The Khamsin Curse

by Anna Lord

  A protector? A lover? A hero? He could be all those things. He felt his chest puff out as he escorted her past groups of admiring Irish eyes and into his tent. He emerged a few moments later so that no tongues wagged as to what he might be doing with the lady in his tent. There was a time he would have revelled in the disreputable acclaim but she was different…special.

  Jim ordered a man called O’Riley to stand guard at the entrance to the tent while he went about his business with fresh urgency.

  Half an hour later they were drifting in the felucca. They didn’t go straight to the island because they didn’t want to give the impression they were on a mission. They sailed around it and studied it from all angles, allowing whoever was so inclined to study them too. They lay back on wooden benches and pretended to be absorbed in each other. Although neither needed to do much pretending. They enjoyed being together and that was a fact. Each felt comfortable in the company of the other. No friendship between an unmarried man and woman could have felt more natural. An unforced affinity asserted itself from the first moment they met.

  “Where do you go after you leave Egypt?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she sighed wistfully. “We’ll play it by ear.”

  There was a heavy thump as the felucca grated against the side of some large round boulders, and the smaller boatman called Brian who was meant to be a boy leapt out with a rope to hold the boat steady while they disembarked. Jim leapt out next then extended his arm.

  “Jump,” he said. “I’ll catch you.”

  Confident that he wouldn’t let her fall between the narrow gap of boat and rock, she took a flying leap. He cinched her waist when she landed hard on her feet and teetered momentarily from the sudden jarring of jambs.

  “You refuse to marry me,” he whispered into her ear, “watch that you don’t end up married to the Prince of Darkness.” He glanced off to the right. “Don’t look now but there’s a man standing on a rock ledge to your left?”

  “Is he wearing a green fez?”

  “Yes. Is that the man you want to question?”

  “Yes - Ali Pasha. Take your cue from me and stay on your guard.”

  “You never have to tell me twice to stay on my guard. See those feluccas. They’re my men. They’ll be pulling close to shore any time soon. If there’s any trouble, head for this spot. Duffy and Brian will look after you. And don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.”

  They clambered over the round rocks like a pair of mountain goats to where the ground levelled out and some hessian fabric, about fifteen foot square, held aloft on four poles, provided respite from the sun. Ali Pasha - lips curled back to reveal a sharp smile – recognized the man who had come to their rescue during the crocodile invasion. He invited them to join him in a refreshing tisane. Brewing the tea was none other than the Nubian houseboy, Japhet.

  19

  Scorpion

  Shock coursed through the Countess’s veins as they sat on cushions in the speckled shade and sipped tisanes. Desultory conversation covered everything from the recent explosions at the dam to the beauty of their surrounds. They were avoiding discussing the night of the party and the deaths of Lee and Mallisham, but it was inevitable that they would eventually get round to it.

  Japhet walked with a limp, trying not to put pressure on his right foot. When the Countess commented on this, Ali Pasha informed her that Japhet had sprained an ankle.

  “He was set upon by thieves in broad daylight,” expounded their host indignantly. “It was while I was visiting a papyrus workshop in Luxor. His Turquerie slippers were ripped from his feet as he lay bleeding.”

  Despite her lengthy travels, the Countess fell into the trap that many westerners make. They see a dark-skinned face and fail to notice facial features. They think all dark-skinned faces are alike. The same thing happens with Oriental faces. Westerners tend to think all Orientals look alike. It is bigotry and ignorance and she felt ashamed.

  The attacker at Kom Ombo had been Nubian and she had extrapolated that it was Japhet because Japhet was Nubian. In her defence were the exquisitely embroidered slippers. There could not be too many slippers of such quality in Egypt. But how, she asked herself, had they ended up on the feet of the attacker if thief and attacker were not one and the same?

  “Was the thief caught?” She knew very well the man had not been caught because he had later turned up in Kom Ombo wearing the stolen slippers but she hoped that Japhet might provide her with a clue as to his identity. Most likely he was a secret agent keeping an eye on the workshop who decided to steal some slippers when he came across Japhet hanging about, waiting for his master. The stolen slippers could also have served to incriminate Japhet in the death of Gideon.

  “No,” said the trader. “Japhet was accosted and hit on the head. The attacker fled. When Japhet awoke his slippers were missing. An odd thing because he has very large feet and most Arabs have feet not so large as Nubians.”

  So much for her theory! “The thief was an Arab?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Japhet, refreshing their tisanes. “He was loitering in the shade, watching the workshop. I should have known better than to turn my back. Now my beautiful slippers have gone,” he lamented unhappily, grimacing at his cheap leather sandals.

  “I will buy you some new slippers when we get back to Cairo,” promised the trader.

  “You did not notice anything about the Arab?” pressed the Countess, addressing Japhet.

  “He was like all Arabs. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A nose like a hawk and a thick neck.”

  On his guard, Moriarty sat quietly drinking herb tea while soaking up the woman he loved. After today, he might not see her for years, possibly forever. He wanted to remember every detail so that he could dream about the life they would never share while fighting for his life in the Transvaal. Fleetingly, he wondered why she seemed interested in a pair of stolen slippers and a papyrus workshop in Luxor. He had carefully scrutinised the people in Ali Pasha’s camp. There was an old woman making flatbread, two young girls doing some washing, a boy turning a lamb on a spit over a fire, and an old man repairing a length of hessian that must have been shredded by the Khamsin. Nothing to worry about there. Nash had spent too much time inside the Diogenes Club. He needed to get out more.

  The Countess decided to press on. The others would be finishing their tour of the dam fairly soon. “Fraulein Graf told me about the tomb Mr Lee negotiated to buy from you so that Miss Lee could claim to have discovered it.” She paused to give him time to recover himself, but not enough time to interrupt. “Do you think Jurgen Graf could have murdered Mr Lee and Professor Mallisham so that he could claim that honour for himself?”

  Ali Pasha relaxed his guard the moment he realized she did not intend to accuse him of murder. “It is feasible, yes, feasible, what you propose. Jurgen Graf is not to be trusted. He is the one who sold to his brother the fakes for the museum.”

  The Countess almost spilled her tea. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes, no mistake. Jurgen he buys the fakes from Mallisham. The fakes are very good, very clever. Mallisham he finds the old stones and uses a man to carve the hieroglyphs that are genuine. Mallisham shows to him what to carve. Same with the papyrus. Mallisham he buys the papyrus made to look old and he has an old Coptic priest who writes the hieroglyphs. That is why I go to Luxor. I want to catch Mallisham at the papyrus workshop. Mallisham wants me to sell the fake papyri in my shop but I refuse. Japhet he stays all day and waits for Mallisham to come but no Mallisham. I go to the workshop to see for myself how they make the papyrus and I find Japhet bleeding and his slippers gone.”

  “Did Rhinehart Graf know the museum items were fakes?”

  Ali Pasha shook his head. “Rhinehart Graf was an expert, like me. No one could fool him but he trusted Jurgen. And why not? A man trusts his brother. But Jurgen was jealous of Rhinehart. Always jealous. He bought the fakes from Mallisham and passed them to Rhinehart for the museum. Rhinehart did not check as he sho
uld, because he trusted Jurgen. It was his mistake to trust his brother. He paid for that mistake with his life.”

  “Do you think Jurgen Graf is still dealing in fakes?”

  “He deals with Mallisham and Mallisham deals with fakes - yes.”

  “What about Colonel Hayter? Do you think he could be involved with Mallisham and Jurgen Graf?”

  Ali Pasha did not need to think for long. “Mallisham and Jurgen, they would not wish to split the money three ways, but if the British High Commissioner threatens to arrest them then they would pay him, yes, they would pay him.”

  “Now that Mr Lee is dead what will you do about the tomb?”

  “The tomb has waited thousands of years. It can wait another year or two. I will find a new buyer. Maybe Jurgen and Fraulein Graf? Maybe Miss Lee? Maybe you, Countess Volodymyrovna? You are rich. You can be famous too.”

  It was an enticing proposition. “The prospect of discovering an Egyptian tomb is thrilling and money is no object, but if I were to ‘discover’ a tomb I would prefer to actually ‘discover’ it. There is enough fakery going on as it is. Thank you for your hospitality. Colonel Moriarty and I should be getting back to the mainland before anyone misses us.”

  Ali Pasha picked up on the innuendo. “You wish to have private moment. You may use my humble tent.” He indicated a fabulous little tent that could have been transported from the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

  “No, but thank you for the kind…”

  “Yes, we will - thank you for the kind offer.” Jim grabbed her hand and jerked her along. As soon as they were inside the tent he swung her into his arms. “I leave for the Transvaal first thing tomorrow morning. I’m not going to get another chance to say goodbye. I won’t ask you to wait for me. I know you’ll be off somewhere else with the doctor: solving murders. I know Nash will try to muscle in. I just want you to know I love you. I’ll be thinking of you day and night. If you could occasionally spare me a thought…”

  His throat constricted and he kissed her.

  It was a passionate, beautiful kiss, hard and hungry, but sensual too; a kiss she would recall often, just as she would recall often that strange night they shared in the tomb.

  Colonel James Isambard Moriarty was much dearer to her than he knew and if he only wanted a lover, he could have had her, but he wanted more than she was prepared to give.

  She would not sacrifice her independence for any man. Independence was the rarest of gifts, especially for a woman. Women who enjoyed independence, enjoyed it at the expense of their dignity, their social standing and their financial security. Men made sure of it, otherwise there would have been far fewer women desperate to be wed.

  She was the exception that proved the rule.

  The felucca reached the mainland in time to be seen by those making their way back from a tour of the dam. Jim helped her ashore and she thanked him kindly and wished him well. There was nothing else to say.

  Daisy and Ursula led the way to the jetty, followed closely by Lorna Baxter and Herr Graf. Two scruffy workmen with their wrists bound were coming up the rear, escorted by Colonel Hayter and Gideon Longshanks. Dr Watson was nowhere to be seen. Presumably, he was still busy assisting Dr Bell with the post mortems. Hypatia had returned earlier than the others. She was standing in the shade of a doum palm, talking to Colonel Moran. They parted ways as soon as they spotted the others, but not before something changed hands. Hypatia caught up to the others. Moran quickly approached Gideon and after a brief conversation the gun for hire took over and escorted the two workmen aboard the Sekhmet. Gideon was now free to join the Countess and Colonel Moriarty.

  “How did everything go on Agilkia?” he asked.

  “It was interesting,” replied the Countess vaguely, hoisting her lacy parasol. “I’ll fill you in later. Who are the two Arabs?”

  “Two sappers found with explosives hidden in their bedding. They’ve already confessed and Colonel Hayter will escort them to Cairo where they will stand trial. In the meantime, they’ll be secured below deck. There’s no brig. It’s the best we can do. The only problem is that someone else is directing them. The sabotage won’t stop until we find the man giving the orders.” He turned to Jim. “Any trouble on the island?”

  “The place was like a Sunday school.”

  “Khartoum first thing tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll probably get back to London before me!”

  “Probably. It’s a shitty half-baked war.”

  “A bullet is a bullet.”

  Jim gave a careless shrug. “Find the bastard passing information to the Boers and I won’t have to worry about the bullet I can’t see coming.” He indicated the Countess with a nod of his head; the two men were talking as if she wasn’t there. “We’ve said our goodbyes. The rest is up to you. Try not to stuff up.”

  Without speaking, they watched Jim stride off across the sand. He did not look back. When he was out of sight but not out of mind, they forced themselves to square up to the problems facing them.

  Who was behind the sabotage of the dam?

  Who was passing information to the enemy?

  Who released the crocodiles?

  Who murdered Lee and Mallisham?

  Having had sufficient time to recover from her initial shock, the Countess revealed that Japhet was alive and well, apart from a sprained ankle. “He was hanging around the workshop in Luxor keeping an eye out for Mallisham when he got coshed on the head, same as you, so he couldn’t have been your attacker in Kom Ombo. By the way, he had his slippers stolen possibly to incriminate him in your supposed death.”

  “Let’s walk slowly toward the ship as we speak. You think his attacker and mine were the same man?”

  “No, your attacker was Nubian and his attacker was an Arab.”

  “Did Japhet get a good look at this Arab?”

  She tried not to sound bigoted. “Dark hair and eyes, beaked nose and thick neck.”

  “That could be anyone in Egypt.”

  She decided to change the subject when she spotted Colonel Moran on the foredeck talking to Azrafel, presumably about the two prisoners. “Hypatia and Moran were alone together before you showed up. I’m sure he passed her a small package or vice versa. Did you notice?”

  “I was busy watching you and Moriarty.” He knew she’d be constantly worried about the Jim in the Transvaal but Jim had the luck of the Irish about him. He’d probably be awarded a VC and come back a fucking hero!

  They reached the foot of the gangway and paused.

  “I better go and check if Xenia and Fedir found any torn burqas,” she said.

  “And I better check that the saboteurs have been properly secured. I want to speak to Azrafel about keeping an eye on them. Hayter is useless.” He offered her an arm and seemed to remember something. “Oh, I invited the three engineers and Dr Bell to dine with us on the Sekhmet tonight. I need to speak to Azrafel about extra guests. Can you speak to Miss Lee about it? The Sekhmet is her ship now. I should have consulted her beforehand but she disappeared from the guided tour early.”

  Countess V knocked on Hypatia’s door as she was passing. The millionairess was seated at her dressing table, gently patting her face with a powder puff to reduce the redness. There was not time for small talk and no time to deal with histrionics. She explained about the dinner invitation and made it sound as if it was to express thanks to the engineers and Dr Bell for their assistance with the post mortems. Hypatia nodded vacantly and continued to pat her face. Her colour was unnaturally high and the Countess wondered if she might be coming down with a fever. The strain of the last twenty-four hours was probably catching up with her. Such a tragedy and on her birthday too – who said that? As she closed the door she realized the Limoges seashell had been replenished.

  When she reached her cabin she found Xenia slumped in an armchair. Her imperturbable, russet-cheeked maid was looking pale and distrait. The normally steady voice quivered.

  “I…I search for burqa
s. Miss Clooney and Fraulein Graf, they have the burqas. Miss Lee, she have no burqa. Mrs Baxter…she have…she have…”

  “Yes?” prompted the Countess when Xenia’s voice faltered. “Mrs Baxter had what?”

  “Scorpions!”

  “What? Where? How many?”

  “In small case like case you have for old boots, but this case is green. Six, seven, eight, maybe ten.”

  The Countess knew her maid was referring to her purple leather, Morocco, jewel case. She also knew certain scorpion bites could be deadly if left untreated. “Did you get bitten?”

  Xenia’s death-stare revealed how stunned she was at her narrow escape. “No, I cry out and close lid. Fedir, he comes. One, maybe two scorpions, they fall out.”

  “You mean a scorpion is somewhere in Mrs Baxter’s cabin?”

  Xenia nodded glumly. “Fedir, he looks, he finds one, he kills with boot, but Azrafel, he is making inspection of cabins. We hear him come. We must go out. Then all come back to ship. We have no chance to go back.”

  “Good grief! What if Mrs Baxter gets bitten!” Something had to be done. Panic was about to win the day when there was a knock on the door. It was Gideon. He sauntered in swinging a green leather jewel case.

  “I found this in the saloon. You shouldn’t leave valuables lying around. It’s too tempting and we’ve got enough to deal with. We don’t need to add robbery to the list of things to solve. You might want to check nothing’s missing before you go to lunch.”

  He placed it on the bed. The two women gasped and jumped back in fright.

  Warning bells started ringing; he looked from one terrified face to the other. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”