Elizabeth and the expedition arrives in El Kharga oasis where she has an unpleasant encounter with an old acquaintance and a startling invitation. A letter arrives for Dr. Rookfield...
Additional Music:
In the Persian Market by Mar Knox
Signs To Nowhere by Shane Ivers - https://www.silvermansound.com
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
Elizabeth and the expedition arrives in El Kharga oasis where she has an unpleasant encounter with an old acquaintance and a startling invitation. A letter arrives for Dr. Rookfield...
Additional Music:
In the Persian Market by Mar Knox
Signs To Nowhere by Shane Ivers - https://www.silvermansound.com
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 2.08
'Apókryphos'
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El Kharga, Western Desert, Egypt
24th February, 1926,
Dear Jon,
I am sending this c/o the Winter Palace as that will be where you head for when you arrive at Luxor. I had so hoped you would get there before we set off. However despite several days’ delay due the missing waiter incident and then the tragic death of a team member after a fall from height, the expedition has proceeded, in some haste. I think perhaps Sir Malcolm was anxious to get going before the authorities started asking too many questions. Mr Ashraf and Artie have hired a team of Quftis, local tribesmen unsurpassed in their archaeological excavation abilities, and somewhat to my relief, Mr Ashraf also found us a cook. The train is a ramshackle affair, little more than a goods train really, and it runs as and when needed, rather than to a timetable. We have travelled today to synchronise with an inbound expedition organised by the Egyptological Exploratory Society, who had chartered the train.
I really feel this is the back end of nowhere, just a collection of small mud huts in a low-lying, dusty depression. My thoughts of an oasis being groves of palm trees, shady nooks with tinkling streams leading to still pools, plenty of mint tea, dates and oranges – were dashed when we disembarked from the train and the full glare and intensity of the desert heat struck us. I am one of the few that have managed to secure rooms in the single, very basic, hotel and it is there we are resting overnight before the camel train is assembled and we head off to our desert camp. There were no letters for me waiting at the hotel and I miss hearing from you.
It could not be more of a contrast to last night, when I was privileged to attend a gala dinner at the Winter Palace to meet some of the eminent archaeologists working near Luxor, at Karnak, Thebes, Abydos, and the Valley of the Kings. Sir Malcolm was there, of course, but it was Dr Rookfield, who, as a hotel resident, had secured me the invitation. I was rather nervous to be meeting the likes of the great Howard Carter, who has so recently excavated the tomb of King Tutankhamen, along with Sir Peter Flinders, who has done much of the work at Abydos, and his Egyptian colleague, Pasha Hassan. I was in a dilemma as to my outfit, wanting to appear demure and intelligent but sophisticated at the same time, and in the end decided on my midnight blue silk with the beaded trim. It made me feel quite elegant, even though it was slightly crumpled from being stuck in my suitcase on the boat. I added a sequinned bandeau with a feather in its brim – a present from Celia - to give me added panache.
You can imagine therefore my disappointment when on my introduction to a Professor Mitchell, one of the doyens of Egyptology, as, “Miss Sanderson, Scholar to the Whitton Expedition” (thank you, Dr Rookfield!) the academic gentleman looked at me rather sneeringly down his nose and said, “You’d think these excavations were taking place on the steps of the Ritz judging by the outfits the ladies prefer.”
Dr Rookfield was about to answer in my defence, but I felt badly patronised, and did the only thing possible under the circumstances, which was flee to the Ladies Powder Room and refresh myself with a splash of water and a sniff of sal volatile. I think the cumulative effects of my stay in Luxor and especially meeting the Veiled Lady, must have been having a fraying effect on my nerves.
Hilda Flinders, the woman I met in the Ladies who offered me the smelling salts, was the wife of one of the eminent archaeologists, and it turns out an archaeologist in her own right, in her forties I would guess, solidly built and sensibly dressed in a white blouse up to the neck, a pleated skirt and lace-up shoes. A brooch pin at the lace collar of her blouse was the sole ornamentation. While she looked something of a schoolmarm, she turned out to be very jolly and friendly and we entered into a good discussion on archaeological excavations and the beliefs of the ancient Egyptians.
“I do all the site work,” she said, “digging in the dust, working with the Quftis, mapping board, pencil and set square at hand, while the great man himself sits in the shady tent, documenting all the finds. Fascinating stuff - not that I get any of the credit,” she said, laughingly but with I felt an edge to her tone.
The conversation calmed me down and restored my own self-confidence, so I informed her of my role on the forthcoming expedition to El Kharga and beyond, and our mission in excavating an apocryphal tomb and deciphering a hieroglyphic spell. Mrs Flinders dug in her bag and produced a small, well-thumbed book, a guide to the deities of Ancient Egypt, and offered it to me as a keepsake and a useful aid to my endeavours on the desert expedition. I was quite flattered and left the Ladies room in greatly improved spirits.
Outside, Rookfield was waiting for me with a glass of champagne in his hand, which he offered me. Unlike the ice cream at Karnak, this was still cold.
“‘The nuisance of the tropics is’ “ he quoted sardonically, “ ‘the sheer necessity of fizz.’ Belloc knew what he was talking about. Drink up, Elizabeth, this will sharpen your digging trowel. Y’know, I’ve been talking to Malcolm and some of the worthies here, and I’ve decided to join your little expedition. I fancy a ramble out into the desert – who knows what we might find?”
I have to say, I think I will be glad of his company. He seems competent, which is more than I can say of many of my other companions. Jeremy took the news of Trevor’s death hard, and seems to be reduced to a gibbering bag of nerves – hardly how an expedition operator should be. I hadn’t realised they were so close.
At the end of the evening, I returned for the last night in the cabin, and found Irina there, lying on her bunk in her negligee, a mud pack on her face, two cucumber slices over her eyes. It was difficult to tell from this view whether she was back to normal, but she asked me if I’d had a good evening and we spoke quite civilly, so I can only hope that whatever distemper took over her has passed. Looking around the cabin however, I noticed that my little figurine was gone from its place in the porthole. I was rather disappointed as I had decided I wanted to keep it, but I assumed Irina had had a change of heart and wanted to retain it for herself.
“Have you packed for tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “almost everything. There is not much. I escaped from Poland with so little. But I have my drawing materials and my chisels, that is the main thing. And you, Elizabeth, have you packed?”
I looked around at the untidy port side of the cabin, clothes and stockings strewn around in my haste to find the right outfit for the dinner, mingling intimately with lipstick and powder, combs and brushes, and replied with false brightness, “Yes, almost, just a few oddments to sort in the morning.”
“The statue,” said Irina, “you have decided to keep it? You have packed it away?”
“No,” I said, doubtfully. “I thought you had”.
“I have not,” said Irina.
So – the statue has gone. This I find rather alarming, especially as, now I’ve arrived in El Kharga and read the book Hilda gave me, I realise too that I have accepted something from a stranger. While I can’t believe such an eminent archaeologist and kind lady would herald the curse of Anubis I am planning to keep on my guard.
The train to El Kharga was as uncomfortable as it looked, just a set of empty carriages with no seating or other amenities. I perched myself in a corner, sitting on some sacks packed tight with grain, and distracted myself with Hilda’s book. I wonder if she had some premonition to give it to me, for it was chiefly about the divine Isis – top goddess in the Egyptian pantheon. It must be her I met for the very words she said to me were reported by of all people, Plutarch, to have been written on her statue in the ancient delta city of Sais. Behind her Veil is Knowledge infinite. Do you think it was really Isis I encountered? Who said I have done a Great Magic and will save me from whatever might be waiting in the Hungry Tomb? She who is the Weret Hekau – the great magician, who is the queen of nature, the protector of the kings and boundaries of Egypt?
The arrival at El Kharga and the offloading of our cargo by Artie and crew prevented me from pursuing this line of thought any further. The train was being reloaded with a set of huge crates stamped with Egyptological Exploratory Society on their sides, cloths and rags bulging out through the gaps in the slatted wooden frames. I found myself wondering what sort of mysterious cargo they might contain. The society is led by an eminent Egyptian archaeologist, Pasha Hassan, who is making a name for himself ever since the unfortunate demise of the pioneer in the field, Kamal Pasha, a couple of years ago.
I have to pinch myself to remember George is cured and there is no longer the need to seek a talisman for him. It is disappointing in a way, as I had been so set on this objective. If I could meet Pasha Hassan I am sure he would provide me with real local knowledge, more detailed and up to date than in Hilda’s book, the sort that Sir M is unlikely to ever know, for all his hieroglyph studies. Having said that, I recalled that maybe it is Isis I am seeking?
I was somewhat lost in these thoughts as I walked round the side of the cargo pallet and collided with a figure with his head down, browsing pages of listings, presumably a freight manifest, ticking off items on the list and calling names out to a couple of locals who, sat on top of the cargo, seemed to be chalking handwritten labels on the crates, with much guttural to and fro of conversation, all in the local dialect.
Although the man I bumped into seemed fluent in the language, I realised he was not a local, but a sunburnt Englishman, dressed in that militaristic tropical style outfit the explorers seem to favour. He seemed oddly familiar; I could see he knew me, and wondered if he too was struggling to remember where from. Then I suddenly had a flashback to that first visit to the attar bazaar in Cairo, and the face I had seen in the crowd there.
“Roland!” I cried out. “What a small world!”
It was none other than Mr Roland Osborne who had rented The Manse in Clatbury and suggested my trip to London last autumn.
Roland, it must be said, looked decidedly sheepish, and as though he did not particularly welcome the greeting. But he recovered, composed himself and observed drily, “You’re a long way from Wiltshire, or even London, Miss Sanderson.”
“And you from the Society of Esoterica, Roland,” I countered, suddenly recalling the awful night of subterfuge and imprisonment in that building, while Roland talked of his interest in ancient gods. Can it be less than three months ago? “So it’s the Egyptian Exploratory Society now? Any relation?”
Roland took me by surprise by dropping his suave exterior, grabbing me by the shoulder and pulling me close to him so that he could say to me in a hissed whisper, “It would be as well for you and any of your companions if you pretend you haven’t seen me here today, Elizabeth.”
I tried to step back, away from his grasp, but I was pinioned against the cargo pallet. So I hissed back, “It would be better for you, you mean. Weren’t you helping police with their inquiries in London? What have you done? Are you on the run?”
Roland’s normally quite good-looking face twisted in a violent contortion and went purple. I was afraid he might have a heart attack. If he’d had a tie on I’d have told him to loosen it. “Oh you cocky little miss, you think you know it all don’t you? You have no idea what you’re involved in. Wait until I write to your mother and tell her how far from home you’ve come and the company you’re hanging out with. I’m sure your allowance will be cut off and you’ll be back home in Clatbury as soon as the slow train can get you there.”
Now I was thinking if he’d had a tie on I’d have strung him up by it on one of his cargo bales. But I was interrupted by one of the local boys on top of the pallet, who called out “Pasha! Pasha! Kun sariean (Be quick)!” Roland looked up, looked at his watch, swore under his breath, and dropped his grip on me. I look a deep breath, and said with all the dignity I could muster, “You once recommended sun-ray treatment for my health, Roland Osborne. You can’t deny me the right to experience the natural version, can you?”
Apart from a grimace, he did not reply, and I walked away, disturbed by the sudden violence and wondering at his belligerence. I left him picking up manifest papers that the wind had scattered. I stopped one with my shoe as it skittered past and then with petty pleasure, let it fly free again. But Jon, I could not help but notice that its letter-head was the Ministry of the Interior in Cairo. Isn’t that where you said your old army friend worked?
Back at the hotel, I looked for Rookfield, Roland’s former comrade in arms, to see if he could shed any light on the matter, but he was nowhere to be seen. I did however receive a handwritten note from the concierge, which I found both intriguing and alarming.
“Dear Elizabeth, you are cordially invited to dinner tonight with Malcolm and Mabel in the Whitton Pavilion, a 20 minute camel-ride north of El Kharga, at 6.30pm. Hotel concierge will saddle up your camel and point you in the right direction. We look forward to the pleasure of your company. MW”
The Whitton Pavilion? A 20 minute camel-ride? Malcom and Mabel? I took one look around the bare earth walls of the hotel lobby, thought of my even barer room upstairs, the limited hotel menu of split pea and goat, and decided to accept. I have never ridden a camel, but I am going to have to learn, and I’m sure it’s not unlike taking Dimples over the downs. I did see copious boxes and trunks offloaded from the train and loaded onto mules and carts, in some of which must have been the makings of the “Whitton Pavilion”. It is hard to imagine luxury at the moment, but all those boxes must contain some creature comforts, and I am anticipating an elegant, if not lavish, marquee-style tent, with thick carpets to cover the desert floor, fine candelabras casting a mysterious glow and dancing shadows within, a single indigenous musician noodling away on a wind instrument in the background. In terms of company, Mabel is more interesting than she initially seemed, and, if the moment is right, I may discreetly pose the question to Sir Malcolm what it is he is seeking? Perhaps they will be able to tell me something about Isis, the Veiled Lady.
So I quickly scribbled an apology to Rookfield for cancelling dinner with him this evening, explaining my invitation to the Whitton Pavilion. I will sign off this letter to you now Jon, leave both with the hotel reception, and head off into the desert dusk on my camel.
My fondest love,
Elizabeth
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[muffled]
Thank you for the invitation Sir Malcolm but I think I will dine in the hotel restaurant and have an early night. Big day tomorrow!
[door opens. Rookfield enters sighing and sitting down]
I must be mad to go out into the desert with this lot, because most of them certainly are.
[opens letter]
Right, Watson, what have you got for me? Good to see for once you actually did what I asked.
[starts reading]
Society Of Esoterica
Fitzrovia
London
February 17th
Dear Hugh,
It was a delight to receive your telegram and apology. I also am happy to put the matter behind us. We shall say no more on it. My wife and children are all in good health; thank you for asking.
Ha! I only apologised so you do this for me, you old fool.
I have been out of London, in the Cotswolds actually, on the trail of a dangerous Morris Dancing cult. I shall look forward to filling you in on my researches, which I think will provide a particularly racy chapter in the book I am working on. I will be pleased to give you a signed copy once it is published!
Hmmpf. It was me who pointed out the ritualistic aspects to their Solstice dance. Conveniently forgotten that, eh Watson?
You requested an urgent reply so bear in mind the rapidness of my research and thirdhandness of some of the information. I hope this letter reaches you in time. In the end the artistic circle of a close female friend proved the most fruitful source, somewhat to my surprise.
Close Artistic Friend! Ha! I’ve not heard that euphemism before.
Irina Mazanowski seems to have come to England in late ’23 or early ’24. She is szlachta, that is, of the Polish nobility as was, before the Poles abolished it in ’21. The Mazanowskis were not one of the wealthy magnate families, but prior to the war seem to have done very well for themselves all the same. She called herself a countess when she arrived and she probably would be if the title still had legal weight in Poland. A discrete query to a contact in the Secret Service Bureau suggests that they had her under surveillance for a short while, due to a brother who has communist sympathies, but eventually decided she was harmless. It would appear that she survived some unspecified harrowing times during the war (but then, didn’t we all!) and has transposed her angst into a strong artistic temperament, indeed obsession.
In short, she has no known connections to individuals or societies such as ourselves. Her approach to understanding life’s mysteries is more, shall we say, Bohemian than esoteric. Is your interest therefore professional or personal, Hugh, you old goat? I can definitely recommend the passion of the artiste, though they do wear you out with their dramatics. It keeps one young though, and makes the dullness of domestic life more bearable.
Cheeky beggar. We’re not all like you Watson. Some of us can keep it in our pants. Still, good to know Irina is what she’s seems. But then, what the hell is wrong with her? What else have you for me, Watson?
Onto your second question regarding Sir Malcom Witton. You know already that he was always adjacent to the society, liking the perceived disreputability of associating with scholars and men of action like ourselves, who exist outside the main current of academia.
You would love to be considered disreputable, wouldn’t you Watson? Face it, you’re a long-winded, old fart. Man of action, indeed! Pah!
However, like most of us, you probably lost contact with him in recent years and may not be aware of just how his interests intensified. For a while, he was a member of the Golden Dawn but quickly grew sick of their endless internecine squabbles. Whatever esoteric knowledge Sir Malcom was seeking, it pushed him in the direction of the Egyptian arcana. Up to then, his visits to Cairo were purely commercial, the cotton trade I believe, but ever since, Sir Malcolm has been spending increasingly frequent seasons in Egypt, as well as funding researchers to trawl the British Museum and Louvre collections, but for what I do not know.
Late last year he received a licence from the Egyptian Antiquities Service for an excavation, somewhere deep in the western desert I understand, and has been busy there since. It is no surprise then that you have crossed paths with him. You must of course write and expand both on what you are up on the Nile and on his activities as well.
Unlikely, Watson. Interesting though. What are you up to Sir Malcolm? I should have done my homework first before putting Elizabeth in contact with you, I fear.
But Hugh, you say he is travelling with his wife Mabel. I reread you letter several times to see if I could see the joke hidden in it until I realised you were serious.
Huh?
Mabel Witton! What a glorious, eccentric, wonderful woman! Every party was the better for her presence. Even an old cynic like myself was jealous of how much she and Malcolm were in love. My god, you didn’t want to wander unannounced into a room they were the only ones in! I don’t think my marriage was the only one they held a rather harsh light up to.
What the hell are you withering on about, Watson? Were you drunk writing this?
Therefore Hugh, I do find your comment in bad taste. It is impossible my dear boy. How can you have forgotten? That October evening we waited at Lymington quayside for the Witton’s yacht to return to harbour, that we might all go up together to Lord Battersby’s house party?
A sudden autumn squall had come through an hour before, but now the sea was flat and limpid. The Cleopatra came in slowly, her sails catching what little wind there was and glowing in the fiery sun that set behind us. I remember you remarked that it was like watching the solar barque begin its journey into night. How prescient that was!
[reads increasingly slowly]
We both knew immediately something terrible had happened. The crew and guests were lacklustre statues on the deck, only rousing themselves to tie the Cleopatra up alongside. There on the deck knelt Sir Malcolm. In front of him, pale, soaked and still, lay Mabel.
What? No! Mabel is here!
Sir Malcolm had been warned there was a risk of the weather blowing up but he’d insisted they take the yacht out. In the channel between Southhampton and the Isle of Wight, that squall that had briefly drenched the streets of Lymington and shook the windows, had battered at the Cleopatra. As the captain turned the boat into the wind, it was hit by a savage wave which swept poor Mabel overboard. She was already dead when they recovered her from the sea.
Oh God! Oh God! I remember it now. How tiny she looked as if her departed energy had given her as much substance as her physical body. But she is here! I don’t understand! Tell me Watson. Tell what the hell is going on!
That was five years ago, we were both at her funeral Hugh, and Sir Malcolm, having lost the love of his life and blaming himself for it, was never the same man again.
Mabel Witton is dead, and the world was a little dimmer for her passing. It is impossible she is there, Hugh. The desert heat must be getting to you.
I find I am upset now and will write no more. Let us meet at the Society when you are back and you can explain what you really meant.
Yours sincerely
Maurice Watson
I remember now. I remember it all. How devastated you were Malcolm, how you blamed yourself for persuading her to come when she didn’t want to go out that day.
Who then is this impossible woman who looks exactly like Mabel? Though now that my mind has been cleared, certainly without her joie de vivre.
Dear god man, what have you done?
What did you find in the desert?
Or perhaps, what found you?
[pauses, then remembering where Elizabeth is going tonight]
Elizabeth!
[jumps to feet etc, slamming of door]