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.”
“And hens have teeth,” Eugenie said sarcastically.
“Quite,” Ursula replied.
Eugenie looked around quickly. “I tried to speak to Harvey Pasha, commandant of the Cairo police, but he refused to talk to me. Said I had to go through Whittaker or this man Harrison. Something is terribly wrong, my friend.”
“I know,” Ursula replied, taking Eugenie by the arm. “Tell me what you have found out
.”
Ursula and Eugenie squeezed through the crowd that was gathered near the door to the terrace. As they passed, Ursula caught snatches of conversation, mostly centered around the day’s gymkhana, interspersed with the occasional comment on weightier concerns such as the possibility of home rule for Ireland, and the recent coal miners’ strike in England. Italy’s bombardment of Tripoli was also a topic of some contention, for there were some in the British Army who feared it might spark a “holy war” against Western imperialist interests in the region. For many of the guests, the world seemed very uncertain.
A couple of army officers, in their regimental finery, stepped aside for Eugenie and Ursula as they approached the doorway, and continued their conversation.
“Churchill’s got the right idea, don’t get me wrong,” the older man said to his companion. “It’s naval power that’s the key.”
They drew on their cigars and nodded. Winston Churchill was the First Lord of the Admiralty. Ursula took a dim view of Churchill’s jingoism as well as his antisuffrage views and had to restrain herself from making any comment as she walked by. The younger man looked at her keenly, and she felt rather like one of the horses in the day’s gymkhana, sized up for both breeding and potential. The older man leaned over and whispered something in the other man’s ear. The younger man sniffed. “Pity,” he said with disdain. Ursula flushed.
She and Eugenie walked onto the terrace that overlooked the expansive gardens, polo fields, tennis courts, and croquet lawns. The scent of oleander and roses filled the air. The gymkhana was over, and apart from the occasional servant rushing to and fro to replenish provisions, there was no one to disturb them.
“Katya’s death was not a political matter. You have my assurance on that,” Eugenie began, “but the British have detained a number of innocent people for questioning, which has angered a number of my husband’s friends. Luckily, so far no one is advocating any reprisals.”
Ursula took hold of Eugenie’s hand. “I know this must be very hard for you.”
“It is a difficult time,” Eugenie acknowledged. “Especially for those of us who advocate a peaceful means of obtaining independence from Britain.”
“Do any of your friends have any idea who may have been responsible for Katya’s death?”
Eugenie’s face was grave. “No. Peter Vilensky is, of course, a very powerful man. As with many bankers, he is heavily involved in securing loans to the British and other imperialist governments. He is also very close to that man Whittaker, whom I have long suspected is involved in more than just the Ministry of Interior.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one has ever had any real evidence, but many of us believe Whittaker is more than what he seems.”
“Like what?” Ursula prompted.
“No one’s entirely sure but he seems to have surprising influence. We’re never sure whether he is acting on behalf of the British government. There are even rumors of arms trading. These days it’s hard to keep up with all the political and military intrigue.”
“Who knows what Whittaker is up to?” Ursula commented. “But I cannot imagine Peter Vilensky involved in anything like that.”
Eugenie shrugged. “Even if he was, why would Katya be killed?”
“Katya may have heard the rumors,” Ursula reminded her.
Eugenie shrugged, unconvinced. “I doubt that Whittaker would concern himself with Katya.”
“Unless she threatened to disclose publicly what she had found out?”
“Perhaps . . . but—”
“Mrs. Mahfouz!” Ursula interrupted loudly. She had suddenly noticed Ambrose Whittaker and Chief Inspector Harrison approaching them from the other side of the pavilion. “You can’t believe how grateful I am for your kind invitation. I haven’t explored the Museum of Greco-Roman Antiquities—shall we set up a time when I am in Alexandria? Oh, and have you seen the latest edition of La Gazette du Bon Ton? I can’t believe sprigged muslin may be returning—I swear we shall all look like milkmaids by summer!”
Whittaker raised an eyebrow as he passed by.
“Come and see me in Alexandria,” Eugenie whispered, planting a kiss on each of Ursula’s cheeks. “We can talk more there.”
“Miss Marlow.” Chief Inspector Harrison held out his hand. Ursula, amused, reached out and shook it. Whittaker stood next to Harrison and smoothed back his thinning hair.
Eugenie took her leave, shooting both men an arched stare.
Ursula looked at Harrison and said, “A bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” Harrison fingered his mustache, unsure of how to respond.
“I mean, our meeting like this,” Ursula explained. “I half expected to be woken in the middle of the night and dragged off to the British Agency for questioning. Isn’t that how you chaps operate?”
Harrison knew better than to take the bait.
“Aren’t you a little far from your usual territory?” Ursula continued, taking a quick sip of her champagne. “I thought East End anarchists and German spies were now your sort of thing?”
Harrison accepted a tall glass of Pimm’s from one of the servant’s trays that passed by.
“I admit my remit has widened since we last met, Miss Marlow, but there’s no need for concern. I am not here to search for any German spies.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Ursula responded drily.
“Perhaps we could speak alone for a moment?” Harrison said evenly. “Whittaker, would you mind?”
Ursula noticed that Harrison’s East End accent, which used to creep through, was now totally suppressed.
“Not at all, old chap!” Whittaker replied blithely. “I’ll see you back inside,”
Once Whittaker had left, Ursula allowed Harrison to light her a cigarette as they stood side by side, gazing out over the polo field. She was amused. A year ago Harrison would have been horrified to see a woman smoking.
“How have you been?” Harrison began cautiously.
“Fine,” Ursula replied blandly. “Apart from witnessing another murder, of course.”
“His lordship was very concerned to hear about that,” Harrison responded, and held up his hand quickly before she could react. “Don’t worry, he didn’t send me here. . . . I merely meant that we had been in communication since my arrival in Cairo. He is aware of what happened to Mrs. Vilensky.”
“I’m not sure I understand. What has Lord Wrotham got to do with any of this?” Ursula asked, taking a long drag on her cigarette to suggest her indifference as to the answer.
“No interest, except obviously in your well-being,” Harrison replied as he smoothed down his neatly trimmed mustache. “As for the Vilensky matter, well, it’s probably best not to talk too much about it here.” Harrison tossed aside his cigarette. “Are you available to meet tomorrow?”
“But I thought this was an internal political matter?”
Harrison shrugged. “I’m conducting a routine follow-up. Nothing more.”
“Really?” Ursula didn’t bother to hide her skepticism. “So tell me, why would a member of the Scotland Yard’s Special Branch be interested in conducting a routine follow-up?”
Harrison ignored her. He merely raised his drink and smiled.
“Mr. Vilensky is a powerful man,” he replied.
“Yes, he is.”
“Powerful men have powerful friends.”
“Yes,” Ursula replied carefully. “They can also have powerful secrets.”
Six
The following morning, Harrison arranged for Ursula to visit a private house on Rhoda Island, southwest of central Cairo. He was accompanied by a young Egyptian in a cream suit and red fez, who remained silent and implacable as he stood in the corner of the room while they spoke. Ursula sat on the huge be-cushioned divan beneath the lattice-screened window, her body almost consumed by the polished cottons and silks that surrounded her. Her simple white frock seemed flimsy and insubstantial in contrast to the elaborate decoration of the inlaid marble and fretwork
that adorned the high-ceilinged room.
Harrison started by asking Ursula to describe the scene at the bazaar on the day Katya died, taking out a tan-and-black notebook from his jacket pocket. He scribbled his notes in it with the lead of a half-chewed pencil. He was particularly concerned about whether Ursula could describe any of the men who had been in the bazaar that day.
Ursula screwed up her eyes but could recall only a sea of indistinguishable faces, the flash of dark eyes, and the swirl of white cloth.
“I really only remember the man with the monkey—and it’s not like that’s a rare sight in downtown Cairo. But I would describe him as bigger than the other men—stockier, I mean. Yes. And although he had brown eyes, I remember thinking that he didn’t look like one of the fellahin—I’m not exactly sure why I thought that, but I did.” Ursula leaned back on the divan. “Not much help, I’m afraid. Told as much to the Egyptian authorities—I mean, it all happened so quickly. There was so much confusion. I see a blur of faces, nothing more. Maybe if I saw some of them again I’d recognize them, but I really can’t be sure.”
Harrison simply nodded. “It’s to be expected. The men were creating a diversion—and it worked.”
Ursula’s lips pursed. Recounting the story had made her feel like a half-witted young girl, easily distracted by something as obvious as a performing monkey.
“You said you believed Katya was concerned about her own safety?” Harrison prompted.
“Yes,” Ursula replied, and she recounted the conversation she’d had with Katya the morning of her death. Harrison didn’t seem to hold much stock in her theory, but Ursula continued. “Look, I know it sounds absurd, but I sensed that Katya was looking out for someone. Watching to see who was there. And I don’t just mean her husband, although Peter Vilensky did make a thorough nuisance of himself, following her just to make sure she wasn’t having some secret affair with Hugh Carmichael. Really, that man was the limit!”
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 6