The Soul Scarab

by C J Turner

  ‘I am sorry Max, but I had to do something to make this great stupide realise – and you must admit that it was effective!’

  ‘Outrageous!’ Blake purred appreciatively, ‘Rest assured, Max that no one will ever see that dance again! And thank you, my dear, it is always a pleasure to hear your opinion of my - ,’ but Max was not listening.

  ‘Well, yes I understand that, of course, but really…’

  ‘It was my idea, Sir Maxwell, and indeed the dance was not entirely made up, its origins are very old. I can tell you more about it, if you are really interested in such things.’ Hameeda interposed, wiping her eyes with a large handkerchief.

  Max looked intrigued but before he could comment, a shadow fell over the table at that moment and the boisterous conversation abruptly ceased.

  ‘You are all very cheerful this morning?’ Lalage had paused at their table on her way out of the dining room, but the comment was more question than statement and her own smile was forced as she regarded the relaxed and laughing group with cold, suspicious eyes.

  Last night, Lalage had deliberately shaken off her Sheik admirer early on in the evening to leave the field free for Blake. She had laid her plans carefully, only to see them come to naught when Blake had unexpectedly disappeared. She had tapped on his door later that night but there had been no response and she was not pleased. She had great confidence that her looks, which she knew Blake admired, combined with the warm intimate atmosphere which the little dancer had inspire, and some close cheek-to-cheek dancing of their own, would bring about a satisfactory conclusion. Once she had him into her bed, this time she intended to keep him there.

  She had forgotten how devastatingly attractive he could be when it suited him, she recalled certain sultry passages of flame shot nights in the past, and had decided that she had been a fool to let him go so easily. Lalage could see clearly how she had made a mistake before in their previous relationship, carelessly allowing him to see her ambition and ruthlessness too clearly. She did not intend to make the same mistake again, given this unexpected second chance to take another bite of the cherry.

  This morning, however, something had obviously happened that boded no good for her future schemes that had involved Blake so closely. Now she looked coolly at the Professor, one eyebrow raised interrogatively, but it was Max who answered her, with a great sense of satisfaction and not a little gentle malice, for he did not like Lalage Meredith and ascribed a lot of Blake’s former disenchantment with life down to her. Now he looked forward to her inevitable discomposure.

  ‘Yes, indeed! Dr. Meredith, you will be the first to know, outside the family that is, that Blake and Amunet are going to be married!’ Max exclaimed jovially, marking, as he dealt the blow, never to play poker with this woman who took his statement in her stride, only a sudden stillness and the coldness in her eyes belying the smiling mouth and almost immediate, congratulatory platitudes.

  She wasted no time in leaving them to their celebrations, laughingly asserting that she was sure that Blake would have very little time for business now that he had more important things to worry about. Just a lifted eyebrow and a slight twist of her lips conveyed her obvious incredulity, a veiled insult to both Amunet and Blake, but it was enough to leave a slight constrictive feeling of unease behind her.

  However, Hameeda was not having that at all. She enquired who the odd English woman was and on being told that Lalage was an eminent archaeologist, disposed of her with damning simplicity.

  ‘So, it is well for her that she has a career, for she has eyes cold as a fish, the figure of a boy and no breasts and of a surety, she will never get a husband!’

  There was a stunned silence and then regretfully, the breakfast party exploded into uproarious laughter.

  If left to Blake, he would have made immediate arrangements for a civil ceremony as soon as it could possibly be arranged, but Hameeda had thrown her hands up at such haste and wanted to arrange a traditional wedding from her own home. Amunet herself, floating on her own particular cloud of joy and secure in her triumph could afford to be generous and saw nothing more than sour grapes in Lalage’s attitude. She was in no hurry to exchange her present bliss for a different state, it was too new – and she wanted time to savour it.

  Max was a man of the world and he knew that Lalage could make trouble, if only the petty, spiteful kind and he did not want Blake to be bothered any more by her. He too saw no reason for delay, if they had made up their minds.

  As for Blake himself, he had no more doubts. He was no stranger to the ephemeral feelings of happiness and pleasure, and felt that he had had his fair share of these emotions in the past, but before, there had always been something missing.

  Amunet was the other half of his soul, the balance and the heart, and now for the first time he felt whole, complete, and more deeply content than he had ever been before in his life. Physically, she stirred him as no other woman ever had. He admired her courage, had the highest respect for her chosen profession, and was fascinated by the apparent fascinating contradictions in her character. He had been in turn, outraged, amused, shocked and passionately moved by her behaviour and knew that no matter how long they would be together, boredom would be the last thing he would have to worry about!

  Nevertheless, there was a shadow on the edge of his euphoria, which Blake would not define even to himself. He had made a good job of calming the fears of Max and Hameeda, indeed he could almost convince himself that his rational explanation of Amunet’s behaviour must be correct. Almost. Then he would remember again the night he had found Amunet with the dagger in her hand and he was flooded with the urgent need to put himself in the strongest possible position to protect her. Protection from what, was a question he could not answer. He loved her, he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life, and that was reason enough.

  Max gently teased his haste by saying that Blake wanted to make sure he had secured Amunet before she changed her mind, as she surely would when she came to her senses. Also, there could be a more practical reason, as Blake pointed out to her later that day.

  Hameeda had decided that she must return to her own home, and it had been arranged that the others would join her there in a few days time. Max had gone off on business of his own and it was not until quite late in the afternoon that, for the first time that day, Blake and Amunet found themselves alone back in his suite and he had the opportunity to speak to her privately.

  Amunet thought that the time could be better spent than in debate, she told him so and would have demonstrated her argument more convincingly, but he firmly held her away from him and gave her a little shake.

  ‘Isn’t that exactly what I’m saying?’ he growled at her crossly. ‘Damn it, I want to be able to introduce you as my wife. I want to be able to whisk you off to bed whenever we want, without having to make up fatuous excuses. And, as I fully intend to wake up each morning with you by my side, I don’t see why we can’t just get married without any fuss, instead of leaving ourselves open to a lot of sniggering gossip!’ He pulled her closer to him and his voice deepened as he spoke into her cloudy hair.

  ‘Please Netta, I’ll agree to any formalisation your aunt wants later on, if you will just let us have a civil ceremony now. Besides,’ he added dryly, tilting her chin up so he could study her lovely face, ‘In the heat of the moment last night and this morning, I think the sooner we are married the better!’

  For a moment Amunet looked puzzled, then colour rushed into her face and her eyes kindled with a sudden blaze of happiness; she nodded and laughed.

  ‘So you not want me to dance like that again?’ she murmured provocatively, and slipped into the dancer’s pose.

  ‘Only for me, my heart.’ Blake caught her to him again, laughing with her in relief and renewed joy as he sought to make the possibility he had spoken of, more certain.

  They told Max their decision that evening and as Blake, having firmly stated exactly what he wanted to happen, had not the least idea how
to set about it, Max kindly offered to make the necessary arrangements with the co-operation of a friend of his, who happened to be a cultural attaché at the British Embassy. Plans set and matched.

  Word of the imminent wedding inevitable got out and one person at least did not find it either charming or romantic. Lalage Meredith took it as a personal insult and waited for her chance to get even.

  Max’s friends at the Embassy were about to take their annual trip to their villa in Crete and, fearing that Max would now find himself ‘de trop’ in the present situation, cordially invited him to join them. He was pleased to accept, despite Blake and Amunet’s protestations that he could not leave them now, but their glowing happiness could not help but have a detrimental effect on Max’s bruised emotions. Firmly, he told them that there was nothing more boring than lovers and that they really could not expect him to put up with them while they were virtually on their honeymoon!

  Hameeda returning to Luxor, showing no visible sign of her disappointment at their decision to have a quiet European style wedding, and brought with her a marriage gift for her niece. Amunet had chosen a simple sleeveless dress in ivory silk to be married in and it went perfectly with her Aunt’s present, a wonderful ‘takeeyeh’, a traditional head veil richly embroidered with gold and silver silk and embellished with tiny gold Venetian sequins, which Hameeda had worn at her own wedding.

  The auspicious day dawned; Monsieur Revenoir, with great aplomb, presented the bride with a delicately scented bouquet of creamy white roses and to Hameeda, a buttonhole of pale pink orchids, before escorting them from the Hotel to the waiting limousine.

  Amunet and Blake were married in the little English chapel close to the British Embassy. The plain simplicity of the tiny building was transformed by the late afternoon sunshine that streamed through the beautiful stained-glass windows, reflecting a dazzling riot of rainbow colours over the stark interior and white, damask draped alter.

  Hameeda gave her niece into Blake’s keeping with her blessing. Max resolutely stood by as best man, the smiling white haired old cleric carried the brief service with grace and dignity, a wide band of Egyptian gold was slipped on to Amunet’s third finger and Blake was told that he could now kiss his radiant bride.

  As Max escorted Hameeda from the Church, they passed by a window depicting the Madonna, one hand raised in blessing, her graceful robes picked out in shades of glowing blue. To his surprise, Hameeda stopped and unpinning her orchids, laid her tiny posy on the window ledge in front of the gently smiling figure, with a reverential bow of her head.

  Catching Max’s look of mild enquiry, she gave a fatalistic shrug, ‘It is good, the Lady has many names,’ she whispered to him contentedly.

  Max had hardly time to ponder these enigmatic words before they emerged into the bright sunshine and were quickly engulfed in the wedding celebrations.

  They returned to the hotel amidst showers of rose petals thrown enthusiastically by smiling guests and staff alike.

  ‘I will expect to see you at Swallowhill in September, mind.’ Max told them after the short ceremony was over as he hugged Amunet to him closely and for just a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

  His troubled eyes met Blake’s over her curly head and Blake understood. With real regret in his own eyes, he smiled wryly back at his old friend with a curt nod of his head in rueful acknowledgement. Max needed a little time to recover.

  Armand Revenoir, that master of detail and organisation, had arranged an impromptu reception for them with his usual efficiency and had produced a delicious buffet, amazingly complete with wedding cake! Several bottles of champagne led to several more; various guests arrived to wish them happy and bring more champagne and at some stage in the course of the evening, Blake looked round a little fuzzily to find that his bride had disappeared.

  Hameeda had taken her leave of them some time earlier but Max was now in good form and looked as if he and some of the other die-hard guests were settling down to make a night of it.

  Blake slipped discreetly out of the salon and made his way to his suite. Amunet had opened the French windows and a gentle breeze stirred the filmy muslin drapes as he let himself quietly into the darkened room. She had obviously decided to wait for him in bed and had fallen soundly asleep. He smiled into the darkness, throwing his jacket onto a chair and stripping off his shirt. There was no movement from the curled up figure on the bed and he gently drew back the bed curtains, softly calling her name.

  The silent figure was still, and as a faint silver light from the rising moon shone through the open widow, it drew an answering gleam from the jeweled handle of a dagger, plunged up to the hilt in the soft white breast of the woman lying peacefully before him.

  Chapter 23

  The first paralysing shock was swiftly followed by flooding relief when Blake realized that it was not Amunet’s body which lay stark and cold before him. The reprieve had not lasted more than the minute it took him to realise that the dagger could only have been left in the body as a deliberate warning. Another minute of quick thinking and even faster action and only then, with the dagger safely concealed, did Blake raise the alarm.

  Max arrived almost immediately, followed closely by the distraught hotel manager and Blake had barely enough time to pull Max to one side and tell him what had happened, before the police arrived.

  The murder would almost certainly have been ascribed straightaway as an unpremeditated attack by a sneak thief surprised in the act, but for the peculiar circumstance of Lalage being in Blake’s bed - and on his wedding night of all nights! Things could have got a whole lot worse for all of them but for one indisputable fact. Everybody had seen Lalage earlier at the hotel, she had deliberately moved out of the salon when the wedding party arrived and from that moment on Blake, Max and Amunet had been in full view of a dozen people all evening.

  The corpse was already beginning to stiffen, the blood from the wound congealed in the cool night air. The hastily summoned doctor was able to confirm that Dr. Meredith had died from a stab wound to the heart and it was his opinion that she had been dead for at least an hour before Blake had found her, well before Blake had even left the salon.

  Statements were taken from other guests who had noticed Doctor Meredith’s flagrant interest in Blake, and her pique at the announcement of his unexpected marriage. When these facts emerged, and taking into consideration the well-known eminence of Sir Maxwell and Professor Gasgoine, a rather sordid but clear enough explanation began to form in the astute police inspector’s mind.

  However, the murder was of less immediate concern to Max and Blake than the frantic worry about what had happened to Amunet herself. They were loudly insisting that the entire hotel be searched for her, when suddenly she arrived in their midst, white faced with shock, but unharmed and very much alive. She had been rescued from her incarceration in a storage cupboard by a member of the kitchen staff, hurriedly wakened to provide coffee for what was obviously going to be a long night, and who could confirm that she had been locked in and the key left in the lock.

  Amunet explained that she had received a message asking her to go to the kitchens to supervise the cutting of the wedding cake. Full of love and champagne, she had tripped blithely along to the deserted area when the lights had suddenly gone out and she been violently pushed by an unseen assailant into one of the big, cool larders.

  Why Lalage Meredith had elected to lure the new bride to a part of the hotel which would be deserted until the morning, and there lock her into a cupboard while she took Amunet’s place in Blake’s bed, would never be satisfactorily explained. At the very least, it was a practical joke of such horrendous taste that it was hard to imagine how anyone could stoop so low, but even so, no one, not even Lalage, deserved to pay the ultimate and indeed, terminal penalty for such a dubious prank.

  Amunet’s story fitted in with the Inspector’s theory and seemed to confirm the unpleasant assumption that Lalage had been the victim of her own cruel trick to ruin B
lake’s wedding night.

  There could be another explanation, of course. During the course of the long night, the shrewd looking Egyptian police officer had been informed of Amunet’s identity and who she worked for.

  These S.C.A. agents could make many enemies, and Lalage could merely have been the not so innocent victim of an assassination attempt on Amunet herself. A telephone call confirmed that Mrs Gasgoine (nee Shafik) was held in the highest standing and every consideration should be shown to her and her husband.

  Eventually, the Inspector decided that, officially, Lalage must have interrupted a sneak thief and in the subsequent struggle, been tragically stabbed to death. Blake ostensibly agreed and wished with all his heart that this theory was the correct one, because the alternative was too horrible to contemplate. He had a sudden vision of Amunet’s body laying on the bed with the knife in her chest and had to close his eyes for a moment, willing the unendurable picture away. When Blake opened them again, Max was looking at him grimly - he had decided not to go to Crete after all.

  When Blake and Max realized that neither of them could recall what had become of the dagger since they had last seen it in Blake’s suite, or even given it another thought in the intervening time, their blood ran cold. Blake blamed himself for what he saw as almost criminal negligence. Max insisted that he was just as much at fault, but the real culprit was, of course, the person who had taken the dagger in the first place.

  Max was impressed and devoutly thankful that Blake had kept his nerve under such stressful conditions – the inevitable consequences to them all, if he had failed to remove the dagger from the victim, could only be imagined in a nightmare scenario. The valuable and uncatalogued artifact, its origins and how it came to be in their possession was certainly not something that they wanted the authorities to delve into too deeply now.