Chapter 6
DAPHNE’S MIND WASN’T AT ITS SHARPEST. SHE’D lain awake last night straining to hear what was happening elsewhere in the guardhouse and berating herself for losing her temper with the police. If they beat or tortured Mr. Carsington, it would be her fault.
Her beastly, unwomanly temper. Five years of Virgil’s gentle reproofs had not helped subdue it. On the contrary, the reproofs only made her angrier.
Mr. Carsington did not mind her temper at all. Exciting, he called it—though she might have got them both killed.
She looked up at him as he wrestled with her hair and the turban.
He was…very much alive.
She was acutely aware of the rise and fall of his chest, of his breath on her face, and of his dark gaze focused on her head. And of his hands, those capable hands…so reassuring during the long, dark journey through the pyramid. And so dangerous, making her want more, making her impatient…to be touched.
Her heart began to race.
She swatted his hands away. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll wear a shawl.”
She hurried out of the room and walked straight into Leena. Daphne glared at her and continued on. When they were out of earshot she said, “Have you been eavesdropping—listening at the door?”
“Yes,” Leena said, not in the least abashed. “But his voice is so low, all I hear is a growl. Is he making love to you?”
Daphne hurried on. “Certainly not.”
Leena followed. “But your hair is down.”
“I had a temper fit and threw off my turban,” Daphne said. “I need to change. I’m going to the suq.”
“Now?” Leena said, baffled.
They entered Daphne’s bedroom. She pulled a pair of women’s Turkish trousers out of the cupboard and found a shirt. She tore off the clothes she’d been wearing since yesterday and threw them on the floor. “Burn them,” she told the maid.
“I do not understand you,” Leena said. “Why do you not send me to shop while you stay and let him take off your clothes? What is the good of being a great lady if you do the work of servants and take no pleasure?”
Daphne went to the washbasin. While hastily washing, she reminded Leena that this was no time for pleasure. Not to mention that she was the daughter of an English clergyman! And the widow of another!
“Yes, but they are dead, and you are alive,” Leena said. She gave her mistress a towel. “And this man—y’ Allah! You saw how he lifted big Wadid straight off the floor.” She pressed her plump hands to her plumper bosom. “So strong. So handsome. I saw how you looked at him. You—”
“My brother is missing,” Daphne cut in tightly. “People have been murdered.”
“Yes, but you have not.” Leena helped her into the loose shirt. “I would like to be in a dark place with such a man. I would not hurry out.”
Leena’s moral principles left a great deal to be desired. But she was intelligent, multilingual, and highly efficient. While she lectured her mistress about missed opportunities—and life’s brevity and unpredictability—the maid’s hands worked as busily as her tongue.
In a very short time, Daphne returned to the qa’a, Cairo’s answer to an English drawing room or salon.
Mr. Carsington studied her for a good while, his dark gaze traveling slowly from the head veil Leena had pinned onto a cloth cap, down over the cloak that covered the thin shirt and most of the trousers.
His hands might as well have made the journey.
She could imagine the touch, practically feel it. Her skin came alive, and she could scarcely stand still.
He tipped his head one way, then the other. Then, “I give up,” he said. “Who are you this time?”
A mad, bad, wild girl.
No, a woman who knew how to subdue her worst impulses.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Everyone will stare at you. I’ll simply blend into the background.”
“I think not,” he said.
She looked down at herself, at the body she’d never understood and had been taught not to trust. “I was trying not to look foreign.”
“It’s more useful to look fetching,” he said. “To dazzle Anaz into revealing all his secrets.”
“It doesn’t matter how useful it would be,” she said. “I can’t do it.”
“Can you not?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I am not that sort of—that—” He regarded her steadily, his dark eyes unreadable. Her heart pumped overfast. Her fogged mind thickened. “I’m not like the women you’ve met in Society…and the other places,” she said. “I’m bookish.”
“Reading improves the mind,” he said, and there was no mockery in his eyes.
“But not the personality,” she said. “I’m not fascinating. I’m tactless and cross and stubborn.” And worse. What she must admit embarrassed her. The battle within, which she could never speak of aloud, shamed her more. She was beastly hot in consequence, and her face, she knew, was scarlet.
But Daphne was nothing if not persevering. “It isn’t at all the sort of thing men like,” she said. “We must find another way of wringing Mr. Anaz’s secrets from him.”
“Certainly,” he said. “I’ll wring him if you wish.” The oddly penetrating expression vanished as though it had never been, and he was once more the cheerful blockhead she’d first supposed him to be.
Her tension eased a very little bit.
She had grown so used to being ignored or, when she wasn’t ignored, earning some man’s disapproval or disappointment. She’d learnt how to steel herself against these reactions. They didn’t hurt her anymore.
With him she was all at sea, and at the mercy of the storm within.
She drew the veil over her face. “We’d better go,” she said. She turned to Leena, who stood in the doorway looking both disapproving and disappointed. “If anyone asks,” Daphne told her, “we’ve gone to buy a rug.”
VANNI ANAZ WAS a former mercenary of unknown origins—Armenian, Albanian, Syrian, Greek, no one could say for sure. But everyone knew he’d settled long ago in Egypt, where he conducted a profitable trade in rugs, drugs, and antiquities. His shop, Daphne told Mr. Carsington on the way, was more like those of Europe than the typical cupboard-sized dukkan of the main shopping quarters.
The typical shop, seven feet high at most and three or four feet wide, could hold no more than three customers at a time. They would sit and smoke and bargain half the day over a length of cloth or a copper pot. The shop floors stood two or three feet above street level, making them even with the stone bench built against the front for the inconvenience of passersby trying to squeeze through Cairo’s narrow streets. These stone or brick obstructions were called mastabas, Daphne explained, and it was upon them that business was transacted.
Anaz’s shop was more like a private house. One went inside to view the rugs, and negotiated with the merchant while seated upon the divan.
Not on view when they entered was Mr. Anaz’s collection of articles from tombs he and his agents had plundered.
“He is regarded as a reputable merchant,” Daphne whispered to Mr. Carsington while they waited for the rug dealer to appear. “But the word reputable is more elastic in Egypt than in England. I think it most disreputable to make up stories about hieroglyphic guides to a pharaoh’s treasure.”
“You said the papyrus contained royal symbols,” Mr. Carsington said. “A pharaoh is at least mentioned, I take it?”
She nodded. “A king’s name is enclosed in an oval called a cartouche. Miles’s papyrus had two. The simpler contained a circle, a scarab beetle, three short vertical lines, and a shallow bowl or basket.”
She frowned at the paneled door to the back rooms. “Is the man never coming? Dishonest persons might make off with half the shop while he dallies.”
“Maybe he has a woman back there,” Mr. Carsington said.
Daphne looked up at him. “Do you never think of anything else?”
“I try to put myself in the other fellow’s shoes,” he said. “I ask myself what I’d be doing. Or what I’d most like to be doing.”
He looked down straight and deep into her eyes, and down that midnight gaze took her, into deep waters. She couldn’t catch her breath or find her balance. Her mind went dark and her hand came up and she almost, almost caught hold of him.
A noise from the back of the shop broke the spell.
He looked away toward the sound. She did, too, sick with dismay. Lack of sleep was the trouble, she tried to tell herself. Fatigue sapped the will and the mental faculties. But a small, vicious, inner voice mocked her: Sleep won’t cure what’s wrong with you.
“Mr. Anaz,” Mr. Carsington called out.
He did not shout, but his deep voice seemed to expand and intensify. Such a voice, Daphne thought, might have easily commanded armies or instantly silenced the drunken masses gathered in Rome’s Coliseum. It called her to the present and brought her sharply alert.
It did not bring the shopkeeper running, however.
Mr. Carsington’s expression hardened. He moved to the inner door and pushed it open.
“Confound it,” he said, and added with a warning gesture to Daphne, “don’t move.”
She ignored the warning and hurried to the door. He put up his arm, but she pushed it away and looked at what he tried to hide.
Vanni Anaz lay on the floor, staring wide-eyed up at them. A red line snaked across his throat, and a pool of blood spread under his head.
RUPERT DID NOT wait to find out whether she’d faint or not but drew his knife and moved swiftly across the room. He’d seen a door curtain flutter as he entered. The killer couldn’t have gone far.
Rupert couldn’t hear the lurker, but he sensed his presence, an awareness that grew stronger as he reached the curtained doorway. He pushed the curtain to one side—and promptly retreated.
A large stone figure crashed to the floor, exactly where he would have been had his instincts failed him.
He heard Mrs. Pembroke shout, “Don’t!” as he leapt through the doorway and onto the retreating figure. His target went down, but twisted free, and started up onto his feet. He kicked Rupert, who grabbed his foot. His opponent tried to shake him off. With a hard yank, Rupert unbalanced him. The man tried rolling away, kicking and thrashing. Rupert slowed him with an elbow to the head, and soon had him pinned down, a knee pressing on the small of his back.
“Look out!” Mrs. Pembroke cried.
Rupert ducked, and the missile caught him near the temple. He saw stars. He saw, too, the other villain bearing down on him, knife upraised. Rupert flung himself at him. They went down, grappling with each other while falling pottery crashed about them.
Another figure appeared from nowhere, and another voice called out in Arabic. While Rupert knocked away one assailant, he saw out of the corner of his eye Mrs. Pembroke pluck something from the floor and leap into the fray.
He couldn’t tell what it was, hadn’t time. But he heard a yelp, and one of the attackers stumbled away, turbanless, clutching his head. Holding a large object aloft, she went after him, and the fellow ran. Then something struck the back of Rupert’s head. The world went black with flashing lights. The ground opened up under his feet, and down he went.
The lights went out.
THE LIGHT CAME back slowly. Rupert smelled frankincense and ambergris and something else his brain called she. A feminine-scented softness pillowed his head. A pulse beat later he realized it was a woman’s bosom. The pleasant stroking against his cheek was a soft, smooth, lady’s hand. Hers. The exotic fragrance was hers, too. Incense. Goddess scent.
“Mr. Carsington, you must speak to me,” she said.
He’d rather not speak. He’d rather stay exactly where he was, pillowed against her soft bosom and inhaling her scent while she gently stroked his cheek.
“Mr. Carsington.” The hand left off stroking to pat his cheek, with growing impatience.
Remembering the lady had a short temper, he knew the gentle pats would shortly escalate to slaps. He opened his eyes and met her green gaze, where anxiety mingled with vexation.
“Where am I?” he said, though he knew the answer perfectly well. It was a delaying tactic. Her bosom made a perfect pillow. He did not want to leave it.
“On the floor of Anaz’s storeroom,” she said. “You seem to have fainted.”
“Fainted?” he echoed incredulously. “I was knocked in the head. I ought to know. It’s happened often enough.”
“That would explain a great deal,” she said. She started to rise. Aware she would have no compunction about letting his poor, battered head thump to the floor, he quickly sat up.
He looked about him. Broken crockery and small human figures littered the floor. Near him lay a statue, about a foot tall, of a falcon. He picked it up, testing the weight. It was made of polished black stone, and it was heavy. With this she’d attacked the villain.
“The falcon is an incarnation of the god Horus,” she said. “It was the nearest object at hand that would do any damage. Those little figures are sweet, but they’re useless as weapons.”
The painted wooden figures were like the ones on the shelf in her house. He picked one up. “What are they? Dolls? Sacred idols?”
“No one knows,” she said. “These, along with broken bits of pottery and mummy, are what one most usually finds in the tombs. Robbers made off with the treasures eons ago.”
“So many secrets,” he said. He tucked the figure into the breast pocket of his coat and stood. “It seems Vanni Anaz will keep all of his until Judgment Day.”
“Not all,” Mrs. Pembroke said. “While you were blindly charging after villains—without the least idea how many of them there were—I stopped to ascertain whether the man was still alive. He was. Before expiring he said, ‘Cherchez Ramesses.’ That, at least, is what I thought he said.” Her voice was brittle.
It was then Rupert noticed the dark stains on her cloak. She’d probably knelt to help the dying man as she’d done Rupert. She hadn’t swooned or shrieked or run away. She had burst into the storeroom, snatched up a weapon, and fought the villains alongside him.
It was a stupidly brave thing to do.
Strange things happened inside him—a sudden rush of feeling he hadn’t a name for. Lust was involved, naturally, since he was a man, and it would want far more than a few bloodstains on her clothing to make that go away.
Lust, though, was a hanger-on, an old friend as natural as breathing. The thing it hung upon was as strange and puzzling as the wooden figure tucked inside his coat.
He didn’t understand the feeling and didn’t try to. He did understand that she was upset. She had reason.
“That was rather a lot of dead men in only two days,” he said, starting toward her.
She held up a hand. The tremble was so slight he might have missed it had he not been so acutely riveted upon her.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t even think of comforting me.”
Even for him it was instinctive. He knew how to hold a woman and let her cry on his shoulder while he gritted his teeth and endured the weeping. He hated it, but he could do it. Not that he would hate holding her. It was the weeping he could do without.
“You’ve had a shock,” he said. “You can’t be in the habit of finding men with their throats cut.”
“I don’t want comforting,” she said. “I want a bath. And a cup of tea. Those two, in any order. But first…” She closed her eyes, shook her head, opened her eyes again. “We’ll have to notify the authorities.”
“Have your wits wandered?” he said. “You’ve blood on your clothes. You pointed out, recollect, how fantastically stupid the local police are. They’re bound to think we killed the rug merchant.”
“Running away will appear a good deal more incriminating,” she said.
Rupert, too, wanted a bath—and a drink of something stronger than tea. He did not want to go to the guardhouse again and watch her argue with brainless bullies. He couldn’t calm anybody down or lighten the proceedings with humor, because he didn’t know the language. And he most certainly did not want to spend another night separated from her in a jail, unable to protect her.
He didn’t want Beechey to come to release them, and to decide that perhaps, after all, it was not such a good idea to assign Rupert Carsington to look after Miles Archdale’s sister. Rupert did not want the secretary to suggest to Mr. Salt that perhaps it would be better, after all, to allow a civilian volunteer like Lord Noxley to assist the lady. Perhaps, after all, it would be wisest to banish Mr. Carsington to the desert, where, with any luck, a three-hundred-ton obelisk would fall on him.
Most of all, Rupert didn’t want to reveal any of these thoughts to her.
He donned an amiably stupid expression and said, “As you wish, madam. You’re in charge of thinking.”
WITHIN AN HOUR, Mr. Beechey, the police, the district sheik, and a translator had gathered in the shop. At present they stood in the front room. This, apart from the bloodstains on the floor, appeared undamaged. The storerooms beyond, however, had been ransacked—perhaps, Rupert suggested, while one villain kept Anaz busy in front.
“Maybe they made too much noise,” he theorized, “and when Anaz went to investigate, the first villain cut his throat.”
When this was translated, the sheik frowned and moved away to examine the corpse. When he was done, the body was taken away.
Meanwhile Beechey quietly let Rupert know that the situation could become most unpleasant. Vanni Anaz was not one of hundreds of insignificant Egyptian merchants; he was an important foreigner who’d performed numerous services for Muhammad Ali and for whom the pasha had, consequently, a great affection. He was, moreover, the third person to get himself murdered in Mrs. Pembroke’s and Mr. Carsington’s vicinity in two days.
Fortunately, Sheik Salim proved to be a more thoughtful and logical character than the police. Having studied the body, he went on to examine the storerooms and question people in neighboring shops.
He came back to report that neighbors had seen men running from the rear of the shop, one runner bareheaded.
An adult non-European male not wearing a turban was as rare and strange a sight on the Cairo streets as an adult male wearing one would be on those of London.
The sheik concluded that all the evidence accorded with the explanation the “learned gentleman”—meaning Rupert!—had given.
It was Mrs. Pembroke who’d explained, to be sure of a correct translation. But when she spoke, the sheik looked at Rupert, not her, and answered Rupert, not her. She might as well have been in Northumberland.
Rupert was sure it vexed her—even he found it provoking—but whatever she felt, she hid it well. Or perhaps she was simply too weary or too shaken to care.
At least the sheik had paid attention. He told them they were free to go. He would have the police comb the metropolis for a man missing a turban and sporting a large lump on the side of his head.
“Tell them to look for a fellow showing symptoms of concussion,” Rupert said. “Mrs. Pembroke gave him a healthy thump, and the statue was solid stone.”
Beechey sent a dour look his way, but said nothing until later, when they set out. Night had long since fallen, and they were following Mrs. Pembroke’s entourage of police and servants to her house.
The secretary slowed his pace and said, “I had thought I’d made it clear that Mrs. Pembroke was to be shielded from embarrassment and distress at all costs.”
“She doesn’t like being shielded,” Rupert said. “She objects most strongly to being treated like a child.”
“That is no excuse for you to treat her as you would one of your sporting cronies,” said the secretary. “Did it not occur to you that other villains might have concealed themselves nearby, and that you should have summoned assistance immediately? While you were leaping headlong into an ambush you should have foreseen, she might have been attacked. She might have been killed or worse.”
Rupert came to a halt. “What could be worse than her being killed, do you think?”
“I thought I had communicated to you Mr. Salt’s opinions and wishes in the matter of Mr. Archdale’s disappearance,” Beechey said. “I thought I used easily comprehended terms.”
“You did,” Rupert said. “I told Mrs. Pembroke about it in much the same way.”
“You told—” After a pause, Beechey went on, his voice strained, “You cannot have revealed our suspicions about the—ahem—places of dubious repute. This is one of your jokes, I daresay. Ha ha.”
“She said her brother was not in a brothel or opium den and I was on no account to go to such places looking for him,” Rupert said. “I obeyed, as I was obliged to do. You did tell me I wasn’t to upset her, did you not?”
There followed the kind of furious silence with which Rupert was more than familiar.
It was not the first time he’d rendered a listener speechless, and it would not be the last. They walked on without talking while Rupert wondered how much time he had before Salt sent him out to the desert.
THOUGH THE LADY was more than amply protected, Rupert continued with the escort all the way to her house. He remained to watch the assigned guards position themselves at strategic spots about the place, then parted company with Beechey and set out on his own.
It was night, and Rupert was aware that sensible persons did not traverse the Cairo streets after dark. The safe way, however, had never been his favorite direction.
He followed the route he and Mrs. Pembroke had taken two days ago. Though it was night, he found Lord Noxley’s house with no difficulty—apart from repeated halts en route to pacify suspicious policemen, military guardsmen, and porters.
The street was gated and the gate locked, but by now he’d memorized the secret password. The watchman said something foreign, to which Rupert answered, “La ilaha ila-llah.”
He might have to see about language lessons after all, he thought, like it or not. Looking on the bright side, learning Arabic from Mrs. Pembroke had to be pleasanter than learning Greek and Latin from droning schoolmasters.
Eventually, after he’d carefully enunciated the phrases “Message from Mr. Salt” and “British consul” several times, he was admitted to his lordship’s house. This was against the rules, Rupert later discovered. He was in luck, however: his visit coincided with a jealous young woman’s temper tantrum.
The dusky beauty he’d noticed during his previous visit was named Juman. She’d been storming about the portico when she heard him hail the porter. She had Rupert admitted and was soon confiding in him in prettily broken English enlivened with intricate hand motions.
Lord Noxley had bought her in the slave market. Eager to please the handsome foreigner who’d saved her from life with a much older and less attractive owner, she had painstakingly learnt English. Since she was exceedingly handsome as well, his lordship let her please him in other ways, too. As a result, she’d developed expectations—as women so often did, fanciful creatures that they were—of a permanent arrangement, preferably including nuptial rites.
Her hopes were shattered yesterday, when his lordship departed Cairo in search of the English lady’s brother.
The abandoned Juman was still sulking. This was why she’d told the porter that the man from the consulate must be let into the house. This was why she told Rupert all her master’s private business. And this was why she offered to demonstrate the other talents she possessed besides eavesdropping. She was exceedingly talented: it took all of Rupert’s limited store of tact to disentangle himself.
Not until a long time after he’d left Lord Noxley’s abode and was composing himself to sleep in his own lodgings did Rupert wonder why he’d been so unaccommodating. After all, dusky beauties did not fall into one’s lap—literally—every day. When heaven bestowed such gifts, only a churl would decline them. While Rupert was by no means lacking in faults, churlishness was not among them.
It must be a touch of plague, he told himself. Then he turned over and fell asleep. He dreamt of angry green-eyed goddesses in turbans.
WHILE RUPERT WAS dreaming, Ghazi and his men were setting out into the Eastern Desert.
They had found two of the men who’d robbed Vanni Anaz, relieved them of the papyri and other artifacts they’d stolen, and beat them until they revealed what little they knew.
They were mere common thieves hired, Ghazi soon understood, to divert suspicion from Duval by making the previous papyrus theft appear to be one among several, an ordinary crime. Since the thieves knew almost nothing, Ghazi might have let them live. But they’d made a fatal error: they’d panicked and killed Vanni Anaz, a useful and valuable man. Ghazi garroted them.
Based on that interview, he soon found other informants. Within a few hours, Ghazi had all the information he needed.
The kidnappers had set out with their captive in a nondescript boat. The papyrus traveled separately by land. The rendezvous point was a village south of Minya, more than a hundred fifty miles upriver.
Ghazi divided his men accordingly: one group to pursue the kidnappers and another to follow the papyrus. He led the papyrus team. The kidnappers, clearly, were not the most intelligent or efficient of Duval’s underlings. On the other hand, Faruq, who carried the papyrus, was as clear-eyed, cold-blooded, and sharp-witted as Ghazi himself.
Ghazi looked forward to their encounter.