year in India quite recently and after that he was in America. He has a collection of fascinating artefacts from the American Indian tribes. Feathered head-dresses. Peace pipes. All kinds of things.’ Her eyes were sparkling. ‘Would you like to go?’
Louisa was torn. Part of her shrank from the prospect of going anywhere near the castle. But another part of her was intrigued, both to see where Roger Carstairs lived, and to view the curiosities he had brought back from his travels. Curiosities presumably like the ancient bottle Hassan had given her, which Carstairs had so wanted for his collection that he had been prepared to kill to obtain it; the bottle which lay hidden at this very moment in the secret compartment in the desk of her London home. Oh yes, she would be interested to see it all, just so long as it was certain, beyond all possible doubt, that he was not there himself.
Carstairs Castle was a grey stone edifice, with turrets and battlements surmounting small windows in thick ancient walls. As their coach rumbled up the curving drive through the rhododendrons, brought by his lordship from India and already growing in profusion, the four ladies stared out with eager curiosity. The messenger who had ridden over the previous evening to see if their visit was convenient had returned with an assurance that Mr Dunglass, Lord Carstairs’s factor, would greet them and personally escort them round his lordship’s gardens and museum.
The factor was waiting on the steps at the foot of the main tower. A small, red-haired man wearing the kilt, he stepped forward to greet the visitors.
Louisa climbed out of the coach last and stared round nervously. The place had a prosperous well cared for feel. The paths and driveway were neatly weeded and raked and there were flowers in the beds around the walls. She glanced up and the skin on the back of her neck prickled slightly. Were they being watched? So many narrow deep-set windows, dark and shadowy on this west-facing side of the castle, looked down across the drive and towards the hills. A hundred pairs of eyes could be watching them and they would not know it. She became aware that the others were walking away, following Mr Dunglass around the base of the tower, and she hurried after them, shrugging off her unease. Lord Carstairs was once more in America, so his factor informed them. He was not expected home until next year at the earliest.
A modern stable block and carriage house had been constructed in the early part of the century by Lord Carstairs’s grandfather on the eastern side of the castle. The buildings surrounded a courtyard – a line of loose boxes, all empty as his lordship’s horses were out at grass, on one side, a line of double doors concealing no doubt his lordship’s carriages on the other, while between them, on the south side, rose a small pedimented coach house surmounted by a clock tower. In this building all the windows had been barred. Mr Dunglass headed towards it now, groping in his sporran for a large iron key.
‘This way, Mistress Shelley.’ The man had ushered the others up the steps and through the door as Louisa lagged behind and now he was waiting for her, his eyes boldly on her face. How did he know her name? Standing below him in the cobbled yard she looked up and met his gaze. He did not lower his eyes; his expression was carefully blank but behind the facade there was something else. Insolence? Triumph? The moment passed and he looked away. ‘The others are inside, Mistress Shelley. If you would like to join them I’ll explain some of the items you can see in there.’ His tone was respectful. Even friendly. Surely she had imagined that momentary expression on his face?
The room into which they had been led was large and dark. Standing still they waited while their guide opened the shutters allowing the bright sunlight to flood the room. As they stared round there was a moment’s stunned silence, then at last it was Venetia who spoke first. ‘My goodness.’ She gasped with a nervous laugh. ‘How amazing!’
The items on display nearest to them, the bows and arrows, the huge beautiful feathered head-dress, the beaded jewellery, the bison skins, had been brought back so they were told by Lord Carstairs the previous year. ‘He went right across America,’ their informant told them, clearly awe-struck. ‘He lived with the various tribes he encountered. The Sioux; the Cheyenne. They made him welcome and he smoked the peace pipe with them.’ He indicated the large pipe decorated with coloured bands and feathers. ‘He has been studying their religion and their beliefs. He witnessed the Sun Dance.’ He paused, obviously expecting them to look impressed. ‘Beyond the American exhibits you will see those his lordship brought back from the Indian subcontinent in 1870. Beautiful silks and brocades as you will notice; items from Hindu temples and gifts he received from the maharajahs and British dignitaries with whom he stayed.’
Louisa was not listening. She had wandered past the American items and the Indian, past a huge glass-fronted bookcase and display cabinets of every shape and size, to the back of the room. In the corner, standing upright in the shadows, was the unmistakable painted face and body of an Egyptian mummy case. She closed her eyes, steadying her breathing with an effort.
‘Ah, Mistress Shelley. You have discovered Lord Carstairs’s Egyptian collection.’ The voice beside her was soft and ingratiating.
She gave a nervous smile. ‘He has a great many interesting items.’
‘Indeed.’ The factor glanced over his shoulder. The other three women were gathered around a glass case, staring down at a mass of beautiful shells. ‘Wampum,’ Venetia repeated, baffled, reading from a card inside the case.
Louisa stepped away from him. His presence beside her made her feel uncomfortable. She walked over to a table nearby and stared down at the items displayed on it. One stood out from them all. A small carved statue of a coiled snake. Without thinking she picked it up and examined it. ‘Solid gold, Mistress Shelley.’ The factor was still there at her elbow.
She stared down at the item in her hands, holding her breath. Almost she could hear Roger Carstairs’s voice in her head. ‘So, Mrs Shelley. You came to find me after all…’ The sound was so real she glanced up, shocked. But it was her imagination. Hastily she set the item back in its place and walked away. She glanced again with some distaste at the mummy, then moved on and stopped, staring at the wall. Framed in ebony with a deep terracotta mount she found herself looking at one of her own watercolours. A painting of the temple at Edfu.
She gasped.
The man beside her nodded. ‘You recognise it, of course.’
She spun to face him. ‘Where did he get that?’
‘He bought it, Mistress Shelley. In London.’ He bowed. A minimal movement betrayed a touch of mockery beneath the respect. ‘He has attended all your exhibitions, Mistress Shelley.’
Her stomach tightened with fear as she met his eyes. ‘Indeed, Mr Dunglass. I’m flattered at his interest.’ She managed to hold his gaze unwaveringly.
He looked away first. ‘So, madam, have you seen the next exhibit?’ He smiled again. ‘An example of one of the most poisonous of Egyptian snakes -’ He broke off as her hand flew to her mouth. In the case in front of her on a bed of pale dry sand lay a coiled snake, its head with spread hood rising out of the dry skin, its tiny button eyes fixed balefully on some imagined desert distances.
Louisa turned away with a cry of distress. It was so like the snake that had killed Hassan. The same shape, same length, same colour – its eyes were similar. Unblinking. Beady. Missing nothing.
‘It’s dead, Louisa.’ The hand on her arm was firm. Katherine was beside her. ‘Come away. Don’t look at it.’
‘Katherine – ’
‘I know, my dear. They told me all about it. And the way he conjured a snake onto our dahabeeyah. Magic snakes. Evil magic.’ She glanced round the room. Nearby was a wooden statue of a child holding a snake in its hand. The inscription underneath said, ‘Horus of the Snakes’. She shuddered. ‘Dirty magic. All his efforts to make himself a so-called master of the occult, and what for? A small room in the back of beyond and a few boxes of stolen mementoes.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Mr Dunglass had overheard her. He was bristling with indignation. ‘Nothing here has been stolen. Everything was bought or given freely.’
‘Really?’ Louisa looked at him bitterly.
‘Really!’ The man glared at her.
Katherine shuddered. ‘Well, I don’t envy him this. I really don’t.’ She reached over and thumped the glass case with her folded parasol. The snake moved infinitesimally.
Louisa swallowed. Clutching her shawl around her shoulders she moved away from the Egyptian corner of the room to stand in front of the American head-dress with its regal glossy feathers, concentrating on the exquisite
