2.12 Season Two Finale - Tamesis

Elizabeth and Jon are back in London, busy with plans for the future. Because it is all over, isn't it?


Additional music:
Wagner: Bridal Chorus by Kevin MacLeod is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution License via Freemusic.org
https://freemusicarchive.org/music/Kevin_MacLeod/Classical_Sampler/Wagner_Bridal_Chorus/ 

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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 2.12

'Tamesis'

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

POST CARD

Gibraltar,

7th April, 1926

Dear Celia,

We are on our way home on the RMS Selene. I am not looking forward to the Bay of Biscay but I hope for fair weather, being at a better time of year than my outward passage. I had so wished we might be able to fly part of the way home but Jon suggested after our terrifying ordeal in the desert (yes, mumbo jumbo you might think but wait til I tell you all about it!) that a long slow sea voyage was what we both needed to relax us. I am looking forward to seeing you in London and will appreciate assistance with my wedding planning!  We have fixed a date. 

Love, Elizabeth

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

Thanks very much for showing us around, Mrs Jenner. We’ll let you know if we are interested.

[door closes, footsteps, exterior]

What did you think?

Well it’s a nice house…

But?

Well, Jon, it just seems rather rushed -

- and there’d be no room for Dimples either. Don’t worry, I only wanted to take a look to keep Mr Herring happy. Look, this tea room we’re passing is a sign that we should eat cake and drink tea while I tell you about the interview.

[Door, bell, interior crowd, chairs scraping]

Oh hello, can we get a pot of tea for two and a slice each of your cake, please? Thank you.

I still don’t understand why they want to hire you as a shipping broker.

Me neither. Or rather I can tell you what Mr Herring said. He was a strange cove; big, a polite, gentle manner to him but with a face that suggested a failed career as a pugilist.

[cups, pot etc]

Oh thank you. 

[pouring tea etc]

Mmmm, that’s good. So go on, tell me more about Herring and Balder, the only shipping brokers in land-locked and remote Winchelsea.

Well I asked him about that. He said Herring & Balder has been a Winchelsea institution since the 13th century when the town was founded and before that they were in Old Winchelsea which was by the sea until it fell into it. He didn’t quite put it like that.

Ah so, Tradition. They’ve always been here so here they will stay!

Something like that I suspect. Well I was upfront about knowing nothing about the business though I refrained from telling him I had to actually look up in the Britannica what a broker actually did. You’ll never guess where he got my name!

Get on with it! I’m sure it was as odd as the rest of him.

Mrs Southcliffe!

No! Lily’s mother?

The very same. Mr Herring doesn’t know her directly but apparently all sort of cousins have popped out of the woodwork to invite her over for dinner now she is about to become very wealthy. Mr Herring happened to be at one such evening. I said I was surprised that Mrs Southcliffe had much good to say about me. He looks at me and says, she didn’t. Quite the disreputable rogue you are altogether, according to her. He was quite intrigued, asked around, he said.

Well that should have confirmed everything! And the the nerve of that woman, after you rescued her daughter. Twice in fact!

Well yes. Mr Herring says, almost ticking off a list: Captain, well regarded, in the army; Present at the mysterious death of Lord Clonlaw, one that is still the source of rumours; briefly - his eyebrows went up at this bit - the most wanted man in Egypt and apparently a bit of derring do as well, helping an  army patrol that was under attack, and from an airplane as well! I’m not sure I quite understood what was going on out there, all a bit garbled, he says, but I thought to myself this is the kind of man Herring and Balder require for this confusing new modern age. 

I objected but he said, no Captain, you can lead, understand logistics and risk, clearly have initiative and most of all some of my clients will definitely like dealing with a gentleman who is clearly also a man of the world. The rest of the job is details.

I don’t know, Jon, it all sounds rather odd to me. I have to admit I’d harboured hopes of somewhere in London. It’s all very well you taking rooms here and I staying with Celia but we will need something more permanent. Winchelsea and Sussex is just, well, not quite what I was thinking of. It reminds me of Clatbury only even more olde worlde and provincial. 

Well we don’t have to make a decision yet Elizabeth,  but you know what your mother is like. It’s alright for George to be a gentleman of leisure but she expects her future son-in-law to be a man of means and of good reputation. 

Oh ignore her. I don’t care what you do as long as we are together! Surely you can use this reputation of yours to get a job in London?

Well so far, the bits of my reputation, such as it is, that appealed to Mr Herring are the parts that seems to close every door I go to. Ah well, I’ll just keep looking.

We should probably get the next train back to London. The guard on the way down was of the opinion that they’d stop running this afternoon as the train drivers are going to join the general strike.

Not more strikes. God, the whole country will be shut down soon… [fade]

[fade up, conductors whistle, train departing etc]

Last train to London! That was a bit of luck. I’m supposed to be going to a dress fitting with Celia tomorrow.

I’m looking forward very much to seeing you in this dress! Is your mother still trying to take control of the guest list? 

Oh god yes. I have had to have words with her on that. It’s another reason to be up in town.

[Rustling of papers]

Why are you giving me the eye like that, Jon?

Sorry, it’s just that you never used to be much interested in the London newspapers…

Well with everything that has gone on, I feel it important that I am informed about the state of the world. Have you noticed that there seems to be rather a lot these days in the papers about Egypt? I don’t know if I’m imagining it, or that I am just more aware of it having so recently been in that country.

Like what?

Well here for example is the latest about Mr Peters’, MP for Bermondsey's, quest to return all the British Museum’s Egyptian artefacts back to Egypt. There has been a right to-do over it in the press and in both houses of parliament. Everyone is a bit bemused by Peters making this his cause celebre as he previously never evidenced much interest in the arts, being more of a hunting and fishing type.

And look, today’s editorial is about the Foreign Secretary. Supposedly there are moves afoot to try and oust him. He has out of nowhere been proposing closer ties between the British and Egyptian governments. Nearly caused a riot in the House of Commons earlier in the week. 

Oh, there may even be a whiff of scandal! Listen, “Heads were turned last week in the Elmore Club when the foreign secretary hosted a private dinner with a woman, much to the consternation of the other patrons, who are used to the club being a gentleman’s refuge from modern conventions - “

You mean, an old boys club where they can drink claret and snooze without their wives badgering them - 

 Quite so. Ugh, sounds horrible. Promise me Jon you’ll never abandon me for the dubious delights of such places?

Hand on heart. I wouldn’t frequent such clubs, even if they’d have me.

Right, so I wonder if we know who the mysterious woman is? Let’s see… “…it is unlikely to be a coincidence, given the upcoming dinner in their honour, that the lady in question was subsequently revealed to be Lady Whitton - “

What?!

 It must be someone else. Wait for a moment…

[pause as she reads]

Oh god, Jon. Listen to this, “Sir Malcom and Lady Whitton, recently returned from Egypt, will be honoured with a gala reception at the British Museum on the evening of 5th of May in recognition of the most generous donation they have made to the museum, and a room will be renamed the Whitton Gallery.”

No, no, it can’t be. They are both dead and buried in the desert.

It is them. There’s a lot more stuff in here about them. Oh god, oh god, what is she doing here in England?

What does it take to kill her? She’s been shot and set on fire, a rock five tons if it weighed an ounce crushed her flat, the damn tomb collapsed on her and then was buried by a mountain of sand! How the hell is she still standing, don’t mind being in London! We need to talk to Rookfield god help us.

We can’t. He went back to Cairo. He said his efforts at a rapprochement between the Society and the Brotherhood were bearing fruit now he was talking to the older generation rather than the young bloods who see him as an ‘imperialist lackey’.

What do we do then, and what is she up to?

I can guess at that. Private dinner with the Foreign Secretary? We know what happens at her ‘private dinners.’ God, that means she’s suborned one of the most powerful politicians in the country, probably this Mr Peters MP as well. Is she making her little dolls again and trying to take over the government? Can she? She won’t stop at these two, will she? What if she gets Baldwin or Churchill under her thumb? 

I think I can guess. We would end up with the Anglo-Egyptian empire, then just the Egyptian empire, with her pulling the strings. 

Something must be going to happen at this reception at the British Museum. You said Roland let slip that the contents of the Hungry Tomb have been sent there.

[whispers] What do we do? 

[Train whistle blows, then fade train away]

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

Bloomsbury,

London, W. C.

12th May, 1926,

Dear Hugh,

I hope you received the invitation to our wedding. I am very excited, just like a prospective bride should be. 

But I have much more to tell you about what happened last week and its terrible events, brought about by our nemesis, that priestess who would be Pharaoh, otherwise known as Mabel Whitton. Oh that you had been there to help us. Jon didn’t want to contact the rest of the Society, remarking that both Roland and Sir M were members or connected to it. A point I could not refute. 

When we left you in Cairo after our escape from the desert, I think you and I and in fact all of us, did believe they were out of our lives for good, both of the Whittons shot or crushed and dead under a million tons of rock and sand.  In fact Clarke quietly exonerated Jon for all of his actions at the Hungry Tomb, saying that he had acted with extreme bravery in complete self-defence. That did relieve me a bit. I hope your trips back and forth between London and Cairo to  see if there is common ground to be made between the Brotherhood of the Veil and the Society of Esoterica have been fruitful. 

We are back in London and preparing not only for our wedding but for Jon to settle down with a job. I suppose this has to happen sooner or later. While mundane, it is inevitable and perhaps some stability is what we now need.  But Britain has been anything but stable the last week or so! The General Strike has caused such complete mayhem everywhere. You will remember rescuing me from that Hunger March last year  - well, this is the same sort of thing writ large. I am not sure where I stand on it to be honest, but my cousin Celia, who does, it must be said, generally have a lot of time on her hands, volunteered as a telephonist and has overheard all sorts of unusual and probably highly confidential conversations as part of her work. Truth be told, I think she may actually take to it as a permanent job. 

So, last week, Jon and I were struggling to get back to London from a place in Sussex where Jon had a job interview – very inconvenient I must say, and that was even without the trains being on strike – and we by chance saw a newspaper article announcing the Whittons, - Sir M and Lady M both – would, as Benefactors, be honoured guests at a private viewing and reception at the British Museum last Wednesday, 5th May! To say we were both shocked and confused would be an understatement. There was also a lot of stuff about Lady Whitton having some private meeting with the Home Secretary – the paper was gushing as though they are the new royalty! It got our hackles up I can tell you. I was all for calling the police, but Jon said they would be too busy dealing with the strike, and wouldn’t believe us anyway.  

We felt we needed to do something even if only for the moment to confirm that it was indeed the priestess back from the dead, again. She seemed impossible to kill! We decided we had to somehow sneak into the Private Viewing and work out what was going on. And now that I was looking for it, I noticed other articles in the papers, small in themselves, but taken together pointed to an uncharacteristic shift in the opinions on Egypt in some very senior politicians and indeed one member of the royal family, with Sir Malcom suddenly being the rising star of English politics. She was doing what she did to our expedition but now writ large on the imperial canvas. 

We weren’t sure how to go about it at first as subterfuge is not really our forte but Celia came to our aid by putting us in touch with a general strike service volunteer, who provided us with some waiting staff uniforms and wished us all the best with helping out, as so many staff had walked out in support of the strikers.   She didn’t seem to mind or care whether we had any silver service experience! I can look the dolly-bird waitress, I thought to myself, donning the little black dress and white frilly pinafore, pinning my hair back in a severe yet coquettish manner and giving myself the best Mary Pickford pout you can imagine. Jon cast a very imposing figure as maitre d’ – I suppose that officer training must count for something. 

The reception was to start in the early evening and we left early as the traffic is just awful these days. It was a sunny day but unseasonably cold.  In fact as I write this, we are expecting snow of all things in the next week! It was surprisingly easy to get into the Museum – I thought we might need staff permits or something – but because the strike has overturned the usual order of things, no-one was really bothering whether they knew us or not. We did find a staff entrance at the side and I hoped that once within, it would be obvious where the waiting team were to go. But it was surprisingly quiet, and we paused,  for the first time uncertain of our role. 

A drably dressed man who looked like a museum employee, but not one who had any part to play in the Private Viewing and Reception, was walking past, and Jon took advantage of this to ask him for directions. 

“Aye, is that the do the Whittons have bamboozled?” said the man, and something about his accent struck me as familiar. “I don’t know owt about it, I’m afraid.”

“Sam!” I cried, running forward. “Are you working here now? Maybe you can help us?”

You remember Hugh, you and I discussed Sam, the Egyptologist, on our trek to the Hungry Tomb. Mabel Whitton had sacked him from the expedition just before I joined. I was sure there’d be no love lost there, so I thought Sam might be a useful ally to have on the inside in the Museum.  But of course I hadn’t realised that Sam would not recognise me out of context in my waitress outfit. 

Without acknowledgement that I knew his name, he gave me a curt nod. “Catering department’s in the basement, Miss,” and went on his way. 

It made me realise what it must be like to be in this sort of role all the time and receive such put-downs from people who think they’re superior to you. Perhaps the strikers have a point, after all. Anyway, at least we had found the way to the catering department and were received with annoyance for being late and relief that some more staff had turned up. 

The Reception was really rather glamorous. I had been given various trays of miniature canapes to offer the guests and little napkins too. I was relieved not to have to handle the drinks, just in case of spillage – let alone temptation.  The Great and the Good, I suppose, of the Museum Friends, were there, all eager to be seen and gossiping about the new additions to the collection. And lording over it all were the Whittons. Sir Malcolm, who I thought we had left for dead in the Hungry Tomb, seeming perfectly hale and hearty, and Mabel, wearing a sheath-like red silk dress and definitely looking less mousy than she used to.  How could this be? How could they be here?

 I tried hard to eavesdrop on the guests’ conversations:

“There has been such fabulous stuff come out of Egypt in the last decade, and I’m sure there’s much more to come.”

“It should be divided with the Egyptians. I’m not sure that this lot didn’t somehow slip the net.....”

“I believe its just another mummy. Rather macabre, don’t you think? Ooh yes please, another beef tartare would be perfect, thank you, dear”. 

I found Jon at a side table, as he replaced the bottle of red he had finished pouring with a new one, going elaborately through the motions of uncorking, sniffing, wiping, replacing with a clean towel etc. all of which I hope gave us time to talk. 

“Jon,” I hissed to him. “They ‘re talking about a mummy. What if its – “

“- what was in the tomb?” Jon finished my sentence for me. We both gazed at each other horror-struck. 

“She’s going to get the mummy and – Complete the ritual” Jon said. 

“This whole reception and Private Viewing must be a charade to get them in with her mummy. Is she going to perform the ritual in here? We must stop her!” I exclaimed. 

I noticed that another waiter was watching me oddly. 

“Just keep playing the part,” muttered Jon out of the side of his mouth.

It was impossible! We had got ourselves so close, and yet, by our situation, were powerless to intervene. 

At that moment, there was a ringing of cutlery against glass, and an announcement that the Whittons and their special guests, would now be proceeding to the Oldham Gallery for the Private Viewing. All other guests were invited to remain where they were and continue to enjoy the reception. 

“They’ll want refreshments,” said Jon and, armed with a fresh bottle, boldly strode alongside the private party as they made their way behind a heavy plush curtain. Pausing only to grab a tray of empty glasses, I followed. I was, I have to admit, worried either Malcolm or Mabel might recognise me, so I was happy to hang back in the rearguard. 

The Private Group was smaller than I had expected, and Sir Malcolm strode off ahead, with Mabel, who I am sure is taller and more robust than her original version – probably because of all those victims she devoured – keeping pace. There was a faint smell of rotting meat, that no one else seemed to notice. It made me wonder if Mabel was once again was only allowing us to see what she wanted us to.  I didn’t like the look of their two close companions, smartly dressed men, but with the physique of the bruiser – so I trotted along at the back, anxious not to be left behind. We were passing through a long, shadowy corridor, ancient statues, huge columns made out of great purple crystalline rock, with lions and sphinxes casting their form in the shadows. It was eerie. 

I kept looking behind me, convinced something was following me – that waiter perhaps, to tell me I had no right to accompany the private party – or something worse, something less human, something old and primaeval. I suddenly realised I was alone with these silent looming statues of dead gods. But when I stopped, the lions and sphinxes were still, nothing moved.  I had to hurry to catch up with the group, which was approaching a large plinth, with what looked like a mummy’s ornate case atop it. This must be it! what would happen now? Is this where the ritual would happen? I shivered. What were we supposed to do?

There was a bit of a speech by a museum usher and then a general examining of what must be artifacts from the Hungry Tomb. The guests seemed somewhat bemused by the whole thing and keen to get back to the reception. It was a good thing Jon had brought the wine! Mabel hovered covetously over the mummy case and stared daggers at the poor usher when he politely reminded her not to touch the exhibits. I managed a look at the face on the mummy case, and I have to say the priestess’ image looked beautiful in a scary sort of way.  Then by some unspoken agreement the private viewing was over and everyone left to go back through the great hall. Jon walked past me and we both looked at each other, puzzled. I started to follow but then grabbed Jon by the arm and pulled him into the shadow of a cat-headed god and put my finger to his lips.

The room settled into silence as the group wandered away and the lights were switched off. Jon made to say something but I held up my hand. We waited. Two shadows moved in the dimness. Two torches switched on and played over the case which glinted ugly in the light. My hunch had been right, it was the Whitton’s henchmen. 

The mummy was unceremoniously grabbed from the plinth. Jon stepped forward, shouting “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He frightened the life out of those fellows and one of them dropped his end of the case which hit the ground with the sound of wood splitting. Their light beams flickered nightmarishly around the room. But the priestess had picked her bullies well, for he recovered quickly and advanced in sudden violence on Jon, hitting him on the side of the head with a blackjack he had rustled up from nowhere. 

Jon collapsed with a groan and I screamed and rushed to his side, scaring the men once again. They menaced me with their clubs, telling me to stay put in extremely crude language, and then they made off with the mummy case!

 Jon moaned and sat up, rubbing the side of his head. 

“I’m ok, I think, “ he said, “We need to find them!”

Their trail led very much to the underbelly of the museum; the corridors much smaller and dusty, dimly lit, but with a gust of fresh air which indicated a way to the outdoors. Too late, we arrived just as we saw the mummy being shoved with very little finesse into the back of a van, which drove off into the May evening. A faint aroma of tarmac and cloves hung in the spring air. 

“Follow it!” Jon yelled, and, scurrying in my waitress shoes, I did so. At first it seemed impossible. But then the van got stuck in traffic near Southampton Row, and I thought we might be able to catch it – but what then? Too late I wished Jon had agreed we call the police. 

We played a game of tag, all down Kingsway to the Aldwych. The van far ahead, and then stopped in traffic, enabling us to get close, and then it was off again. Eventually it gained speed and we were left firmly behind. My feet ached and I’d a tear in the back of my straight skirt from running. 

“Jon,” I gasped, when he’d caught up, pale with sticky blood matting his hair from the blow he took. “What are we going to do? Where do you think they’re going?”

“Miss Sanderson!” I heard a voice call out. Turning, I saw Sam the Egyptologist hurrying along the curve of the Aldwych toward us. 

“I’m sorry,” he said,” I didn’t recognise you earlier, dressed in that waitress garb. But I were in the corridor when those lackeys hustled the mummy out the side door and seeing you follow, summat suddenly clicked. Is this what were in tha Hungry Tomb? What is going to be reinvigorated if tha priestess’ hieroglyph spell is said?” 

Too drained to reply, I nodded. Jon, introducing himself to Sam, gave a potted summary of recent events, concluding, “The Home Secretary was at the do tonight. Looks like this priestess has infiltrated the Corridors of Power. Who knows where she might stop?”

Sam looked at us like we were mad. I think he realised though that both we and the Whittons must believe this story of using the ritual to resurrect the priestess who would be pharoah. Whether he had a little spark in him that wanted to believe also, having studied these matters so closely for years, or just effronted anger with the Whittons for having sacked him, he didn’t walk away. 

“They didn’t do any ritual in the Museum”, said Sam, “so they might be making for their house which I think is near London Bridge – or they’ll find some consecrated site to defile.”

“Oh, the woman is impossible!” I burst out. Jon gave me a strange look. I really was concerned with how pale he was.

“Impossible,” he said. “That’s it! Elizabeth, wait here, I’ve got to get something from my rooms, I’ll be back!” And without more ado, he staggered off  in the direction of Bloomsbury! 

“Tooley Street!” called Sam to Jon, “the Whitton London residence is there. See you at Tooley Street!”. And he was off too. Talk about men of action! 

Well I wasn’t going to stand on a street corner. I was aware of my torn skirt and general maid-of-all-work appearance, which precluded the idea of waiting in a café or even a pub.  Left alone, and I have to say slightly let down, I crossed the Strand, and wandered down one of those steep little streets that lead down to the river, coming out on the Embankment not so far from that great Egyptian landmark, the first one that most of us encounter, Cleopatra’s Needle. 

I’m not sure where it sits in the Egyptian history – that is after all , so long that inevitably is foreshortened when viewed from our modern lens – the Cleopatras came much later than the Hungry Tomb – and  yet I wondered if this might be a spot Mabel might choose to resurrect herself and take control of the city? The nation? The world?  Who knew where she might stop? 

Disconsolate, almost weeping, I wandered along the river, heading east, downstream, vaguely aware that I needed to meet up with Jon and Sam at Tooley Street, near London Bridge – if Jon had got that message as he dashed off so suddenly. Seeing Cleopatra’s Needle with its hieroglyphs  however had made me think of Isis again who had not been in my head since I released her to defy Mabel in the Hungry Tomb.  I had missed her gilded presence in the weeks since then, but here it was again, a vague sensation aroused by  the setting sun reflecting against the dome of St Pauls and the river,  in which it set up little golden ripples that multiplied, slowly at first then more rapidly, insinuating themselves into my psyche. 

“I am all there is ... was ... “ I heard faintly and out of the myriad golden ripples a figure took shape, the Veiled Lady, tall, slim, shimmering, her veil of spun gold.

“Will you help us?” I asked, tentatively. 

“Child,” said Isis, “this is my river, this is my home, I travelled far beyond Egypt over the millennia you know, of course I will help you. You have of mine already what you need to stop the Priestess.”

“Do I?” I said, not understanding. 

“Together, you have what you need...” and the figure dissolved as a cloud moved across the setting sun  and the river was a dull muddy blue once more. 

I pondered this as I continued eastward. “Together, you have what you need” – you in this case must be the plural. Jon and I. “Will you help us?” I had said.  What has Jon gone back to fetch? Or was Sam part of it too? 

It was a longer walk than I remembered to London Bridge, all along the Embankment, past that mysterious cloistered area known as the Temple – a site for arcane ritual if you like -  and as I continued downstream, passing the wharves and steps of the working parts of the river on the far side, I calmed myself with the view of the water, little noticing that on the road to my left and the bridge ahead, the traffic had ground to a complete standstill. The river banks, creeping, slimy mud, were usually the province of a few ragged  urchins, by now in their beds, and sorrier vagrants of who knew what background? But now, all of a sudden, there was action, and I recognised the parties involved. 

Ahead of me a van, stuck in the motionless traffic, had pulled over on the right, and lo and behold, there were Sir M’s two henchmen pulling the bound and wrapped bulk of the mummy from the van and it seemed, making as though to chuck it in the river! Well that might solve all our problems, I thought, until I realised that they were by now handling their load with some care. Clearly the van had been heading for Tooley Street but the traffic, and possibly the bridge closed by strike action, prevented them doing so. What would happen now? I watched, agog and I have to say frozen to the spot with horror. 

One of the men, down on the muddy foreshore, waved his arm and hailed a barge, apparently moored in the river close by the north bank. I doubted he would have much luck, but clearly I know little about the comings and goings of those who make the Thames their home, for, ere long, a tousled head had popped up from the barge and in a few short words, a negotiation had taken place. The barge moved slowly toward the shore. The other man, having abandoned the van, appeared and together they started shifting the mummy so it could be loaded on the barge. 

Now here was a place for a ritual. I thought, images of a majestic river boat, the sort that would have plied the river in Tudor times, alight with candles and flares, with baroque fanfares and voluntaries pricking my imagination. Or perhaps an even older boat as in Flecker’s poem -  a ship, flaring brightly like the sun itself was on board – the Solar Barque that transports the Sun God Ra through the underworld every night. However, presumably Mabel would need to be reunited with the mummy for this to happen, and she wasn’t present. Were the Whittons still at the British Museum?

That would explain the rush by her henchmen to get wherever they were going. There was not much time left if the ritual was to be completed tonight before the mummy was discovered missing. 

I checked myself. There was no way surely the ritual could be done now here on the Thames, the river of Isis. The Veiled Lady herself would prevent it happening. But the barge, now slipping into the midstream, was clearly heading across the river, as well as down. Tooley Street, I struggled to remember the map, was on the south side, closer to London Bridge station than to the bridge itself. If the barge crossed swiftly enough, it could easily moor in one of the many wharves that flanked that part of the river. 

I had to get there first! But could I? the shortest route, as I saw it, was not over London Bridge but by taking the closer railway bridge, the one that comes in by St Pauls, which I was fast approaching. I hoped for, and was relieved to see, a small set of steps cast in the iron of one of the bridge supports – meant more for railwaymen that the general public, but with nothing barring my access. Squeezing myself up it, and cursing the waitress skirt and dainty footwear, I stumbled along a small path which ran beside the railway tracks. If a train comes past, I shall be in trouble, I thought, and prayed that the general strike might at least relieve me from this threat. To my left, between the slatted fretwork of the bridge railing, I could catch glimpses of the barge – was it the same one? – traversing the river and it seems planning to moor near some tumbledown steps hemmed in by tall forbidding-looking warehouses. If only I could get there first!

On the far side, the city was a morass of small streets and alleyways snaking around isolated docks, an intricate watery maze through which it was impossible to find a route in the gathering dusk. I cursed myself for my cleverness in short-cutting across the rail bridge and wondered where Jon was, and Sam, and the Whittons. 

Emerging on a main road, I saw the new sign for London Bridge Station (Southern Railway) and grateful for any landmark, walked toward it. I had no idea if this was taking me toward Tooley Street but I hoped there would at least be a map there from which I could regain my bearings. 

A few people suddenly debouched from a side gate, the entrance to the Underground station, and imagine my relief to see that one of them should be Jon! A happy coincidence, and I was relieved that in his battered state, he had seen fit to take the tube and not run all the way here as I had done. He was delighted to see me, hugging me tight,  and for one fleeting moment I thought to drop this whole mad chase and go and sit quietly together in the café of the Terminus Hotel and have some hot supper. 

Jon had a shapeless bundle under his arm, and when I asked about it, he shook his head. 

“Tooley Street’s down and to the right,” he said, and we headed off in that direction, with me trying to explain to him, in fits and starts, about the van, its load, and the barge crossing the river. 

As we reached the corner with Tooley Street, on the far side of the road, in front of an alarmingly high medieval wall, stood Sam, looking out for us. He waved us over. 

“  The Whittons live down the road,” he said. “But it looks as though the ritual may be taking place in this churchyard” – he waved at the wall – “which isn’t surprising, as it’s one of the most ancient sites beyond the original city limits. Where the unbaptised and unholy would have been dispatched. It seems like an appropriate and dare I say it well-appointed site for such a ritual.”

“Oh who cares about the detail!” I burst out.  “Does it back onto the river? Is there a wharf nearby where the mummy is probably at this very minute being unloaded? If only we are not too late!”

“I’ve been here a while,” said Sam. “Nowt’s happened yet, but its going to. Follow me into the churchyard and you’ll see.”

By now  dusk had fallen and it was quite dark and shadowed in the old churchyard. Ancient stones loomed at crazy angles and the ground was all hummocky with the settlement of centuries. A lit area was ahead of us, a shape marked out in a large triangle, with weird green lights that flickered in an unnatural manner, flaring now red, now purple, and settling back to green. 

We got as close as we dared, and hid, all three of us, behind an old vault, one of the more grandiose Victorian variety. I know not whose family it was, but I am grateful to their memory for the shelter it afforded us then. We peered tentatively over the top. 

Sir Malcolm was there, pacing about, smoking a cigar, and looking, it must be said, somewhat nervous, which is not like him. Even I could tell the cigar was for bravado. He wasn’t alone, but I couldn’t make out who was with him, some other men, not Mabel. 

I heard a distant singing in my ears, much like that irritating sensation I’d had in the Western Desert that night you and I raided the Whittons camp, Hugh, and it occurred to me the two were connected. Mabel exerting her power again. I needed the Veiled Lady in me again, to protect me.  “You have all that you need” Isis had said. What did we have? 

The singing grew in volume and now I knew it was no longer just in my head, and Jon and Sam could hear it as well. In fact it was slightly harmonious, we looked at each other – perhaps the ritual was beginning? 

Two masked men, bearing blazing torches, marched into the churchyard from the far side, where it looked as though there was a narrow gate. If my sense of direction was correct in the dark, this might lead to the river steps. An easy place whence to dispatch the unconsecrated in the hard times of old. I shivered. The men placed the torches in stands and disappeared, only to reappear shortly after, bearing the mummy on a kind of stretcher, which they laid down with some ceremony on a slab in the middle of the esoteric triangle.  

The mummy started glowing, a reddish gleam, turning to green then purple, then red again, much like the lights defining the boundary of this unholy ritual. The singing noise had become louder and in fact was almost overwhelming. We all seemed mesmerised, rooted to the spot, with neither Jon nor Sam showing any of the action that had been apparent earlier. 

But what was happening now? The mummy was rising, sitting up, and I could now see her face – the same, strong, decisive expression that she had worn in the museum, nothing of Mabel about her – and yet – the swaddling cloths seems to fall away and underneath I thought I could make out Mabel’s red dress. What had the priestess worn in the Hungry tomb? Can you remember Hugh? I can’t.

The mummy began chanting now, and I think it was the same stuff she used in the tomb. I wished you were with us then, Hugh, neither Jon nor Sam seemed to know what to do. 

I grabbed Jon by the arm and it woke him out of whatever trance he was in. He had dropped the bundle he’d been carrying, but now he leant down and unfolded the heavy cloth carefully. A large revolver sat there. My heart sank, we already knew that bullets, fire, indeed anything it seemed could not kill this priestess who was already dead. What was Jon thinking? 

“My old service revolver, lost years ago in the mud of the Somme,” Jon said quietly, staring at the weapon, “and given back to me in Cairo by Anubis, for me to kill myself and fulfil the curse of the Brotherhood of the Veil. I could not just leave it in the Shepard hotel, even if I didn’t know what to do with the damn thing.”

He broke it open and showed us the single bullet that occupied one of the chambers, then snapped it shut and spun the cylinder.

He turned to me, pale in the dimness, “Elizabeth, you told me that Rookfield called Mabel an ‘impossible woman’. Well, I have an impossible gun.”

 With that, he cocked the revolver, stood up straight, and strode out from our hiding spot. 

For the second time that night, he gave those men an awful fright. When they saw Jon had a gun pointed at them, those cowards just turned and ran for the steps down to the river.

The priestess was strong and alive looking now. We were too late! She rasped at Sir Malcolm, “Kill the fool.”

Sir M came at Jon clumsily with a spade. He managed to grab the handle and used it to throw Sir Malcolm to the ground before striding towards the priestess. 

Jon came to a halt before her as if unsure. There was nothing of Mabel left now – she was now a tall stern Egyptian woman, made taller again by the head dress she wore. 

The priestess advanced until the tip of the revolver’s barrel pressed against her heart. I had run after Jon, leaping out of the way of Sir M’s grasping hand. I saw that the priestess looked amused rather than concerned by having a gun pointed at her again.

Jon whispered, ““An impossible gun – for an impossible woman” and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was startlingly loud in the enclosed graveyard.  Then the priestess was gone, dissolving into nothing; a few rags and that characteristic aroma of bitumen, spices and death, all that remained. 

Sir Malcolm gave a gasp and collapsed. Without the priestess to animate him, all that remained was a rotting corpse and a spent cigar. 

The singing noise had ceased and the churchyard was in darkness, that strange esoteric light gone. “Is it over?” I asked Jon, and realised I was sobbing. 

“I think so,” he said, although he was looking at the revolver in his hand as though he had expected it too would no longer be there. It is evidence I suppose and maybe he had best bury it. but it was the Brotherhood of the Veil that recreated that object for him, and perhaps they need to be the ones to reclaim it. I do hope you can get some answers from them, Hugh. 

In the meantime, all three of us, exhausted, made our way mundanely back to London Bridge underground station and thence home. Thank goodness the tube was still running despite the strike. I could tell Sam was going to suggest stopping at a local hostelry, and heaven knows we all deserved it, but with that esoteric item still under Jon’s arm I thought it better not to risk it. I got back to my room at Celia’s. She was on a night shift at the switchboard, a relief that I did not have to tell her the whole story that night. But at least I had a hot bath and changed out of my maid’s uniform. I do look forward to the day Jon and I are wed and we can spend our nights together! 

With my fondest wishes, 

Elizabeth

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

 [corset tightening etc]

Ow! Ow! Too tight!

Breathe in Elizabeth!

 Ow! I must have put on a few pounds on the way back.

I don’t know, Celia. Do you think I’m doing the right thing? 

Yes you are Elizabeth! Here, have another gimlet…

And is Dr Rookfield going to be there?

 I think he probably is, yes. Why Celia, are you interested?

Oh goodness no! All that mumbo jumbo, he’s definitely not my type.

And of course, there is Irina.

[door, birds etc]

Oh it is a lovely day to get married! 

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

[Scene: echoey church, people gathered, occasional cough.]

Jon! Congratulations! You clean up well ,my boy. Looking very debonair, if I may say so.

Hugh, glad you could make it. Elizabeth was worried you’d be delayed in Norfolk, was it? And I’ve had Irina over twice now asking if I’d heard from you.

Ah yes. Norfolk, nearly didn’t escape. You wouldn’t believe - no scratch that, you’re one of the few people outside the Society who would! I met up with one of the Sisters of -

Maybe later Hugh… I suspect Elizabeth will badger you for the details anyway.

Ah yes of course. Here I am wittering away. You’ve bigger things on your mind. Well congratulations again my boy. Elizabeth is quite the woman! Now I can see Irina in that pew over there waving frantically at me so I better get over pronto. See you on the other side…

Cheers, Hugh.


[Bridal Chorus, and fade]