“You claim to have honor,” I pointed out. “If so, you will apologize to Haluk as well. I have a daughter about the same age as his. We fathers are very protective of and frightened for our children. You hurt him as much as you tried to hurt the young lady. You will understand this when you have daughters of your own.”
Ahmed gave me a dark look as though the time of fatherhood was comfortably far away. Then he sighed and nodded. “It will be as you say. I will show him that my honor is greater.”
Not quite the spirit of what I meant, but at least Ahmed had agreed. If I had managed to turn his anger from Haluk and family, well and good.
“It is highly unlikely your friend Ibrahim went to meet this young woman,” I pointed out. “As you have said, she is well guarded, only goes out with attendants, and she had already rejected his suit. In that case, who else might he have been going to see?”
Ahmed’s brow furrowed. He’d likely never had to ponder such a puzzle, only fight those his commander pointed him toward.
“Haluk, maybe,” Ahmed said. “Yes.” He became animated again. “Haluk met him to kill him!”
I held up my hand. “If Haluk had wanted to speak to Ibrahim in secret, he would have arranged to meet him in a much more private location, perhaps even had him brought quietly to his house. Haluk is a wealthy man—someone would have noted him moving through the town in the middle of the night. Besides, why would Haluk need to murder? He had already turned down Ibrahim’s suit, and Ibrahim had accepted that fate. Moreover, if Ibrahim had agreed to a meeting with Haluk, I assume he would have told you of it.”
Ahmed deflated. “That is true.”
“Who else, then? Ibrahim might have made a liaison with a lady, as you suggest, but I don’t believe that lady was Haluk’s daughter. Was there another woman he liked to meet?”
Ahmed shook his head. “I do not know,” he finished mournfully.
A clatter echoed in the courtyard. Ahmed scrambled to his feet, as did I, but it was only Grenville returning, a boy in the courtyard having dropped a tray when dodging out of his way.
Grenville retrieved the tray, patted the boy on the shoulder, and breezed into the house. “Lacey, I’ve been … Ah.”
He raised his brows to find Ahmed in his voluminous trousers and black boots, long blue coat, and turban in a half crouch in our drawing room. Grenville watched, nonplussed, as Ahmed rose and executed a dignified bow.
“I must return to my quarters,” Ahmed said, after I’d introduced them. “I will be punished if I am too late.”
“By all means.” I gestured for him to precede me out of the room. “Brewster will return your weapons once you are outside. Please continue to think, and if you remember anything that might help discover who killed your friend, send me word.”
Ahmed gave me a bow, a bit lower than the one he’d made for Grenville, sent Brewster a frown, and stalked from the room. Brewster followed closely behind him.
The lad, finished with his task, held out a dirt-streaked hand. “I too, must return home. You pay now?”
I conceded that he’d helped a great deal, even if his first intent had been duplicitous. I fished for a silver coin and dropped it into his hand.
The boy’s eyes widened, he grinned at me, then he bowed rapidly and rushed from the room.
Grenville watched him go. “Now I feel as though I would have been more entertained if I’d remained at home, waiting for you. I was better after my nap and went for a walk,” he said, explaining his absence. “I have things to tell you, but apparently my adventures were not as interesting as yours.”
The servants, who’d emerged again now that Ahmed and his knives had gone, entered with a great tray of food. They lowered it to the table after a moment of debate—I had already noted that most Egyptians ate on the floor.
The tray held meat, fish, and vegetables surrounding a pile of cooked grain. A pleasing scent of seasonings and spices wafted from the whole of it.
As in Haluk’s home, the servants had not brought forks or spoons, but Matthias produced a box that held the silver cutlery Grenville traveled with. We also had been given no plates—we were expected to eat from the communal dish.
As we partook, spooning food into bowls Matthias likewise produced, I told Grenville how the Egyptian boy had led me to buried stones in the sand, and how Ahmed had sprung upon us.
Grenville listened to and remarked upon all I had to say, and returned to the topic of the ruins I’d found. My excitement had risen again as I told him I wanted to dig them out.
“I’m afraid they are already spoken for, my dear fellow,” Grenville said apologetically. “Henry Salt holds the firman—the permission from the pasha and the local authorities—to excavate near Alexandria. The Porters are working for him. The boy was wrong to imply otherwise. Likely it was the only way he could think of to get you out to where Ahmed attacked you.”
I felt a sharp twinge of disappointment. I’d grown quite eager to run out into the desert again and uncover the slabs carved with hieroglyphs.
“The lad certainly had my measure,” I said, shaking my head and scooping up meat and grain onto my fork. The savory meat had been spiced with cumin and turmeric, a fine concoction.
“He knew what would please you,” Grenville answered. “That is one problem with these local fellows—they will tell you stories you wish to hear but that are not necessarily the truth. They don’t consider such lies evil, though—it is more hospitable to make you happy.”
“Whereas I always tell the bare truth, no matter how unpleasant,” I remarked.
“Not entirely. You are married now, so I am certain you engage in a small amount of lying. When your wife wears some absurd new fashion, I imagine you tell her she is stunningly beautiful in it.”
“She is stunningly beautiful,” I replied. “And Donata knows the fashions are absurd.”
My heart pulled as I thought again of Donata so far away. Egypt was a beautiful and exciting land, and yet I knew that it would never be perfect without Donata’s presence.
Grenville gave me a small smile. “Do not worry,” he said. “I will obtain a firman when we are in Cairo, so that you can find somewhere on the Nile to dig to your heart’s content.”
“You are kind to try to soothe my humiliation,” I said, feeling like a complete and gullible fool. “But let us end the discussion. Tell me what you were about this evening.”
“Ah, that. I met a fellow, an Englishman, I knew at Oxford. He has a largish house not far from here, and he’s invited us to a soiree tomorrow night—for the foreigners who have collected in Alexandria. I know you are not one for gatherings of the haut ton, but I accepted for one important reason. Lord Randolph claims to have actually seen the book Denis is looking for. He might be key to helping us find it.”
* * *
“Guv.”
I opened my eyes to darkness, my fist already swinging before I recognized the voice. I hit nothing—Brewster had prudently retreated a few feet from the bed.
“What is it?” I asked sleepily, heaving myself onto my elbows.
“I saw him. The man what’s hunting you.” Brewster was breathing hard, and I could smell his sweat. “I spied him lurking in the streets. I wager he’s why Ahmed swore by all that’s holy that you were the one with the dead soldier. He saw your double, Captain. I just saw him too.”
Chapter 9
I struggled up, my heart banging, the sheet sliding down my bare torso. I’d flung off my nightshirt after lying wakeful and too hot.
“Are you certain?” I asked as I snatched up my dressing gown.
“It were him,” Brewster said, stoic in the dark. “I never forget a man what shot me. Easy for him to follow us about, innit? Mr. Grenville might as well travel carrying banners and having trumpeters announce him. Weren’t no big secret where we was going.”
I got to my feet, drawing my dressing gown around me. “What was he doing when you saw him?”
Brewster shrugged. “Walking abou
t. Thought I’d follow him to his lodgings and give him a pummeling, but I lost him in the dark.” He sounded annoyed. “Don’t worry, Captain, I’ll find him again.”
“Have a care,” I said, alarmed. “He’s free with a pistol and happy to use violence.”
“So am I, guv.” Brewster’s statement was uninflected. “You watch yourself. You’re apt to run off in any direction.”
“Then perhaps I’ll confuse him,” I said with tight humor. “At least we know where he is. I intend to hunt him in return, catch him, and shake some answers out of him.”
“If I catch him, guv,” Brewster said slowly, “I’ll kill him. He’s a dangerous man, not one for talking to.”
Brewster had a point—the man had meant me and my family nothing but harm from the beginning. But my unflagging curiosity wanted to know why he was pursuing me. And more importantly, who he was.
I’d been struck when I’d first seen him how much he resembled my father, and in Malta how much he resembled me. Was he an illegitimate son my father had gotten on one of his mistresses? Which would make him my half brother. That thought unnerved me greatly.
The question was, why had he written me letters threatening to tell the world that I was not truly Gabriel Lacey of Norfolk? Was he a madman, perhaps thinking he was the legitimate son, and I had usurped his place?
On the other hand, the resemblance might be coincidental, and the man playing upon that coincidence. Men who were not related could look like one another, remarkably so.
Considering my father, however, the man being a by-blow was not out of the question. My father had been a stickler for propriety and rigid behavior in his own home, but then he’d squandered what was left of our fortune on expensive courtesans in London.
In any case, I wished to speak to this man, to find out who he was and why he wished to harm me. I’d prosecute him for putting my family into danger and nearly killing Brewster, but I’d speak to him first.
“Thank you for the warning,” I told Brewster. “I shall heed it.”
Brewster studied me for a few moments, likely fearing I’d push past him, leap down the stairs, and go out searching for the man then and there. I admit I was tempted, but if Brewster, who was very good at his job, had lost him, I hadn’t much chance of finding him again on my own.
“He won’t go far,” I assured Brewster. “If he’s determined to hunt me, he’ll remain close. We’ll find him, and if he killed Ibrahim, we’ll have him arrested for that. Sent back to England at the very least.”
Brewster retained his stolid silence. “You’re soft, Captain. I think that’s what Mr. Denis don’t understand about you. Soft and yet more ruthless than any man I ever clapped eyes on. You confound him.”
I looked at him in surprise. I’d been trying to decide what went on in Denis’s head since the day I’d met him, and now Brewster implied that Denis was trying as diligently to find out what went on in mine.
“Yes, well, confounding Mr. Denis is probably why I am alive,” I said. “Good night, Brewster. Put a guard on the front gate. I’m not too soft to take precautions.”
“Right.” Brewster turned his back and tramped away, forgoing politeness as he usually did.
I let the dressing gown slide away, looked at the nightshirt, then gave up and settled back into bed in my skin. But I was wide awake now, and unable to sleep until daylight.
* * *
I spent the morning groggy and out of sorts. Brewster and I went out after breakfast, scanning the streets for our hunter, but we found no trace of him.
I returned home, disgruntled, and lay down for a mid-morning nap. Brewster, who could go without sleep for amazingly long stretches of time, returned to the search.
Grenville organized a party that afternoon to go out to the fort of Qait Bay, which stood on the site of the ancient lighthouse. I was tired and worried, but I drew on my resolve and accompanied him and his acquaintances.
I found myself in a party of gentlemen who were as well read and well traveled as Grenville—a few Englishmen, a Florentine who spoke perfect English, and a Frenchman who did not seem interested in the antiquities rivalry between the French and British. Indeed, the party was congenial, Grenville knowing how to put men of like minds together.
“It is rumored that part of the lighthouse tumbled into the sea,” the man from Florence said as we approached the fort. “If we could swim deep enough, we might find it.”
An intriguing thought. The fortress of golden stone towered formidably before us—it was said that the lighthouse, a beacon of the ancient world, had been five times as large as the current building.
The fortress was interesting for itself. It had been built by the Mamelukes in the fifteenth century by a sultan who’d successfully resisted the Ottomans and made treaties with them. Qait Bay had left behind his architecture not only in Alexandria but in Cairo and other cities in the Near East.
“Began life as a slave,” the Florentine gentleman told me as we strolled together along the base of the outer walls. “Had several masters before he was freed, then he became one of the greatest rulers of the Arab world. Makes one think.”
We went in through a low arch of a gate to a broad stretch of open ground leading to the fortress itself. Straight flanking walls of stone rose into a blue sky, and rounded crenellations stretched across the top of the walls to circular towers on either side. It was a striking place, incorporating both military severity and elegant proportionality.
“The Mamelukes all began as slaves,” I remarked, recalling what I’d read in the books Grenville’s friend from Malta had lent us. “And they went on to become a formidable army and build an empire. It makes one think, indeed.”
Thus philosophizing, we left the courtyard and strolled around what remained of the rampart walls. We looked out at the dark blue Mediterranean, and I wondered if it indeed hid the remains of the Pharos lighthouse.
My troubles fell away as I walked. Herodotus the Greek historian had landed on this shore and had written his account of his travels, and the feet of Alexander himself had touched these very sands. I breathed the soft air, my heart squeezing with amazement that now I stood here as well.
Grenville and the rest of his friends were climbing to the top of the old walls for the view. He waved down at me, gesturing for us to follow.
We did, slowly, I less lithe than the others. The Florentine, not noticing I’d dropped behind, moved to Grenville and fell into conversation with him. I hauled myself to the top of the walls and stood leaning on my walking stick, trying to catch my breath.
And then I saw him. From the ramparts I could look down both into the fortress’s courtyard and out to the narrow streets surrounding the place. The humanity of Alexandria spread before me—nearly naked workmen on the scaffolding, wealthy Turks out for a stroll, Egyptians wandering about on errands or halting for conversation with their fellows.
I caught sight of a face, a build, a way of walking that jolted me. I came alert, peering into the crowd below.
It took me some time to find him again because he wasn’t wearing European dress. He’d donned a galabiya and a turban—I’d only glimpsed him because he’d looked up and straight at me.
“Brewster!” I shouted.
Brewster, who had been following within earshot, was instantly at my side.
I pointed. “There!”
We both stared down. As though feeling our gazes, the man looked up at me again, and for one instant, our eyes met. Dark hatred flared in his, then he turned his head and flowed back into the crowd, becoming one with the sea of turbans and fluttering cloth.
Brewster had no compunction about hurtling down the crumbling wall, his large form moving surprisingly fast. Grenville came to my side.
“What is it, Lacey?”
I pointed. “Bloody man who’s been following us. Brewster spied him in town last night, and I’ve just seen him.”
Grenville didn’t answer. We watched Brewster moving through the crowds, unceremo
niously shouldering men out of his way. He left behind shouts, raised fists, and gestures I didn’t know but could guess the meaning of. He turned a corner into the narrow streets and was lost to sight.
“We’d better go after him,” I said.
Grenville nodded. I began to descend from the wall, but Grenville, always polite, turned back to take leave of his fellows. He caught up to me as I entered the lane into which Brewster had vanished, and we were soon swallowed by the mass of people moving about their daily business.
We found Brewster at the end of a street, his way blocked by a throng of angry Egyptians. He shouted at them in English, demanding them to get out of his way. They shouted back at him and didn’t move.
Grenville and I waded in. Grenville began to apologize, knowing more of the native language than I did. The Egyptians calmed a bit, but Brewster was red-faced with rage.
“He ran in there, guv.” Brewster pointed to a closed gate. “I tried to go in after him, but these—” He growled a word I couldn’t hear. “They blocked me way, pushed me back.” He balled his large fists.
“There?” Grenville gestured to the battered gate, his brows raised in astonishment. “Are you certain?”
“I saw him, I tell you.”
Grenville set his walking stick on the hard street. “Well, well. That’s where the bey, the man who administers Alexandria, lives. No wonder they wouldn’t let you in.”
“Why was our man going in there?” I asked, my heart beating swiftly. “A friend of the bey’s, is he?”
“If he was the man Brewster saw darting inside,” Grenville said.
Brewster’s look was indignant. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Grenville, but I know how to follow a bloke. Had me eye on him all the time. He went in there.” He again pointed his broad finger at the gate.
I had the feeling Brewster had only added the begging your pardon to keep himself from hauling Grenville up by the lapels and shouting his point into Grenville’s face.
The Alexandria Affair Page 8