by Cheryl Bolen
After they docked at the busy quay, Jack waited until the other members of their party, save his wife, had disembarked. He wanted a private word with her. “I wish for just you and me to meet with Briggs.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. In fact, I had planned to request that Mr. Maxwell give Rosemary a tour of Cairo. She’s awfully keen to see a mosque. Mr. Maxwell told her that she could drape a shawl over her hair and be permitted inside the Ibn Tulun Mosque." Daphne shuddered. “I hate to think of a shawl on a hot day like this.”
Daphne slipped her slender arm through her husband’s, and they left the boat.
It was good for a change to have someone else directing them where to go. For many years of clandestine activities in foreign locales, Jack had been forced to rely on his own cunning for even the most elementary things—like where one could draw water from a well. Now he could be a tourist. Almost.
He watched with fascination the long-robed, bearded men in turbans toiling alongside bare-chested Negroes, all of them loading or unloading boats laden with fruits and vegetables and sacks of grain. Magnificent camels lined the wharf, some with Bedouins straddling the mighty beasts. Curiously, some had one hump, others two. He noted, too, that the Bedouin men’s headdress was different. Their head covering was held by a circular braided crown. Exactly like he'd seen in biblical illustrations.
Amidst all the men mingling at the quay, one stood out. A European. Jack tensed. Gareth Williams. Jack had once sworn that if ever again he crossed paths with the coward, he’d beat him to within an inch of his life. Even before the heavy fighting at Badajoz that sent Williams fleeing to Morocco, the vile piece of dung had been suspected in a multitude of thefts from his fellow soldiers.
When Jack's gaze locked with Williams’ intense blue eyes, the other man spun away and disappeared into the crowd. Jack had seen enough to observe that the years spent in the desert climate had not been kind to the deserter. Williams couldn’t be much more than thirty, like Jack, but he looked considerably older. His face had become leathered and nearly as dark as an Egyptian’s, but his hair was considerably fairer. He was thinner, too (which Jack could certainly understand after eating the unappetizing native meals for the past five days).
Unaccountably, Jack wondered if Williams had been watching the docks for Jack’s party to land. One thing was certain—the man was up to no good. His allegiance could be traded like a pair of used boots.
As Jack disembarked from the felucca, Habeeb drew him aside. Jack had spoken to the dragoman only two or three times since he’d met their ship at Alexandria, but he was surprised at the young man’s competence in English.
“I must warn you, sir, about the ladies.”
Jack’s first thought was to protect Daphne and her sister. “What’s wrong?”
“I speak of the . . . I believe your word is whores. You do good to avoid them. Always best to go with dancing girls. Much cleaner. Less sickness.”
Even when he’d been a bachelor, Jack had avoided that sort of woman. He patted well-meaning Habeeb on the shoulder. The slender dragoman was more than a head shorter than Jack. “I thank you for the warning.” Even if I don’t need it. The dragoman continued packing their bags onto the braying donkeys, which were contributing to the discordant noise that surrounded them.
Perhaps he should convey that information to the soldiers. He moved to Harry Petworth, the man Jack had pegged as their leader simply because he was the only one among the raw youths who had ever served with Jack. He spoke in low tones to Petworth, and then rejoined his wife and the others.
“Had Mr. Briggs known the exact time of our arrival,” Arbuthnot said when he rejoined them, “he would have sent his own coach to collect us.”
“I don’t believe I’ve seen a European coach in Egypt,” Daphne said.
“They are rare.” Arbuthnot bestowed a smile upon Daphne. “If you’d prefer, I can still procure a pair of horses for the ladies—to shorten the time in the sun.”
“My wife may be slender,” Jack said, “but she’s uncommonly tenacious. And she will never concede defeat against anything, even the desert’s almost unbearable heat.”
“I daresay I’ve just been complimented,” Daphne said drolly.
Maxwell cleared his throat. “I say, the same can be said for Lady Rosemary.” He flicked a shy smile at her.
“Thank you, Mr. Maxwell,” Rosemary replied.
Following their group were two columns of the Regent’s House Guards. Jack felt bloody foppish that he had to be guarded by men whose combat experience was vastly inferior to his own. But the Regent had insisted, and one did not disagree with one’s monarch. He felt sure the Regent had assigned the soldiers to their party merely to placate Lord Sidworth, but Jack was still embarrassed about it.
“Mr. Arbuthnot, will the House Guards lodge with us?” Daphne asked.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid there aren’t enough available rooms in the European quarter. We’ve taken the liberty of procuring tents—European-style—for them, and there’s room to pitch them on your hotel's grounds. Two of their rank will be posted at the front of your lodgings and two at the back at all times. The Regent’s orders were specific.”
“The dear man means to lessen my dear Papa’s worries about us,” Daphne said.
The Regent had asked that Jack not wear his regimentals during this investigation. Dressed as a civilian, he’d had little to do with men of his own kind, and he felt beastly about that too. It was some consolation that he had other, more important things on his mind.
In a little over ten minutes they reached the massive Ezbeekiya Square which, Arbuthnot told them was just outside the old city walls. This square was many times larger than the largest of London's squares. A small city could be built atop its brick foundation. “It’s a great gathering place but has never been built upon because the Nile floods it every August,” Arbuthnot said.
Within minutes, they’d passed through the old timber gates to the city and were walking along lanes far too narrow to be called streets. Houses on either side were constructed of wood as well as stucco, and white-painted lattice covered the windows. These allowed them privacy even though their windows were open.
Jack found himself thinking how easy it would be to burn all this down, especially given the local addiction to smoking the hookah pipes—a practice Maxwell had explained to him. “Even women smoke them,” he had told Jack.
Every few hundred feet old men gathered to smoke and to drink very dark coffee from cups not much larger than a thimble.
“I declare,” Daphne said, “one could get lost here.”
“Yes,” Maxwell said. “It’s not laid out on a grid and can be very confusing.”
“But once you learn where the Consulate is, it becomes easier. The Consulate,” Maxwell explained, “is completely different from these buildings we’ve seen thus far.”
Arbuthnot nodded. “Indeed it is. They say it was constructed from stones pilfered from pyramids.”
“That’s a sacrilege!” Daphne exclaimed. “How could anyone have set out to destroy that which has stood for three thousand years? I shall give Mr. Briggs a piece of my mind. Why, dismantling a pyramid is even worse than an Egyptian coming to England and dismantling our Tower of London!”
“Oh,” Arbuthnot defended, “it wasn’t the English who stripped away stone from the pyramids. The Egyptians themselves did it many years past.”
Daphne’s mouth formed a straight line. “It’s disgusting.”
“What is even more distressing,” Maxwell added, “is this country’s failure to protect their antiquities. If they don’t act soon, there won’t be anything left from the days of the great pharaohs.”
“What do you propose?” Daphne asked.
“For starters,” Maxwell said, “their own museum. Do you realize how much of their history is going to the British Museum?”
“Then it’s a very good thing the pyramids won’t fit there!” Daphne said.
Squinting against the afternoon sun and frowning, Rosemary joined the conversation. “The Egyptians need to take control of their treasures.”
“They have implemented the requirement that foreigners—or anyone, really—obtain a permit—a firmin—before excavating or removing anything,” Arbuthnot said. “The pity of it is power curries favor, and those willing to bribe get more favorable firmins while others are repeatedly denied.”
They followed Arbuthnot around a corner, and Jack knew without a doubt they had come to the British Consulate. The proud building constructed of solid stucco stood out like a jewel in a bed of coal amongst the haphazardly constructed wooden dwellings surrounding it.
As was Arbuthnot’s custom, he pointed it out with a proprietary air. “Ah, we’ve come to the Consulate. Wait until you see the interior! You’ll welcome a little piece of England in the Orient.”
“I particularly came here to get away from the dreary English ways,” Rosemary said.
Maxwell gazed admiringly at her.
"Then it's a very good thing you'll not be visiting the Consul." Jack turned to Maxwell. "I am in hopes that you'll be able to conduct Lady Rosemary on a tour of Cairo."
"It will be most agreeable to me to do so."
"I expect you'll conduct a fascinating tour because you're so clever," Rosemary told the scholar.
That the Consulate was not guarded by English soldiers was quickly rectified when four of the Regent’s House Guards, beastly hot in their woolen uniforms and towering beaver hats, took up their posts at its entrance when the Drydens and Arbuthnot entered the dwelling. Rosemary and Maxwell—with half the guards—went off to explore the city and were to meet them in front of the Consulate in an hour.
* * *
Mr. Briggs had them shown directly into his office, a large chamber furnished completely in the English style. Although there were many windows and it was a sunny day, little light illuminated the chamber, owing to the dark narrow streets outside of it and the rickety buildings that obstructed the sun from his windows.
Jack had told her that the Consul had a military background, and everything about his surroundings spoke to his attention to precision. Books lined up tidily, chairs all faced the Consul’s desk, and instead of a portrait of King George, a large map of Egypt covered the interior wall, with markings for each of the places where the Consulate had served. Most efficient.
Mr. Arbuthnot effected the introductions—according to protocol presenting first Daphne, as the highest ranking person present, to the Consul. “She’s the daughter of Lord Sidworth.”
Mr. Arbuthnot possessed a decidedly inflated (and unwarranted) admiration for all things aristocratic, Daphne thought.
Once the introductions were complete, Jack turned to the toadeater. “We are most appreciative for all you’ve done for us, Arbuthnot, but I beg you allow me to speak to Mr. Briggs in private.”
The man attempted to conceal his disappointment by slapping on a smile and telling them he’d show them to their lodgings as soon as they were finished with Mr. Briggs. “I have many duties to attend to now that I’m back in Cairo, but I’ll be in my office just down the corridor should you need me.”
Jack and Daphne sat in a pair of identical mahogany chairs facing the Consul. Daphne had heard that Mr. Briggs had grown tired of the Orient and longed to return to England. With his dull gray eyes and gray hair with withered skin, he looked tired.
“I hope the lengthy journey wasn’t too strenuous for you,” he said. “The Regent—in his correspondence to me—indicated his concern for Lady Daphne.”
“If you please, Mr. Briggs,” she said, "I prefer to be referred to as Mrs. Dryden.”
His eyes widened. “How very singular.” Then he addressed Jack. “Not that being the wife of Captain Jack Dryden wouldn’t be something of which to be exceedingly proud. I’ve been hearing of your intelligence and bravery for years, Captain.”
“How kind of you,” Jack said. “But enough of us. You know the nature of our mission here?”
The Consul nodded. “I know that Prince Edward Duleep Singh had been engaged to procure for the Regent an extremely valuable funerary mask that had been taken from a pharaoh’s tomb. It was constructed of solid gold, I believe. And I know that no one’s seen Prince Singh in many months. I daresay it’s now been nearly a year.”
“Do you know Prince Singh?” Jack asked.
Mr. Briggs hesitated a moment before he answered. “I can’t say that I actually know him, but Prince Singh is an extremely wealthy man who is received everywhere. He's frequently a guest of the Pasha, and I had occasion to be introduced to him at one or two functions.”
“By guest of the Pasha,” Daphne asked, “do you mean that when he's in Cairo, he's a houseguest of the Pasha?”'
Briggs shook his head. “No, Prince Singh has his own villa near the Pasha’s. It’s considerably smaller than the Pasha’s palace.”
“Do you know if he keeps servants there even when he's not in Cairo?” Jack asked.
“I can’t say for certain, but it is customary to do so, and you must know native labor comes very cheap.”
Yes, Daphne did know. Mr. Arbuthnot told them he’d procured their dragoman for a mere three guineas a month.
“Could Mr. Arbuthnot show us to Prince Singh’s villa?” Jack asked.
Daphne shook her head. “Remember, darling, Mr. Arbuthnot said he does not know Prince Singh.”
Briggs’ brows drew together. “I am surprised to hear that, given that Arbuthnot makes it a practice to get to know anyone who’s wealthy and powerful, though it's irrelevant whether he knows Prince Singh. He’s sure to know which house belongs to Prince Singh.”
That he’d said belongs rather than belonged indicated that he held out hope the prince was still alive. Daphne wished it were so, but she was pragmatic enough to know it was unlikely. “Do you think it could be possible that Prince Singh found someone who paid him more than the Regent, and that he’s gone back to India?” Daphne asked.
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“And another thing,” Jack said. “You are acquainted with Lord Beddington, are you not?”
A smile lifted Mr. Briggs’ saggy face. “It is indeed my honor.”
“I should very much like to meet him,” Jack said. He sounded so commanderly. Daphne could easily understand why her husband was so well-respected among the soldiers who served with him and under him. (And she refused to contemplate how the ladies made absolute cakes of themselves over her handsome husband.)
“I would be happy to facilitate a meeting between you and Lord Beddington. At present, he is not in Cairo.”
Jack pressed on. “And the Pasha?”
Mr. Briggs bowed his head solemnly. “As far as I know, he is in Cairo, and I will be happy to assist with that introduction, too.”
“There’s one more,” Daphne said. “Do you know if Sheikh al Mustafa is in Cairo?”
This query proved fruitless. “I wouldn’t know.”
“But I daresay the Pasha would,” Jack said.
“I should think he would,” Mr. Briggs answered.
“I am counting on you speaking to the Pasha on our behalf," Jack said. "I beg that you ask him to orchestrate a meeting with us and the Sheikh."
* * *
Rosemary’s excitement over Cairo was so great she reminded Daphne of Papa's jubilant pups greeting them after an absence. Had Rosemary been a hound, she’d be leaping upon them right now, tail wagging profusely.
“It was positively the most interesting thing I’ve ever done in my life,” she declared. “And I never for a moment felt afraid. How could I when each of our steps was shadowed by a handsome soldier from His Majesty’s House Guards?”
“And, of course,” Daphne added, sensitive to Mr. Maxwell’s devotion to her sister, “Mr. Maxwell was also there to protect you.”
“Oh, yes. He was such a fount of knowledge. It was as if I had an entire reference book at my disposal every step of the way.”
“I wouldn’t have thought there would be much to interest a young lady such as yourself,” Mr. Arbuthnot said.
“There you are wrong, my dear sir,” Rosemary said. “Everything I saw was filled with exotic beauty, and I’ve grown enamored of the smell that emanates from the hookah pipes. And the Ibu Tulum Mosque! We actually were there for the late afternoon Call to Prayer and bowed down on our knees facing Mecca. Of course I prayed to our heavenly Father rather than Allah, but I suspect it’s all rather the same. I shall never forget it. Now I am most eager to see the bazaar, but Mr. Maxwell says that’s to be saved for another day.”
They followed Mr. Arbuthnot to the European quarter and passed through green gates to a tangle of narrow streets that looked like something from the old part of London. Or Paris. Only the buildings weren’t as tall. Unlike the dwellings in Cairo's walled city, these were not constructed of wood but were solid stucco.
One of the first buildings they came to was their lodging. “I hope you don’t object to having a French landlord,” Mr. Arbuthnot said. “Few Englishmen have settled in Cairo.”
“I daresay it’s because that fiend Napoleon tried to claim it first,” Jack said. "As much as the soldier in me hates to credit the navy, we owe a very great deal to Lord Nelson."
Her husband had no love for the French.
“I think, dearest," she said, "that after we defeated the French at Abukir, it was very magnanimous of the British government not to lay claim to the lands Napoleon had earlier seized.”
“It seemed rather unBritish to me,” Jack mumbled, “But it was, indeed, magnanimous.”
Mr. Arbuthnot nodded his agreement as he came to a halt. “I’m sure you’ll find your dragoman has already delivered all your things here. Allow me to speak to the soldiers about their accommodations.”
* * *
After dinner Jack and Daphne went to their room. He did not know if he approved of how very European the chamber was. He rather fancied spending his nights in a lavish tent such as those belonging to sheikhs of the desert. A place where one sat on plump cushions smoking hookahs and eating grapes. He must have a sultan fetish.