by Cheryl Bolen
Mr. Maxwell stepped forward and spoke to Ahmed Hussein in Arabic. The antiquities dealer nodded, then offered a sweeping hand gesture for the three visitors to move to the room beyond the silken curtains.
That room was lit only by two massive candlesticks of silver. (She was sure they must be authentic antiques.) He indicated a scattering of colorful floor cushions for them to sit upon. The three of them obliged. Beside Ahmed Hussein was a tall hookah pipe contraption. He began to smoke it after he took his seat. He then passed it to Jack.
Jack nodded, closed his lips around it, drew in the pungent tobacco, then passed it to Daphne, mumbling, “You will be expected to sample this.”
This was awfully thrilling for her. In England she’d be branded a doxy if she did such a thing. It did seem odd that in a country in which women were suppressed, subservient, and not even accorded fidelity by their husbands, they should be permitted to partake of this clearly masculine pursuit. She happily closed her lips around the pipe.
“Now you’re to breath in the tobacco,” Jack instructed.
She did so.
It did not have an agreeable effect upon her. She launched into a coughing fit, and she truly feared she might cast up her accounts right upon their host’s lovely Oriental carpet. She had not been so humiliated since her wretchedly retching wedding night. How vexing! And she had truly liked the smell of the hookah thing. Clearly her head and her stomach experienced a serious breach.
She attempted to act as if the pipe smoking had not so adversely affected her. She casually passed the pipe to Mr. Maxwell—if one were capable of doing anything casually when one was hacking her head off and praying to the Almighty to spare her the humiliation of defiling their host’s carpet. Knowing his reputation, the carpet was likely hundreds of years old. She was so completely distressed, she was not able to attend to what was being addressed at present.
She was forming a crisis plan. If her stomach did, indeed, threaten to spew, she must spew into the skirt of her dress. She began to fan the thin muslin around her. Then she decided that wouldn't do at all. Better the man's carpet than the dress she would be forced to wear all the way back to their hotel.
Now how to appear interested in the speaker without turning? Such an action could upset the precarious balance that leveled the contents of her stomach. Even if she could manage to feign interest in the speaker, the man was sure to know she couldn’t possibly understand anything he said since she had no knowledge of Arabic.
Finally, she gathered enough composure to watch as Jack told Mr. Maxwell what he wanted to ask Ahmed Hassein. “Ask the gentleman if he knew Prince Edward Duleep Singh. And if he answers in the affirmative, ask if he’s seen him in the past year.”
In spite of her mortification and misery (because she still felt as if a noxious substance had polluted her body—which, in fact, had occurred), she was exceedingly impressed at how fluidly Mr. Maxwell spoke Arabic. Her untrained ear could not detect any difference in the speech between the two men speaking the Arabic tongue.
After the Arabic exchange, Mr. Maxwell turned to Jack. “He says he has known the Prince for years as they are friendly competitors, but he hasn’t seen the Prince since last summer.”
“Ask him if he’s ever heard of the Amun-re funerary mask,” she directed.
The other two men went back and forth in Arabic, and then Mr. Maxwell addressed Jack. (She would have to inform Mr. Maxwell she was Jack’s full partner in everything and expected to be included in every conversation pertaining to their joint investigation.) “He said he did indeed see it a year ago. He wanted it badly, but the Indian Prince paid far more than it was worth.”
“Ask him if it’s come on the market again since Prince Singh obtained it,” she said in a strident voice the belied her queasy insides.
She watched as Mr. Maxwell spoke. And Hassein shook his head.
“If you will, Mr. Maxwell,” she said, “ask him if he knows if Prince Singh’s servants remain at his villa here.”
The two men spoke back and forth for a moment. Then Mr. Maxwell turned to her. “It has always been the Prince’s custom to keep a staff to run the house here whilst the Prince travels between here and his native country, but Hassein cannot attest to the practice being continued.”
Daphne nodded and turned to her husband. “Can you think of anything else?”
Jack shook his head. “I beg that you thank him for speaking with us.”
* * *
While Mr. Maxwell was escorting Rosemary down every single crooked street of the massive bazaar—with armed soldiers assuring their safety—Jack and Daphne, along with their faithful watchdogs and Habeeb, strolled to the area near Bulak where they’d seen the Pasha’s palace.
By now the sun was high in the sky, and there was no way to avoid its scorching heat. She felt beastly sorry for Jack, whose thick, heavy, woolen clothing was unfit for the desert. To compound their discomfort, they attracted swarms of flies as if they'd been coated with honey.
Because of what Mr. Briggs had told them, they knew Prince Singh's villa was near. It was only a matter of having Habeeb make an inquiry to learn which house belonged to the Prince.
Once Habeeb made his inquiries, he led them to a villa that seemed quite small when compared to the Pasha’s, but it was still an impressive residence. Tall palm trees fanned around the stucco house, much of which was built around a garden. How incongruous it seemed to find such verdure here in the midst of the pale dirt and sand mixture that Cairo was built upon.
Jack rang the bell, and a servant scurried to the main entrance. “Do you speak English?” Jack asked.
Immediately, the thin young attendant shook his head and whirled away, leaving the door open as he scurried down the corridor. A moment later he returned with an older man. This distinguished-looking Indian wore a turban but curiously dressed in the European style with trousers. After seeing so many men whose faces were obscured by untamed beards, Daphne was rather pleased to see a brown-skinned man whose face was clean shaven. “Mohammed tells me we have English-speaking visitors." He bowed. “Won’t you please come in?”
The soldiers had already stationed themselves at the perimeter of the villa. Jack and Daphne entered, then he turned back to Habeeb. “You may be seated while my lady and I speak privately with this man.”
The interior of this home was furnished in the style of a raja’s palace. Not that she’d ever been to one, but she’d seen illustrations of them. There were only a few Oriental rugs here, likely to better display the mosaic-tiled floors that were works of art in their own right. It was a shame to cover them with rugs, but a few Persian carpets were scattered on the floor.
The wood of most of the furnishings was cut in a filigreetype of pattern. There were no floor cushions. She was most happy to see chairs. After their exceedingly hot and uncomfortable walk, she was grateful to sit in a shaded room. It was much cooler in here than outside, but it was still beastly hot.
“I am the Prince’s . . . your English equivalent would be butler, I suppose. You know the Prince is not here?”
They both nodded solemnly. “That’s why we’ve come,” Jack said, his voice grave. “The Prince Regent of Britain is concerned over the Prince’s disappearance.”
The Indian man, who had remained standing, spoke more somberly. “As am I.”
“Are you aware of the item your master had procured for our Regent?”
“The Amun-re mask?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “It appears you were a valued servant who gained the confidence of your master.”
“I have been with the Prince nearly all our lives.” He shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his face. “I fear he’s dead.”
“We were told that the Prince was always cautious, that he always was surrounded by guards.”
The other man nodded. “It's his custom to use his guards whenever he carries large sums of money—or one of his valuable antiquities.”
“Had the Prince actually taken possession of the mask
?” Jack asked.
“Yes.”
“He kept it well guarded?” Daphne asked.
“All of his residences have impenetrable chambers where his most valuable items are held until they are delivered to their buyers. He and I are the only ones with a key.” His shoulders slumped. “The mask is no longer there.”
“Did you see your master take it away?” Jack asked.
“No.”
"Is anything else missing?" Daphne asked.
"Only a rug. It was not one of great value."
“Can you tell us everything you remember about the last time you saw the Prince?" Jack asked.
He drew a long breath. “I was sent away, supposedly to meet a friend of his from India who was to be docking that night.” He shrugged. “No one ever came. I know now it was a scheme concocted to keep me away while he met the man responsible for his . . . disappearance.”
“How do you know he met the person at his house?”
“Because he would never leave at night without the armed men sworn to protect him.”
“Did any of the other servants see this mysterious stranger?” she asked.
He shook his head solemnly. “They were all given the night off.”
“I don’t mean to disparage your master, but it sounds as if he was up to no good,” Daphne said.
The servant shrugged. “His behavior had been uncharacteristic all week.”
“Was . . .” Daphne quickly corrected herself. “Is Prince Singh married?”
“Yes. The Princess lives in India.”
“Then I don’t suppose she’d be any help,” Daphne mumbled.
“When did you learn the mask was missing?” Jack asked.
“It was several days. The first night he wasn’t here I thought he’d just gone to . . ." He stopped. “The city.”
Daphne wondered if the man was covering up the fact that Prince Singh might have had a mistress with whom he regularly cohabitated.
“After the second day,” he continued, “I knew something was wrong. That is when I went into the locked chamber and discovered the mask gone.”
“Could it be possible that it became imperative for the Prince to take a trip? Were any of his clothes gone”
The other man shook his head. “He would never go off without his guards—and nothing was gone. Except for the mask and that single rug. How I wish the Prince had never developed his obsession for dealing in antiquities!”
Daphne’s green-eyed gaze met his dark one. “Can you give us the direction of Prince Singh’s mistress?”
Jack’s head jerked toward her. “Daphne!”
Her dear husband was such a Puritan!
The Indian man nodded. “She is in the old city. Her name is Amal. I do not know precisely where she resides, but I am told she is accounted to be the loveliest woman in all of Cairo.”
Jack stood. “That should help.”
Daphne came and settled a gentle hand at the servant’s sleeve. “We will do everything we can to find your master.”
* * *
They had no trouble finding the lodgings of the loveliest women in Cairo. Unfortunately, no one answered the bell. Daphne tried the door, and it opened. She padded into the first chamber.
And screamed.
Chapter 5
Even in death, Singh's mistress had been beautiful. Her lifeless body sprawled on the cold tile floors, the colourful silk of her robes draping elegantly around her slender body. Long, black lashes swept against a flawless face, and thick, dark wisps of hair had tumbled from her veil, which still managed to crown her lovely head.
Someone had strangled the life from her.
Jack had quickly swept Daphne from the scene. This was one time he was thankful that their every step in Cairo was dogged by soldiers. British soldiers, thank God. He handed his hysterical wife off to them, and he and four of them went back into the courtesan’s disheveled house. While the soldiers looked in every room of the three-story house for the murderer, Jack examined the body. He’d had enough dealings with death to know that this woman had not been dead long.
They must have barely missed witnessing the murder. From the overturned furnishings, it appeared the poor woman had fought tenaciously for her life. He looked beneath her fingernails for a clue. A piece of fabric, something.
But he found nothing.
As he went to get up, he saw it. A single hair on the falls of her robe.
And it was not black.
His first instinct was that it was the murderer’s, but then he realized if the woman was a common courtesan, she could be with many men. He lifted the brownish-blond hair. Definitely a European’s. His thoughts flashed to Gareth Williams. It was the colour of that vile man’s hair. Coincidence? Perhaps. But the only trust Williams had ever engendered was mistrust.
Jack stood and examined the room for further clues. Where in the devil were the woman’s servants? By the looks of her rich silk clothing and her fine stucco house, she was well-enough off to afford many servants. Perhaps, if she had an assignation with a lover, she had dismissed them. There was also the prospect the servants had heard the struggle with the killer and fled, especially if they were defenseless females.
The soldiers who had been combing the house found nothing. “Half of you need to stay here until the authorities come,” Jack told them. “I’ll leave my dragoman here to interpret. If any of the dead woman’s servants return, he’s to question them. I’ll want to know anything they may have seen or heard. Now I’ll pop over to the Consulate to have them report the murder. Then I’m taking my wife back to the hotel.”
At the Consulate, they sought Arbuthnot and told him about the murder. His mouth dropped open. “How beastly.” His voice softened as he turned to speak to Daphne. “My poor lady. I’m so distressed that you had to witness something so ghastly.”
“We hoped you’d know who to report this to,” Jack said.
Arbuthnot nodded. “You must take dear Lady Daphne back to the hotel. I’ll run along and tell the Turkish officials.”
“So that explains the presence of all the Turkish soldiers swaggering through the town with their muskets so prominently displayed,” Jack said. “They serve to keep law and order.”
“Right-o.”
While Jack and Daphne were returning to their hotel, both of them were somber. It had been a ghastly day. The heat had been almost intolerable. The damned flies that buzzed around their faces were the most annoying pests he’d ever encountered. And, worst of all, a beautiful courtesan was murdered.
Their cool bedchamber beckoned. More than ever, now he understood the afternoon respites practiced in lands of intense sun. Siesta, they called it in Spain. He wondered what the Arabic word for it was. He'd have to ask Maxwell.
As soon as they reached the seclusion of their own bedchamber, he closed the shutters over their window opening, then proceeded to divest himself of his sweaty clothing.
Daphne was doing the same. “Do you know, my dearest, if I dressed as the native women do—except I refuse to cover my face—I believe I wouldn’t have to wear these odious stays. Feel them. See how wet they’ve become.” She moved to Jack.
He grinned, holding up a hand for her to yield. “I will take your word for it. As soon as I’m out of my own drenched clothing, I’ll help you remove the damned things.”
His mind was so engaged with the murder of the lovely Amal that for the first time since he’d married Daphne, he unlaced her stays without cupping his hands over her breasts.
Even though their bedchamber was hot, he’d estimate it was twenty degrees cooler than it was outside in the sun. He collapsed on their bed. Before Daphne lay down, she gathered the mosquito netting around the bed, then slipped in. It thankfully also kept out the damned flies. It was too hot even for the spooning position she normally adopted. There was a sizeable—and uncustomary—gap between their two stretched-out bodies.
It was some time before they spoke. He knew, like him, she’d be analyzing the mur
der of the lovely Egyptian woman.
“Do you think Ahmed Hassein had her killed?” Daphne finally asked.
“Why would you think that?”
“Mr. Arbuthnot as good as said that the man was a murderer. Or the orderer of a murder.”
“What would he have to gain by her death?”
“Perhaps she’s also been giving her favors to Ahmed Hassein. Perhaps he used her to get what he wanted from Prince Singh. And now that we’re making inquiries, he must silence her.”
“Your supposition has merit. It’s clear that her life was not put into jeopardy until we showed up in Cairo. Singh’s butler also knew we were going to try to find Amal. Perhaps he’s the murderer. Or, as my wife says, the murder orderer.”
She shook her head emphatically. “I believe Singh’s servant is genuinely distressed over his master’s disappearance. I cannot believe he had anything to do with the beautiful courtesan’s death.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. For one reason—he wouldn't have to have told us of Amal's existence.”
“Which brings us back to Ahmed Hassein.”
“Not necessarily. The Consul knew about our mission. Perhaps he communicated with someone who wished to silence the mistress.”
“Or even Mr. Arbuth-knows-it-all, though I can believe no malice of him,” she said.
“I’d describe him as annoyingly toadeating but not malicious.”
“The poor woman must have known the identity of the person meeting with Prince Singh that last night,” Daphne speculated.
“She may even have been there—and it unfortunately cost her life.”
“Did you find any clues as to the murderer’s identity?”
“What makes you think I looked?”
“I know thee well.”
“Actually, I did. I found a hair on her that was not black.”
“Very promising. Though, if she were a courtesan- - -"
“She could be with many men.”
“I do hate that our presence in Cairo may already be responsible for someone’s death.”
“As do I,” he said gravely. “It makes me even more determined to find the culprit and bring him to justice.”
