Covert in Cairo, page 12
“Care for a cuppa?” I held out one of the teacups on its saucer.
“How delightful.” Lady Evelyn took the cup and saucer. “I thought you’d left.”
“May I join you?” I sat my cup and saucer on the table across from her.
“Of course.” She gestured for me to pull up a chair.
“Before you think me too kind,” I sat down, “I have an ulterior motive.”
“An ulterior motive.” Her green eyes danced, and a smile lit up her face. “Do tell.”
“Late last night, I saw you leave the hotel on camelback with Mr. Carter.” I took a sip of my tea and watched her reaction from over the rim of the cup.
Her upper lip trembled, and she looked as if she might cry. The change in her countenance was as sudden as an August storm. I’d upset the girl. Espionage was a cruel business.
“I know Mr. Carter lied about his whereabouts…” I softened my tone. “On the night of Jean-Baptiste Lorrain’s murder.” I didn’t take my eyes off the girl.
“Oh, no.” She flushed. “Not Carter. He’s the best of the best.”
The best of the best what? Liars? Murderers? Seducers of young women?
“What were you and Mr. Carter doing riding off into the desert last night?” I kept my voice strong but steady. “Did you stop at Monsieur Lorrain’s dig?” I couldn’t bring myself to ask if she’d joined Mr. Carter in attacking the two men in the tomb.
“No.” She sat up very straight in her chair. “No. No. No.”
“No what?” In my sleep-deprived state, the girl was starting to try my patience.
“No, we didn’t stop at Monsieur Lorrain’s dig.” She fingered the magazine, bending one edge of the cover back and forth. “We went to my father’s dig.” She stared down at the table, still working on the magazine cover. “Carter is teaching me to be an archeologist.” The corner fell off the magazine cover. “Please don’t tell my father. He doesn’t approve. Or I should say my mother doesn’t approve and therefore my father won’t let me.”
“Why ever not?” I took a sip and looked at her over the edge of my cup. If Mr. Carter wasn’t at the tomb, then who attacked Agent Relish and Fredricks?
“Proper young ladies don’t dig in the dirt,” she said in a mocking tone. “Papa wouldn’t care if it weren’t for Mama.”
Ridiculous. Although I was not fond of dirt myself. “Young ladies can do anything young men can do.” I tapped the table with my finger. “Anything worth doing.”
“I know.” She shook her head. “My mother doesn’t realize it’s the twentieth century.”
“Still, a young woman should be careful.” Women’s equality was one thing. A woman’s virtue was another. And riding off in the middle of the night unchaperoned. Really.
She pouted. “Even Papa says I’d make a crack archeologist.” When talking about her papa, her countenance changed. The girl was absolutely in awe of him. “Papa says I’m a natural.”
“Yes, well. Be that as it may…” As much as I’d have liked to continue discussing the virtue of women’s equality, I had a murder to solve. “Just to clarify, Mr. Carter was with you on the night of Jean-Baptiste’s murder. And he was with you last night, too.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Every night after Papa goes to bed, Carter takes me out to the dig and gives me a lesson.”
“An archeology lesson?”
“Of course. What else?” She suppressed a smile.
I didn’t dare say what else a man might teach a girl in the heat of the night. I had been married once, after all.
“Carter and I are friends.” She sighed. “He takes me seriously and treats me like a person with a brain instead of just a pretty skirt or a child.”
“I see.” What of Mr. Carter’s stolen antiquities? Obviously Lady Evelyn wasn’t privy to that side of the man. “Have you ever seen Mr. Carter engage in suspicious behavior? Selling antiquities, perhaps?”
“Goodness, no!” Her cheeks darkened. “Carter is the most honest man I know. He believes the treasures of Egypt belong to the people of Egypt… and to all the world.” She sounded smitten. “Carter insists these historical marvels cannot be owned by anyone.”
I drained my cup. Should I believe Fredrick Fredricks or Lady Evelyn? I shook my head.
Fiona, don’t be an idiot. Of course Fredricks is unreliable. He’d tricked me from beginning to end. Whatever was I thinking even entertaining his nonsense? Anyway, there was something about Lady Evelyn’s sincerity and innocence that made me believe her. Her tenderness with the wounded soldiers. Her admiration for her father. The openness of her countenance. Yes. Lady Evelyn was telling the truth. I knew it in my gut.
If Carter had an alibi for Jean-Baptiste’s murder and the attack on Agent Relish and Fredricks, then who was the culprit? And why did Fredricks claim it was Carter who hit him? Come to think of it… I’d asked Fredricks if his attacker was Howard Carter before he volunteered it. He only repeated what I’d said.
“Carter would never be involved in anything untoward.” She pushed her tea away. “It’s outrageous that you’d even suggest such a thing.”
“What about your midnight trysts?” I raised my eyebrows. After all, any man who took a seventeen-year-old girl out alone after dark couldn’t be a saint.
She pulled a diary from her bag. “I told you. He’s teaching me archeology.” Her indignant tone played up her refined accent. She snatched up the diary, opened it, and started reading. “November 15. Carter taught me how to use a trowel and brushes so as not to damage artifacts. November 18. Carter gave me a lesson on the Rosetta Stone, which is inscribed with three versions of a Memphis decree: ancient Greek, Demotic, and ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. November 19. Carter brought me to—”
“Alright, alright.” I held up my hand. “I get the point.”
“If only my parents would allow me… then I wouldn’t have to sneak out.” She reached her pale hand out to me. “Please, you won’t tell my father? Promise me.”
“We’ll see about that.” I patted her hand. “After I corroborate your account with Mr. Carter.”
“And if he corroborates, then you won’t tell on me?” she pleaded, her eyes welling with tears.
What could I say? I nodded.
“Promise?” Her voice trembled.
Sigh. “Alright. I promise.”
After several more reassurances that I wouldn’t tell her father, Lady Evelyn went back to her volunteer work.
I was convinced she was telling the truth. Mr. Carter was neither a murderer nor a thief, even if his midnight archeology lessons were inappropriate.
I returned to Fredricks’s empty cot. It was already occupied by another injured soldier. Fredricks had flown the coop. At least this time he hadn’t tied me up and stolen my clothes like he had in Paris after he’d pretended to be paralyzed from the waist down for months on end, biding his time in a Parisian prison. He was a tricky devil.
I vowed then and there to put him back in prison if it killed me. Fredricks had bested me for the last time.
12
THE GAI
By the time I got back to Shepheard’s, it was mid-afternoon. The room I shared with Kitty was empty. Two single beds were neatly made. My side of the room was spartan and tidy. Kitty’s bed was a whirlwind of frocks, hats, boots, animal furs, and magazines mixed with Poppy’s paraphernalia. They must have left in a hurry.
Who knew what the girl and her dog were getting up to? Maybe they were out gathering chemicals for some new forensic experiment.
I was almost tempted to tidy up her bed. Almost.
My stomach grumbled and my head hurt. I hadn’t slept or eaten in eighteen hours. In the war between my head and my stomach, the need for sleep won out over the need for food. Resigned to my own limitations, I pulled the heavy satin curtains shut to block out the bright afternoon sun, stripped down to my knickers, and then crawled into bed. I fought back tears of exhaustion.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I stared up at a carving in the ceiling. The goddess Hathor with the face of a wise woman and the ears of a cow. I’d learned from my guidebook that Hathor was the goddess of fertility. Too late for me on that front…
I awoke to the smell of chopped liver. Poppy lay panting next to my pillow. Nothing like dog breath first thing in the morning. Was it morning? I had no idea how long I’d slept.
“Stop it.” My attempts to shield my face from her wet tongue failed.
The little beast yipped with excitement when I sat up in bed.
“What is your dog doing on my bed?” It was bad enough having to share a hotel room with the little creature. But sharing my bed? Outrageous.
Reading the latest issue of Vogue, Kitty lounged fully clothed on her smartly made bed. As if she was preparing for a photography session herself, her frock was neatly arranged around her folded legs with only little pink slippers peeking out from the hem.
“She’s making sure you’re still alive.” Kitty dropped the magazine on her nightstand. “You’ve been asleep since yesterday.” She swung her feet around and sat on the edge of her bed.
I hadn’t stayed in bed so long since my divorce from Andrew, when I cried in bed for a week. What day is it? Crocodile Lake. The canal.
“Good grief.” I rubbed my eyes. “The canal. Is it alright?”
“Yes. it’s fine.” She came over and snatched Poppy up into her arms. “While you were sleeping, I interviewed Carter.”
“Mr. Carter!” I sat up straighter. “What did he say?”
“I cornered him after dinner last night and asked about his late-night outing with Lady Evelyn.” She gave me a sly smile. “Do you know what he said?” She stood next to my bed, staring down at me.
“He’s training Evelyn to be an archeologist.” I stretched and yawned. My stomach growled. I hoped I hadn’t missed breakfast.
Kitty’s smile faded. “How did you know?” She rubbed Poppy’s furry chin.
Now it was my turn to flash a sly smile. “I questioned Lady Evelyn yesterday at the hospital.”
Together, we confirmed that their stories matched. Lady Evelyn was telling the truth. And Mr. Carter had an alibi for both Jean-Baptiste’s murder and the attack on Fredricks and Agent Relish.
Kitty flopped on her own bed and held Poppy up like a doll. “Do you know who the murderer is, Poppy-poo?”
I crawled out of bed and padded toward the lav. “I’ll just have a wash.”
“Hop it.” Kitty sat up and then snapped her fingers. Poppy jumped down and sat to attention. “Or we’ll miss breakfast.”
Poppy barked. Obviously “breakfast” was one of the few words in her limited vocabulary.
“Righto.” I grabbed a summer dress from the wardrobe. What a relief. The canal hadn’t been blown up. Fredricks and his trickery. As I passed the dressing table, I snatched up my handbag and pulled out the purloined chemise, and then disappeared into the lav.
I’d found the lavatory to be a safe haven for the privacy needed to ponder. Except, of course, when certain young ladies tied me to the toilet.
With its ornately carved ceiling and a beautiful Moorish arch around the bathtub, our lav exuded luxury. The checkered tiles on the floor clashed with the mosaic wallpaper and created a disorienting, but not unpleasant, effect. Shepheard’s was one of the first hotels in the world to have private lavatories. A fact I appreciated, given the time constraints on my ablutions this morning.
A small table near the sink was overflowing with Kitty’s make-up and whatnots. My own necessities were relegated to one corner of the table, and even then were on the verge of being pushed off.
Splashing water on my face, I rehearsed my list of suspects.
If not Mr. Carter, then who?
Lady Enid? General Clayton? Mori Al-Madie? Frigo? Another archeologist?
Fredricks claimed they’d discovered Mr. Carter was dealing in stolen antiquities. Or did he? Come to think of it, I suggested Mr. Carter and he simply agreed.
Of course, he was lying! And yet… what if someone was dealing in stolen antiquities and Jean-Baptiste and Agent Relish were on to him? Or her?
For all I knew, Fredricks himself was involved in the illegal antiquities trade. I wouldn’t put anything past him. But how would selling treasures help the Germans? Fredricks’s every move was designed to aid our enemies… even his flirting and preening.
Back at Ravenswick Abbey, he’d poisoned the Dowager Countess for turning against Germany and siding with Britain. In Paris, he’d poisoned Countess Pavlova for being a double agent. In Vienna, he’d conspired with Count Czernin to kill poor Elise, the royal nanny. And in New York, he’d connived to assist the suffragettes in hopes they’d win the vote and their pacificism would get America out of the war. Now he was in Cairo to persuade the Bedouins to turn against the British—or so he said.
He wasn’t so much in love with Germany as he hated the British for what they’d done to his family during the Boer Wars in South Africa. I didn’t blame him on that score. I shuddered to think. The British army had executed his entire family as he—only a boy at the time—watched from a nearby shed. Ghastly.
Of course, no one could prove any of it. Fredricks was always on the margins of these conspiracies, orchestrating from the sidelines, never getting his own hands dirty.
I stared at myself in the looking glass. Crikey, I looked a sight. The dark circles under my eyes and sallowness of my cheeks gave the impression of a ghoulish Harlequin. I needed a long soak in the tub followed by loads of face paint and a darn good wig.
I turned on the tap and then sat on the edge of the bathtub, examining the hem of the chemise.
“Hurry up,” Kitty yelled from the other room.
“It’s going to take a while to get presentable.” I dabbed at my face with a hand towel.
“Vanity won’t fill your stomach.”
Poppy barked in agreement.
Sigh. I’d have to settle for the darn good wig.
Giving up on the bath, I pulled on my frock, pinched my cheeks, and adjusted my attitude. I’d have to face the day “as is.”
Leash in hand, Kitty stood by the door, waiting for me. Poppy wagged and whirled.
“What do you make of this?” I held out the chemise.
Kitty fingered the hem. “Arabic.”
I nodded.
“After breakfast, a stop at the Arab Bureau is in order.” I stuffed the chemise back into my handbag, and then tugged on my favorite blonde bob.
Clifford was waiting for us in the breakfast room, which was packed with noisy soldiers and a few tourists. Below the din of the crowd, a quartet played Christmas songs.
Of course. I’d forgotten it was almost Christmas.
The natural light streaming through giant stained-glass windows, along with the music, made for a cheery scene. If only I had the energy to enjoy it.
Anyway, how could I enjoy Christmas when I still had a murder to solve, not to mention the death of a British agent, possibly at my own hand?
Agent Relish’s last words came back to me. Romeo. The last act. I had to get to the next performance of Romeo and Juliet. The key was in the last act.
My stomach growled. The performance wasn’t until eight o’clock tonight. I needed sustenance. Nothing like a nice strong cuppa to revive body and soul and fortify one’s wits.
Among the diners, the adventurous nibbled on local delicacies and everyone else ate recreations of exactly what they enjoyed back home. A week ago, I would have counted myself among the latter. Now, I wondered if the stranger on the train—aka Fredricks—was right about the British. We try to impose our own image on everything around us, to the detriment of the world and our own imaginations.
“About time you gals showed up.” Clifford beamed as the waiter delivered his full English.
I ordered toast with marmalade and tea with a side of kunafa. Kitty ordered sweet rice pudding. Pudding for breakfast. My mother would not have approved. But if this bloody war had taught me anything, it was to appreciate the sweetness of the moment.
“Sorry, old thing.” Clifford tucked into his baked beans. “Don’t want my breakfast to get cold.” Scooping up a spoonful of eggs, he smiled. “You know, while you were sleeping it off, I went out to the Gezira Sporting Club. Marvelous place…”
Waiting for my toast, I pulled out my notebook. When I opened it, I was greeted with the notation “HG at GAI 11,” the abbreviation I’d found in Jean-Baptiste’s journal. Decoding this cipher was another key to finding the murderer. So many clues, so few solutions.
Tuning out Clifford’s prattle about blood sports at the precious hunting club, I studied the code. “HG at GAI 11,” I said more to myself than anyone else. HG at GAI 11.
Who was HG? Who was Jean-Baptiste meeting? What—or where—was GAI? Eleven o’clock would put the meeting time after Jean-Baptiste had left the ball and before he was found dead in the tomb. If HG was someone’s initials, then HG most likely was the last person to see him alive, and very possibly the person who had delivered the fatal blow.
The emptiness in my stomach made it hard to concentrate.
Finally, the waiter delivered my breakfast. As slow as black treacle, one by one, he laid out the teacups, the teapot, the toast, the pudding, the silverware, and a tiny pitcher of milk.
Come on, lad. I’m starving.
My mouth watered in anticipation.
In between bites of toast, I told Clifford and Kitty about my run-in with Fredricks at the hospital. “So, the mystery man on the railway was Fredricks all along.” I broke off a bit of toast and held it out to Poppy, who gleefully wolfed it down.
“By Jove, I knew I recognized him.” Clifford shook his head. “Why in god’s name did he wear that ridiculous disguise? We’re pals. We hunted together in the Serengeti.” He chuckled. “I remember once when Fredricks chased a water buffalo all the way—”
“Yes, dear.” I reached over and patted his arm. I had to stop him before he launched into one of his longwinded hunting stories. “Fredricks is not what he seems.”
“We’ve known each other for ages—” Clifford pouted like a scolded child. “He’s not such a bad sort.”
