The Serpent and the Scorpion (7 page)

“Have you got a death wish?” she exclaimed. “You just about gave us all a heart attack!”

“Saw you with Whittaker and his party,” Hugh commented, ignoring her concern. “Bit of a surprise.”

“Well, it wasn’t by choice, I can tell you,” Ursula retorted. “That man’s like a bad penny—always turning up when you least expect or want.”

Hugh straightened up, pulled out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and wiped his hands. “So, I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

“No, it isn’t. I wanted to ask you something—now that Whittaker and his party have finally left.”

“Oh?” Hugh ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, sending dust into the air.

“Yes, I overheard you and Whittaker talking last night.”

“That’s unfortunate. But no need to worry, sweetheart, I’m not about to start any rumors about us.”

“As if I should think you would,” Ursula retorted. “Whittaker’s an idiot.”

“Whittaker may be a lot of things, but an idiot isn’t one of them.”

Ursula shielded her eyes against the sun. It was barely spring, yet she was already perspiring beneath the sun’s glare.

“So I see you suspect, like I do, that things are not what they seem.”

Hugh gazed out across the expanse of sand. To the west the retreating figures of Whittaker and his party gave him pause.

“I’m not sure what I think, and that’s the truth.”

“But you don’t believe that Katya’s death was political, do you?”

Hugh did not reply.

Ursula crossed her arms. She wanted to delve deeper and understand what Hugh was keeping from her. Ever since Katya’s death, he had been distant and distracted. “Remember that night in Alexandria,” she started, trying to introduce the subject as delicately as she could, “at Khedive Abbas Hilmi’s cocktail party? Katya wanted to leave early, because of something Peter Vilensky said. Do you remember?”

Hugh kicked the sand and nodded.

“Well, I noticed you went after her. I was talking to Eugenie Mahfouz, but I could tell Peter was angry, yet he made no attempt to follow you.”

“It was nothing. Katya was upset, that’s all.”

Ursula regarded him closely. “I think there was something else, something she told you.” Hugh kicked his shoe in the sand again. “No, don’t try and shrug it off, Hugh! Ever since then, there was a change in your relationship with Katya. I’m just not sure what it was—”

“How do you know it wasn’t what everyone else thought—simply an affair?”

“I think I know you better than that,” Ursula replied simply. “And despite her husband’s suspicions, I know Katya loved him. So I never believed the rumors. I do, however, think you found something out that night.”

Hugh ran his hands along the frame of the airplane, avoiding her gaze.

“Can’t you tell me what it was?” Ursula pleaded. “All I want is to find out what really happened. To understand why Katya died. She was a good friend, even though I didn’t know her long. Don’t you think I owe it to her to find out the truth?”

“You don’t owe her anything.”

“But—”

“No, let me finish. This isn’t something you can get involved in. All I know is that anyone associated with Katya has to be very careful. I suspect my copilot was not, and that was why he died. I don’t think it was an accident, any more than I think that Katya was the victim of political extremists. But I’m going to keep my suspicions to myself, because I don’t want to involve you in whatever mess Katya found herself in. No, Ursula, I’m serious—I think that as long as we leave well alone, we’ll be okay. But if we start snooping—well, I consider Whittaker’s words last night a warning. Vilensky is a powerful man. We’d do best not to cross him.”

Ursula opened her mouth to speak, but when she saw the look on Hugh’s face, she changed her mind. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?” she said quietly.

Hugh made no reply. He merely signaled the mechanic, who pulled a pair of goggles and a headscarf from a leather satchel and tossed them over to her.

“Put those on, and I’ll take you up for a spin.”

Ursula picked up the scarf and shook the sand off.

“I can’t change your mind?”

“As Whittaker said, some secrets are better left buried.”

“But surely you trust me?” Ursula exclaimed.

“Miss Marlow, I would trust you with my life. That’s why we need to leave well enough alone. You are too much like my late wife, Iris, God rest her soul, for me to allow anything to happen to you.”

 
From above, the pyramids of Sakkara were awe-inspiring and forbidding. The Blériot airplane seemed so insubstantial and flimsy that Ursula felt as if she were flying in little more than a kite made of cloth, wood, and wires. Hugh, with his hand on the bell-shaped control stick and his feet steering the plane with the foot pedals, seemed oblivious to the surge of fear and panic that rose within her. Ursula clung to the wooden bracing and tried not to think about the emptiness, that space between the sky and the ground, beneath her feet. The experience of flying was surreal, exciting, and terrifying. The wind pressed against her cheeks, and, as the plane slowly banked to the north, she had to quickly shield her eyes from the glare of the late-afternoon light.

“That was amazing,” she told Hugh after they landed at the airstrip at Heliopolis, north of Cairo. “I cannot even begin to describe it.” She pulled off the goggles and headscarf and shook her head.

“Sure beats traveling by donkey,” he answered with a grin, but Ursula knew it was forced. She sensed a conflict within him. The shadows lengthened; the light was dying. Ursula looked out across the airstrip, watching as Hugh removed his goggles, adjusted his collar, and signaled for his driver to take them back to the hotel. Since the accident in Palestine that had claimed the life of his copilot, Hugh always insisted that his driver follow and meet him where he landed. Hugh’s plane was stored in one of the hangers beside the airstrip, and as they made their way to the motor car, Ursula noticed that though his face remained relaxed, his smile never reached his eyes.

 
That evening a reception was being held at the Khedival Sporting Club to celebrate the day’s gymkhana. As she sat in the enclosed landau, Ursula was already dreading the evening. She was tired of the arrogance and insularity of the English in Egypt. She sat back in the leather seat and closed her eyes.

Last summer she had wanted nothing more than for time to stand still. Now she wished the present would simply disappear. She wanted to be lying on green English grass once more, gazing up at a blue, cloud-edged sky. Last summer at Bromley Hall, seat of the Wrotham family, she had experienced one of the few perfect days of her life. She had been there a month, and Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith (whom Lord Wrotham had insisted come as her chaperone) was ensconced in the dowager’s private parlor playing bridge, leaving Ursula free to spend the afternoon just as she pleased. It had been one of the hottest summers on record, and Ursula decided to walk to one of her favorite places on the entire estate, the ornamental lake that bordered Rockingham Forest, to cool off. Accompanied by Lord Wrotham’s two collies, Charles and Edward, she had set out with nothing more than a knapsack containing her Brownie camera and a copy of Lord Tennyson’s poems.

She arrived at the lake just as the sun reached its peak, bathing the grass embankment in light. She threw the knapsack to the ground and tore off her shoes and silk stockings. Even in her lightest white dimity dress, her limbs felt heavy and listless. She lay down in the grass, feeling the sun’s warmth on her exposed arms, and gazed up at the sky, the dark fringes of the oak leaves, the wisps of clouds above. She let her eyes wander and her mind drift, and a drowsy sun-filled numbness took hold. It was perfect. She felt a reckless abandonment, an urge to fling her clothes to the ground and plunge into the lake’s icy waters, when, like the image from a painting by John Singer Sargent, he came into view. Lord Wrotham stood over her for a moment, framed against the sun, before kneeling beside her.

“Isn’t it glorious?” she said.

He stroked her face. “‘And all his world worth for this, / To waste his whole heart in one kiss / Upon her perfect lips.’ ”

“Tennyson?” Ursula murmured.

Casting a glance to the book of poems that lay open on the grass, its pages fluttering in the summer breeze, Lord Wrotham smiled. “Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere,” he replied, so softly that his words, barely louder than a rustle of the wind, drifted across her face, as he leaned over and kissed her.

 
The carriage came to a halt with a jolt, and the dream was lost. Ursula snapped open her eyes as the present, in all its dark confusion, returned. She drew herself up with a sigh and opened the carriage door. The hem of her slender dinner gown caught on the straps of her delicate white shoes, and she had to lift the narrow folds of silk aside to step out of the carriage.

It was already half past nine, and the post-gymkhana festivities were in full swing. Many of the army officers were still in their afternoon boaters and cream-colored suits, singing and toasting the success of their horses in the day’s equestrian events. Mingling among the crowd were the club servants, with their turbans and flowing white gowns, each holding a silver platter of wineglasses and canapés aloft. All of this was accompanied by the strains of Elgar’s Symphony No. 1 drifting in as the orchestra played outside.

Ursula entered the pavilion and, with a gentle tug of the light transparent sleeves that extended to her wrists, prepared herself for the evening. Millicent Lawrence was standing by the entrance, holding forth for all to hear about the success of her husband’s mission in Rhodesia. Ursula hurried past to the far corner of the room, avoiding Ambrose Whittaker, who was making a beeline for the buffet table along the way. Upon the white-clothed table was a lavish spread of assorted meats: game pie, roast beef, and lamb chops. From her final vantage point Ursula grabbed a glass of champagne and surveyed the room discreetly. She hated coming to these events. At least in London she used to have Lord Wrotham by her side. She admonished herself to try to forget him once and for all. Had he not delivered her an ultimatum—marry him or be done with him?

Ursula saw Chief Inspector Harrison enter, in his evening suit, looking decidedly uncomfortable in such salubrious surroundings. His eyes met hers, and they both gave the barest hint of acknowledgment. The last time Ursula had seen Harrison was the day the jury found Tom guilty of her father’s murder. As the jury delivered its verdict, a cheer arose from the public gallery, and Ursula looked up to see Harrison leaving quietly by the rear door. There had been no acknowledgment, no indication that they were even acquainted, just the briefest of looks exchanged as he turned before leaving. It seemed strange to be standing across from him and to be reminded of that look. Ursula suddenly felt very weary.

She made her way over to one of the long buffet tables with an elaborate centerpiece filled with blue water lilies. She popped a canapé in her mouth, eyeing the tower of
chaud-froid du poulet
with some distrust, and then reached for another glass of champagne.

“Ursula,
ma chérie!
” Eugenie Mahfouz came over and enveloped Ursula in a hug. “I’ve been reading all about your friends in London— they are creating quite the commotion.” Even the French daily newspaper in Egypt,
La Réforme,
was reporting the WSPU’s latest window-smashing campaign on Regent Street. Ursula returned Eugenie’s embrace warmly while saying with some surprise, “What on earth are you doing here?”

Eugenie Mahfouz was the only daughter of a wealthy French merchant who had settled near Alexandria. Married to a prominent Egyptian writer who was well known for his views on what he called the “English occupation” of Egypt, she was one of the few Western women to assimilate into Egyptian society. She maintained segregated harems, or living quarters, when she moved to her husband’s home in Alexandria and converted to Islam. Ursula had contacted her on Winifred’s advice and had soon discovered that Eugenie was also one of Egypt’s most famous hostesses, allowing European women to visit her salons during the winter season. It was only because of her mother’s family connections that Eugenie could gain entry to the notoriously racially prejudiced Khedival Sporting Club. Nonetheless, given her views on the English colonial presence in Egypt, Ursula was surprised at Eugenie being there.

“I received your message,” Eugenie whispered in her ear. “And I have made the inquiries you asked for—can we talk?”

“Outside maybe, but not here,” Ursula said as she pulled away. As always, Eugenie presented an incongruous juxtaposition of cultures. She first appeared to be a classic French beauty, with her wide almond-shaped eyes and aquiline nose. On closer observation, however, this image seemed to shimmer and recast itself. Suddenly one was struck by the smoky rim of kohl beneath her eyes, the richness of the raw silk of her modest dress, and the jangle of gold bangles encircling her arms. Now she appeared rather like one of the ancient queens of Egypt, caught midstride in the hieroglyphs in a tomb.

Eugenie caught Ursula’s face in her hands. “You look tired beyond words. I insist you come back with me to Alexandria so you can rest.”

“Oh, how I wish I could,” Ursula responded. “But I have only a few more weeks left before I must return home to England. I will be in Alexandria for three days next week to finalize matters at the Cotton Exchange, though. May be we could meet up then.”

“I must at least take you to Pastroudi’s for afternoon tea,” Eugenie said as she steered Ursula in the direction of the door out onto the terrace. “So tell me”—she dropped her voice to a whisper once more—“what is a member of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch doing investigating Mrs. Vilensky’s death?” Eugenie inclined her head toward Chief Inspector Harrison.

Eugenie was nothing if not well informed.

“I’m not sure,” Ursula replied in a low voice. “Whittaker told me that the chief inspector just happened to be in Cairo and is assisting the Egyptian authorities in what he describes as a routine investigation into Katya’s death.”