Free Sphinx by T. S. Learner Page B

parade of strangers, but there wasn’t a drop of alcohol to be seen.
    A man gestured to me from the other side of the marquee. Francesca had pointed him out to me disdainfully earlier on. It was Cecilia’s husband, Carlos. He was at least ten years her senior and wore the uniform of the wealthy European: panama hat, linen suit, loafers and gold cufflinks that caught the sunlight. Excusing myself, I got up from my chair and walked over to him. He shook my hand, introducing himself. Then, taking my arm in a familiar manner, he guided me behind a marquee, out of sight.
    ‘Here, my friend, some grappa from the village I grew up in.’ He pushed a silver hip flask into my hand.
    I unscrewed the top and took a long, grateful swig. The alcohol burned my throat and seared through to the top of my head, but it obliterated the moment, which was what I wanted.
    ‘I am sincerely sorry we meet in such circumstances. These Brambilla women - before you know it they have swallowed your balls. Cecilia loved her daughter, you have to understand that.’
    ‘She had an odd way of showing it,’ I replied. I tried to remember what line of manufacturing Carlos was in, but failed to do so in the fog of tranquillisers and grappa.
    ‘It is far more complicated than you or I know, my friend. When Paolo died the grandparents insisted on keeping the child. That Giovanni, he was a crazy man, obsessed with the mystical. He could hypnotise people, like snakes can. If you ask me, all the Brambillas are crazy. As for Francesca, she is still angry with Isabella’s father for dying so young.’
    I nodded, slightly doubtful, but thanked him for the grappa and returned to my seat. Francesca gave me a disapproving glare, but she was preoccupied with the Italian guests and couldn’t reprimand me further.
    I was dismayed to see that my first English-speaking visitor was Amelia Lynhurst. I had first met her at a cocktail party at the British Consulate. The English middle-aged Egyptologist was famous for dressing in a tweed twinset even in the full summer heat, much to the amusement of the Arabic members of the prestigious Smouha Polo Club who had created a betting ring around these legendary appearances. And I always had the impression that she was frozen in another era, as if the post-war Kensington of the late 1940s she’d left had stayed preserved in aspic - gas meters, rationing, dingy flat and fog all waiting, suspended in time, for her return. At that first encounter she’d launched into a passionate monologue about oil exploration destroying the natural world - or Gaia, as she insisted on calling it, to my great irritation. She had also attempted to cross-examine me about Isabella’s research, and I’d found myself taking an uncharacteristically intense dislike to her. She seemed hungry for new information, perhaps for a thesis that would re-establish her ruined reputation. Whatever her intention, I didn’t trust her.
    ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Miss Lynhurst.’ I failed to keep ambivalence out of my voice.
    ‘Perhaps you didn’t expect me,’ she replied. ‘But please understand, I had a great fondness for your wife, particularly during our time together at Oxford.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘In relation to other, more pressing matters, I hope you understand the implications of harbouring an undeclared antiquity, particularly one of such spiritual value. This country is in the throes of a delicate resurrection and these are perilous times. Such an antiquity has powers that you, a man of prosaic interests, could never understand. Others, however, do. If the wrong people were to get hold of such a device, it could prove very dangerous indeed.’
    Startled by her directness I felt myself become defensive. Had Isabella been correct in her suspicion that Amelia Lynhurst had known how close she was to finding the astrarium? I decided it would be wise to feign naivety.
    ‘Oh, we always kept our work very separate,’ I