Covert in Cairo, page 5
“Such a brilliant turnout.” Lady Enid glanced around the ballroom and then smiled wistfully. “Such a good cause, too. Poor children orphaned by the war.”
“Indeed.” Gertrude held out her empty glass to Clifford, who happily took it and trotted off for a refill.
The band played a nice waltz. Along with soldiers in their countries’ colors, couples dressed as queens, pharaohs, and sheikhs twirled around the dance floor. It was a lively and invigorating scene. I kept my eye out for La Sultana or the mystery man from the railway carriage—not that I had any reason to think they would be here.
Where was Fredricks? He had to be here. Otherwise, why lure me to Cairo? He couldn’t resist a grand ball… or being the center of attention. He’d show up. I just had to be patient. Unfortunately, patience was not one of my virtues.
Playing waiter, Clifford returned with an entire tray of champagne and passed glasses all around. When the actual waiter appeared, he scowled as he snatched the empty tray out of Clifford’s hands.
I suppressed a giggle when, in full ancient Egyptian regalia and headdress, Clifford escorted Gertrude to the dance floor. Of course, Clifford would pick the prettiest woman in the vicinity—although I very much doubted that Gertrude Bell was anything near a damsel in distress.
Young Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Lorrain appeared out of nowhere and whisked Kitty away to the dance floor. He looked sharp with his dark hair slicked back and wearing full evening kit. Was he too haughty for fancy dress? Or did a nice suit count as a costume for an archeologist? Certainly, when I wore one it did.
Monsieur Lorrain wasn’t the only one not in costume. Mr. Howard Carter, another archeologist, wasn’t wearing fancy dress either—which confirmed my theory about men who dig in the dirt. Shifting from foot to foot in a corner of the room, he looked deuced uncomfortable. I knew the feeling.
Dressed as a pharaoh, General Clayton was a sight. When he came to claim a dance with his wife, I was left quite alone… and not just a little self-conscious about posing as an ancient Egyptian princess. I would have been more comfortable in beard and trousers.
I secreted myself behind a potted fern to better observe the crowd.
An older couple accompanied by a younger woman approached Mr. Carter, who bowed slightly when greeting them. Judging by Mr. Carter’s deferential glances at the older man, this just might be his famous benefactor, Lord Carnarvon. The very chap Clifford had gushed on about meeting at the horse races outside London.
The older woman, whom I took to be Lady Carnarvon, glanced around the room as if looking for someone more important than her husband’s foreman. The young woman at her side stared intently at Mr. Carter, who in turn stole glances at her as the older man carried on an animated, if one-sided, conversation with his foreman.
When the waltz ended, Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Lorrain—with cheerful Kitty on his arm—joined the Carnarvons. Monsieur Lorrain was all smiles. Mr. Carter not so much. In fact, the more Monsieur Lorrain spoke, the redder Mr. Carter’s face became. If only I could read their lips.
Crikey.
Mr. Carter shoved Monsieur Lorrain, who fell back against the wall. Dislodged by the push, Kitty fell back against Monsieur Lorrain. Before the Frenchman could respond, Mr. Carter stomped off, leaving his opponent shaking his curly head and laughing. Obviously, there was no love lost between Mr. Carter and Monsieur Lorrain.
Professional jealousy, perhaps? A fight over a concession? A love triangle? Something even more tawdry? I couldn’t wait to ask Kitty.
No sooner had Monsieur Lorrain dusted himself off than a beautiful young woman dressed as Cleopatra appeared out of the woodwork and began fawning over him. Cleopatra glared at Kitty, who returned the queen’s sour look with a sweet smile. Cleopatra snarled something and Kitty slipped away, apparently not a fan of Cleopatra.
Too bad. I had the uncanny sense I’d seen that woman before.
The forward young woman was caressing the Frenchman’s cheeks. Even from across the room, I could imagine her cooing into his ear.
He didn’t object. In fact, he put his arm around her waist. Was the bounder two-timing Cleopatra by flirting with Kitty? Or vice versa? Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Lorrain was like a magnet, both attractive and repellent. Or perhaps the image of a rotting fruit surrounded by fruit-flies better described the Frenchman’s relationship to the young women at the ball.
“There you are, old bean.” Clifford joined me behind the fern. “Care to take a turn?” He gestured toward the dance floor. Putting the fears for my sandaled feet aside, I accepted his hand. My past experience dancing with Clifford told me my fears were well-founded.
Luckily Clifford was wearing sandals too. When he stepped on my toes, at least I was grateful that he wasn’t wearing boots like the last time I’d danced with him. What Clifford lacked in grace, he made up for in enthusiasm.
Yes! I recognized him from across the room. The broad-shouldered huntsman with the flowing black hair was hard to miss in his slouch hat, tall boots, jodhpurs, and billowing white blouse. Fredrick Fredricks. I knew he’d be here.
He strutted through the dancers and tapped Clifford on the shoulder. Reluctantly, Clifford sputtered and turned me over to Fredricks, who whisked me around the dance floor so fast my feet barely touched the ground.
“About time you showed up.” I dug my fingernails into his shoulder.
“Anticipation breeds desire.” His broad, white-toothed smile was slightly obscene. “Did you miss me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I intentionally stepped on his toes.
He pulled me to his chest and flew across the floor.
“Why are we here?” I doubted he would tell me the truth.
“A philosophical question.” He grinned. “To live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering.”
“Why are we in Cairo?” I dug my nails in deeper.
He winced. “To stop the war, of course.”
The man was infuriating. Always talking about how together we could stop the war. Was he mad? Or just having me on?
On our second lap, we passed Kitty dancing with Monsieur Lorrain. From the sidelines, Cleopatra, arms crossed, stood shooting daggers from her eyes. Had Jean-Baptiste thrown her over for Kitty? Cleopatra looked none too happy. I strained my neck to look back at her slim form. I swear I’d seen her before, sans costume. But where?
When the music stopped, Fredricks kissed my hand. “Until soon, ma chérie.” He weaved through the crowded dance floor and disappeared.
Distracted by Cleopatra, I hesitated. I started after him but was intercepted by Clifford, with Monsieur Lorrain and Kitty in tow. The gentlemen fetched some drinks, and I took Kitty aside. “Did you see Fredricks? He was just here.” I adjusted my wig and headdress, which had shifted from the vigorous dancing.
She shook her head.
Blast. The fiend had alluded me yet again.
“What happened between Mr. Carter and your new friend?”
Kitty gave a sharp glance over my right shoulder. “I’ll tell you later.”
Laughter behind me caused me to turn around. When I did, I was face to face with our hosts, Lady Enid and General Clayton.
“Your ball is a smashing success, simply lovely.”
Lady Enid smiled, obviously pleased with the compliment.
“Yes, my dear,” General Clayton said, tugging on his headdress. “You’ve pulled it off.”
Clifford and Jean-Baptiste returned with champagne cocktails in both hands. Clifford handed one to me, and Jean-Baptiste gave one to Kitty.
“Mon Dieu.” Jean-Baptiste laughed. “What are you supposed to be?” He pointed at Lady Enid’s khaki skirt and tall boots. “Looking like that, it’s a wonder you have any children.”
General Clayton stepped closer to the Frenchman. “I’ll have you know we have three children.” He tugged on his pleated kilt.
“Five,” Lady Enid corrected. “Two passed away.” She lowered her eyes.
“I’m so sorry.” I touched Lady Enid’s elbow.
My heart sank. I’d thought not being able to have children was the worst thing possible for a woman. I couldn’t imagine having one and then watching it die. I’d seen plenty of men die, too many. It was always heartbreaking, especially the young men who had so much of life ahead of them. But the death of a child, that would be devastating.
“And I don’t appreciate you insulting my wife,” General Clayton said. The way he balled up his fists, I thought he might punch the Frenchman—who thoroughly deserved it.
“Shall we duel at dawn?” The Frenchman laughed again.
He really was an outrageous fellow. I had half a mind to punch him myself. I sincerely hoped Kitty hadn’t formed an attachment to the rascal.
General Clayton’s nostrils flared.
“My husband was a champion fencer at the Royal Military Academy.” Lady Enid sipped her champagne. “He would make mincemeat of you.” She smiled sweetly.
Blimey.
“Pistols or swords, you choose.” The general was dead serious.
“Je suis désolé.” Jean-Baptiste waved his hands in the air. “I’m a bit tipsy. Just a bit of fun.” He slapped General Clayton on the shoulder. “Where’s your sense of humor, mon ami? You British are always so serious.” He turned his lips down into an exaggerated pout. “I’m always telling old Dankworth to lighten up, too.”
Dankworth? The missing agent.
“I think it’s time you went home.” General Clayton grabbed the Frenchman’s arm. “Shall I call you a motorcar?” The general practically dragged Jean-Baptiste across the dance floor.
“Come to my dig to watch me break ground,” the Frenchman called back to us, slurring his words. “Everyone.” He raised his voice. “You’re all invited!”
I tried to catch them up to ask about Dankworth, but Lady Enid stopped me. “He’s drunk. Don’t interfere.”
The music stopped and everyone stood waiting for the general to pitch the Frenchman out on his ear.
An oiled strand of hair flopped over Monsieur Lorrain’s forehead as he staggered under the general’s grip. “Tomorrow morning!” The closer he got to the ground, the louder he became. He stabbed the air with his finger. “The dig!”
The entire room was silent and staring at the scene.
“Good lord.” Clifford downed the last of his drink. “Someone ought to tan his hide.”
“Don’t you volunteer to do it.” I handed my empty glass to Clifford. “You have more important things to do.” I figured if it had worked for Gertrude Bell, then why not me too?
“Like fetch you another drink?” He smiled.
“Precisely.” I couldn’t help but return his smile.
“Do you want another, my girl?” he asked.
Kitty shook her head.
Obediently, he scampered off to the bar to get me a refill.
“I’m going to make sure Jean-Baptiste gets home all right.” Kitty handed me her glass.
“Oh no, dear.” I stepped in front of her. “Let General Clayton handle it.”
Kitty leaned and whispered in my ear. “You know you’re not really my aunt, don’t you?”
“Of course, I—”
She took off and disappeared into the crowd.
“Ask him about Dankworth,” I called after her.
A young lady leaving with a drunken Frenchman in a foreign city. It was too much even for Kitty Lane.
Astonished, I stood gaping after her.
5
THE DIG
The next morning, anticipating our trip to Giza to visit Jean-Baptiste’s archeological dig, Kitty was in high spirits. She was humming Christmas tunes as she pinned her curls behind her ears.
“You really must come along, Aunt Fiona,” she said, a hairpin between her teeth.
So, I’m Aunt Fiona again, eh? I tied the laces of my practical Oxfords.
“Jean-Baptiste says pictures don’t do it justice.” She clamped her little sailor hat onto her head and smiled at her reflection in the looking glass.
I had to admit, I was more than a little curious to see the great pyramids. In the serenity of the desert, wrote Annie Pirie, the solemn majesty of these mighty tombs had looked down upon mankind for generations.
Then again, we weren’t here to sightsee. We were here to trail Fredricks and find out his latest plot. Captain Hall told me to wait for Agent Relish. But with the Suez Canal at stake, how could I afford to wait? I hoped to heaven Captain Hall was right and the canal was safe.
If only I knew how to find the mysterious stranger from the railway, or his Egyptian contact, La Sultana. They hadn’t been at the party. If I couldn’t locate him, I could look for her. How hard could it be to find the most famous actress in Cairo?
A knock at the door signaled Clifford’s arrival. Of course, he wouldn’t miss the chance to visit a dig, seeing as how he fancied himself an amateur archeologist.
On the way to breakfast, I stopped off at the concierge desk to ask about La Sultana. The concierge told me she performed every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday night at the Isis Theater. Convenient. The very place I was supposed to meet Agent Relish tonight. Two birds with one stone, as my grandfather used to say. Of course, he meant doves on the farm.
After a lovely breakfast of tea and toast with marmalade, we made our way to the lobby and the offices of Thomas Cook and Sons, where we joined the morning excursion to Giza.
Tonight, at the theater, I’d meet Agent Relish and question La Sultana. Then I’d find the stranger, foil the plot, and make Captain Hall proud. In the meantime, I might as well take the opportunity to see one of the greatest archeological wonders on earth.
According to Kitty, her friend, Jean-Baptiste, was sending Frigo to meet us in Giza and then take us to the dig. In the weeks I’d known her, Kitty had made many friends, too many if you asked me. But, as she reminded me last night, I was not really her aunt.
“Remember Frigo?”
Of course I remembered Frigo. How could I forget? He was the size of an ice box.
The berobed guide from Thomas Cook led us to the back of the hotel and behind the zoo. Yes, Shepheard’s had a zoo with a peacock, a pair of camels, a trio of Arabian horses, and kangaroos and wallabies brought to Egypt as mascots and left behind by Australian soldiers. There was even a panda from China, poor thing.
“Are you preferring donkey or camel?” the guide said with a thick Egyptian accent. He pointed to a group of mangy animals tethered to a rail.
“Good grief.” My heart sank. “He doesn’t expect us to ride those beasts, does he?”
“I’m afraid so, old thing.” Clifford puffed his pipe. “Did I ever tell you about the time I rode a camel across the Sinai?” A smile formed at the edges of his mouth. “Jolly good animal, the camel. Rode all the way to St. Catherine’s monastery, the spot where old Moses saw the burning bush. Now that—”
“Clifford, be a dear,” I interrupted him before he got carried away with old Moses. “Can you choose the best animals for our journey?”
Clifford was only too happy to oblige. The poor creatures couldn’t have known how many of their brethren he’d killed over the years on safaris with his “great pal,” the “brilliant South African hunter,” Fredrick Fredricks. By now, everyone in the War Office knew Fredricks was a German spy. Everyone except Clifford, who was still in denial.
A few minutes later, Clifford reappeared, leading a string of three camels. Given the choice between falling from a height of six feet and falling from three, I would have chosen the donkeys.
If only I owned a divided skirt or a pair of bloomers like I’d seen in Kitty’s Vogue magazine. How in the world would I get on the beast, let alone ride it, in my linen frock? I would have to ride side-saddle, like a proper Englishwoman.
Even my practical Oxfords couldn’t save me now.
Good news. When Clifford jerked on their leads, the camels knelt, knees to the sand, for easy mounting. Bad news. The belabored beasts grunted and groaned, their cheeks ballooned, and when they turned to view their burden, they spat foul-smelling slime.
Grimacing, I wiped the back of my hand on my dress. I immediately regretted letting go of the wooden frame saddle upon which I sat. For, as soon as I did, the camel raised its hindquarters and I lurched forward, nearly tumbling off into the sand.
I’d just regained my balance when the beast straightened its front legs and tipped me backwards so far that I was sure I would topple over its behind.
“Sway with it and not against it,” Clifford said, clearly amused. He and Kitty had both mounted like Bedouins born and raised on the gangly creatures.
After a few minutes of fighting to stay upright, I got the hang of swaying with the camel’s gait, which made the journey easier if not less painful. My bottom banged against the wooden saddle with such force, I was sure to have a purple bruise for weeks, a bruise no one would ever see, given its location.
What a sight we were: Englishmen dressed in suits, waistcoats, cravats, and top hats as if going to the Turf Club. And Englishwomen in corsets under layers of heavy jackets and dresses, wearing our best hats as if we were taking tea instead of a dusty ride to ancient pyramids. Even Kitty sported a fox-fur stole atop her sun frock. No doubt the latest fashion trend. I shook my head. Ridiculous.
The sun was fierce, and my cheeks burned. Luckily, servants walked alongside, holding umbrellas for the ladies. I might have found the scene comical if I weren’t concentrating so intently on not falling head over heels.
One long hour later, a grand triangle appeared on the horizon. Within minutes, two more pyramids and the Great Sphinx showed themselves. The photographs in Annie Pirie’s The Pyramids of Giza didn’t capture their magnificence. Their greatness was humbling.
Gobsmacked, I forgot all about my incommodious mode of transportation and reveled in the monuments before me. Miraculous, impossible, stone structures jutting straight up out of the sand. Magnificent.
