Five
Ursula stood with her back to the sun and, using the winding key, prepared the film on her Kodak Brownie camera to take the next shot. She held the camera firmly against her body, looked down into the viewfinder, and scanned the landscape. The mounds of limestone, rocks, and sand slowly began to take shape in the wash of light. In the distance lay the pyramids of Abusir and Giza on the horizon. To the southeast the step pyramid of Sakkara rose from the sandy plain, and beyond that the palm trees bordering the green valley of the Nile. Ursula steadied the camera, adjusted the shutter, and then held her breath for a moment as she pushed down the lever to take the photograph. Satisfied, she looked up and wound the film on once more, ready for the next exposure.
“Miss Marlow!” the unmistakably plummy English voice of Ambrose Whittaker called out from a distance. Ursula ignored him and pretended to fiddle with the camera instead.
“I say, I didn’t know you were interested in photography!”
Ursula sighed and knelt down to place the camera in her khaki knapsack.
“Out alone again?” This time his voice was insidious. Whittaker had walked up and was now standing right behind her. Ursula stood up quickly.
“Julia is unfortunately feeling unwell. I advised her to remain in her room for the day to recover,” Ursula replied, without turning around.
“I had no idea Julia’s stomach was so obliging.”
Ursula turned and looked at him shrewdly. In that one comment, the mask of cheerful bonhomie dropped, and she caught a glimpse of the real Ambrose Whittaker.
“I’m taking some photographs for an article I’m writing. Lady’s Realm wants a story about my perceptions of Egypt, and I thought I might include some photographs. Perhaps I’ll juxtapose the pyramids with the street urchins in the back streets of Cairo and entitle it ‘The Path of Progress’?”
Ambrose Whittaker flushed at her remark, sensitive to any criticism of the British presence in Egypt. Ursula was about to continue when she spied, rising over the nearest sand dune, the dreadful yet all too familiar sight of an English tourist party on the loose. Each perched on a donkey, wielding a commanding stick, and shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, the tourists stared at her with unified amazement.
“Let me introduce you to my guests,” Ambrose Whittaker said with a sly smile. “I’m showing them the sights personally.”
“Miss Marlow!” An exclamation came from one of the ladies in the tourist party as she edged her donkey forward from the rear of the group. Ursula stifled a groan. The lady was Mrs. Millicent Lawrence, a Scottish vicar’s wife whom Ursula had met at a salon in Alexandria. Despite their common political agenda to achieve votes for women, Ursula had found Millicent’s sense of colonial superiority over the Egyptian women unbearable. She was also dismayed by Millicent’s dogmatic crusade against all forms of what she called “moral corruption.” Accompanying Mrs. Lawrence were two women, one bespectacled and thin, the other stout with flaming red hair. They were both dressed, inappropriately given the fine weather, in black serge wool skirts. Millicent Lawrence had spoken of two Methodist missionaries who were accompanying her home after two years in the Sudan. Ursula could only assume that the two women on donkeys were these. They both stared at her with faint disapproval as they were introduced in turn, and Ursula suspected that Mrs. Lawrence had already told them of her “unsavory” past.
“Mrs. Lawrence, what a pleasant surprise,” Ursula replied with a deadpan expression. “When did you arrive in Cairo?”
“Only yesterday, but I managed to convince Whittaker here to take me on a tour of Giza and Sakkara today. Tomorrow he’s promised to join our little party on a tour of the Church of the Virgin. Coptic churches are fascinating, don’t you think?!”
“Indeed,” Ursula responded blandly, trying to think of some means of extricating herself from Whittaker and his party. She had already told the dragoman who had brought her to Sakkara to leave, and she hadn’t spied Hugh Carmichael, whom she was expecting to meet, as yet.
The distinctive whirr of an airplane engine overhead caused everyone to look up. Silhouetted against the sky was Hugh’s Blériot monoplane, circling as it descended to land. Despite the presence of Whittaker and his companions, Ursula felt a surge of adrenaline as she saw the airplane dip across the sky.
“An exciting but rather dangerous pastime, don’t you think?” Ambrose Whittaker commented. “You heard, of course, about Mr. Carmichael’s copilot.”
“Yes, I did.” Ursula’s eyes narrowed as she regarded Whittaker closely. “Hugh told me. An accident in Palestine. Tragic. I believe the other plane was totally destroyed.”
“Luckily Mr. Carmichael’s still rich enough to own not one but two of the world’s finest airplanes.”
“I guess so.”
Hugh had brought both airplanes to Egypt in preparation for a series of test flights across the Libyan Desert. His plan, he told Ursula, was to enter next year’s air race from Egypt to England. “Assuming,” he had noted dryly, “that both I and my business are still living.” Carmichael Shipyards in Newcastle had been plagued by recent industrial problems, and Ursula had heard rumors that Hugh’s earlier, riskier forays into petroleum were faltering. The loss of his copilot had hit him hard, and Ursula had even heard him speak of abandoning flying altogether.
“Ever thought about going up in one?” Whittaker asked.
“Yes,” Ursula replied candidly. She thought the idea of flying quite exciting.
“Really, Miss Marlow, that would hardly be seemly!” Mrs. Lawrence interjected, perspiration trickling down her ruddy face.
The donkeys, bored by the wait, shuffled in the sand. Miss Violet Norton and Miss Emerence Stanley, the Methodist missionaries, exchanged glances but remained mute.
Ursula turned west toward the Djoser complex. “Well, that’s where I’m headed, so I’d better be off,” she started to say, but Whittaker, immune as always to the snub, beamed. “Excellent, just where we were headed! Come along, Milly, mustn’t dawdle, we have a great deal to accomplish today.”
“Right-oh, Whittaker. Lead on!”
Ursula was forced to trudge through the sand beside the donkeys conveying Whittaker and Mrs. Lawrence. The missionary ladies followed in silence.
Shards of pottery dotted the sand, tiny remnants of ancient Egypt that only hinted at the riches that lay beneath in tombs and shafts. There was such feverish anticipation associated with every archaeological dig that Ursula couldn’t help but feel the lure of the past with every footfall. She only wished she could stay in Egypt longer, unhurried by business concerns, and learn more about the digs that seemed to set up daily among the ancient ruins. Instead, as they reached the entrance wall to the complex, Ursula focused once more on the questions surrounding Katya’s death and turned to Whittaker.
“Have you seen Mr. Vilensky?” she queried. She hadn’t seen him since the days that followed Katya’s death.
“I met with him yesterday about donating some of his private collection to the museum. I believe he is in the process of finalizing his plans to return to London,” Whittaker responded.
“I thought he may have gone back to Palestine,” Ursula ventured.
Whittaker cast her a sideways glance. “He was lucky we could even make the arrangements for Mrs. Vilensky in time. If he wasn’t such an important fellow, I doubt we could have managed it. It’s their custom, you know, to arrange the burial within twenty-four hours. We had to get a dispensation from a local rabbi to delay the matter by just a few days to transport the body. I had to really pull strings to arrange it all.”
“I’m sure Mr. Vilensky is exceedingly grateful,” Ursula replied evenly. “I must confess, though, I was surprised by the speed with which everything happened. I thought the Egyptian authorities or local coroner would have wanted to wait to examine the body further.”
Whittaker coughed. “Oh, that wouldn’t have been the done thing at all—besides, it was clear what happened. No need to upset Vilensky further. Alt
hough I must say the chap from Scotland Yard was most put out when I told him on the telephone that the body was long gone.”
Ursula shivered involuntarily. The way Whittaker described Katya Vilensky dispassionately as “the body” chilled her.
“I’d heard that Scotland Yard was now involved,” Ursula said. “Bit unusual, isn’t it? I thought this was a local political matter. Shouldn’t this chap of yours have contacted me by now, to discuss what happened that day in the bazaar?”
Ambrose Whittaker sniffed disdainfully. “The chief inspector is conducting some discreet inquiries in an unofficial capacity. No doubt he will speak to you when he is good and ready. I wasn’t aware that anyone else knew he was here yet. How did you find out?”
“Oh, you know, I have my sources,” Ursula replied airily, but she noted the change in Ambrose Whittaker’s behavior. He was wary of her now.
“Goodness gracious me!” Millicent Lawrence interrupted their conversation with a shriek. “That man must be absolutely mad!”
Hugh Carmichael, piloting his plane, executed a dramatic dip before slowly descending for a near-perfect landing on a stretch of sandbank west beyond the step pyramid. The young local mechanic who always followed him rode across the sand on a white Arabian colt. Ursula bit her lip. Hugh’s recklessness had begun to worry her greatly. She had heard that since his wife’s death two years ago, Hugh had taken up all sorts of dangerous pastimes—racing experimental motor cars, flying planes, even alpine climbing—to the point where he had frittered away a great deal of his fortune on such pursuits. Katya and his copilots’ deaths seemed to have brought out the very worst in him, and Ursula wondered whether Hugh cared now whether he lived or died.
“Shall we go see Mr. Carmichael?” Ambrose Whittaker gestured with his hand. “After all, that is why you are here, is it not, Miss Marlow?”
Ursula bit her tongue and restrained herself before replying, with a disingenuous smile, “How clever you are! I was indeed planning to meet Mr. Carmichael here. He’s promised me a flying lesson before I return to England.”
“Oh, my,” Millicent Lawrence said faintly.
“Of course he did,” Whittaker answered smoothly. “And I would hate to see you disappointed. Will you be attending tonight’s celebrations at the club?”
Ursula returned another smile. “Of course. Will the chief inspector, what’s his name, be there?”
“Chief Inspector Harrison will indeed be there,” Whittaker replied as smoothly as before. His eyes watched for her reaction closely.
Ursula’s mouth went dry.
“But of course,” she murmured.
“Miss Marlow is well acquainted with the chief inspector.” Ambrose Whittaker turned to a bemused Millicent Lawrence. The missionary ladies exchanged glances once more. “He investigated the murder of her father a year or so ago,” Whittaker explained.
“I’m hardly likely to forget that, now am I?” Ursula responded, mustering all her self-control to ensure her tone remained even. “And if you will excuse me, I must go and see about that flying lesson. Good day, Mr. Whittaker.” Ursula gave him a perfunctory nod. “Good day, Mrs. Lawrence”—she turned to the twin missionary sisters—“Miss Norton, Miss Stanley.”
Ursula hitched her narrow skirt up and, with a kick of her flat-heeled suede shoes, stomped off across the desert.
Hugh was bending over, inspecting the plane’s diagonal wire bracing and bamboo skid tail, when he heard Ursula approach. The mechanic, ignoring Ursula, knelt down to check the landing gear that appeared, to Ursula at least, to consist of little more than a pair of bicycle wheels connected by a wooden beam.
“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 sa
id, 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.
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 5