The Khamsin Curse (30 page)

By the time he finished
instructing her on how to go about things the tone was pragmatic,
but she intuited it cost him an effort to remain detached. He had
grown up poor but proud. Pride was all he had to cling to during
the bleak years when his mother died of shame and his father
gambled away what little was left of four hundred years of
aristocratic acquisition before taking his own life. He would not
sacrifice pride on the altar of romantic fantasy. Either she chose
him or she chose Jim. He would not stoop to beg.

Rumour flared the moment the
Sekhmet docked. The crew members who came to collect the dead
bodies noted that the bodies were clothed and appeared to have
suffered no wounds or injuries. It fuelled superstitious fears.

What’s more, the costume party
had already set tongues wagging. Men shared strange stories about
the party in the Kiosk on the night of the Khamsin. Several of them
knew someone who knew someone who had been hired as a servant to
help prepare for the party and they knew that all the servants had
departed suddenly midway through the evening. Some people put it
down to the storm; some put it down to other things. Words such as
orgy and human sacrifice were breathlessly whispered.

And then the baby crocodiles
started appearing. Workers swore they saw several dead crocodiles
floating downstream. Farmers found dead crocodiles in the reeds.
Words such as: plague and curse began to circulate.

By the time the group from the
Sekhmet stepped onto the mainland an ominous silence fell over the
construction site and most of the men downed their tools. Sharif
tried to bully the men back to work but once superstitious fear
takes hold nothing can move it short of some supernatural
miracle.

The Countess stepped
pedetentously down the wobbly gangway with the aid of her
manservant, then made a beeline for the army encampment.

Colonel Moriarty had been
watching the Sekhmet moor for the last ten minutes. Briskly, he
marched forward to meet her wearing an arrogant smile that lost its
cocky edge when it became clear she had not come all this way to
grant a man going off to war his most fervent wish. Fedir, sensing
she was in safe hands, went back to the ship to help his sister
search the female cabins.

“I hope it’s not another favour
you’re seeking,” Jim quipped in that disarming, charming way he
had, employing a bit of Irish blarney to hide his disappointment.
“My men are still recovering from the last one.”

“As a matter of fact,” she
said, “it is another favour I am in need of.”

He almost groaned.

“I need someone to ferry me out
to Agilkia Island.” She indicated the smallest of the four islands,
closest to the shore, which looked like a stack of rounded boulders
protruding from the water. “I thought you might commandeer a
felucca and escort me.”

His eyebrows registered
something more to his liking. The island was practically deserted
and the day was dripping sunshine like liquid gold. She was looking
radiant in an exotic white and gold ensemble; her hair plaited and
coiled in a coronet that reminded him she hailed from an eastern
kingdom that the Irish Book of Conquests put as the birthplace of
the Celts.

“There may be some
unpleasantness,” she continued, “Gideon issued strict instructions
for me to warn you to be on your guard.”

He recalled the pit of dead
reptiles and felt a cold chill. “What sort of unpleasantness?”

“The deadly sort. I want to
speak to a man called Ali Pasha. He’s an antiquities trader. It was
his houseboy who almost killed Gideon in Kom Ombo. For a houseboy
he was a skilled gladiator and handy with a scimitar.”

He felt instantly relieved.
Scimitars were friendlier than crocodiles. “I can organize for a
couple of my men to sail the felucca.”

She shook her head. “I don’t
want to arouse suspicion. You and I need to look as if we are
enjoying a last minute romantic tryst before you go off to war.
That was Gideon’s idea, by the way.”

“I can thank him later. In the
meantime, my men can wear jellabiyas. Duffy can handle a felucca
like a genuine Arab and Brian is small enough to pass for a
boy.”

“Very well,” she said, checking
his dusty, desert, combat clothes. “Go as you are. Don’t change
into the red and black. It will be too conspicuous. We don’t want
Ali Pasha to prepare a greeting party.”

This favour was slowly
decreasing in pleasantness. Instinct told him to organize for a few
extra men in jellabiyas to take to the water in feluccas and just
sail lazily around the island in the event things turned
gladiatorial in the Roman Coliseum sense. “You can wait in my tent
while I organize the felucca,” he said, offering an arm to help her
navigate the uneven terrain in dainty white and gold shoes.

As she swapped her lacy parasol
for the other hand and put her arm through his elbow he wondered
what had got into his rival. Had Nash finally conceded defeat? Had
she made her choice and told Nash he stood no chance? Nash might be
miles ahead in looks but women were a different breed to men. Good
looks didn’t count as much with them. They wanted wealth first,
except for the ones who already had enough for several lifetimes.
They wanted status and a title, expect for the ones who already had
that too. They wanted…what?

A protector? A lover? A hero?
He could be all those things. He felt his chest puff out as he
escorted her past groups of admiring Irish eyes and into his tent.
He emerged a few moments later so that no tongues wagged as to what
he might be doing with the lady in his tent. There was a time he
would have revelled in the disreputable acclaim but she was
different…special.

Jim ordered a man called
O’Riley to stand guard at the entrance to the tent while he went
about his business with fresh urgency.

Half an hour later they were
drifting in the felucca. They didn’t go straight to the island
because they didn’t want to give the impression they were on a
mission. They sailed around it and studied it from all angles,
allowing whoever was so inclined to study them too. They lay back
on wooden benches and pretended to be absorbed in each other.
Although neither needed to do much pretending. They enjoyed being
together and that was a fact. Each felt comfortable in the company
of the other. No friendship between an unmarried man and woman
could have felt more natural. An unforced affinity asserted itself
from the first moment they met.

“Where do you go after you
leave Egypt?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she sighed
wistfully. “We’ll play it by ear.”

There was a heavy thump as the
felucca grated against the side of some large round boulders, and
the smaller boatman called Brian who was meant to be a boy leapt
out with a rope to hold the boat steady while they disembarked. Jim
leapt out next then extended his arm.

“Jump,” he said. “I’ll catch
you.”

Confident that he wouldn’t let
her fall between the narrow gap of boat and rock, she took a flying
leap. He cinched her waist when she landed hard on her feet and
teetered momentarily from the sudden jarring of jambs.

“You refuse to marry me,” he
whispered into her ear, “watch that you don’t end up married to the
Prince of Darkness.” He glanced off to the right. “Don’t look now
but there’s a man standing on a rock ledge to your left?”

“Is he wearing a green
fez?”

“Yes. Is that the man you want
to question?”

“Yes - Ali Pasha. Take your cue
from me and stay on your guard.”

“You never have to tell me
twice to stay on my guard. See those feluccas. They’re my men.
They’ll be pulling close to shore any time soon. If there’s any
trouble, head for this spot. Duffy and Brian will look after you.
And don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.”

They clambered over the round
rocks like a pair of mountain goats to where the ground levelled
out and some hessian fabric, about fifteen foot square, held aloft
on four poles, provided respite from the sun. Ali Pasha - lips
curled back to reveal a sharp smile – recognized the man who had
come to their rescue during the crocodile invasion. He invited them
to join him in a refreshing tisane. Brewing the tea was none other
than the Nubian houseboy, Japhet.

19

Shock coursed through the
Countess’s veins as they sat on cushions in the speckled shade and
sipped tisanes. Desultory conversation covered everything from the
recent explosions at the dam to the beauty of their surrounds. They
were avoiding discussing the night of the party and the deaths of
Lee and Mallisham, but it was inevitable that they would eventually
get round to it.

Japhet walked with a limp,
trying not to put pressure on his right foot. When the Countess
commented on this, Ali Pasha informed her that Japhet had sprained
an ankle.

“He was set upon by thieves in
broad daylight,” expounded their host indignantly. “It was while I
was visiting a papyrus workshop in Luxor. His Turquerie slippers
were ripped from his feet as he lay bleeding.”

Despite her lengthy travels,
the Countess fell into the trap that many westerners make. They see
a dark-skinned face and fail to notice facial features. They think
all dark-skinned faces are alike. The same thing happens with
Oriental faces. Westerners tend to think all Orientals look alike.
It is bigotry and ignorance and she felt ashamed.

The attacker at Kom Ombo had
been Nubian and she had extrapolated that it was Japhet because
Japhet was Nubian. In her defence were the exquisitely embroidered
slippers. There could not be too many slippers of such quality in
Egypt. But how, she asked herself, had they ended up on the feet of
the attacker if thief and attacker were not one and the same?

“Was the thief caught?” She
knew very well the man had not been caught because he had later
turned up in Kom Ombo wearing the stolen slippers but she hoped
that Japhet might provide her with a clue as to his identity. Most
likely he was a secret agent keeping an eye on the workshop who
decided to steal some slippers when he came across Japhet hanging
about, waiting for his master. The stolen slippers could also have
served to incriminate Japhet in the death of Gideon.

“No,” said the trader. “Japhet
was accosted and hit on the head. The attacker fled. When Japhet
awoke his slippers were missing. An odd thing because he has very
large feet and most Arabs have feet not so large as Nubians.”

So much for her theory! “The
thief was an Arab?”

“Yes,” confirmed Japhet,
refreshing their tisanes. “He was loitering in the shade, watching
the workshop. I should have known better than to turn my back. Now
my beautiful slippers have gone,” he lamented unhappily, grimacing
at his cheap leather sandals.

“I will buy you some new
slippers when we get back to Cairo,” promised the trader.

“You did not notice anything
about the Arab?” pressed the Countess, addressing Japhet.

“He was like all Arabs. Dark
hair. Dark eyes. A nose like a hawk and a thick neck.”

On his guard, Moriarty sat
quietly drinking herb tea while soaking up the woman he loved.
After today, he might not see her for years, possibly forever. He
wanted to remember every detail so that he could dream about the
life they would never share while fighting for his life in the
Transvaal. Fleetingly, he wondered why she seemed interested in a
pair of stolen slippers and a papyrus workshop in Luxor. He had
carefully scrutinised the people in Ali Pasha’s camp. There was an
old woman making flatbread, two young girls doing some washing, a
boy turning a lamb on a spit over a fire, and an old man repairing
a length of hessian that must have been shredded by the Khamsin.
Nothing to worry about there. Nash had spent too much time inside
the Diogenes Club. He needed to get out more.

The Countess decided to press
on. The others would be finishing their tour of the dam fairly
soon. “Fraulein Graf told me about the tomb Mr Lee negotiated to
buy from you so that Miss Lee could claim to have discovered it.”
She paused to give him time to recover himself, but not enough time
to interrupt. “Do you think Jurgen Graf could have murdered Mr Lee
and Professor Mallisham so that he could claim that honour for
himself?”

Ali Pasha relaxed his guard the
moment he realized she did not intend to accuse
him
of
murder. “It is feasible, yes, feasible, what you propose. Jurgen
Graf is not to be trusted. He is the one who sold to his brother
the fakes for the museum.”

The Countess almost spilled her
tea. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, no mistake. Jurgen
he buys the fakes from Mallisham. The fakes are very good, very
clever. Mallisham he finds the old stones and uses a man to carve
the hieroglyphs that are genuine. Mallisham shows to him what to
carve. Same with the papyrus. Mallisham he buys the papyrus made to
look old and he has an old Coptic priest who writes the
hieroglyphs. That is why I go to Luxor. I want to catch Mallisham
at the papyrus workshop. Mallisham wants me to sell the fake papyri
in my shop but I refuse. Japhet he stays all day and waits for
Mallisham to come but no Mallisham. I go to the workshop to see for
myself how they make the papyrus and I find Japhet bleeding and his
slippers gone.”

“Did Rhinehart Graf know the
museum items were fakes?”

Ali Pasha shook his head.
“Rhinehart Graf was an expert, like me. No one could fool him but
he trusted Jurgen. And why not? A man trusts his brother. But
Jurgen was jealous of Rhinehart. Always jealous. He bought the
fakes from Mallisham and passed them to Rhinehart for the museum.
Rhinehart did not check as he should, because he trusted Jurgen. It
was his mistake to trust his brother. He paid for that mistake with
his life.”