The Khamsin Curse

by Anna Lord

  The only thing she omitted to mention was that Colonel Moriarty was camped at Aswan with an Irish regiment. She knew the good doctor tolerated Jim for her sake. It would be several more years, possibly decades, before he could separate the sins of one brother from the accident of birth of another. The incident at Reichenbach Falls ran deep.

  And then it hit her. What about Colonel Sebastian Moran? What relationship existed between the two colonels? They were both Irish by birth. Did that make them blood kin? Did Moran regard Moriarty the Younger as an extension of his dead boss? The potential protégé of the man he had obeyed without question? Or the son he never had?

  Dr Watson’s shaggy brows drew down in a thoughtful frown as he fingered the calabash pipe in his pocket. He was desperate to light it but he didn’t want to cloud her cabin with Latakia. The air was just clearing from that toxic windstorm. “We need to get our heads round what’s going on and who is involved. Before we know it we’ll be in Aswan. Let’s go over what we think we know. You start.”

  She quickly turned over in her mind all that happened. “Jurgen Graf comes to mind again and again. We saw him give something to Professor Mallisham in the souk. We thought it was a pastry but it could have been something else.”

  “Such as?”

  “A coded message. Secret papers. Money.”

  He nodded. “Go on.”

  “Professor Mallisham vouched for Herr Graf to come aboard the Sekhmet. Considering that he spoke disparagingly of Herr Graf when recounting the suicide of Rhinehart Graf it surprised me that he should suddenly take pity on the German.”

  “Hmm, Hayter took pity too and yet the few times I have seen them together they have been at loggerheads.”

  “Did money change hands there too? Was there some sort of bribery going on? Was it designed to get him a berth on the Sekhmet or was it for something else? And who else is in on it? Is it Jurgen and Hayter? Or Jurgen and Mallisham? Or all three?”

  “What about Ali Pasha?” he said. “Jurgen was in his shop when we arrived. Ali Pasha was wrapping something very carefully for him. It could have been anything - military secrets, coded messages or fake treasures. And you just said you thought it was Japhet who attacked Major, er, Gideon Longshanks. That puts Ali Pasha square in the frame.”

  “Gideon Longshanks told me he saw Ali Pasha at the papyrus workshop in Luxor. He didn’t see Mallisham. What’s more, he saw Mrs Baxter with Colonel Moran sitting outside a coffee shop. They were having coffee and holding hands. That means she came back to the Sekhmet, deposited her kilim rug in her cabin and went to meet Moran. The meeting must have been pre-arranged back in Cairo.”

  Dr Watson cringed inwardly; he had grown more than a touch fond of Mrs Lorna Baxter. “Holding hands?”

  “Yes, there can be little doubt they are having an affair.”

  “The dirty blighter could be using her for his own ends.”

  “What use could she be to him?”

  “Future employment with the cattle king,” he suggested off the top of his head. “Though I admit that has nothing to do with espionage.”

  “Mrs Baxter picked up two items from Ali Pasha, is that right?”

  “Yes – a statuette and a papyrus.”

  “And then she met up with Moran for coffee?”

  “Are you thinking she passed something onto him?”

  “It’s possible he is using her as a courier. No one would suspect a respectable American lady of espionage. She is free to come and go. I wonder if she actually brought the kilim on board and then went to meet him for coffee or whether she took the rug with her. Kilim rugs have symbols woven into them. They could just as easily be turned into coded messages as papyrus scrolls or hieroglyphs on stelae. I need to search her cabin at the earliest opportunity. If the rug isn’t there, it will tell us something.”

  Dr Watson was loath to think badly of the attractive redhead but if she was being used as a courier, an innocent dupe, it was imperative to find out and put a stop to it before she got in over her head. The same went for his ex-army chum. He hoped it was only permits he was selling and not military secrets. “What about Hayter? Did he approach you about purchasing a permit?”

  “Not yet, but Mallisham mentioned it to me today. I asked him if he could supply one but he referred me to Hayter. I’ll get onto it tomorrow. From what I can see we could have three separate, unrelated, illegal things happening.”

  “Three?”

  “Bribery of a British official and corruption of high office; a trade in fake artifacts and-or real treasures being smuggled out of the country; military secrets passing to the enemy.”

  “We only need to concentrate on the last one.”

  “But how do we tell the trade in fake artifacts for gullible buyers from the trade in fake artifacts with coded messages for spies?”

  He caught sight of the mis-matched statuettes on her bedside tables – Anubis and Sekhmet – both evil as far as he was concerned. “Hmm, yes, and if a British official is taking bribes for permits he may also be taking bribes for allowing things to be smuggled out of the country, including coded messages.”

  “I just remembered the night Gideon Longshanks said he saw Hypatia in the garden of the hotel. She was waiting for someone. Presumably, Moran. I wonder if Moran could be using her as a pawn too. There is no way she would be meeting the colonel for a tryst. She is besotted with Mallisham.”

  “Mallisham could be using her,” he suggested. “She might be passing things from Moran to Mallisham or vice versa. The two men might not want to be seen together too often. She could act as the go-between. I still think there was something suspicious about the way Moran pushed and then grabbed that burqa clad woman in the bazaar.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “There was something odd about it.”

  “Getting back to Mallisham; I noticed he turned his sunburnt charm Fraulein Graf’s way today. If he is running a racket in fake artifacts she could easily get sucked into it.”

  “That brings us back to Jurgen…” She was about to add something else when they heard raised voices coming from the promenade deck. “Shhh,” she warned, extinguishing the oil lamp.

  10

  Philae

  The voices belonged to Mr Lee and Hypatia. They were arguing about something.

  “I don’t want the three engineers at my party, Daddy.”

  “How do you know about the party?”

  “Oh, don’t be so silly. Everyone knows.”

  “It was meant to be a surprise. Who told you?”

  “What does it matter who told me?”

  “I want to know.” His voice was growing insistent.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Was it Daisy?”

  “I told you I cannot remember. What difference does it make?”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. I gave strict instructions for everyone to keep it to themselves. Was it Daisy?”

  “It’s not important who told me.”

  “It is to me – I don’t like my orders being disregarded or countermanded. I will not have it! I shall have to speak to her again.”

  “Please don’t speak to her. Not tonight. It will put a dampener on the party tomorrow.”

  “You’re standing up for her again. She needs to answer for herself.”

  “Please, Daddy, not tonight.” The voice was pleading.

  “She better not be covering for you again the way she did with that red-neck cowboy in Austin. What was his name? Mervin or Morgan? And that married gaucho in New Mexico with the pregnant wife. Pedro or Pablo? If she is covering for you with that sand-grubber, that’s the last straw! If there’s anything happening between you and that bone-headed professor -”

  “There’s nothing happening.” The voice was shrill and unconvincing.

  “That’s why you don’t want the three engineers at your party.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They will put the professor’s nose out of joint.”

  “They w
ill not put Max’s nose out of joint but -”

  “Max, now, is it?”

  “Everyone uses first names. This is the twentieth century.”

  “I didn’t hear the Countess address him as Max and I didn’t hear her address her long term travelling companion as John. Manners still matter. Your mother would turn in her grave to hear you speak.”

  “Don’t drag mummy into this. Max and I will be working together for the next twelve months here -”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it!”

  “You cannot go back on your word!” Her voice sounded desperate.

  “I can do what I like, young lady! I will not be played for a fool by my own daughter!”

  They heard a pathetic sobbing sound. It went on for several minutes.

  “Don’t cry, Princess. I don’t like to see you cry. I won’t invite the three engineers to your party if it will make you feel better.”

  “Promise?”

  “Take my handkerchief and dry your eyes. I promise.”

  “And you won’t speak to Daisy until after the party?”

  “I cannot see what difference it will make – before or after.”

  “It will make a difference to me. I don’t like to see Daisy looking like a sad-sap.”

  “She always looks like a sad-sap. Her mother was the same. She made her choice with my brother and you’d think she was hard-done by. Pappy bought them the farm in Oklahoma and she still wasn’t happy. She wanted the big ranch. That’s why she married him even though…”

  “Even though what, Daddy?”

  “Nothing.”

  Everything went quiet except for the wind whistling across the deck and the rustling of water reeds. Dr Watson was about to strike up the oil lamp when the voices started up again, softer, gentler, more appeasing.

  “You want me to be happy, don’t you, Daddy?”

  “Of course, I do, Princess.”

  “Then you won’t go back on your word?”

  “I’ll reserve judgment until after the party.”

  “Promise? Swear on mummy’s grave.

  “Don’t try to blackmail me, Hypatia.” The paternal reprimand was underscored by a patriarchal undertone, uncompromising and stern.

  It was midday before the Sekhmet was ready to say goodbye to Kom Ombo. By then the Countess had established that Colonel Hayter operated a lucrative side-line dispensing permits that by-passed official channels.

  “He charged me five times the official rate,” she confided to Dr Watson when he claimed the deck chair alongside hers and pretended to be interested in his Baedecker. “I purchased a permit for you too just to see if he had a ready supply.”

  “And did he?”

  “Oh, yes, I could have had as many as I wanted. I bought one for Xenia and another for Fedir.”

  The doctor muttered blasphemies. It was always disappointing to see a good man turn bad and Colonel Hayter had been one of the best. “Did you check if Mrs Baxter still has the kilim?”

  She nodded. “I made a huge song and dance about wanting to see it. She still has it and was happy to show me. Ursula and Daisy came to have a look too which made my interest seem less suspicious. The rug was covered with interesting symbols. Unfortunately, my education does not run to reading Turkish glyphs.”

  He was relieved Lorna Baxter still had the rug in her possession. “What about the two items she picked up from Ali Pasha. Did you ask her what they were?”

  “No, I thought that would have been pushing my luck. But I asked Mr Lee if he had purchased anything in Cairo. He told me he bought a nephrite and lapis lazuli statuette of Ma’at which Hypatia had seen earlier that week in the souk. Mrs Baxter picked it up for him from Ali Pasha’s shop. He’s going to give it to his daughter for her birthday. I pressed him further, hinting about a second item, but he was firm he had only bought one statuette. I pretended I collected papyri but he looked unenthusiastic. When he started yawning I gave up.”

  Dr Watson hid his smile. “You’ve been busy this morning.”

  “What about you?”

  He scratched his neck where an insect had bitten him during the night. “It may be nothing, but Hypatia, Daisy and Lorna Baxter all own a burqa. Mrs Baxter bought them in Kom Ombo. It’s supposed to keep the sand and grit off their clothes. Ursula Graf owns one too. I overheard the ladies talking about it.”

  Countess V pouted unhappily. “I’m kicking myself for not buying one. They are perfect for protecting one’s clothes. A bit like the pinny Mrs Hudson wears but all-encompassing. Are you still thinking about that incident with Colonel Moran?”

  He nodded pensively. “There’s something not right about it.”

  She finally agreed with him. “Yes, it was as if he was waiting for the woman in the burqa to come along. As soon as she disappeared, he did too. I keep picturing what happened in my mind’s eye. I’m no longer sure whether he pushed her or tried to grab hold of her. Something about the incident keeps eluding me.”

  Holy of Holies. Every religion had their holy places, their sacred sites, their places where their god dwelled, where priests presided and mortal man feared to tread.

  Philae was called Unapproachable. It was claimed that no birds flew overhead and no fish swam in the waters that lapped its shores.

  Philae was the last place where the religion of Egypt prevailed.

  Philae was the last place where the last hieroglyph was carved.

  Philae was beautiful.

  There were many temples for many gods because it was the last stronghold for a religion that was gasping its last, but most importantly it was the burial place of Osiris. The early Christians erased many of the images they considered profane but they left Horus intact because the mythology of Horus was that of Jesus. Gods came and went. Myth was everlasting.

  Construction of the Lower Aswan Dam was moving along at a steady pace. A canal to the west of the first cataract allowed shipping traffic to pass while work continued. A lock dealt neatly with the problem of the rapids. As the Sekhmet passed through the canal, she steered toward the eastern bank of the river and the north-eastern end of the island. By the time she docked near the Arc of Diocletian, the ancient temples washed with sunlight and surrounded by palms that swayed in the breeze looked like a heavenly dream and the Sekhmet like the perfumed barque of Cleopatra.

  There was just enough time for an excursion before the sun dipped below the purple hills to the west. Extra servants had already arrived by the score to help set up for the surprise birthday party for Hypatia. Everything had been made ready in the grand Kiosk of Trajan, a roofless hypaethral temple that still had half its walls and all its columns intact, perfect for keeping out the wind while seeing the stars.

  A lamb was turning on a spit where a makeshift kitchen had been established, torcheres were ready to set aflame to provide heat and light and ambience, an array of low tables inlaid with mosaics were surrounded by velvet divans, a scatter of silk cushions and Persian rugs. One could have been excused for thinking Cleopatra was expecting to entertain Julius Caesar or seduce Marc Antony. It added to the timelessness of the dream.

  Gideon Longshanks, wearing a dusty suit that looked like it had gone fifty miles in a saddle-bag, was waiting to greet them at the top of the incline where the Arc of Diocletian stood in front of the Temple of Augustus. A garbled story about bumping into an old friend in Luxor, missing the boat and hitching a ride on a freight train headed for Aswan was accepted. And why not? He played the part of the capable Eastern advocate who could navigate his way out of trouble to perfection.

  History was everywhere. And they were the sole visitors to the ancient open-air museum called Philae. The stones beckoned and while Mr Longshanks returned to the Sekhmet to wash away several layers of dust and sand, the rest of the party made their way to the enormous Propyla marking the inner court of the grandest of the temples.

  Professor Mallisham proved his worth. He knew the name of every ruin, every temple, every gate and vestibule; he knew
where to locate the girdle wall, the mammisi, the massive guardian lions, the twin obelisks, the two nilometers, and the remarkable colonnade defined by columns shaped like doum palms marking the outer court. It was all spectacular.

  “Wait until tomorrow,” he promised, whetting their appetites for greater glories. “We are in the Tropic of Cancer. At high noon when the sun is directly overhead a dark shadow will fall on the slanted walls and everything else, everything,” he repeated as breathlessly as a high priest promising resurrection in the after-life, “will take on a dazzling brightness.”

  They couldn’t wait!

  They split up to explore the areas that interested them the most as they made their way slowly back to the Sekhmet to dress up in assuit caftans for the ladies and jellabiyas for the men. Gideon Longshanks was waiting for the Countess inside her cabin. His eyes raked her face for signs of fragility.

  “Are you all right with what happened in Kom Ombo?” he said as soon as she closed the door.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she assured with a brittle smile, noting his apprehension. “I don’t go to pieces at the sight of a dead body, not even when that body meets a grisly end. Most women are the same. You need to remember it is men who write romantic fiction full of virtuous and vulnerable heroines who need to be rescued. It says more about male vanity and ego than the true nature of women. If you doubt me take a walk through the stew pots of Whitechapel, Seven Dials or Southwark and meet some real women. Their resilience may shock you.”

  “I’ve often thought the same thing myself,” he quipped, palpably relieved, “when sitting in a Mayfair drawing room. Most of those rich biddies would give Jack the Ripper a good thrashing. If women ever decide to turn the tables on men, men won’t know what hit them. I was showing concern, that’s all.”

  “Concern noted,” she said, softening the brittle smile and the blunt edge of her tongue as she unpinned her wide-brimmed chapeau, flicked it onto the bed, and kicked off her dusty shoes, sprinkling an arc of silica across the floor, “I was concerned for you too.”