2.11 Into The Tomb Part One: Elizabeth

Find out now what happened to the missing Whitton Expedition - and to Elizabeth...

If you are enjoying THWDY, please consider leaving reviews and telling your friends about us! You can also join our Patreon for free at patreon.com/CiteogPodcasts and find out more at www.citeogpodcasts.com

If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!

Transcript

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 2.11 Part 1

---------------------------------------------
'Into The Tomb: Elizabeth'

 ---------------------------------------------

The Western Desert,

26th February 1926  

Dear Jon, 

I am writing this as our expedition sets off into the Western Desert in search for the Hungry Tomb. It will be a rough and piecemeal outline of our journey and I will leave it in my backpack at our final destination, for you to find in case of any calamity. I have to say by now I am very nervous of what is really there and what might befall us, given we seem to be travelling with a revenant priestess with curious manipulative powers including working magic with effigies much like the voodoo.  While Dr Rookfield and I have managed to part destroy her demonic temple of icons, I am not sure the job was complete, and she herself travels with us still. 

I am writing once again in pencil. As you know, I lost my writing set on leaving Cairo, and although I replaced it in Luxor, I fear the desert conditions will make it impractical and my note would be reduced to indecipherable scratches and smudges, far worse than those generated by Sir Malcolm in the diaries I read last night. It is going to take us six days’ slow camel march across the Western Desert to get to the hidden wadi in which the Hungry Tomb is situated. We are all on camel, apart from some of our leaders who have snaffled seats on the Citroen half-tracks, which come with two drivers and a mechanic. I think Sir M and the diabolical Mabel are on these. I am pleased – I will be able to keep out of their way. 

After breakfast, before we packed up, Rookfield ushered me and Irina into his bedroom, there to hand us some small flower-shaped stones made out of a dull grey metallic rock with a faint lustre. It was odd to see the man’s room, just like mine, although rather tidier, but with male accoutrements. Irina, who I am glad to report seems fully her old self, sat down at once in a familiar manner and picking up what looked like a hairpin, started fiddling with her hair. 

“It’s desert iron, the blood of the sands” he said. “Evil spirits don’t like iron – our own folklore tells us that. Stands to reason it’ll work in the desert too.”

Working quickly with a pen-knife, he scraped a long vertical line with many short cross lines at different angles onto two of them and then did something clever with shoelaces so that each was secure in a cradle that was also a necklace. 

“Here,” he said, giving me one, “They’re weak charms but should work for those like us who have been exposed to the arcana. They will help protect against the esoteric influence that woman extends over those around her. You can change the shoelace for something more fitting if you like but wear the stone at all times.”

I felt, I must admit a little thrill at being considered ‘one of us’ by Rookfield. I wasn’t sure if it applied to Irina too but he gave her another of the little flowers, and then, as an afterthought, handed me several more. 

“You know who’s who on the team better than I do,” he said. “In case you see any of our cohort in danger.”

It is alarming to know that we are almost certainly facing danger, and of the esoteric sort as well as the privations of a long desert trek with no friendly destination. I also sense Mabel suspects us of setting fire to her tent last night. While I think Rookfield paid off the camelherds to not recognise us this morning, so we could deny our visit to the Whittons’ camp ever took place,  I had reckoned without Camellia! It was obvious she identified me, and snuffled at me in what I am relieved was quite a friendly manner. The thought of replacing her with another mount was unthinkable to me, so I had to pretend as best I could that we were perfect strangers. I giggled nervously as she knelt before me, and tried to pretend to topple as she raised herself to her feet. But I think our passage was altogether too smooth, and I became aware of Mabel, who had arrived with Sir Malcolm in a half-track vehicle, giving me a curious glance. How can such a dull mousy character exert such diabolic sway, I wondered to myself as I turned Camellia away from her gaze, placing the camel’s rear end and mine firmly in Mabel’s line of sight. 

And we were off! At first all the camels were jostling around before we settled into a long line moving slowly westward, the Quftis bringing up the rear. I found myself trotting alongside Mr Ashraf, and thinking to vouchsafe myself an alibi, asked him if he knew what had happened to the tents last night, as a dreadful rumour had reached us back in the hotel that they were totally destroyed.

“The Whittons’ dressing room was very badly scorched,” he said. “It seems a gust of wind caught the lantern and upset it. It was careless of Madam Whitton to leave the tent flap open, and it seems a valuable shawl, handed down through the family for generations, was damaged beyond repair. I do not think Madam Whitton will be good company today. That’s why I’m on the camel rather than in the vehicle with them,” he admitted, almost with a wink at me. But then his gaze grew more solemn, and he added, “I had hoped to visit you in the hotel, Miss, and advise you not to come along on this last leg of the expedition. It is not for a good purpose that we are travelling. I had wished not to come myself, but I feel responsible for the men I’ve hired.”

At a loss for a reply, I plunged my hand down my neckline, where, in amongst my makeshift corsetry, I had smuggled the extra desert ironstones of Rookfield’s. I took one and handed it over to Mr. Ashraf.

“Keep it safe,” I advised him, “and hopefully it’ll do the same for you.” 

He took it, and then gave it a second, surprised glance. “Baraka,” he said, gratefully. “Thank you, Miss”. 

I am relieved he has one of the stones and if I can, I’ll get one to Artie too, although he is behind us, keeping pace with the Quftis. 

After that, talk petered out and the camels found their way into single file, a long sinuous ribbon, the sun on our left, burning just one side of my face, so I had to keep adjusting my hat for shade. But the hot southerly wind, the khamsin, Mr Ashraf called it, kept catching my hat and although it was tied on tightly, it offered me no protection from the sun and wind on that side. I am going to look like a circus clown, I thought, and then dismissed the idea as immaterial compared with what we are up against. 

The day wore on. It was worse in the afternoon as the sun had come round and was in our eyes. I did have some sunglasses but had to wait until a tea break when I could find them buried in my bag. The luggage was all loaded on other camels so it took a bit of finding. I asked Jeremy if he knew where my bag might have gone but he gave me a “how should I know?” kind of look and went off to see if “Mrs Whitton wanted some more tea.” Yet another one in the sway of that old bat, I thought, but decided to save my few remaining desert stones – for you Jon, if you can ever find us out here, and any assistants you may have, like the pilot chap. 

Being a Friday, however, we called the trek to an early halt, for which I was grateful, as I was feeling dusty and windswept and still getting used to riding Camellia. Our tents were swiftly erected – I am sharing with Irina, with the Valentinos next door. The camels are bedded down, our food is being cooked – Mr Ashraf’s cook, Ramy, is a round jolly man, and I have high hopes of the fare – and as the light fades, it will be hard to write, so I will resume this letter tomorrow.  I do hope you are safe and well, Jon. 

Saturday. 

We ride on....and on....and on. I am becoming attuned to the desert landscapes. It is not sandy as I’d expected, but stony, and scrubby, with small, oddly rounded, black hillocks here and there. Sometimes the terrain forces the camel train off its course, and then we cluster about, slightly at a loss for direction. The half-tracks are ahead, the Quftis are behind, and its difficult to see who is leading the camel riders. Jeremy is barely able to control his camel and we often find ourselves waiting for him after he has fallen off. Mr Ashraf is keeping us all sane although he keeps reminding us, he is a city boy, and is not really that familiar with the desert, or with camel-riding. I think Ramy our cook is actually in the lead much of the time, and I think I will trot up front with him. If it all goes to hell in a handcart at least I won’t starve. 

Later,

Jon, I am writing by moonlight as it is the most wonderful scene imaginable. We sit here among our tents, and the moon, which is full, is so bright that it is indeed possible to see to write by – although please excuse wonky hand! 

This could be a scene out of the Old Testament – or even older again, from ancient Babylon or indeed Samarkand. Forgive me if I am mixing my histories here, but I am swept away by the eerie beauty of this remote setting. In the background, the camels are making contented lowing sounds.  I thought the full moon might unsettle them, but they are perfectly happy, this is their lamplight and their home. I wish you were here Jon, to put your arm around me and for us to gaze together at the firmament and realise how small we humans are on the great face of the universe, but that you and I are together in it. But if that cannot come to pass, I want you to know that I have seen this wonder and been overawed and humbled by its immensity. 

Sunday,

I am glad I had that peaceful moment last night, for today is anything but. This khamsin, a fierce wind, something I had not expected, gets everywhere and brings a blasting of sand with it. The mood of the group is very strange. Some are grumpy, others sunburnt and thirsty, while people that I really thought wouldn’t take the pace, like Hayley Valentino, seem fine. In fact she has been quite friendly to me, apparently forgotten all about that dress. Her husband, however is struggling to stay on his camel and is I think angling for a space on the half-tracks. 

Monday, 1st March,

Oh Jon, I have never been so tired, so asleep on my feet, almost, although it is of course my camel that is doing the footwork. It is a long, long slog across these barren lands, the sun beating down relentlessly, the khamsin blowing strongly, bringing shards of sand with it, spiky and painful. I have wrapped myself in muslin shawls but they are too lightweight and I wish I had bought more of the heavy duty fustian cotton that the cloth bazaar had in such quantity. They used to make it in Wiltshire, you know, back in the days of the English Civil War, when I believe it was useful for army uniforms, and I think only something so tough and durable works to keep out the endless stinging of the sharp sand grains. And they really are sharp, angled, you know, not like the rounded grains you find on a beach, which are bad enough when they get between your toes.  

I have plenty of time for these idle, nagging thoughts as we plod, plod, plod across the landscape. The noise of the wind, the occasional call of one of the men, a snort from Camellia, and always, faintly, in the background, the marching song Artie favours for the Quftis, not that they are on foot.... “I had a good job, for twenty-five bob, and I left, left, left.” I asked him about it in the camp last night, at the same time as a I slipped him a desert flower. I thought after his unwelcome wartime experiences he would have had nothing to do with militarism of any kind. 

“It’s not so easy to forget, Lizzy,“ he said (I don’t know why he insists on calling me Lizzy, an Australian tendency to abbreviate, I can only suppose. At least it’s better than “Sheila”).  “It’s drummed into you, morning, noon and night, for a very intense time period. When the lads, oh my word, ain’t in the normal way of thinking, you know, will they be dead in six weeks? Then they demob you and expect you to get back into regular life, civvy street you Poms call it, though it’s more likely back on the farm for us Anzacs. It’s still there, the drill, a drumbeat in your head, a ghost army, marching ever onward, on foot or on horse, to who knows what oblivion?”

Of course, you know how catch phrases and silly little rhymes stick in your head, despite all your efforts to erase them from memory?  It was like this with the marching song. “I had a good job, for twenty-five bob, and I left.....” with the emphasis on the Left. I hope it is gone by tomorrow. 

Tuesday,

Rookfield rode alongside me for a while and we discussed Mabel. He assures me that although physically she resembles the woman who married and sailed with Sir Malcolm, in every other detail she cannot be the same person. The effigies in the tent clearly point to her being a “hekat” – a magician – and not one of the good ones. Rookfield thinks maybe she is an old priestess of the early period in Egyptian history. This jogged my memory to recall what Sam, the Egyptologist had said, back in Cairo. I told Rookfield this, and pondered why Sam had been fired from the expedition at the last minute. 

“Too smart for his own good, I suppose, worked out what was going on even if he didn’t realise it himself,“ said Rookfield. “He didn’t give a magician’s name, by any chance?”

I struggled to recall, but all I could think of was “Why now Hecate, you look angerly” mixed with “I had a good job and I left”, so I shook my head, to clear it as much as anything else. I did however remember that somewhere in my bag I have Hilda Flinders’ book and that might list a veritable pantheon of ancient spirits and dervishes.

Thursday, 4th March

The landscape has changed. The stony desert is behind us and we are now wading through huge sand dunes, for all the world like a sea, nothing of real permanence. The camels do their best – I see now why they have the old name “Ship of the Desert” – and to be honest they are more effective than the half-track vehicles, which slither and slide in the unstable ground. Their drivers and mechanic, all Frenchmen, keep very much to themselves. 

Jeremey finally got the hang of camel-riding and was taking up the lead position, but then there was an incident in which Clarence Valentino, who I think I said before is carrying a few extra pounds, fell off his mount and landed awkwardly. My role as a First Aider was called for, and I patched the fellow’s leg up as well as I could, but it is at best very severely sprained, and I do suspect a fracture.  If he were to return to El Kharga it would mean losing one of the half-tracks, which was apparently unthinkable to the Whittons. So we continue, Clarence now on the vehicle, and his seat donated, I think somewhat to his irritation, by Sir Malcolm, who is now riding a camel along with the rest of us. I try to keep Camellia out of his way. 

Saturday, 6th March

Camp, The Wadi of the Hungry Tomb

We have arrived. There are rocks again, not just sand. The Hungry Tomb is in the cliff face opposite us, a black gash in the rockface, looking as malevolent and forbidding as you might expect. Tomorrow we are to ascend via a rope ladder the Quftis secured this evening, all except Clarence, who with his injured leg, will be going nowhere, much to his annoyance.

This camp is not new. Previous expeditions, presumably Sir Malcolm’s, have been here, and traces of their activity, such as remnant ashes from an old campfire, can be seen. Idly, I picked up an old matchbox, noticing it was an English brand, rather than the local lucifers. Shaking it, something stuck, so curiosity got the better of me and I looked inside. A couple of unused matches, plus the dregs of a roll of tobacco in its little bag – emergency supplies, perhaps – but what left me almost speechless was the small print label on the bag – H. T. Bentley, Tobacconist, High Street, Marlford, Wilts. Roland could not have given his game away more effectively if he had told me himself where he’d been! But also I realised that it was a subtle detail few others than I would recognise. 

 I have in my mind the expectation from Sir M’s diaries, that within the tomb we will find a freshly disturbed ground, and there may be a mummy. It must be what Mabel is seeking. I do hope Hugh Rookfield’s desert flowers are strong enough magic to protect us. I realise too though that I have another charm. The Veiled Lady is speaking to me, in my head, all the time, gently, but persistently, offering warning, but also encouragement to overcome whatever thrall I might face. We have dined well this evening, Ramy is indeed a good cook, and I hope I will face tomorrow with renewed vigour. I love you, Jon.

Sunday morning

All hell broke loose in the night. We were awoken by screams, screeches almost, of a woman possessed. When Irina and I crawled out of the tent, we could see why. Hayley was hopping around like a mad thing, while inside their tent lay what remained of her husband, Clarence. It is a skeleton almost, what skin is left pulled skin-tight on his bones and only a few pieces of gristle and hair otherwise left on his remains. He has truly been devoured, and quite a big meal, too. But how? It must be Mabel. Hayley was incoherent, so no answers there. Imagine rolling over in bed and seeing that when you wake.

Everyone was shocked, but while Jeremy and Sir Malcolm tried to restore order, the Quftis were having none of it. One of them set fire to the tent, chucking in an oil lamp,  presumably trying to cleanse this evil away, and, after a brief and angry discourse with Mr Ashraf, the others secured the camels and started making preparations to leave. 

“They will not stay,” said Mr Ashraf to Sir Malcolm. “And I do not blame them. This is not a standard archaeological excavation, this is digging up an ancestral evil and it should not be expected of them or anyone else on the team” – with a look at me. 

So – the skilled men, they who have the best knowledge of local conditions, will be gone, and we ignorant Westerners left here alone with our incompetent organisers and arrogant leaders. We might survive the tomb, but how will we get back? 

As dawn broke, and the Quftis mounted their steads, ready to depart, the one who had set alight to the tent, still making for his camel, was seized by Mabel – or rather, something dark like an impossible shadow seemed to stretch between out them, grabbing hold of the poor man.  The sun was low in the sky casting its own long shadows so I am not quite sure what I saw.  I wish I could unsee and hear what happened next but I think I will have nightmares about it for a long time to come. He was a strong healthy man but shrivelled in the space of a few seconds into a wizened old man, his skin just tightening and tightening as the flesh underneath evaporated. There was a sickening cracking noise as the man’s bones splintered and he screamed even more horribly. This went on and on until there was only a dry husk left. 

God Jon, it was horrible! How did we sleep through it when she did the same thing to Clarence? He had fawned over her but maybe was more useful as dinner once he became lame. What spell was on us despite Rookfield’s charms? This must be how Mabel survives, by feeding off others. Why on earth did I save her from that poisoned martini? This might be all my fault. 

There was a shocked silence, then the camp erupted into turmoil. I saw Rookfield turn and run to his tent. Poor Artie just stood there like a ghost. Mr Ashraf pulled his gun on Mabel and shot at her but to no apparent effect. Jeremy had his gun out as well and shot back, forcing Mr Ashraf to seek cover behind some rocks. The Quftis, their camels startled by the sudden violence, took off with great shouts, even as Sir M of all people took pot shots at them. 

Sir Malcolm then wheeled round to face us while Jeremy menaced the half track drivers who had looked to follow the Quftis. 

“Lady Whitton”, he said pompously, “desires everyone to make their way yonder” - and he gesticulated at the black hole in the cliff face, 

I held back, understandably reluctant, and muttered a query. I had not imagined him to be quite so hen-pecked.

“It’s not for us to decide, lass”, he said, and immediately snapped to it as though he had a muscle spasm, and said “At once!” To my and I think everyone’s surprise, he fired over our heads and having made his point started herding the team members toward the rope ladder.

It was however difficult for him and Jeremy to keep the guns on all of us as the panicked group began to move, so taking my life in my hands, I objected that I was wearing sandals and need change into boots. This is true at least, I cannot imagine going into that dread hole in open-toed footwear! I slipped away between the tents. I was nearly bowled over by Dr Rookfield who was coming back, stuffing something into his pocket.

“Get away if you can Elizabeth,” he said to me as he passed by, “I’ll go find Irina.”

So I am back in my own tent now, lacing my boots with one hand and scribbling this last bit to you in the other, Jon, my love. I am under no illusions that I can somehow escape. I can hear Jeremy shouting at Rookfield to get moving so I don’t think any help is coming from that quarter. 

At least you will know where to find us, if we are not devoured first.