The Alexandria Affair (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 11)

by Ashley Gardner

  * * *

  Lady Mary would have nothing for it but that we stayed the night on her barge, in guest accommodations belowdecks, chambers as sumptuous as her boudoir if not as large. After being entombed in the cramped space, I stretched my arms and enjoyed my cushioned prison.

  I accepted Lady Mary’s hospitality for the sole reason that my leg refused to bear my weight any longer. I was taken to the river on the back of a camel, riding on a wide saddle, guided by small, wizened man missing most of his teeth.

  Lady Mary had stood in the midst of the workmen who had dug us out from the hole, shouting orders in Turkish at the top of her voice. It had been effective—we were surrounded, given water and shelter, and guided back to the river.

  We’d come out, it seemed, about half a mile from the pyramids, behind the smallest of the three. Lady Mary had peered into the hole in great excitement after we’d been rescued, demanding to know all about it.

  Grenville had given her a smile from cracked lips in his dust-coated face. “All in good time, dear lady. Captain Lacey and I intend to excavate thoroughly.” No matter that we’d nearly been entombed alive—Grenville was not about to give up the secrets of our find to rival collectors so easily.

  I’d always heard that camels were bad-tempered beasts, but this one regarded me through long lashes like a coquettish young lady and nuzzled me with a damp nose before I was lifted onto the saddle.

  The saddle was more like a giant chair with plenty of padding and handholds. I nearly slid off while the camel rose from its kneeling position, back legs first, then front, but I clung on with the last of my strength.

  When the camel’s porter led me off, I realized why Lady Mary had fetched the beast for me—its gait was soft and rolling, cushioning me from the hard desert in a way a horse, even the pasha’s fine Arabs, would never have been able to.

  Miguel had to help me from the camel at Lady Mary’s barge, and then take me below and get me into bed, which he did with much kindness. The sun was high in the sky and I slept, waking to darkness.

  For a panicked moment when I woke, I believed myself back in the silent tunnel. Then I heard voices calling along the river, the jingle of bells as a vendor trotted past with wares, and the soft slap of waves on the hull. I relaxed again, rejoicing that I was aboveground and alive. It had been a close-run thing.

  I could barely stand, but Bartholomew, who looked not much better than I did, helped me into my clothes.

  Bartholomew told me that he and Matthias had been set upon by Sharkey’s men as they’d tried to guard the tunnel’s entrance. They’d fought hard, but in the end, they’d been thoroughly beaten and dragged a long way into the desert. When they’d woken, furious and hurt, it had been well past midnight. They’d managed to make it back to the tunnel’s entrance but couldn’t dig through the rubble. They’d gone back to the pyramids for help, and had just started putting together a rescue party when we’d popped out through the hole that morning.

  So explaining, Bartholomew assisted me to Lady Mary’s drawing room, where dinner was being served. Bartholomew even handed me my walking stick, retrieved from outside the hole where we’d first entered the tomb.

  Lady Mary looked pleased at having me, Grenville, and Marcus at her dining table. The three of us ate steadily, only Grenville managing to remember manners. Marcus and I simply shoveled food into our mouths, washing it all down with wine. I worried about Brewster, but was told he’d eaten plenty of food and had gone to sleep on deck.

  Our hostess commanded us to tell her the entire tale, and Grenville complied.

  “Mr. Sharkey did this?” Lady Mary said when Grenville told her he’d beaten Matthias and Bartholomew then laughed at us through the rubble. “Always knew he was a bad ’un, as the Cockneys say. He has a barge, you know, quite expensive, that he moors near mine, but we all know he’s not our sort. And now he’s tried to murder you.” She made a face of distaste.

  “Yes,” I said tersely. “I believe Brewster and I will have a little chat with him.”

  * * *

  The next morning saw me, with Brewster, Grenville, and Marcus, approaching a barge moored along the docks that was every bit as sumptuous as Lady Mary’s.

  I knew Sharkey was there, though we saw no one on deck. He must have retreated here when we burned his house, but more than that, I simply knew it.

  I wondered why he hadn’t taken up his anchor and fled up- or downriver, but the lack of men aboard might explain why. He either hadn’t had time to put together a crew, or they’d deserted him.

  I intended to climb onto the ship, find Sharkey, lay into him with my fists, and then throw him into the river. Perhaps I’d fish him out again if nothing ate him and drag him to the magistrates. I’d search until I found a magistrate he hadn’t corrupted and leave Sharkey under his care.

  The gangplank was up. We searched the dock for boards to bridge the gap to the ship or ropes with which we could climb aboard, determined to make the man pay for nearly killing us all.

  The tramping of many feet brought us up short. I turned to behold the pasha’s palace guard, twenty men armed with swords and rifles, no mercy on their faces. Behind them came the four cavalrymen I’d taught, who looked as grim as the guards.

  Without a word to me, they splashed directly into the river, unslinging rope from their shoulders as they passed. The guards threw grappling hooks up to the sides of the ship, then swarmed up onto the deck.

  By the time Brewster had boosted me up one of the ropes, one of the guards had dragged Sharkey from his hiding place and thrown him onto the deck.

  Chapter 27

  I struggled to heave myself over the gunwale, my knee still hurting like the devil. One of my cavalryman friends reached his strong hands down and pulled me aboard. Brewster quickly joined me, followed by Marcus.

  “This won’t go well for you,” Sharkey was saying in English to the lead palace guard. “I’d be worried for your job, mate.”

  They surrounded him. One guard prodded Sharkey with a rifle butt, trying to get him to his knees.

  Sharkey, who’d trained on the dark streets of London, was quickly on his feet, a knife somehow in his hand. He whirled and slashed quickly, slicing into the guard’s side.

  The guard flinched. Sharkey punched him in the exact spot the knife had cut then spun around and headed for the side.

  I got in his way. I knew I was a fool to, even as I saw Sharkey coming at me, his knife gripped solidly in his big fingers.

  He cut at me. I tried to dance aside, but my knee would let me do no such acrobatics. I landed on my bad leg, gritted my teeth as pain shot through me, and leveled a punch right at Sharkey’s face.

  I hit him, to my surprise. He’d expected me to fall, weak and spent, not to land a blow worthy of a pugilist.

  My hand stung, Sharkey’s face blossomed blood, and he cursed at me. He shoved me aside and I did fall, but Marcus was beside him, his fist now landing on the side of Sharkey’s head.

  Sharkey was resilient. He broke from Marcus and rushed to the railing, intending to jump. Brewster, moving with his unnerving swiftness, locked his arms through Sharkey’s from behind and spun him around. Sharkey darted his knife back to Brewster’s thigh. Brewster grunted as the blade sank in, but he did not let go.

  The guards fell upon them like a swarm of flies. I heard Sharkey scream.

  One of my cavalry friends helped me to my feet. His sword was out, and he put himself in front of me, ready to defend me against any more of Sharkey’s treachery.

  Grenville had made it to the deck, neat and unruffled. I noted that the gangplank was now down—he’d come up that.

  The palace guards jerked Sharkey from Brewster, standing Sharkey upright. Blood poured from Sharkey’s nose, his lips were split, and one eye was swollen shut.

  A guard pointed at Sharkey with his sword blade and spoke in halting English. “You come. Now.”

  “You can’t touch me, you poxy bastard,” Sharkey sneered, blood dribbling do
wn his chin. “Your magistrates know what will happen to them and their families if I’m arrested.”

  Grenville, who had prudently stayed far from the violence, brushed off his coat sleeves and adjusted his hat. He gave Sharkey a cold stare, a Mayfair dandy at his most disdainful.

  “They aren’t from the magistrates, old thing,” he said, the drawling words cool. “They’re palace guard. I believe he means his master, the pasha, wants a word with you.”

  For the first time since I’d met him, I saw Sharkey’s face go tight with fear. Sharkey was pitiless, but he’d met his match in the man busy wresting control of Egypt from the might of the Ottoman Empire.

  I had no idea what would happen if Sharkey were taken to the palace. Sharkey might convince the pasha that he should be left alone, to go back to doing as he had been. The pasha might let him, intending to use him in his play for power.

  Or, Sharkey might be expelled from Egypt, which meant he’d have to explain to James Denis how he’d managed to draw such attention to himself. No matter where he went, Denis would find him. Or, he might simply be executed.

  Sharkey snapped his head around and glared at me. “I knew you was nothing but trouble. Denis sent you to destroy me, didn’t he?”

  “He did not,” I said in a hard voice. “I told you, I knew nothing about you.”

  “He sent you,” Sharkey repeated with conviction. “Don’t matter he didn’t tell you. He’s done wiv me, and he sent you to chuck me out.”

  His voice rose until the words were a snarl. Sharkey wrenched himself from the guards with the ease of long practice, and launched himself at me.

  I saw in his eyes the intent to kill. He’d run into me and take me over the railing, ripping my guts out with his knife as we went. Didn’t matter if he drowned in the murk—he’d murder me on his way out of this life.

  I braced myself to fight him off. In the same instant, three of the guards stepped between me and Sharkey, leveled their rifles, and shot him in the head.

  * * *

  The palace guards searched Sharkey’s boat, and I searched it with them. The guards broke into everything—they tore open seat cushions and mattresses, spilled contents of cupboards over the floor then broke the cupboards from the walls to look for compartments behind them. They did not seem to be looking for anything specific, only for money and valuables to confiscate for the pasha.

  Brewster, Marcus, and Grenville helped me pick through the mess, and the guards let us without question. Sharkey had kept a treasure here—I saw that he’d not lost much when the house burned.

  The guards turned up caches of jewels much like those we’d found in the tomb, as well as solid gold statuettes of dog-headed gods and dignified cats, pectorals of gold encrusted with stones both precious and semiprecious, bones of unfortunate mummies, and more recent trinkets, including a gold coffee service similar to ones I’d seen at the palace.

  Sharkey’s dead body lay forlornly on the deck. Occasionally one of the guards would stroll to it and spit on him.

  “He rob the pasha,” the guard who spoke some English told us, his disgust clear.

  I was not certain if he meant Sharkey had literally broken into the palace and stolen things like the coffee service, or if he meant that Sharkey keeping the antiquities in his own private stash prevented the pasha from using them as bargaining chips. No matter that treasure hunters up and down the Nile thought Egypt a backward country, handing over its past for nothing, we were all here at the pasha’s mercy, and the pasha knew it.

  I diligently searched for the Alexandrian book. Sharkey had claimed not to know of the book’s whereabouts as he’d beaten Marcus, but he might have lied as an excuse to imprison and hurt Marcus to get to me.

  However, we never found it. The guards did a thorough job stripping the boat down, uncovering an entire hoard of precious things, but no papyri at all. Sharkey might not have valued mere words on paper, no matter how ancient. Or perhaps his clients simply hadn’t asked for any.

  The palace guard finally escorted us off the ship, intending to confiscate the barge itself. Two guards stood over Sharkey’s body, arms folded, faces unyielding.

  “I know he was a thorough villain,” Grenville said as we passed him. “But we could ask that he be given a Christian burial. Even hanged men are sent off with prayers for their souls.”

  I found the English-speaking guard and repeated Grenville’s request. The man gave me a hard look. “He left you to the jackals,” he said, his mouth a thin line. “This displeases the pasha. So he will be given to the jackals.” The man bowed slightly, his look not softening. “Good day.”

  “Best we go, Mr. Grenville,” Brewster said. “Nuffing more we can do.”

  Grenville and I realized that Brewster was correct. We departed.

  The cavalrymen helped me descend the gangplank, then they took their leave of me. From the way they said good-bye, I knew I’d never see them again. One even took my face between his hands, stared into my eyes, then gave me a nod and turned his back.

  I lifted my hand in farewell as the four of them marched away, heading into the city and whatever billet they called home.

  “Well, Mr. Denis is out one agent in Cairo,” Grenville said as we walked away down the docks, much subdued. “I imagine he will not be happy with us. We could always live forever in Egypt, Lacey. Send for Donata when she’s well and we’ll eke out our days in tents like the Bedouins. Though I suppose Denis has agents among them too.”

  I gave him a cursory laugh. “I would not be surprised. No, I will take my lumps. I haven’t turned up this book, and my actions got his agent killed. Do not worry, Grenville, I will not let Denis take his wrath out on me or those I love. He knows this.”

  I also had a feeling that Denis would not be as upset as Grenville surmised at the loss of Sharkey. Sharkey had been a loose cannon, playing his own game. Denis might believe himself well rid of him.

  We returned home for a good long rest, but that night found ourselves again on Lady Mary’s barge for a dinner she hosted in our honor.

  I expected the cream of British society in Cairo to be there but we discovered Lady Mary had invited only Grenville, Marcus, and myself. She’d included Marcus, I suspected, because she was curious about him. Marcus was uncomfortable dining with us, but I urged him to come so I could keep my eye on him. I did not want him slipping away into the aether before we resolved things, if they could be resolved.

  To my delight, Lady Mary had also invited Signora Beatrice and Celia, who performed her inviting dances for us.

  Lady Mary had dressed tonight in a version of Celia’s costume—billowing pantaloons, a bejeweled jacket over her high-collared bodice, thick gold bracelets on her plump arms, and silk slippers turned up at the toes.

  “Dear Celia has been teaching me harem dancing,” Lady Mary said. She rose and joined the younger woman in the middle of the room, stretching out her arms and moving her feet in imitation.

  The result was rather appalling, like a full-sailed galleon listing to and fro, but we politely watched and applauded. Signora Beatrice’s eyes sparkled with bright mirth.

  Celia finished, bowed low to Lady Mary, who tried to copy the bow in return, her bosom sagging unfortunately as she did so.

  Celia bowed to us gentlemen, giving Grenville a blatant come-hither look, and departed the room.

  Lady Mary, oblivious of the look, waved us all to the dining table where she’d made certain Grenville was seated at its head and next to her. Signora Beatrice ended up beside me, which was to my liking, Marcus opposite her.

  “Celia is such a lovely girl,” Lady Mary said as the food was served. “I had hoped that Miguel would make a match with her, but unfortunately nothing has come of it.”

  Miguel, who was even now pouring wine in our glasses, looked pained. I sent him a sympathetic glance, which he accepted with a nod.

  “Spaniards can be such snobs,” Lady Mary went on, as though he could not hear her. “I’ve pointed out that Celia
is not a native woman, not even a Mohammedan. She is a Venetian, like Signora Beatrice. Quite respectable. Of course, she would have to cease dancing for gentlemen if they were together. But Miguel has declined to pursue the suit.” She shook her head, long-suffering. Miguel quietly finished serving the wine and departed.

  Grenville murmured something appeasing, and I again caught Signora Beatrice’s amused expression.

  After supper, we adjourned to the deck. The weather was warm tonight, the stars a canopy of beauty.

  Celia joined us, dressed now in a modest frock with a high neck and long sleeves, something my own daughter might wear. I saw Miguel, who’d come out with us, give Celia a wistful glance, but she ignored him.

  As the party wound on, we drifted into groups to contemplate the stars or chat. Lady Mary determinedly followed Grenville, who with equal determination made certain I or Marcus was with him at all times.

  Signora Beatrice was at the rail alone, and I moved to her. Before I reached her, Celia materialized at her side. In the deep shadow, Beatrice turned to her, and Celia touched her hand.

  The look they exchanged was long and full of meaning, and I understood exactly why Miguel had been rebuffed. Beatrice might have lost the love of her life when Chabert died, but she seemed to have found love anew. Celia obviously returned the affection.

  Why then, I wondered, had Celia given Grenville the significant look? It had been the glance of a lady telling a gentleman she would not mind if he wanted to meet with her in private. Did Celia truly enjoy the company of men, only pretending to be devoted to Beatrice?

  No, as I watched the two ladies in the dark, thinking themselves unobserved, I found it easy to deduce that Celia had a fondness for Beatrice equal to that of Beatrice for her.

  Then why try to lure in Grenville?

  I leaned on the railing, facing the river, and came to an abrupt realization. Beatrice had been a courtesan. As much as Lady Mary admired her and pretended that Beatrice’s past did not matter to women of the world, Beatrice had made her living by pleasing gentlemen for payment.