by Anna Lord
Gideon gave a dismissive laugh. “You’ve never met Hayter?”
“No, why? We landed in Suez and by-passed Cairo. Why do you ask?”
“He’s a drunk; totally out of his depth.”
“Plus he’s selling official permits to work on archaeological sites on the sly,” she added gravely, studying the black cloth used to secure the men. “He’s open to bribery and may not be trustworthy. If we don’t solve this double murder ourselves it will most likely go unsolved, or someone who is innocent will wear the blame.”
Moriarty rubbed his stubbly chin. It was probably time to start growing a beard like Nash. Shaving would be a waste of time in the Transvaal. “How is any of this related to what you said earlier about passing secrets to the enemy?”
“Information is being passed to the Boers in secret code written on papyrus or stelae using hieroglyphics. It is most likely someone who is part of our party. My money is on the two Germans. Herr Graf and his niece, Ursula Graf.”
“Germans?” said Moriarty, starting to see the relevance. “You think the Germans could be about to enter the war?”
“It’s possible.”
The Countess straightened up. “Mallisham had several papyri in his suitcase and he admitted to knowing Herr Graf for years. Something suspicious passed between the two of them in the souk. Mallisham could be in it simply for the money. Excavations are expensive and he might be planning a new dig which will require finance. I cannot see how Jefferson Lee could be tied to this. I can’t see him bringing his only daughter to Egypt and putting her life in danger.”
“Damn good cover, though,” said Moriarty cynically.
“He may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” suggested Gideon. “If everyone was stumbling about last night, lost, he may have come across something he shouldn’t and paid the price. Shh! Someone’s coming!”
Moriarty moved to one side of the doorway; Gideon moved to the other. They both had their weapons drawn. The Countess crouched in the farthest corner with the deepest shadow. She still had her double-barrelled Derringer strapped to her thigh and one bullet left.
Someone was moving stealthily near the doorway of the chamber.
“You can put down your weapons. I’m coming in.”
It was Colonel Sebastian Moran. He must have heard voices, although they were trying not to speak too loudly, but in lofty structures the slightest sound tended to echo. They braced for his reaction to the dead body. He didn’t even blink as he circled the body like a true predator.
“Golden Rain,” he said.
14
Golden Rain
Colonel Moran could sum up a situation in the blink of an eye. He didn’t need to look long and hard at the woman with the tumbled hair, wearing a strapless red assuit tunic, khol smudged around her eyes, to know she had spent a heavy night with a man. He didn’t need to look at Jim to know he was that man. He didn’t need to look at the Eastern advocate to know he knew it too.
No situation was too bizarre or too grisly to a man who had spent the better part of his life working for Professor Moriarty, committing crimes, murdering on demand, hunting big game, and fighting wars in foreign climes.
“Golden Rain,” repeated Moran.
“You’ve seen this sort of thing before?” pressed Gideon, noting the lack of reaction.
“Yes,” said Moran. “It’s an old Pashtun custom. I saw two cases like it in Afghanistan. The men were staked out in the open. And before you try to pin this on me,” he added curtly, “it’s not my modus operandi. If I wanted to kill Jefferson Lee I would have shot him through the head. If I wanted to pin the blame on someone else I would have used someone else’s gun. This was done by a woman.”
“A woman?” challenged Gideon. “How could a woman overpower a man of Lee’s build?”
Unperturbed, Moran shrugged. “She must have had help.”
“She may have drugged him first,” suggested Moriarty. “Something that knocked him out just long enough to tie him down. By the time he woke up, he realized he wasn’t going anywhere.”
The Countess moved to the other side of the body and crouched down. “I think he was hit on the head with something. There’s a small amount of blood on the stones under the head. The injury doesn’t look serious enough to have killed him but it may have rendered him unconscious for a time. Perhaps just long enough to be tied down.”
Gideon crouched down on the opposite side of the body to inspect the wound to the back of the head. “That might have happened when he found himself tied down. He could have lifted his head groggily and then clunked back on the stones, or else his assailant could have pushed his head back none too gently.” He looked up at Moran. The gun for hire was casually lighting up a cigarette. “Talk us through what you think happened here.”
Moran took a quick puff of his cigarette and offered one to Jim, who also lit up. It helped to diffuse the stench in the chamber. “Lee was tied down. He was probably groggy. The stick was placed in his mouth after he was secured but still only half-awake. The stick needs to be big enough to make swallowing almost impossible. A woman would have crouched over him and urinated in his mouth. Among the Pashtun it is usually more than one woman. They take it in turns. The man eventually drowns.”
Gideon straightened up. “It’s always a woman or group of women?”
Moran nodded while he exhaled; his eyes looked sharp and dangerous.
“It’s quite a humiliating death for a man,” noted the Countess circumspectly.
“I think that’s the point,” said Moran coldly. The Countess reminded him of someone but he couldn’t think who and it began to bother him.
“My money’s on Lorna Baxter,” said Gideon. “If her husband was a diplomat in the East, she may have heard of this type of Pashtun practice during their travels. It’s the sort of bizarre fact that stays in your memory.”
“She was with me last night,” declared Moran.
“All night?” stressed Gideon.
“All night,” confirmed the other, brooking no argument.
“She wasn’t out of your sight for an hour or two?”
“No.”
“What about when you fell asleep?”
“I’m a light sleeper. If she had moved I’d have woken.”
Gideon wasn’t entirely convinced. If Lorna Baxter had planned this death in advance, she would have found a way to drug Moran too. He just didn’t want to admit it. Or else he was in on it. If Lorna Baxter needed an accomplice then Moran would be the perfect choice. He wouldn’t be the first man to do the bidding of an attractive woman. And he was just the type to have no qualms about killing. Plus he was familiar with this particular Pashtun ritual. And it was uncanny how he just turned up at the chamber this morning when he was supposed to be scouting the Kiosk with Hayter on the eastern bank. “Where did the two of you sleep last night?” He used that word loosely and put an ironic drag on the double vowel that no one could fail to notice.
“Temple of Harendotes.”
“That’s nowhere near your camp?”
Moran immediately noted that the Eastern advocate knew where his camp was. “The wind was pushing from the east. It was easier to travel west than fight against the Khamsin. I was heading for the Coptic Church but we got pushed further west than I thought. When we hit the girdle wall I figured the Temple of Harendotes was the next best place to head.”
Gideon pulled out the map Moran had sketched for them on a napkin during breakfast when he first suggested mounting a search. “That’s way beyond the girdle wall.”
Moran’s dangerous eyes flashed fire. “What are you saying?”
“The Temple of Harendotes is close to the mammisi. Lorna Baxter could have slipped in here while you slept.”
“I told you I’m a light sleeper.”
“So you say.”
“Watch your mouth,” threatened the big game hunter, noting for the first time how the Eastern advocate had the build of a professional wrestler rather t
han a bean-counter.
“It wouldn’t have taken long if she had an accomplice.”
Moran tossed his half-spent cigarette on the stones and ground it into the dust with the heel of his boot; one got the impression he would like to do the same to the man questioning his veracity. “Are you accusing -”
Gideon jumped in early. “I’m not accusing anyone. I’m just trying to figure out what happened here.”
“What’s it to you if the American is dead?” challenged Moran, noting the way the advocate squared his shoulders and bunched his fists in an effort to maintain that stiff upper-English-lip. The size of the bare knuckles was impressive and lethal.
The Countess decided to intervene before the mood turned ugly. “Mallisham is also dead. He’s in another chamber.”
Moran looked surprised for the first time. “Mallisham!”
She nodded. “Same manner of death as Jefferson Lee.”
Moran insisted on taking a look. They followed him back to the other chamber. There was no question both men were killed using the same method. Mallisham also had a small gash to the back of his head.
“Someone was mighty busy last night,” he said with typical understatement. “And like I said straight off, if you try and pin this on me, you’ll be wasting your time. This isn’t my modus operandi.”
Gideon kept his mouth shut but they all knew what he was thinking. Maybe Moran didn’t do the urinating but he sure as hell would have been a handy accomplice to have on-side. If a woman needed someone to drag two, heavy, half-conscious men into a chamber and tie them down, he would be that man.
Moriarty spoke for the first time. “We’re all assuming the killer is a woman.”
The Countess had been thinking the same thing. “Yes, just because the Pashtun ritual involves women doesn’t mean it’s a woman in this case. If a man wanted to deflect suspicion it would be a good way to go about it. The ties are black fabric. I’m guessing it’s the same sort of fabric that is used for burqas. Again, it suggests a female garment. But why would a woman want to leave evidence that pointed directly to her own gender?”
“Why indeed?” muttered Moriarty, pleased to have her agree with him. “How many women on the ship? And I don’t mean maids. This isn’t about robbery. These deaths are, as the Countess said earlier, about humiliation.”
“Discounting the Countess and Mrs Baxter, for the moment,” supplied Gideon with emphasis, wondering what was keeping Dr Watson, “there are three.”
“That’s not many,” said Moriarty hopefully. “Three suspects.”
Gideon shook his head firmly. “They’re all on the slim side of petite. And we have two dead bodies,” he reminded ruefully. “What did they do with Lee in the meantime?”
“Even so,” said the Countess, unable to discount anything for the time being, no matter how unlikely, “do you know where they spent the night? Did they make it back to the Sekhmet with the others?”
“Before I answer that,” said Gideon, “let’s get out of here. The smell is making me sick.”
They moved to the mammisi on the western side of the Inner Courtyard. There was no point going too far or they would miss the return of Dr Watson. After settling on random stone blocks, Gideon answered the question.
“Hypatia, Daisy and Ursula were all aboard the Sekhmet when I got back this morning. They were in the saloon with…”
“Hang on a minute,” interrupted Moran. “Where were you all night?”
Gideon’s handsome features contorted into a tight grimace. “I was searching for my weapon in the Kiosk. It flew out of my hand when a crocodile came flying through the air.” He flashed Moriarty a dirty sideways look.
“I wondered why you had a Smith & Wesson,” remarked Moriarty, overlooking the filthy eyeball. “Where’s your Webley?”
“Like I said. It flew out of my hand. I couldn’t find it. I gave up after a couple of hours and dragged myself to the Hathor Temple. There was no one there. I decided to grab a couple of hours sleep. I was back on the Sekhmet by nine o’clock.”
Moran recalled his own phrase about using someone else’s gun. He decided to get in early by making his case stronger. “That gave you plenty of time to kill two men. We’ve only got your word for it that the Temple of Hathor was vacant. Maybe Mallisham and Lee were inside.”
“They weren’t,” snapped Gideon. “You’ll have to take my word for it.”
Moran gave a cynical snort and picked up on Moriarty’s off-hand comment. “Webley? For a bean-counter you seem to have a strange fondness for a service revolver. You don’t look like the sort of chap who sits at a desk all day. I thought there was something not right about you the first time I saw you.”
Moriarty kicked himself for exposing Gideon to the spotlight. “We’re getting off the point. Who else was in the saloon when you got back?”
“And how did they look?” added the Countess quickly to deflect from Moran’s astute observation. “Dusty? Exhausted? Had they been to sleep? Were they still in costume?”
Gideon pictured the saloon as it was when he first walked in. “Hypatia was bawling her eyes out. She was wearing her costume. She didn’t look like she’d gotten any sleep. He face was smudged with khol. She was worried about her father.”
“So she already knew he was missing?” reasoned Moriarty.
“Yes,” replied Gideon. “Ursula knew her uncle was missing too. She must have been to his cabin to check.”
“What about Mallisham?” continued Moriarty.
“I can’t remember when his name was mentioned or who said it. But they all knew he was missing too. There were three men missing.”
“What was Ali Pasha doing?” asked the Countess.
“He was smoking a cigar and drinking coffee. He looked like he’d slept in the same chair in the saloon all night. He looked bored and tired.”
“Tell us about the others,” she encouraged. “What did you notice?”
“Hayter was wearing a dressing gown. He looked like he’d just crawled out of bed. He had bare legs and he was bare-footed. He looked in bad shape.”
“Was Dr Watson there?” pursued the Countess.
“Yes, he looked the best of the bunch. He had obviously changed out of his costume and had gotten dressed. He looked tired and stiff with worry. His buttons were misaligned on his waistcoat. His hair hadn’t been brushed.”
“What about the women?” pressed Moriarty.
“Miss Clooney was wearing…I cannot remember…but she was biting on a fingernail. She looked like she’d been to bed but not slept well.”
“And the other one?” pressed Moriarty.
“Miss Graf looked, well, quite fetching. She had taken the time to brush her long golden hair and she was wearing a beautiful Morocaine kaftan. She looked rested. Yes, she looked rested. She asked about her uncle but she didn’t seem too concerned.”
The Countess tried to picture the scene in the Kiosk just before Moriarty took her by the hand. “Didn’t Ursula and Daisy set off with Herr Graf? How did they both make it back safely without him?”
Gideon tried to remember snippets of conversation. “Graf stopped to vomit. The two girls probably walked on to save him embarrassment. They must have got separated that way.”
“You’re just guessing!” accused Moran. “You’re filling in details using your imagination where there are blanks!”
Reluctantly, Gideon conceded he couldn’t exactly say how the two ladies got back without Herr Graf. “The fact Ursula Graf wasn’t crying her eyes out doesn’t make her guilty,” he said defensively before realizing he was now standing up for the attractive fraulein. It was a common trap that men in his line of business fell into.
“What about Hypatia?” prompted the Countess; noting his change of heart. “She left with Mallisham and her father. Each man was supporting her elbow, so how did she make it back alone without them?”
“I remember that bit,” he said decisively, glad to remember something clearly. “Hypatia said they s
topped at the Temple of Hathor to get out of the wind for a moment. Mallisham heard a voice calling for help. He went off and never returned. The voice kept calling. Jefferson Lee went off to check and he didn’t return either. Dr Watson happened along, presumably with Hayter and Ali Pasha in tow because they set off together. He escorted Hypatia back to the ship.”
“You only have her word for it,” sneered Moran. “I bet she stands to inherit a fortune as the only daughter of America’s fourth richest man!”
“No, no, no,” said the Countess firmly. “Why do people always assume murder is about inheritance? Why would she kill Mallisham as well?”
“And why in that manner?” added Moriarty. “Not that I’ve met her but wouldn’t it be easier to just hit the old man over the head with a rock. No one would even suspect murder. Why go to all the trouble of staging a pissing contest? And who was in on it with her?”
“Mallisham might have been in on it with her,” suggested Moran. “He might have helped her do away with the old man and just when he thinks he’s now set to marry into a fortune she changes her mind about spending the rest of her life in the desert funding lost causes, and turns around and does the same to him!”
The theory sounded plausible, which just showed how baffled they truly were.
The Countess was still shaking her head. “But she would have needed double everything in advance. And she wouldn’t have had them on hand if she decided to kill Mallisham on the spur of the moment.”
“Double everything?” quizzed Moriarty.
“Two sticks, two chambers, eight stone blocks, eight black cloths. Whoever killed the two men knew they needed those props in advance. The chambers must have been prepared earlier with the four stone blocks set in place. Two people could have moved these blocks, even two women if they didn’t have to lift them. There are plenty of random blocks lying around. The killer or killers wouldn’t have had enough time to race around in the dark to locate four blocks and cart them into place. And they had to find blocks which were heavy enough to keep the men pinned. Someone must have checked out this site and chosen these chambers for that reason.”