After the shocking revelation in Watson's letter, can Rookfield get to Elizabeth in time?
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
After the shocking revelation in Watson's letter, can Rookfield get to Elizabeth in time?
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 2.09
'Lost and Found'
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El Kharga,
Western Desert
Egypt
25th February 1926.
Dear Jon,
It was wonderful to receive your letter from the desert (how many deserts does this country have?).... although containing such alarming news about the chase by the Brotherhood and the betrayal by Clarke and you being a wanted man. I am so glad I never approached Clarke myself for guidance.
I too have much to report and I am leaving this letter c/o the El Kharga hotel reception for want of any better option. Tomorrow our camel train, supported by some little motorised “half-track” vehicles which will carry our heavy loads and water tanks, sets off for the Hungry Tomb. From what Rookfield and I discovered last night I think we are now safe from an evil animus that we did not even know has been overshadowing us and indeed the entire expedition.
Jon, please don’t be disheartened reading this. I am nervous, terribly so, but I refuse to let my fears overwhelm my rational thought and ......
If you got my last letter you will know that I, somewhat foolishly in hindsight, decided to leave the hotel last night for dinner in a desert pavilion with Malcolm and Mabel Whitton. It should have been strange to me that I agreed to go, given that day had already been full of tiring journeying and the hotel, while spartan, was at least a solid structure with ovens and a cook, and that Dr Rookfield, and possibly Irina too, would be my dining companions. But at the time all I could think about was that I was going to ride a camel on my own for the first time and that it would be wonderful to dine with the Whittons.
It was difficult to know how to dress without any riding gear and I was glad I now owned a pair of harem pants, which I matched with a fresh white blouse and a baby blue pullover I had from the sea voyage, as I’d heard it gets cold in the desert at night. Mounting Camellia – as I’ve named my camel – was a bizarre experience. The camel kneels down from the front and you climb on in that position, whereupon she upends herself and you are spirited aloft on her back, {SFX oooh!] hoping not to tip over her nose if she is at all uneven in her movements!
I felt very excited as I set off on Camellia in a vaguely northward direction. The last embers of the setting sun were low over my left shoulder, and the intense orange, reds and purplish shades of the desert sunset mingled with the clear turquoise and deep ultramarines of the night sky ahead and to my right. Once my eyes were used to it, it was exhilarating how well I could see in the half-light, although it did not dispel a slight nagging sense of unease which I could not pin down. It was not difficult to see the direction of the pavilion as there were many dents and ruts in the sand as though large items had been dragged along by the half-tracks, the traces not yet obliterated by the wind blown sand.
While I thought I was totally alone, I could hear a dim singing in my ears, a persistent thrum that would not stop, and I wondered if it was an effect of the wind, or something else. I tried to convince myself it was not real, when all of a sudden it was interrupted by a distant, then closer, sound of pounding hoofprints. I had scarcely time to be alarmed before Dr. Rookfield came galloping up beside me on another camel and I have to admit looking rather dashing, like Lawrence of Arabia in dark blue tasselled scarves flying out behind him and bandannas tied tightly around his svelte frame. He overtook me and swerved into my path, forcing Camellia to such a sudden halt that I nearly went over her head.
“Elizabeth!” he gasped. “Thank all the gods I’ve caught you in time!”
“What’s the matter, Hugh?” I asked him. “Didn’t you get my note?”
“Of course I did! Malcolm had invited me to dinner as well but I’d already declined.”
It seemed a bit extreme for him to get himself a camel and come out into the desert at twilight just because I’d declined our dinner arrangement. Maybe he was jealous that I had accepted the invitation and he had not. I was unsure what to make of it, but he continued,
“Malcolm and Mabel are not what they seem! You are in great danger, Elizabeth. Going to dinner with them would be like signing an execution order!”
I was about to challenge this exaggeration, but it was taking all my efforts to restrain Camellia, who vocally resented this interruption to her gallop, and I was left temporarily at a loss for words. I remembered the words in your telegram Jon [Jon: You are in danger] and how someone had tried to harm Mabel with the spiked drink on the boat. Had it been Rookfield? I had only his word that he had arrived separately to Luxor and I had only seen the poisoner’s hand, and a gloved one at that! I said nothing, feeling for the first time afraid of this agitated man, and let him continue:
“I’ve checked my sources and the real Mabel Whitton died in an accident five years ago. In her place is - what? A ghost? Something worse? God knows, Elizabeth, but you said yourself that it was after tea with Mabel when Irina started acting so strangely. You can’t meet this woman on your own until we know what is going on, what she is.”
Before I could protest these bizarre allegations against Mabel, I must have let loose my grip on Camellia’s halter for she suddenly swung past Rookfield’s camel and shot off along the path we were headed, presumably toward the Whitton pavilion. Rookfield had no choice but to follow. But Camellia had the bit between her teeth and with Rookfield having lost the element of surprise, there was no stopping her. We continued along the rutted track until we could see some canvas tents in the distance, gleaming whitely in the dusk. One was larger than the others and I could only assume this was the Whitton Pavilion.
Finally Camellia ran out of steam and I was able to bring her to a halt. With a huff she sat down with that peculiar see-saw motion of camels and I half fell, half slid off her back but gripped her tightly by the reins. Rookfield urged his camel down and dismounted too. We looked about us. There seemed to be no one about, but someone had assembled this tent village, so I doubted it would stay that way for long.
“Here,” said Rookfield under his breath, hustling us over to a hitching post onto which we were able to tether both camels. From within his robed attire he pulled out a letter, written to him at Luxor from – I shuddered to see the letterhead – someone at the Society of Esoterica in London! I recalled his connection with that place and Roland too. It occurred to me to call for help from the Whittons but at the last moment I remembered the debt we owe Hugh Rookfield for his assistance with you and George and Lily and stayed silent.
“Skip all this,” he said gruffly, pulling away the first page or so. “This is the key bit.” He struck a metal lighter, from which flickering light I was able to read a dreadful story about Mabel being the life and soul of the party until she was drowned in a tragic boating accident five years ago. Apparently Rookfield had known her in those days but he says he had completely forgotten! They say age will do that to you – but he is not that much older than you or I, Jon. The wind blew a sudden last gust, nearly taking the pages from me, and Rookfield’s lighter guttered and went out.
In the sudden darkness, I was very confused. In my head I heard the reproach from none other than the Veiled Lady; “Foolish Girl”. It was true about Irina’s odd behaviour and I remembered now how Sir M did all he could to avoid his wife, or to put her down in public. I realised what should have made me slightly uneasy about the evening invitation; the cosy togetherness of the hosts ‘Malcolm and Mabel’. Normally Sir M looked at his wife like he detested her. Had he somehow known there was something wrong about her but been unable to act?
“So how - ?” I began but Rookfield put his fingers to his lips and pulled me to the back of a nearby tent into deep shadow. There was the sound of scrunching feet in the area near the larger tent, and a brief dialogue in Arabic. I fancied one of the voices was Sir Malcolm himself? We paused, and the voices moved off. It was not silent, for I was still aware of the irritating singing in my ears, even though the desert wind had dropped with the dusk.
Rookfield was snaking his way behind the tents, three or four small ones, and then to a larger one, which I realised backed on to the Whitton Pavilion, and was presumably the Whittons’ private quarters. I followed. This last tent was lit from within by a lantern and the entrance flap was slightly undone. I would not dream of walking straight in, but Rookfield somehow managed to ascertain the coast was clear, and beckoned me in behind him.
I looked around nervously. At first glance, it was the dressing room of a standard well-equipped expedition. I could see Sir Malcom’s tropical jacket and sun helmet, boots, and a gun. There was a writing desk with papers piled under a glass paperweight. In another corner was a large travel trunk, upended to act as a wardrobe. Some of Mabel’s clothes lay draped about. It seemed very normal and Rookfield started rooting through the paperwork. I stood there confused and conflicted. My head hurt as the singing got more insistent and I really thought I should call for help, but also I could sense a tug from the Veiled Lady guiding me to one of the camp chairs. I knew we had to make good our escape from this place, and I had felt my white blouse was quite conspicuous in the darkness outside, so I made to take a dark shawl of Mabel’s from that chair, to act as camouflage for later on. As I picked it up, the delicate woollen stitches disintegrated before my eyes and I was left with a bare husk of a garment, a few old, tattered shreds of something that had once - long, long ago - been fabric. An earthy, mouldering smell came off it, almost choking me. I dropped it as though it was on fire - and then, I saw what it had been concealing.
On the chair seat, underneath the erstwhile shawl, was stood a half a dozen or more figurines, mostly very crudely executed in rough red clay – apart that is from the one that took centre stage, the one of me, the one in wax that Irina had created, and that I had modelled for on the RMS Nereid as we crossed the Mediterranean – how long ago it now seems! As I got my eye in, I realised even the crude figures represented individuals on our team – one wore a scrap of white cloth, embroidered with roundels – taken from the very same blouse Irina had worn on our first meeting! Hadn’t she ripped it that day in the bazaar? Two male figures in khaki presenting cigarettes like arms stood side by side – Jeremy and Trevor perhaps? Or Artie? Please god, not Artie? I had to suppress a snigger when I saw a female figure in a red-stained scrap of cream chiffon – Hayley would almost certainly have thrown that dress to the cleaners.
But the thought that Mabel had gone to the effort of generating and collecting clay figures and fragments of clothing or other possessions from our expedition team so shocked and appalled me that I stood, aghast, frozen to the spot, and yet fascinated. Behind the chair there were more, crude, unfinished figures – was this work not yet finished?
The nasty little figures seemed to waver and move in the fluttering light and I had a sudden horror of them coming to life like your shadow puppet and attacking us.
Speechless, I tugged at Rookfield’s arm and silently pointed. Deep in the papers, he looked slightly annoyed at the interruption, but followed my gaze and gave a jolt of surprise when his eye took in what I was showing him.
“Of all the - !” he expostulated, bending down and retrieving one of the clumsy unfinished clay shapes, which was sporting a red paisley handkerchief around what might become its neck. “I’d been looking for that everywhere,” he muttered, then added, “Good god but this is strong magic, Elizabeth, it certainly explains a lot. These must be destroyed.”
“Hold tight Elizabeth, yours first,” he whispered, when there was a noise outside, a light step, and a woman’s voice saying something indistinct.
“Quick!” hissed Rookfield and bundled us both into the upstanding trunk, pulling the door to behind us. Fortunately it was one of those trunks that are open inside, not partitioned, so there was room – but barely – for us both to stand in a half-crouch, muffled by the clothing within and scarcely able to breathe.
The woman – it had to be Mabel – but what is she? – seemed to be suspicious and searching for something and I prayed it wasn’t something to wear from the trunk – or worse, the shawl and its hidden hoard. I had an overwhelming urge to shout “here I am!” and I think I would have if I had not seen those ghastly figurines. Even so it was all I could do not to let any sound past my pursed lips. I could feel Rookfield’s breath hot on my neck and I squeezed myself against him for steadiness. It certainly didn’t feel respectable, but I was beyond that at this time.
At first it sounded like a woman's step in the room but the more I listened the more it seemed like some dread creature, shuffling around the tent, muttering and snuffling – animalistic noises almost, certainly incoherent. Even in the trunk, there was an overwhelming smell of old decay and mould.
I couldn’t help thinking what Mabel would do when she found us. Or are we cursed already?
Then the creature was suddenly outside the trunk, sniffing distrustfully with rasping breaths, its stink competing with the strong camphor odour within the trunk. I had a desperate fatal urge to leap out of the trunk and embrace the thing. My head felt like it would explode with the pressure.
Or am I no longer cursed? I found myself seeking the guidance of the Veiled Lady, saying “you have done a Great Magic” and in my eyes I pictured myself on the hill at Clatbury in that cold December dawn. Dimples was waiting patiently for me then, and I had the curious thought that she and Camellia might get to know one another. I don’t think I have the stamina for too much esoterica so I had to will myself to think of Great Magic rather than quadruped tea parties, Rookfield and the clothes all the while squashed tightly against me, generating an pungent mix of sweat and mothballs which I tried hard not to inhale.
Finally the creature moved away. With a curse, in a completely unfamiliar but probably archaic, tongue, and the sound of furniture being overturned, the occupant left the tent, a gust of new air flapping the papers. Rookfield and I both breathed a sigh of relief, and let the trunk inch open of its own accord.
There was a lingering smell of decay and something else, a faint complex aroma of vanilla, cloves and possibly bitumen He went straight over to the chair and without further ado picked up Irina’s sculpture of me and tried to smash it against the metal arm of the chair. Being made of wax, it did not shatter but instead distorted into an amorphous blob. I felt a searing pain in my head, in my guts, in my legs - and I sank down onto the ground. But the singing in my ears was suddenly gone and I felt suddenly alert, clear-headed, more so than I’ve been for weeks. I looked at the statue. It was in pieces, just waxen lumps.
“Let’s go,” he said, violently smashing his own figure and taking a sheaf of papers. “Get to your camel and I’ll follow.”
It was harder than before, now my eyes had become used to the light, but I kept the Veiled Lady and the Great Magic in my vision as well as the thought of Camellia and Dimples perhaps having a little race over the Wiltshire downs, and finally I made it to the hitching post at the outskirts of the encampment. Rookfield came running up behind me and I could see that the tent we had so recently vacated was aflame. We both mounted in haste and rode off.
“I knocked over the lantern,” said Rookfield. “It’ll look like an accident. But we’ve no time to waste! It would be good to get back to that poor excuse for a hotel and the goat tagine before anyone spots we’ve gone.”
I thought this was a tall order, but we did, miraculously, seem to get away undetected, while the camp guards concerned themselves with extinguishing the fire. It felt like no time we were in El Kharga and our camels handed over to their herds. Sitting in the hotel dining room there was still time for the dregs of the goat curry and Irina, lighting a cigarette and seeming very much her old self.
“If this is a Nubian town, as they tell me,” she said languidly, “give me Ezbekiyya any night.”
Rookfield smiled ambiguously and said as an aside to me, “Glad I added some lighter fuel to the mix in that tent,” he said. “And – er – some hexes of my own making. To ensure all that malicious arcana is eradicated for good.”
“Surely those figures were Caribbean magic, rather than Egyptian?” I asked, as perhaps surprisingly, this had been bothering me.
Rookfield answered, “The ancient Egyptian magicians used figurines to curse and put spells on their victims too. These sort of ideas repeat through cultures. At the end of the day, Elizabeth, the esoteric and the divine are seen from our own limited human perspective. When we touch the divine we leave our fingerprints behind, and over time shape it into the gods living and dead. They are as mutable as our desires.”
He raised his eyebrows, “ Hah, I’ll bet you didn’t know that the Christian god once had a divine wife. There’s actually a convent in England where the Sisters of Asherah still secretly worship her.”
This discourse was all too complex so late after the evening’s adventure and I attempted to excuse myself to go to bed, but Rookfield pulled out the sheaf of papers he had taken from the tent and proffered them to me. “You have some homework to do before we set off for the Hungry Tomb - your sharp eyes will make short work of that,” he said.
So – after dinner, here I am in my room, and I believe Rookfield and Irina may be having a late evening stroll together! - while I work by candlelight to decipher what looks like some old diaries of Sir Malcolm Whitton’s:
[Elizabeth, reading, fades to Rick.....]
February 10th 1922. (ages ago....) I talked to a man today who told me my grief was unnecessary, that the gods can give back that which is lost. I have new purpose. I will succeed in this as I have succeeded in everything else.
May 16th 1924. The Brotherhood of the Veil have revealed more than they intended! I am convinced I now know where the Hungry Tomb is located. I just need to come up with grounds for an excavation licence and we can start. Soon, Mabel, soon!
October 31st, 1925 (gosh that was only last autumn when you went to Waterford) An auspicious day for the start of the dig. The men have staked out the site and commenced our initial explorations. The ground is flat and easy and guarded by a cliff to the west.
November 20th 1925. We have dug up most of the damn valley to no avail. We dig on. I will not be thwarted in this.
December 14th 1925. I admit I am in despair and thinking of calling it quits on this blasted enterprise. I was jolted out of my sleep by the very ground shaking, followed by a roaring noise and the shouting of the men. The earthquake is a sign, but of what?
December 15th 1925. We have found it! One of the men came into camp today shouting excitedly. Yesterday’s earthquake [earthquake!] has caused the face of the cliff to collapse south of our camp and there in the fresh rock is a single shadowy square-cut hole, high up.
January 3th 1926. We are finally going to enter the tomb itself today, though the passageway is partially rubble filled. I believe the structure is now stable. The men have done a good job shoring it up.
January 5th 1926. I have it! I have it! We finally reached an antechamber with various treasures undisturbed through the ages. I believe there is likely a sarcophagus hidden beyond in another room but I had eyes only for the papyrus scrolls stacked carelessly here and after a quick search through them, the edges crumbling in my hands, I found it Mabel! Soon. Soon I will have you back! I am closing up the dig for the season and heading back to Cairo where I shall perform the ritual [ritual!] in more fitting environs.
[Elizabeth]
There it ends. It was only a week or so after that when I met Sir Malcolm for the first time. How was I to know what a hornet’s nest I’d wandered into? I do now realise I, and so many of us, were under some kind of spell invoked by that dreary old hag. How many of the decisions I have made since I met the Whittons have been influenced by her and what sort of puppet might I have become if Rookfield had not stopped me tonight? And it was Rookfield who recommended Sir Malcolm to us, Jon!
I am tired now and will go to bed. The thought of the desert march to the Hungry Tomb alongside whatever Mabel really is, fills me with apprehension, but it is the final piece of this puzzle and I know I must follow it. If I leave now, I will have no answers, what she is after that is worth others killing for. Having the diaries will help us know what to look for. The thought does occur to me that how can I know for sure even now that my decision to go into the desert is my own. I do wish you were here, Jon.
I do hope for no more earthquakes.
With my fondest love,
Elizabeth