Herring on the Nile (7 page)

I found myself at a table with Elsie, Purbright (the probable MI6 man), Professor Campion, Lizzi Hull and Jane Watson, the pleasant if excitable lady in the floppy hat. At another table sat two
Arab passengers (who seemed nice enough, but did not look much like policemen), the two Americans, Sky Benson (who I could only conclude did not know Campion) and Herbie Proctor, who was already
boring the other guests to sleep.

Seven

I found myself at a table with Ethelred, Purbright (the cunning master criminal), Professor Campion, Lizzi Hull and Jane Watson, the annoying cow with a floppy hat. At another
table sat the two policemen – the only ones I really trusted on the boat – together with the two young Americans, Sky Benson (who clearly
did
know Campion – do me a favour)
and Herbie Proctor, who was already boring the other guests to sleep.

I watched with mild curiosity as Sky Benson, with her back to me at the far corner of the other table, gave a sudden nervous laugh and knocked her water glass and knife to the floor at a single
stroke. A waiter, in his black uniform trimmed with white braid, swooped immediately to clear them away. Further down my own table, I heard Professor Campion give a despairing sigh, but when I
turned to him he was examining a fish fork with great care, as though they were rarely encountered in academic circles.

‘What a cosy little table we are,’ said Miss Watson, in a way that suggested she rather enjoyed the role of jollying people along, particularly those who did not much want to be
jollied. ‘I’m quite pleased the boat is half empty – we’ll all get to know each other so much quicker.’ She shot a glance to her right, but I didn’t see whose
eye she was trying to catch – Purbright, Campion, Ethelred? It was, in any event, Campion who spoke next. Her jollying had, in his case, been a complete lost cause from the start. He was the
only passenger, male or female, to be wearing a suit and he looked hot and annoyed. He scowled at Purbright and Ethelred, both dressed in open-necked shirts, as though they had tricked him in some
way that he could not yet quite put his finger on.

‘We still appear to be one passenger short,’ said Campion. This seemed to piss him off even more, though what business it was of his was a mystery.

‘Apparently,’ I said.

‘Perhaps, if he or she has missed the boat, whoever it is may still join us at Edfu?’ asked Campion. ‘Does anyone happen to know?’ I noticed Ethelred give Purbright an
enquiring glance at this point, as if he might.

‘It’s possible,’ said Purbright. He implied that, if it was a problem of any sort, it wasn’t his problem. Ethelred shrugged apologetically, but Purbright was in any case
now looking across at the other table, behind my back. His eyes were narrowed at somebody – Proctor? The two policemen? Sky Benson?

We were served clear soup with bits in it. I declined a roll, feeling that if we were in for the full six courses I should show a little restraint. It’s the only way, I find, to stay
girlishly slim.

‘Have you all just flown in?’ Purbright asked inconsequentially, giving his soup an experimental swirl with his spoon.

‘Most of us were on the same flight,’ said Ethelred.

‘Though not I.’ Miss Watson addressed Purbright diagonally across the table. ‘I had things to do in Cairo en route. Things to do and people to see. Always busy. And how about
you, Mr Purbright? Have you been long in this very pleasant part of the world? Do you work here or do you live entirely for pleasure?’

Purbright’s reply was curt. Another one who could take jollying or leave it, apparently. ‘Yes, I’ve been here a while,’ he said.

‘And you are happy here?’

‘Shouldn’t I be?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Miss Watson. ‘Some people get what they deserve – some of us don’t.’

Purbright opened his mouth as if to reply, then shook his head and turned to ask Lizzi Hull what she did when she was not on a Nile paddle steamer. She proved to be a train driver.

‘Surely not?’ asked Miss Watson, overhearing her.

‘Goods,’ said Lizzi Hull.

‘Your first visit to this part of the world?’ asked Purbright.

‘I worked in Khartoum for a while,’ she replied. ‘And I’ve been to Palestine.’

‘Not obvious tourist destinations,’ said Purbright.

‘I’m not an obvious tourist,’ she replied. ‘You have to go and see things for yourself. The papers always lie, don’t they – especially the Tory
ones?’

Since I suspected that the other two men at our table read much the same papers as Ethelred, this may not have been the most tactful response. I admired that.

‘Indeed,’ said Ethelred, implying his reading matter was entirely left of centre. He did occasionally buy the
Guardian
to check whether they had reviewed him –
I’ve no idea why. ‘First-hand research is vital,’ he added, as if making some point for my benefit. Whatever.

‘So, we begin our
research
tomorrow at the temple at Edfu?’ I said, to show that I had read the itinerary on my bedside table.

‘Ptolemaic,’ said Professor Campion, looking up from his soup. He dabbed his thin lips delicately with an over-starched napkin before continuing.

‘Dedicated to the falcon god Horus and completed in 57
BC
by Ptolemy II. It has a massive 36-metre-high pylon and reliefs of Horus and Hathor. Also carvings of the great battle between
Horus and Seth. Seth is shown as a tiny hippopotamus, being skewered on a lance. It’s all about a zillion years old and blahdy, blahdy, blah, blah.’

Or something like that – I confess I may have paraphrased the last bit. If you’re not bothered whether Hathor is the cat or the canary, and you can’t work out why they needed a
pylon if they didn’t have mains electricity, then it’s all somewhat theoretical. Campion seemed very keen to give us a brief lecture – but really just that and no more. Ethelred
asked some questions about Edfu and Campion answered them, though with an increasing reluctance that I couldn’t quite account for.

Since it didn’t take much sensitivity to realize that Campion had had enough of the conversation, it was no surprise when Ethelred persisted doggedly with his questions. Once or twice
Campion looked perplexed, but mainly he just looked bored and hacked off – a common reaction to Ethelred in my experience. Purbright occasionally chipped in some obscure fact, though
(thinking about it) nobody came up with any facts that I would have been prepared to describe as riveting. So fascinating did Ethelred and Campion make it all sound, in fact, that I wondered if I
could just plead conscientious objections when they tried to round us up and make us go to the temple. A freshly squeezed orange juice by the pool – followed by some dedicated sleuthing on my
part – sounded a better option. Anyway, I was almost asleep by the time the waiters brought us some reviving coffee.

As we left the dining room, I could see that something was troubling Ethelred. His dear little brow was furrowed. I hoped he wouldn’t feel the need to tell me why.

‘I’m sure Professor Campion was wrong about Ptolemy II,’ he whispered to me, as if it could matter. ‘It couldn’t be that Ptolemy.’

‘Not that Ptolemy? Wow! And you think somebody might actually give a shit?’ I said.

Ethelred nodded. He clearly thought they might. ‘I’ll check in my guidebook.’

‘Let me know straight away if you’re right,’ I said. ‘I shan’t sleep, worrying that it might have been Ptolemy III.’

‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Can I come in? Wow! Did somebody peel all those grapes free of charge or are they being put on my bill?’

‘Tell me what it is I don’t understand,’ I said, diminishing the grape pile by one, ‘then let me get back to sleep.’

‘The point,’ said Ethelred, with a touching belief that I shared more than a microgram of his enthusiasm, ‘is that I was certain it wasn’t Ptolemy II who built the
temple.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ I observed, wishing to show interest in his little ideas, as you must occasionally with your authors.

‘So, I checked it in my guidebook – and what do you think?’

‘It was Ptolemy III?’

‘No.’

‘IV?’

‘No.’

‘V?’

‘No.’

‘VI?’

‘No.’

‘Well, which sodding pharaoh was it then?’

‘Ptolemy II.’

‘II?’

‘Yes. By the way – you don’t pronounce it “Eye-Eye.”’

‘So, just like Campion said?’

‘Yes.’

‘You woke me up to tell me that?’

‘You weren’t asleep.’

‘That is a pure technicality, and you know it. You have disturbed what might have been my beauty sleep to tell me that Professor Campion was right and you were wrong. Why not phone the BBC
and let them know too? That’s also irony, in case you are actually tempted to do it.’

‘No, the point is that both the book
and
Campion are wrong. Think about it – there were fourteen Ptolemies, so Ptolemy II couldn’t possibly have been around in 57
BC
.
It’s just a misprint. As you know, Ptolemy I blah, blah, blah, bloop, bloop, blippy, blip, blap, blappy, blap.’

Again, I have had to paraphrase some of what he said to make it more intelligible for you.

I waved my hand to indicate I was now as big an expert on pharaohs, up to and including Ptolemy Ex-Ivy, as I wished to be.

‘Or, alternatively,’ I said, ‘just accept you could be wrong and everybody else could be right.’

Ethelred frowned thoughtfully at this novel suggestion, unaware that the conversation had already finished. Then in the silence we heard, from not that far off, an entirely different and more
interesting tête-à-tête. The door leading to my balcony was open and somebody on the deck immediately above was having a very urgent discussion with somebody else. Sadly we had
already missed part of it because Ethelred was shit scared I might be confusing two different, though equally mummified, pharaohs.

‘ . . . at Edfu,’ said Professor Campion. He was cross but we had (and you are quite right in blaming Ethelred for this) missed the reason why.

‘I should never have agreed to do this,’ said Sky Benson.

‘But you did. Indeed, I seem to remember you were quite insistent that you should be part of it.’

‘I don’t know that I can go through with it. But maybe we won’t have to?’ There was an almost plaintive note in her voice. Campion’s response was brief but
mean.

‘We’ve got to go through with it now. If the opportunity arises, we have no choice. We can scarcely go back and say that we simply changed our minds.’

‘No,’ said Sky Benson.

One or other of them sighed. Possibly both of them. Neither had sounded exactly content with their lot.

‘Just try to relax and at least act normally,’ Campion said. ‘If you constantly look as though you’re about to commit a murder, people will start to get
suspicious.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said.

‘Now, go back to your cabin before anyone overhears us.’

A bit late for that, obviously. Sky Benson muttered something we could not quite make out and quick footsteps tapped across our ceiling (their floor). After a carefully judged but, as it
happened, completely redundant delay, a heavier tread above us and some carefree but tuneless whistling announced the professor’s own departure.

‘So, I was right then,’ I said, without the slightest trace of smugness. ‘They know each other. And Campion is forcing her to do something she doesn’t want to
do.’

‘Do you know how smug you look?’ asked Ethelred.

But this conversation too was quickly superseded by another. The spot above my cabin was clearly a sheltered corner in which people imagined they could have confidential chats. A second couple
had taken up their stations.

‘This is an unexpected surprise,’ said Purbright. His tone of voice gave little away, but it was fairly clear that he did not mean it was a birthday cake or a free chocolate bar.
‘Are you about to tell me your presence here is a complete coincidence?’

If there was a reply, the other person present was very softly spoken. Perhaps Purbright’s words had simply been greeted with a shrug or smile because he continued: ‘I can’t
easily throw you off the boat, but I’m warning you not to get in my way . . . is that a light down there?’ The last words were spoken in a hoarse whisper. Whatever conclusions the two
of them reached about the light, we heard no more – just footsteps crossing the deck, one briskly, the other with deliberate, almost irritating, slowness. Then there was just the rumble of
the engines and the swishing of the paddles to break the stillness of the night.

‘That’s your fault, that is,’ I said.

‘Mine?’

‘If you hadn’t disturbed me, my light would have been off and they would have stayed and talked a bit more.’

‘If I hadn’t disturbed you, you would apparently have been asleep and missed both conversations.’

There is no reasoning with Ethelred sometimes. I therefore ushered him, still protesting, out of my cabin and got back into bed. Though I stayed awake for some time, there were no further
discussions, secret or otherwise, on the deck above me.

I was just drifting off to sleep when it struck me that I had not checked my new phone for the many important messages that would have arrived for me from both friends and business contacts. I
duly switched it on and accepted the Egyptian network on offer. Disappointingly there were no missed calls and only one new message, from an unidentified caller. I opened it. It proved to be from
Ethelred. I read it three times before it sank in, but the message was really admirably clear.

It said:

If this was because I dissed his Ptolemy theory, he really needed to chill out a bit.

I got up and checked that my door was locked. Then I went to sleep.