A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  The most enthusiastic reception was saved for the female dancers announced as ghawazee. Scantily clad in long transparent gowns, they performed quick, hypnotically sinuous dances to beating drums and castanets. Sparkling ornaments adorned their hair, their eyes were bordered with thick lines of kohl, and their hands and feet were stained with henna. It was difficult to look away from them as they gyrated sensuously about the stage.

  Violet eventually excused herself to visit one of the many necessary buildings constructed to suit European sensibilities. Princess Sophie had earlier told her that she had accidentally wandered into one of the necessaries meant for locals and that the primitive holes in the ground were shocking. The specially constructed tents for the delegations were, naturally, quite a distance away to keep offending odors away from the revelers; therefore, Violet found herself walking beyond the khedive’s palace to reach them.

  She saw that quick progress was being made on preparation for the evening’s ball. Workers swarmed all over the grounds, erecting a long entry canopy as well as gazebos on either side of its starting point. There were the usual hangings of garlands and streamers on torchère posts, fencing, and any other nonmoving object. Scenic backdrops were also constructed, evocative of stage settings. Violet wondered what they were for.

  The workers chattered, joked, and sang as they continued their work. After Violet visited the toilets, she returned to the outer edge of the construction area to watch the work being conducted. Would this hive of activity really be complete in just a few hours, ready for what was sure to be the glittering spectacle of gem-encrusted gowns and medal-laden jackets?

  Her doubts were allayed, though, as in a matter of just a few minutes an extraordinary amount of work was completed. Already there were men stretching out the fabric to be laid atop the entry tent poles.

  Violet’s attention was distracted by a perspiring man working on one of the gazebos. He looked familiar. She watched as he cleaned up scattered scraps of wood and used nails; then she realized who he was and approached him.

  “Pardon me,” she said, but jumped back when he looked up in irritation and growled at her. Then recognition dawned in his own eyes, and he stood and bowed.

  “Good afternoon, my lady.” His English was very carefully spoken, as if he were having to focus on getting each word right.

  “Good day, Rashad. I am Violet Harper.”

  He nodded as he tossed a handful of bent nails into a bucket. “Undertaker.”

  “Yes. What are the gazebos intended for?” she asked.

  He frowned and shook his head, puzzled.

  Violet indicated the structure he was working in. “Yes,” he said. “For music.” He imitated the playing of a violin, which made Violet laugh aloud. Pleased, he finally relaxed and offered a toothy grin himself.

  “So you do this work in addition to being a porter for the khedive?” she asked.

  “Everyone works at what they are told, my lady. Except for men like my brother, Hassan, who must be at khedive’s side at all times.”

  If Hassan was by the khedive at all times, he was likely in little danger, but what about Rashad and all of the other workers here? Had any of them witnessed anything whatsoever that might put them in danger? Who might be next?

  “You should be careful,” Violet said on impulse.

  He looked at her quizzically again. “Of what, my lady?”

  “Of . . . of . . . dangerous people who might harm you.” What a ridiculous cautionary statement, Violet Harper, she admonished herself.

  “I am strong, my lady, and do not need protection,” Rashad assured her. “But do need to work.”

  Another thought struck her. “Do you remember both the ship’s captain, Captain Naser, and the lumberyard owner’s son, Yusef Halabi? You and your brother removed their bodies.”

  Rashad wrinkled his nose in obvious distaste of the memory. “Yes, had to remove bodies. Very bad.”

  “Yes. Where did you take them?” she pressed.

  “To proper Egyptian burial, my lady,” he said patiently.

  “Did you bury them yourself?” Violet wondered if the men had been reunited with their families.

  But at this, Rashad bristled. “You are British woman, why do you need to know? You do not think Rashad does proper job? Pasha will tell you that Rashad is very good, very loyal.”

  Violet realized she had completely overstepped her bounds with the Egyptian. “Forgive me, of course you are. I’m afraid my curiosity is always ahead of my manners. Thank you for your time.”

  He bowed politely and went back to his work.

  Violet returned to the picnic, her mind whirling. Was Julie Lesage correct in her notion that servants were being targeted? If so, was Violet overlooking an entire pool of servants at risk of death? But with no definite proof that it was true, or what the motive could be, or even an inkling as to who might be committing the crimes, what could Violet possibly do to protect anybody?

  

  Fortunately, Violet had not been missed during her long absence. Sir Henry Elliot and Asa Brooks had joined the prince and princess, and a deck of cards and piles of coins were spread on the table. According to Sir Henry, who was serving as the game’s banker, Sam had disappeared to join his American friends.

  Violet sighed, wondering if she should search for Sam or just let him be.

  She spent some time watching the faro game, declining to join in the play as her thoughts would never have permitted her to focus on the rapid flipping of cards.

  Brooks eventually engaged Violet in conversation as the game continued. “So, Mrs. Harper, have you been interacting with the locals?”

  Had he witnessed her discussion with Rashad? “Why do you ask me this?” she said, more sharply than she intended. Everyone lowered their cards to look at her, and Violet found herself apologizing for the second time in less than an hour.

  “I mean, yes, I have met several Egyptians. A very friendly people. I met an Arab chieftain this morning, as well,” she said.

  Brooks nodded as everyone returned to laying bets on cards. “I offer you caution. Many of Pasha’s servants are former corvée labor, and are reputed to be stealing valuables directly off the delegates as they walk by. The Prince of Wales himself nearly had a pearl cufflink stripped directly from his person.”

  Sir Henry nodded in agreement. “The fellahin are also enjoying the easy finds. You remember the child who stole your fan at the Arab market?”

  Princess Sophie gasped, making a wheezing sound as she did so. She and her brother immediately searched their persons and were satisfied that all of their accoutrements were in place. Violet self-consciously reached up to where she had pinned her ankh this morning, relieved to find it was still there. “I shall be careful,” she assured Brooks.

  But inside, she was confused. Were the servants truly at risk from some malevolent force? Or was it the delegation in peril? Or was it both?

  Eventually tiring of watching the card game, at which Mr. Brooks was winning quite a hoard of coins, Violet decided to find Sam. As Sir Henry had said, he was with his American friends. The horses had already been stabled again somewhere, and the men were showing off their sabers to one another. Sam had his own ceremonial sword out, and had just laid the blade across Mott’s hand. Mott balanced the blade in his palm and nodded approvingly.

  Mott was the first to notice Violet’s arrival. He handed the sword back to Sam and greeted her with, “The fetching Mrs. Harper has graced us again with her presence. Surely you do us honor.” He swept his hat off his head, while Sam came and cupped Violet protectively by the elbow.

  “Sweetheart, are you feeling well?” he asked. “You look plumb worn out.”

  This was no time to explain her dread and confusion over what might be happening at the ceremonies. “Fear not, I’m well. Just a little overwhelmed.”

  Caleb Purdy, who had been with them earlier in the chieftain’s tent, laughed. “And Harper calls me names. That’s no way to talk to y
our wife. Tell her she’s comely and a vision in green.”

  The other Americans hooted at Sam, who rolled his eyes. Violet felt that she was intruding in the men’s sacred space. She was about to say her good-byes to perhaps find Louise-Hélène, but she noticed that Purdy’s expression suddenly seemed odd. “Sir, are you quite all right?” she asked.

  “Never better,” he said, but his assurances seemed feeble. His pupils were constricted and his hands began to shake. The hairs on the back of Violet’s neck began to prickle as she realized whom else she had seen in this condition.

  “Perhaps you should sit down, sir,” she suggested calmly, approaching him.

  “I’m truly fine, ma’am. I’m just—just—” Purdy held out an arm, and two of his comrades helped him find a seat on the ground. He was sweating profusely now.

  Violet knelt down in front of him. “Mr. Purdy, what did you do after we left the chieftain’s tent this morning?”

  “What did I do? What do you mean?” His color was distinctly ashen now. “I suppose I wandered about, had a bowl of kushari, watched the ghawazee. Spent time with this bunch of simpletons.” He laughed again, but this time it was weak and he swayed a little with the effort.

  His mates surrounded him, clapping him on the back and attempting to revive him with ribald jokes. Violet saw no use in it, but surprisingly, within a few minutes Purdy’s color began to return. Within another few minutes, he had risen from his seated position on the ground, pretending that nothing had happened.

  Whatever had poisoned Dorn had poisoned Purdy, of this Violet was sure, except that Purdy had not ingested as much and was therefore most fortunate to be alive right now. What Dorn and Purdy had in common, she had no idea.

  Especially since Caleb Purdy was no servant.

  Chapter 20

  Later, as Violet and her husband rested in their tent prior to the evening’s planned extravaganza, Sam could talk of nothing but what had happened to Purdy. In fact, Sam was not resting at all, but was instead pacing across the floor of the tent. He, too, had realized that Purdy had nearly died and that his death would have been much like Dorn’s.

  Violet told Sam of Julie’s opinion that servants were being targeted for murder.

  “That woman is foolish,” Sam said, dismissing the maid’s dread. “Purdy was hardly a servant, nor was the ship’s captain, nor the lumberyard man.”

  Sam’s words echoed her own thoughts. “Right. But perhaps in Egyptian eyes, all workers who perform services for the khedive are servants.”

  Sam paused thoughtfully, resting his elbow against a chest of drawers. Some servant had removed the jasmine blooms in the vase and replaced them with palm fronds. In an analytical tone he began, “Let’s assume that is true. What difference does it make? What impact do a bunch of servants have on the politics at play in the opening of the canal?” He crossed his feet as he contemplated it further. “If some varmint was determined to ruin the festivities, why not poison the emperor himself? The death of his chamberlain, while a tragedy, does nothing to bring a cloud over de Lesseps or Pasha.”

  Violet, sitting on their bed, held up both hands, palms facing upward in supplication. “Excellent questions. Is it possible that in the course of their work they witnessed something that required the murderer to silence them?”

  Sam contemplated this as he fingered the edges of the palm fronds. “Perhaps. But never in my born days could I imagine what the three men would have all witnessed. None of them associate with the same people, nor do they perform remotely the same work, nor do they all have the same master. I am at a loss to come up with an answer.”

  So was Violet. However, it was a relief to discuss it with Sam, and to know that he was now viewing the deaths as seriously as she did.

  With no warning, Sam abruptly changed subjects. “What will happen with Dorn’s body?”

  “Presumably he will be left in peace until Viribus Unitis returns to Austria.”

  “It doesn’t seem right that he should be left exposed like that for what might be a week or more. We should have put a winding sheet on him.”

  Violet was impressed by Sam’s instinctive funerary acumen. “You know, you’re right. We could have wrapped him in his own bed linens. I’m afraid I was so distracted by everything else that it didn’t occur to me that I should consider covering him.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a messenger delivering a note to Violet from Louise-Hélène, requesting that Violet come to her quarters at de Lesseps’s villa so that they could prepare together for the evening’s festivities.

  “That’s rather an odd request, don’t you think?” Sam asked as he read the missive over her shoulder.

  Violet folded the note and tossed it next to the vase. “Perhaps, but it could be that she is just seeking friendship. I feel pity for her, so young and naive, and now set to marry a much older man who is the toast of the world. She must be overwhelmed.”

  As she began putting together a bag of items for clothing herself that evening, Sam said, “Since I will obviously not be able to accompany you to the ball tonight—a fact I find most distressing since I looked forward to making a grand entry with you—I suggest that while you are with the future Madame de Lesseps that I return to the Austrian ship and wrap Dorn’s body. Then I’ll meet you at the palace later.”

  Violet bit down on the No! that immediately bubbled up. After all, she was the undertaker and should supervise any funerary activities. Sam was experienced in death as it related to war, but he had not properly managed a corpse on his own, and—

  She stopped. All Sam was asking to do was to wrap a corpse. Women did it for their relatives all the time. What he proposed to do was rational and easily accomplished and did not require Violet’s presence. Moreover, the sailors aboard Viribus Unitis already recognized Sam and surely would not stop him, even if the emperor was back on board and preparing for the evening himself.

  “I think that is a perfect idea, and I thank you for doing it, but don’t let Harry know that you’re instructing me or I’ll never hear the end of it,” she said, referring to her business partner at Morgan Undertaking, Harry Blundell.

  When Violet left their tent to head up to de Lesseps’s villa, Sam was whistling a contented tune softly to himself. At least there was one thing to be happy about on this trip.

  

  Louise-Hélène’s quarters inside the villa were befitting of a queen. Commanding a full half of the villa’s second floor, with the other half occupied by de Lesseps, her suite of rooms boasted herringboned olive wood floors and gilded moldings. Exquisite crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings, fringed floor-to-ceiling draperies blocked out what were surely blistering summer suns, and illusionary paintings on the walls and ceiling stunned the eye. The furniture looked to be exact copies from Versailles. Dominating the sleeping chamber was a massive carved poster bed, awash in embroidered coverings and hangings.

  Louise-Hélène seemed very tiny and insignificant surrounded by such grandeur.

  “Ah, Madame Harper, you are most welcome.” The young woman made her way across the large expanse of floor in her receiving room, and took both of Violet’s hands eagerly in hers. She was in the beginning stages of preparation, and wore a long, flowing robe, while her presumably wild mass of hair was bundled up under a turban. “We shall enjoy each other’s company, and Isabelle will help us both.”

  Isabelle held a silk taffeta gown of muted teal. A vision of loveliness, the gown featured a lace panel inset and flared sleeves with matching black lace encircling the elbows and frothing at the ends. It was spectacular, and would be lovely with Louise-Hélène’s coloring. Violet’s own dress, of emerald green with a pale green overlay drawn up along the hem and edged in simple cream lace, did not compare in the least to the sheer, stunning beauty of Louise-Hélène’s gown. Violet was happy to see that the other woman would be able to make a grand entrance dressed so magnificently.

  Of course, who knew what Eugénie would be wearing
this evening to dwarf every other minor planet to her brilliantly blazing sun?

  While Violet unpacked her things, Isabelle went to work on her mistress. The undertaker became painfully aware that Julie had a point about Isabelle’s incompetence, for in short order the young woman dropped a set of combs, stuck her mistress with a pin, and dumped talc on the floor.

  Louise-Hélène seemed oblivious to Isabelle’s shortcomings, though. As Violet waited her turn and watched the proceedings, she realized that Isabelle didn’t seem incompetent as much as she seemed nervous. Certainly tonight’s culminating event would be enough to set any lady’s maid on edge as she attempted to make her mistress the most glittering woman in attendance, but Julie had observed Isabelle’s stumblings prior to this evening.

  “Do you know what would be a lovely amusement, Madame Harper? Some Turkish sand coffee. Have you had it yet? Non? I have developed a taste for it very quickly—ah! oh!—since my arrival in Egypt.” Isabelle was tugging mercilessly on a knot in her mistress’s hair.

  Momentarily breaking free from her maid’s ministrations, Louise-Hélène pulled a bell rope dangling nearby. After a few minutes, no servant had shown up, so Louise-Hélène rang again. When that didn’t produce the desired result, either, she looked wistfully at Violet. “Might I intrude upon your good nature . . .” She let the request dangle.

  Violet nodded. “Of course, mademoiselle.” Violet would happily seek out a tray of coffee in order to avoid watching any more of Isabelle’s torments.

  As Violet walked down the staircase to the lower level to seek out a house servant, she heard arguing voices beneath her. One of them sounded like Pasha. She looked around and saw no one anywhere.

  Did she dare?

  The argument was increasing in volume, so Violet was able to reach the bottom of the staircase without her footsteps being heard. She glanced around again, feeling for all the world like a guilty little child trying to sneak candy away from the kitchen. On tiptoe, she crept up to the door from which the voices were emanating and put her ear up to it, wondering what she would say if a servant happened to enter the passageway at this very moment.