’t help but notice he had slicked his hair back in a different fashion to how I’d seen it previously. He was wearing a three piece pinstripe suit. It was surprising how much it changed him from louche gentleman about town to banker or lawyer.
“Yes, yes, that’ll do nicely. You look different; younger and smarter than last time.”
I didn’t get a chance to ask what on earth that meant because I was distracted by the identity of his driver, who had now appeared at our side. I’d have recognised that thin, sidling frame anywhere.
“Ah Captain Ross, we meet again,” said Micheal.
It seems I am surrounded by men I do not trust but must anyway. I remain convinced that Micheal and the others meant me serious harm that day we searched the river for the missing boy. I also can’t deny that it was he who saved us from drowning horribly in the mound. As then, it turns out his commitment is to Lily and not us.
Rookfield had talked to him as part of his investigation into what really happened at Kilphaun Hall, and had remembered Micheal’s clear fondness for Lily when he decided on the madcap plan we were about to embark on. I was very dubious about his scheme when he explained it to me but I did not have a good alternative. It was as he had said in his note, a bad plan, but it just might work.
We arrived up to the asylum close to 6 o’clock, Micheal acting the part of our driver. Out here in the countryside, the evening was pitch black. Weak light spilled out from behind shutters in the multitude of windows in the asylum’s front facade, illuminating nothing. The only other light was our headlights glinting on the wet gravel. It felt like the building had turned its back on the outside world and maybe there was some truth in that.
Rookfield had chosen the time of day as it would be when the head honcho, the resident medical superintendent, was finishing up for the day and might be more easily persuaded so he could get rid of us and get to his dinner while it was still hot. We got out of the car, Rookfield admonishing me to look severe and say nothing. Remember he said, to think of this place as a business, not a refuge, if you want to understand how the superintendent thinks, whether he knows it or not. Neither of us had met the super and that was what the plan hinged on. The doctors and nurses would be finished for the day, and the main danger was an orderly from the day shift now being on nights and recognising us. Hence our rather pathetic disguises.
“Attitude my boy,” said Rookfield to me as we mounted the steps to the main entrance, “Attitude is all.”
Well I have to hand it to Rookfield, he would be an addition to his local players group. As an orderly answered the door, he shifted into a ram rod straight, overbearing stance that makes me think he had been in the army himself. His accent now was cut glass upper crust English, no trace of that faint brogue he likes to affect. Rookfield introduced us as lawyers for Mrs Southcliffe, Lily’s mother that is, and had papers requesting she be given over into our care immediately, including an authorisation from a local judge. He had shown me this latter in the car. The paper with its letter head and stamp was authentic, the authorisation of custody was not, it having been typed up by Rookfield himself.
“Best not to know, Captain Ross,” Rookfield had said, tapping the side of his nose.
My role it turned out, was to frown at everyone. This was easy as I was mostly terrified of being recognised by any of the staff. I was relieved when the super escorted us into his cluttered office. Groaning shelves full of thick folders lined the walls and by my chair was a stack of cartons of, according to the label, lithia water.
“Most irregular, most irregular,” seemed to make up much of his vocabulary. After putting on wire-framed glasses and reading the various papers several times, he insisted we come back in the morning. Rookfield was having none of that.
“Now listen here,” he said, “The Daily Graphic of London has a reporter in Dublin as we speak, intending to doorstop you tomorrow once he gets the train down. Word has got out about Miss Southcliffe’s supposed sojourn in your establishment and her mother needs her in Oxfordshire tout suite to deny any malicious rumours being spread by scurrilous tabloids. We will take custody of the poor girl now, and take her home to her mother by the Dublin boat tomorrow morning. ”
As a coup de grace, Rookfield fished out of his briefcase a week old copy of the Graphic and tossed it on top of the papers on the super’s desk. Even upside down, I could read various lurid headlines advertising society scandal and crimes of passion.
“Mrs Southcliffe doesn’t want her family appearing on the front page of that,” Rookfield said, tapping it with a finger for emphasis, “and between you and me, has the connections to cause a considerable fuss between our two governments. There would have to be an enquiry at this end into who leaked her daughter’s presence. Furthermore the Clonlaw estate is likely to end up in Mrs Southcliffe’s ownership so she will be a person of considerable influence locally as well.”
There was a lot more of this, but it was clear that the fight had gone out of the superintendent. I have no idea of how much of Rookfield’s speil was true. Lily was sent for, and Rookfield asked me to retrieve her effects from the driver. It turns out that at Rookfield’s instigation, Micheal with the aid of a sympathetic maid, had packed a bag for Lily, changes of clothes along with her passport. I left the two men in the supers office and headed down the dim empty corridor towards the front door. The main staircase descended on my left hand side and I could hear someone coming down it. I glanced up and saw to my horror it was the nurse who had shown me inon my last visit to Lily. I cursed Rookfield for his flimsy plan. I quickly looked back down and sped up thinking that if I could get out ahead of her she would not recognise me from the back of my newly shorn head. I was at the door, walking so fast as to be nearly at a run, my pulse racing when the nurse said behind me:
“Captain Ross, isn’t it? Visiting hours are long over, whatever are you doing here? Can I help you?”
I paused, hand on the door knob, then forced a smile on my face and turned.
“Ah yes, I realise that, “ I said somewhat lamely, “but I am here with Mrs Southcliffe’s lawyers regarding her release into our custody.”
The nurse who had stopped several steps up from the bottom of the stairs regarded me with an alarmingly appraising look.
“But sure that poor girl needs rest and medical attention,” she said, “not to be hauled back to England in the middle of the night. God knows what that’ll do her state of mind.”
I said her mother surely knows best and turned and was out the door before she could interrogate me further. I ran across the gravel to the car, scaring the life out of Micheal who was hunched against it, a cigarette cupped in his hand.
“Lily’s bag quick,” I hissed, “then get the car started and being it up to the front entrance. We are about to be rumbled.”
To his credit, Micheal didn’t ask any questions but flicked his cigarette onto the gravel and jumped into the car. I took the bag he shoved out the window at me and raced back. Behind me, I heard the car engine start, then stutter and die. I nearly wept in frustration at this new obstacle but rapidly composed myself as I came in the front door. The corridor was empty thankfully but at the very end of it, past the super’s office, light spilled from an open doorway and I could see the nurse talking to someone out of view. At the sound of my footsteps she looked out at me, said something to her companion and pushed the door to.
When I returned to the super’s office Lily was there and Rookfield was talking non-stop, I suspect to prevent Lily saying anything that would give the game away as she looked lost and confused. The Super was looking at him a bit oddly and I feared Rookfield was rather over-egging it. Lily was led away to change. She seemed to be taking an age and I was fit to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
The door opened and I heaved a sigh of relief expecting Lily but it was actually the nurse sticking her head in past the door. Her manner was more diffident in the presence of the super but she said,
“Could I have a word Superintendent about Miss Southcliffe’s transfer? It seems very rushed -”
She was cut off by the Super saying rather brusquely, “Everything is in hand, Nurse Morrison, Mrs Southcliffe’s lawyers here have the paperwork all present and correct.”
Nurse Morrison looked sharply at me at this statement.
“But he’s not a - “ she was interrupted by a crash as I accidentally knocked over the cartons of lithia water.
There was a brief moment of mayhem - me apologising as loudly as I could, Lily reappearing looking distressed, the super insisting to Nurse Morrison to stop worrying about Lily and go find an orderly to clean up the mess. Rookfield who had seen me push the cartons over, assumed I must have had a reason and vocally proclaimed that we would leave right now or we would miss our train to Dublin. The super seemed relieved that we were going and we grabbed Lily and frog marched her down the corridor. We had reached the door when the Super called out ‘Captain Ross! Captain Ross’. I pretended not to hear and slammed the door shut after us.
Micheal had got the car started thank god. Rookfield jumped in the front with Micheal. I had just helped Lily in and was rounding the car to my side when light spilled out on to the gravel from the main entrance. The superintendent and several beefy orderlies came running in our direction.
Elizabeth, I leapt into that car, slamming the door and shouted at Micheal to get the hell out of there. We took off in a spray of gravel. After a moment of silence Lily started laughing.
“Well played, gentlemen and thank you,” she said.
Then she burst into tears. I gave her an awkward hug and another of my handkerchiefs. She blew her nose and we were silent for a while as the car sped along the dark roads. Micheal drove well enough, but at the moment I longed for George and his sports car.
We got the night boat from Rosslare. It was surprisingly easy in the end. If there was any hue and cry we’d left it far behind. Lily gave Micheal a hug to thank him for his help and he left us with a grin.
Rookfield was very pleased with his ruse about the Dublin boat. In fact thinking about it now, he has gone to an awful lot of trouble for a girl he barely knows. It seems an odd thing to do, even if you believe she should not have been in there in the first place. Maybe he wishes to have her freer to talk to him about what she experienced but honestly, the ambiguous smile on his face as the last gangplank was pulled in and there was still no sign of pursuit, I think he did it for the excitement and mischief of it all.
The sky had been clear as we left the harbour, the cold stars glittering in the heavens. I had stayed up to watch us safely past Tuskar rock. The lighthouse sat amongst calm seas, its beam flashing rhythmically on the near horizon.
After a late dinner and some wine, Rookfield announced that he was going to try and get some sleep. I suggested to Lily that she might want some fresh air before doing the same. I took my bag with me, careful to not let Rookfield see it.
While we had eaten, a gentle drizzle had descended. It softened the edges of the steam packet and beyond the dim pool of light cast by the ship was darkness. No one else was on deck. Lily took several deep breathes of the sea-scented air. There was no sound but the engine and the rush of water below us.
I placed my bag on the deck and extracted a heavy bundle wrapped in thick cloth. I looked up at Lily.
“You asked me before if I believed you,” I said.
I unwrapped the cloth and showed her the contents.
I have only been to Kilphaun Hall once since the fire, on a rare sunny lunchtime. I had remembered the first time I drove up that long driveway, except now the sun, already getting low in the sky, illuminated blackened walls and charred timbers and reflected off shattered glass amongst the ashes and embers. Kilphaun was a gaunt ruin now, a dead house, but somehow it still felt like it was waiting, as it had for long centuries. Waiting for those it had marked to come back to it. In my dreams, I still heard that faint snickering of blade on blade.
I had clambered through a gap in wall of the north wing. The ruined house was strangely silent, no twittering of birds, just the distant noise of the wind in the trees. It was hard to reconcile with that brief time when it felt like Kilphaun Hall might become a home. The peculiarly specific smell of damp ash, charred wood and stone permeated everything. I found the fireplace, refusing to think back on the last time I was here in this spot and the horror I, Lily and George had seen. I had used a piece of half-burnt floorboard to clean away in front of the fireplace and exposed the rough hewn hearthstone or as I now knew, the altar stone of Crom’s original temple.
The heat of the fire had fractured it into several large and small pieces and I could see also the radiating damage from my own hammer blows. I was filthy with ash by the time I left but I had a heavy cargo of altar fragments wrapped up in a thick cloth with me.
These were what I showed now to Lily, rain beading on the stone and a smell of ash and fire rising off them to pollute the clean sea air. The original pile has shrunk because on my constitutionals by the sea, I have been methodically throwing pieces into its rushing waves. I had not forgotten the words of poor doomed Harrison that the triskelions that surrounded the house were associated with Manannán mac Lir, the god of the sea. With more time I might have scattered the whole damn altar under the sea but with what I had taken, I would have to hope it to be enough to stop anyone else trying to somehow repeat what Clonlaw had tried. I hadn’t told Rookfield what I’d been doing because I didn’t trust him not to try and stop me. Worse, to want the stone for himself.
I told all this to Lily and while it sounded farfetched even to me as I said it out loud, she just nodded. We took turns throwing those cursed fragments of rock into the deep waters of the Irish Sea. As the last one splashed into the water and the spreading ripples of its impact quickly receded behind us, I felt a weight lift off me and I’d swear Lily looked the happier for it too.
So here I am in London! Rookfield as I said has already departed for Cairo. You may be wondering what has happened to your package. Your ingenuity in talking the RAF fellow to take it in the bag was too efficient. The package ended up in Waterford! Murphy intercepted it before your mother found it and was tempted by your handwriting into opening it. It is on its way here now as are your mother and brother. George is to be put under the care of a Harley Street specialist for all the good that will do and your mother is hoping to stay with your cousin Celia, to her dismay. At this moment I have received your letter but not the package which appears to have gotten stuck somewhere in the postal system between Ireland and England. I am putting my time into locating it. Once I have this essence, I am unsure exactly what to do. Do I stick it under George’s nose and hope for the best?
I also stayed to keep an eye on Lily but it is becoming clear that she is made of stern stuff and doesn’t need me hovering over her. She is staying at the hotel as well and is currently negotiating by letter with her mother for a stipend to stay up here, the threat of scandal working in her favour this time. We are meeting your cousin Celia again tonight a nd I am hoping that the two of them hit it off so that I can in good conscience abandon Lily here and come in search of you.
All my love
Jon
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Shepheards Hotel,
Cairo.
3rd February, 1926,
My dear John,
You will probably think some of the desert heat or exotic stimulants has got into me as I write in some haste to let you know that I will be travelling up the Nile on an expedition to Upper Egypt and the desert lands to the west. I know I had intended to revisit the bazaars to seek the talisman for George, but something has happened. Sir Malcolm, and, believe it or not, that timid mousy wife of his, Mabel, have recently returned from a similar expedition, which had not succeeded in its objective. I’m not sure what that was, recovering something from a cave I think, but anyway, the upshot of it is, they are preparing another expedition and I have a place! I am so very excited. I know I thought I could find the talisman for George in the Cairo bazaar, but just think how much more effective, how potent it would be, if it came directly from the new excavations themselves! It could not fail to work.
I wasn’t, however, offered the expedition place by Sir M or even Mabel. I got to meet some of the other members or the team when Irina and I went out in Ezbekiyya a few nights ago. Irina, who has settled very quickly into this bohemian quarter of the city, suggested we go to a cabaret at which there would be some highly artistic performances that would really help her exploration of Near East expressiveness. Well, after my Soho nightclub experience last year I’ve come to believe exploring the nocturnal culture of a place is really the true way to understand it, so without more ado we spruced ourselves up and took a taxi to Emad al-Din street in Ezbekiyya. The long street was heaving with both well-heeled and disreputable looking Egyptians and foreigners alike, all clearly out for a good time and making quite a din. The conservatism and veiled women typical of the rest of the city, were distinctly absent here. We dodged the electric tram as we crossed to the Casino de Paris.
“French?” I whispered to Irina, with some disappointment. “Surely it needs to be Egyptian?”
“Ah!” she hissed back. “Is just a name. All Europe wishes to be French – so chic, so soignée, n’est-ce pas? So it works here too. You will see – in here is la difference.”
The commissionaire at the door was giving us suspicious glances so, to ensure we had no difficulty being admitted, I kept quiet and smiled demurely as we passed through a thick velvet curtain into a surprisingly large venue, like a concert hall but with far less seating, and small booths around the sides which seemed to be selling drink, tobacco and all sorts of refreshments. A heady aroma filled the air, some kind of sweet cloying smell, mixed with stale sweat, which must have come from the dominantly male audience, who were carousing noisily. As my eyes grew used to the dim light, I could make out in the distance the stage, which at that time was shrouded in thick theatre curtains.
Irina returned from one of the booths with a packet of cigarettes and gestured in the direction of the stage where there was some seating around small tables. We found a seat near some youngish men in tropical uniforms, whom Irina approached for a light.
It turned out that the company Irina and I got settled with included a number of characters who were bound for an expedition. The one who obliged with the lighter was an Australian, Arthur (Artie for short), who it seems served at Gallipoli and somewhat cut up by that traumatic episode in history, has not been home since but wanders the Eastern Mediterranean like a lost soul, finding work here and there, but mainly telling tall stories in bars and latching onto initiatives like this expedition. It transpired that his companions were all in one way or another connected to the venture. I didn’t take to their self-styled leader, Jermey, a debonair Englishman with one senses an appetite for organisation, but I have to admit that to get an expedition off the ground perhaps that is what you need. At this point I had no reason to connect the planned expedition with Sir Malcolm in any way and I expressed a desire to be a member of such a party, for the incredible experience it would undoubtedly provide.
“Well,” said this chap to me, “a girl like you with no fears of showing up in this joint must be pretty intrepid. Sort of gel our expedition could use. Any good at cooking? How’s your First Aid?”
Of all the stereotypes! I told him that my First Aid was necessarily adequate given I was a talented and daring horsewoman but my cooking was barely passable, that I would have no idea how to adapt my limited repertoire to use local ingredients and that he would be much better off hiring an experienced Egyptian cook. I did however explain that I was an ardent scholar of the classics with a specialisation in Old Gods (that Crom and Kronos business must count for something) and insights into the Esoteric realm and that if there was a mythical Zerzura to be found, I was just the woman.
I can’t think what got into me but the cocktails were quite strong at the Casino de Paris. Must have had the same effect on this Jeremy too, for after a startled glance he gave a wry grin and said, “good-oh, Expedition Scholar then, Miss.....”
“....Sanderson,” I replied. “Elizabeth Sanderson, engaged to Captain Jon Ross, who is on his way to Cairo to join me later.”
Was it my imagination or did Jeremy look a shade disappointed? The light was poor in the club so it could just be that his drink was finished. I decided not to dwell on it. It would have been wonderful if you had got here in time to join this trip, Jon, but I wasn’t going to pass a chance to visit these fabled locations and hopefully find the amulet that George will need if that ludicrous essence I have sent you evaporates or is ineffective, as I suspect.
Our conversations were interrupted by the band striking up and the stage curtains pulling back. I’m sure I didn’t understand half of the show, but it certaintly was a most raucous affair, quite unlike my evening in Soho. The evening ended fairly abruptly as the lights went up as soon as the cabaret was over, and realising I needed to equip myself with tropical kit and other necessaries for this planned trip, I decided to call it a night. I think I’d had plenty of cocktails as on my return to the hotel, I almost convinced myself I could see that strange veiled lady again, at the edges of my vision, watching me.
I was somewhat disturbed this morning to encounter Sir Malcolm in the hotel lobby, roaring for Mr. Ashraf, who appeared, looking rather the worse for wear. I sensed their conversation was meant to be private, but Sir M is the sort of fellow who just can’t seem to keep his voice down. I slipped behind a potted palm at the foot of the stairs and hoped I would be undetected.
“I don’t care if you didn’t get a wink of sleep all night, Ashraf,” said he, curtly. “Another member of the last expedition is dead, you tell me, under mysterious, possibly malicious, circumstances, and you can’t get to the bottom of it? What about that odd flyer he said he was given, just before he went off the deep end? Have you found that?”
Mr Ashraf replied in a lower key, so I couldn’t hear his words.
“That seeing a dog-headed man stuff is complete bunkum!” persisted Sir Malcolm. “Popular with the tourists and gossip-merchants but I don’t believe it as a portent of doom whatsoever!”
Mr Ashraf again said something quietly.
“Oh what the devil, he took his own life?” said Sir M, seeming not to believe it, but continuing somewhat more quietly, in response to Mr Ashraf’s discreet inclination of the head, “Yes, well you may be right. Its not something we want the police too involved in. We’ll need to go again, and quickly. Glad most of the team are ready assembled. It’s really Mabel we’re waiting for, that thing she needs. Can you get to the bazaar with her today? Also, see if that new boy Sam is around. I’ve got some questions for him.”
I moved on toward the breakfast room, before either of them spotted me.
It may be an expansive hotel, but its curious what a small world it is. I was joined at my table by Stephen, the flight lieutenant who kindly saw to the despatch of the vial to you. After confirming that it had indeed gone in the bag, I asked him what he knew of expeditions up the Nile, their living conditions and safety record.
“Its all the rage these days,” he said. “Before long they’ll be run as tours for any Tom, Dick and Harriet to go on. If you fancy it, best to go now while there’s still a whiff of adventure about it. Just don’t go looking for dog-headed men.”
With Sir Malcolm’s comment still ringing in my ears, I recalled some of the figures I had seen in the crowded avenues of the Cairo bazaar, which did indeed resemble dog-headed creatures, and shivered. But it was an unusual comment for an otherwise wholesome RAF chap, so I thought it worth querying.
“Lots of these expeditions are rumoured to be cursed,” Stephen said in an offhand manner. “Not surprising really, given they are effectively grave-robbing. My view is it helps bring in the punters, gives it an air of intrigue. Probably bumps up the price. Don’t you pay too much for a ticket.”
I hadn’t thought about payment. Surely as Expedition Scholar they should be paying me? As I hesitated, Stephen continued,
“There’s an expedition going soon, backed by a guest in the hotel, Sir Somebody-or-other, I believe. I know the ops guy setting it up, Jeremy Anson. Not really a mate of mine, but you keep bumping into people, you know how it is. I’ll put in a good word for you if you like? And if you’ve time today, fancy a game of tennis?”
It was the first time I had linked Jeremy and the crowd I met last night in Ezbekiyya to the Wittons and I was rather disappointed Sir Malcolm would have an involvement. I was about to say, “That won’t be necessary, thank you”, when we were joined by another fellow at the breakfast table, who appeared to know Stephen. Introducing himself as Sam, he sat down and somewhat wearily, tucked into a large plateful of Shepheard Hotel’s finest cooked breakfast – steak, eggs and bubble-and-squeak. After he had replenished himself, he and Stephen got into a conversation about the expedition, and, by this time not altogether to my surprise, it turns out he is on it too – the Egyptologist. I wonder if my position as Expedition Scholar is secure, with an Egyptologist involved?
“Aye,” said Sam, with a North Country accent, although not quite like Sir Malcolm’s, “after the last chap died, I’ve taken on task o’ Egyptologist, fer me sins. Plenty of papers to look through before we set off. Twill be a long road to t’Hungry Tomb”.
I could see Stephen look at me with something of a smirk.
“You may not believe in curses”, he said leaning forward and clearly trying to put the wind up me, “but the word in the officer’s mess is that two members of the last expedition to come back from the deep desert have died. Both by their own hand as well and at least one of them claiming to being hunted by a dog headed man.”
Stephen looked meaningfully at Sam.
“You don’t have to be an Egyptologist chappie to know who that is”, he said, “The desert’ll do that to you though. Spend too long out there and the mind begins to wander.”
“Please do put in that good word for me,” I said, my mind being made up by the possibility of competition and Stephen’s somewhat dismissive attitude. “And I’m sorry, but I won’t have time today for that game of tennis.”
I realise I need to hurry with my preparations and ensure the Expedition Scholar place is secure! I suppose I will need to square it with Sir M. Firstly, however, I am going to the bazaar for cotton garments and may see if Irina will accompany me.
Yours in haste,
Elizabeth