The Illusion of Murder (9 page)

The key had cost John Cleveland his life. Now it is a magnet bringing the danger and intrigues to me on a ship I should feel safe aboard.

And I lied to Frederick Selous.

I do get scared.

NEW YORK
WORLD
NOVEMBER 14, 1889

THE DAY NELLIE LEFT ON HER TRIP

TRAVEL CLOTHES AND VEILS OF VICTORIAN WOMEN

PORT SAID

Day 14

T
HE
M
IRACLE

LIGHTHOUSE AND ENTRANCE TO SUEZ CANAL

10

Riding in a carriage through Port Said in an early dawn darkened by angry clouds, I no longer see the land of the eternal Nile as an enchanted place created with an artist’s brush to satiate my senses with the strange and exotic. Instead, I feel as if I have been transported back to the malevolent Egypt of the Old Testament, where mighty pharaohs who called themselves living gods ruled with the whip and the God of the Israelites turned the Nile red with His wrath. Only this time, the blood that taints the waters might be my own.

I try to shake off the feeling of gloom and doom and anxiety about whether an angry mob might drag me from the carriage, but the murder of John Cleveland and the deadly rage of the Mahdi has cast a long shadow in my mind, feeding doubts, confusion, and fears that I can’t share with my companions or anyone else on board because I don’t know whom to trust.

I regret I accepted the invitation but struggle to grin and bear it—with clenched teeth—as I sit in a carriage fit for a king en route to a feast given by a Bedouin sheikh at the ruins of a great city of antiquity.

Von Reich is pleased with our transportation. “The sheikh sent his own carriage for me. It would not have embarrassed a pharaoh.”

The gilt carriage has ornate carvings of snakes curling up around the poles, black tongues of the reptiles hissing toward the sky as if they are challenging the gods. Fish with vibrant colors of green, yellow, and turquoise that appear ready to leap off the poles are mingled between the snakes; sitting on top of each pole are white doves of peace each holding a bright lime-green leaf in its beak.

A silk canopy made of the most soothing sea-blue turquoise protects us from the sun. Aquamarine, azure, and violet overstuffed pillows with gold tassels are laid out on the seats for us to sit on.

Two fierce-looking Bedouins armed with rifles and swords on camels ride as our escort. So much for the white doves of peace …

From their conversation earlier on the beach road as we waited for the conveyance, it’s obvious my companions are pretending that nothing happened yesterday in the marketplace. Rather than the shocking events and the possibility that we will be attacked by another mob, they chat about the lack of good service and food aboard the ship, the poverty of Egypt, the unusual scenery … anything except that the blood of men had been spilled on the dirt of the marketplace before our eyes.

The pretense leaves me tense and unsettled, with questions and no closure and a sense of distrust, especially of Lord Warton. I have no doubt he’s the instigator of the game. He gives me solemn looks, communicating to others that I am an hysterical female who was so traumatized by the murder—and execution—that bringing up the subject would cause an imbalance in my delicate feminine constitution.

I’ve handled crooked politicians, convicted murderers, burly street toughs, and tough editors who would make mincemeat out of the pompous British lord. I have worked undercover as a madwoman in an asylum to expose the abuse of the mentally ill, walked mean streets as a prostitute to investigate how their male customers treat them, taken employment as a maid to show the abuse of servants, even danced in a chorus line and received shooting lessons from Annie Oakley … all without upsetting my female disposition.

I feel like asking the haughty gentleman exactly what he has done, besides trying to show Moroccans how to grow wheat, a task his employee would be far more qualified to perform. Or I could remind him that yesterday he had proved himself unable to handle the deadly encounter with the assassin when he froze in fear and confusion as a man with a dagger came at us.

Our carriage is rumbling over Port Said potholes when the British peer catches me by surprise by mentioning yesterday’s incident.

“What did the man in the marketplace give you yesterday?”

“Excuse me?”

“Someone told the police he passed something to you.”

“What is he supposed to have passed to me?”

“That is the question, young lady, what did he give you?”

“If someone believes they saw me being passed something, let them tell me to my face. I don’t intend to answer to an anonymous accusation.”

Lady Warton pats her husband’s arm as his cheeks color from what he no doubt considers my impertinence. “Let’s talk about more pleasant things, dear.”

I had avoided an outright denial just in case someone actually did see the man slip the scarab in my pocket. I’d like nothing better than to take the key out of my heel and have a spirited discussion about it, but my instinct is that if I give it to Lord Warton the key will find its way to the bottomless pit of British bureaucracy.

Learning the truth about Mr. Cleveland’s death and carrying his last word to his loved one are a responsibility I have accepted … not to mention Lord Warton made a mistake when he set out to make me look ridiculous.

What other malice he has toward me is still to be decided. At the very least, he has appointed himself protector of whatever involvement his country has in the marketplace incident, a task I sympathize with because I would do it myself if I felt Mr. Cleveland was American. But two thorns are under my claws—the truth needs to be exposed to ensure that there was no skulduggery involved by men or their governments. And, more than anything else, a man was murdered before my eyes, a man who selected me as the recipient of his last wish, to carry an object to his beloved.

Regardless of my feelings, I am an invited guest and it would be rude of me to say anything, especially since the Wartons have a business relationship with Von Reich, who is doing his best to make me feel welcome. But the matter has not dropped with me.

Von Reich points to the two-hundred-foot tall, brick-walled lighthouse near where the canal meets the Mediterranean.

“The Statue of Liberty, that colossal statue the French put up in New York Harbor three years ago, was originally meant to be placed here to commemorate the Suez Canal. The original design was that of a fellah, an Egyptian peasant, with beams of light from a headband and a torch he held.”

“How did it end up in New York?” I ask.

“Money. The khedive of Egypt ran out of it and the
Light of Asia
peasant turned into the goddess Liberty and became
Liberty Enlightening the World
in New York Harbor.”

I make a mental note of the Egyptian connection to the Statue of Liberty to include it in a cable back to my editor. Everyone knows that the statue was a gift from the people of France and that Monsieur Eiffel had built the frame in much the same fashion he did his much-criticized tower in Paris, but the fact that the concept made its way from Egypt will be of interest.

As we leave the city, Lady Warton turns the conversation to me. The woman seems slightly bemused—or amused, I’m not sure which—by the fact that I am a working woman who is making a daring trip around the world.

“My dear,” Lady Warton says, “you must tell me so I can advise the ladies I play bridge with … Why would any young woman work in a man’s profession and race around the world to beat a man’s record?”

I smile politely. “It’s a challenge and I believe I am as capable as any man.” Personally I would have liked to ask her if she ever goes outside without asking her husband about the weather.

Lord Warton’s face again contorts with displeasure as if my very existence sours his stomach. “We can all hope that women will stay in their place and not attempt to imitate men.”

“Now, now, dear.” His wife pats his arm again. “We must not pick on our guest. She’s still young, but will someday learn what really matters in life.”

I return a very forced polite smile and resist the urge to be catty. How dare they judge me and the other women who have to work for a living! What keeps me from lashing out besides politeness is that I know these pompous snobs have had so much given to them—and have accomplished little themselves.

Unlike Lady Bluenose, I have had to work for my daily bread and it has never struck me as God’s will that I should labor as hard as a man for less money or opportunity.

My impression of these two is that their noses are blue because they are stuck up so high. Their mannerisms strike me as that of two aristocrats who are mildly amused by the customs of the unwashed masses.

The first time I saw Lady Warton as we passed each other on deck, rather than meeting my eye and my smile, she observed my garments and shoes. Since my entire luggage consists of a single valise that’s capable of holding only the barest necessities for a journey that will take close to three months, I don’t have the luxury to change outfits several times a day like her ladyship and her snooty female friends who waddle down the deck like geese in a pecking order. Each one of these women came aboard followed by a long line of porters shouldering trunks.

*   *   *

C
OMING TO THE TOP OF A RIDGE
, the desert unfolds before us as a purple-gray carpet in the dull light. The road is a stony dirt track hard enough to support the carriage wheels. Far beyond, like a desert mirage, is a vast expanse of water.

“Lake Manzala,” Von Reich says, “the eastern delta of the Nile. Tanis and our rendezvous with the sheikh are on the other side at a tributary of the Nile.”

“It looks as big as a sea,” I say.

“It’s quite large. The Suez Canal actually runs through the east edge of it.”

A caravan of camels moves across the sands, their long, slender necks flowing in unison with their rocking gait. They give an exotic air to the desert and I cheer up a bit, reminding myself I am away from murderous mobs and the face in the porthole.

Von Reich purchases dates from a cameleer whose animals are laden with them. It’s my first taste of the oval-shaped desert fruit and I find them sweet and mushy.