Mena House Hotel, Giza, Egypt
MARCH 1912
Ursula stood beneath the arched window watching the sun set behind the Pyramids of Giza. The twilight, starlit and blue, was scented with jasmine. She inhaled deeply and sighed as she leaned against the balcony that overlooked the fragrant gardens below. Ursula had been staying at Mena House for two weeks now and had come to love the early evening, when the heat of the day began to dissipate and the blue-black shadows crept across the desert. A soft breeze fluttered the hem of her crepe de chine evening dress. She closed her eyes and breathed in the night.
For the first time in ages, she felt briefly free of the burdens of the past. Although it was well known that she had come to Egypt to secure cotton supplies for her Lancashire mills, no one knew of her fierce struggle to keep her father’s textile empire intact. Few knew about the Laura Radcliffe case or the lengths to which Ursula had gone to save Winifred from the gallows. Even fewer cared that she, a wealthy heiress of barely twenty-four, militant suffragette, and member of the Fabian Society, had had the audacity to reject Lord Oliver Wrotham’s marriage proposal. Nobody in Egypt was interested in such things—everyone had their own secrets to keep.
Ursula opened the palm of her hand and looked again at the photograph. It was really nothing more than a cheap souvenir, but it brought back memories of a pleasant afternoon spent exploring the Giza plateau with Katya Vilensky. The photograph had been taken only two weeks ago by an enterprising sheik who, in his flowing black cloak and red tarboosh, had followed them from the hotel. It captured them up close, framed in the background by the recumbent Sphinx. From her sensible khaki skirt and white shirt to her wide-brimmed straw hat and the freckles visible on her cheeks and nose, there was no mistaking Ursula for being anything but English. Katya, however, with her embroidered white dress, headscarf, and dark brooding eyes, looked even more exotic in the photograph than in real life.
Ursula had known Katya for only a brief few months since New Year’s Eve, but had delighted in being with a strong, independent woman like herself. Katya had arrived in Egypt a week after Ursula, and became a welcome ally at the nightly functions and parties first in Alexandria and later in Cairo. Weary of her negotiations, Ursula reveled in Katya’s love of literature and art. Ursula’s presence also seemed to lift the air of melancholy surrounding Katya, as if in each other’s presence the pain of the past was forgotten.
Ursula gripped the photograph tightly. A wave of nausea swept over her. With Katya’s death, the past she had tried to set aside again intruded. She felt the old pain of loss, the old feelings of despair, and a palpable sense of horror that still sickened her. How could it not? Her father’s death was never far from her thoughts, and she had been with Katya in the Khan el-Khalili bazaar that day. She had seen Katya die. It was not something to be ignored or forgotten, despite what the Egyptian authorities urged her to do.
Katya had been looking for scented oils to take back to England for her sister, and Ursula had accompanied her, eager to procure some attar of roses for herself. When questioned about her sister, Katya responded with a jerk, noting that her husband’s disapproval precluded them from maintaining regular contact. Ursula and Katya had decided to forgo the fashionable shops of Emad al-Din in favor of the historic bazaar. They walked along the crowded, narrow passageways, past the vendors sitting atop their mastabas, the stone steps in front of their tiny shops.
Katya and Ursula were just passing under a vaulted gateway and making their way down the Sikkit al-Badistan when they became separated as a group of young men, clad in long brown cloaks and white turbans, swarmed about them, shouting and calling out in the confusion. At first Ursula was amused. One man’s monkey climbed up onto her shoulders, and she delighted in placing a ripe date in its tiny paws. Another man waved a tray filled with brass and copper vessels in front of her.
Beneath the covered canopy and the projecting windows of the upper floors, with their delicate latticework, the air was dusty and dim. Hazy sunbeams filtered slowly to the ground. Ursula tried to catch a glimpse of Katya, but all she could see were jostling images, flashes of white cloth and dark eyes, and the monkey with its red jeweled waistcoat jumping up and down, clapping its paws. She called out Katya’s name and weaved her way between the men, finally catching sight of her amid the tumult and swirling dust. Ursula saw a flutter of concern in Katya’s eyes, and she pointed to the monkey with a laugh. Katya’s eyes, however, widened with fear. Something, Ursula realized, was terribly wrong.
Ursula shrugged the monkey off her back and pushed her way through the crowd. She heard a shrill cry of pain and was seized by panic as she fought to move forward against the noise and chaos. Dust and grit stung her eyes. She was making little headway, for the men were suddenly massed before her like a human wall, their limbs outstretched, torsos rigidly repelling any advance. Ursula called out Katya’s name again as she struggled against the men, but she could not see or hear her. Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, the crowd began to disperse. Ursula became disoriented as they scattered about her, shouting and raising their fists in the air. Caught off balance, she stumbled to her knees and her hat fell off. By the time she got to her feet and shook the dust from her skirt, the men had vanished.
The laneway was now eerily empty. Even the shopkeepers had left their mastabas and closed the wooden doors to their stalls. All that remained was a lone donkey boy, his braying charge, and an elderly beggar asleep on the steps of the mosque of Sayidna Hussein. Ursula looked around wildly. In her confusion it took her a few minutes to realize that slumped against one of the wooden stalls was the body of Katya Vilensky. At first Ursula thought she had merely fainted, until she saw the bloodstain soaking through her white embroidered dress. And this brought it all back—her father lying in her arms, his eyes looking up at her as the life left him. At first Ursula could not move; the horror of death held her once more in its thrall, and she was powerless. She stood rooted to the ground until a voice within her, with a sudden and terrible calm, urged her to Katya’s side. She rushed over and knelt down beside the body, listening first for her breath then laying her trembling fingers against Katya’s pale, exposed neck. There was no sound of breath. There was no beat beneath her fingertips. There was only the heat and the taste of sweat upon her lips.
“Miss, will you not take some of this?” Julia’s voice intruded upon her thoughts.
Ursula clutched the photograph and tried to clear her mind.
Julia was standing in the archway, clad in her lady’s maid’s outfit—black dress and white pinafore—holding a bottle of Boots Pure Drug Company Sleeping Draught in her hands.
Ursula turned around and shook her head. “No, truly, Julia. That stuff is absolutely vile. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Since the terrible events in the Khan el-Khalili bazaar, Ursula had found it almost impossible to sleep. Night after night she tried without success to vanquish the images of Katya’s and her father’s deaths from her mind. But the images always returned, refusing to let her rest.
“I’ll be going to bed in a few minutes. Don’t worry about me.” Ursula tried to sound reassuring, but Julia looked unconvinced. “It’s late,” Ursula continued; “you need to get a good night’s rest.”
Since arriving in Egypt Julia had served as both Ursula’s lady’s maid and her companion. The prospect of accompanying Ursula had thrilled Julia for a time, but now that their return to England was fast approaching, she seemed reassured by the fact that, back in London, she would be relieved of such a role.
Julia opened her mouth to protest.
“You’ve already laid out everything for tomorrow,” Ursula said, pointing to the linen suit laid out carefully across the chaise longue. “So please, get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Reluctantly Julia placed the sleeping draught down on the bedside table with a murmured “Just in case you change your mind” and took her leave, retreating to the adjoining room.
Ursula
leaned her head against the railing. She found herself going over and over those last conversations with Katya, trying desperately to make sense of her death. The Egyptian authorities had refused to widen their investigations. To them it was an obvious political act. Katya, stabbed by unknown assailants in Cairo’s Khan el-Khalili bazaar, was nothing more than a victim of circumstance, a pawn in the Egyptian nationalists’ plan to disrupt English rule. Ever since the assassination of Egypt’s prime minister Boutros Ghali in February 1910, the Cairo police had been monitoring nationalist activities. Katya’s death provided them with an ideal opportunity to detain a number of suspected members for questioning. Given Katya’s nationalist sympathies and her Russian rather than English origins, Ursula found it hard to believe that her death was politically motivated. How would her death have served those fighting against English colonial rule? An editorial in the nationalist paper Al-Liwa by the leader of the Nationalist Party denied any knowledge of or responsibility for what occurred. The Egyptian authorities, however, refused to countenance any alternative theory, and Ursula was left to brood over her doubts alone.
Ursula remembered Katya’s words the morning of her death. They had been sitting on the hotel’s terrace, looking across the gardens. Katya had a faraway look in her eyes. “It’s incredible, is it not,” she began in her heavily accented English, “how easily dreams can be made”—she waved a hand toward the Great Pyramid of Khufu—“when you have power over so many lives.” Her expression darkened as she continued. “But what to do when you realize you are powerless? When the dream is not what it seems. What if the costs are too high, and yet you can do nothing?”
Ursula was just about to dismiss the comment as nothing more than pensive reflection when she saw the raw anguish on Katya’s face. She leaned across the table and clasped her friend’s hand.
“What is it?” Ursula cried.
Katya moved her hand away quickly. “Nothing.” She wiped her eyes with her napkin, but Ursula could see her scrutinizing the terrace to see if anyone was watching them. “Please.” Katya looked at her with a startling intensity. “Forget I said anything. It is no longer safe. . . .”
In the week since that terrible day, Ursula had tried in vain to comprehend what had occurred. Attacks on Western women in Cairo were rare, despite concerns over the rise in anti-European feeling. Ursula was also puzzled by Peter Vilensky’s reaction to his wife’s death. Although in the short time she had known him he had always presented a cold, austere countenance, the absence of any real outpouring of grief at his wife’s death shocked her. Peter Vilensky had merely made the necessary arrangements to have his wife’s body buried in her beloved Palestine with clinical calculation and entered the initial seven days of the Jewish mourning period of shivah.
Ursula shook her head. It wouldn’t do to fuel Julia’s concerns any further by staying out on the balcony all night, worrying about Katya’s death. She took a few steps back, but the sound of voices in the garden below drew her to the balcony rail once more.
Beneath the lights she recognized the tall figure of Hugh Carmichael and the balding, florid countenance of Ambrose Whittaker, engaged in conversation. Though almost old enough to be her father, Hugh Carmichael cut a dashing figure in his evening suit and white silk bow tie. After three weeks’ acquaintance, she was used to seeing his nonchalant stride as well as hearing his soft San Franciscan drawl. The owner of one of the largest shipyards in England and a self-confessed adventurer, Hugh was in Egypt to indulge in his latest obsession—flying. Despite his casual manner, Ursula had found a surprising adherent in Hugh. A widower still devoted to the memory of his English wife, who had been an avowed pacifist and suffragette, Hugh treated Ursula just as he treated his male business colleagues. They had developed an easy and respectful rapport, untainted by the sexual tension Ursula usually encountered in her business dealings.
Next to him Ambrose Whittaker, his thinning hair swept across his forehead, looked every inch the Anglo-Egyptian official. Although he was an adviser to the Ministry of Interior and a reputed expert on Alexandrian art, Ursula considered him an all-round pompous idiot.
“There’s a new man in town,” Whittaker began. “Keen as mustard to speak to you. He’s looking into that dreadful incident in the Khan el-Khalili.”
Ursula edged closer to the rail.
“I don’t know why he’d want to speak to me,” Hugh replied, tossing his cigarette aside. “I wasn’t even there.”
Whittaker proffered him another cigarette from a silver case. “That’s just the thing, old boy; looks like this new man’s taking over the investigation, and I guess he wants to know what your story is.”
“What my story is—” Hugh’s voice rose with irritation. “I hardly think there’s a story for me to tell. He should be speaking to Miss Marlow on that score, though from what she’s told me, there was too much confusion in the bazaar to see anything much. So there really is nothing to say, is there, old boy.” Hugh’s emphasized these final words sarcastically.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Whittaker shrugged and stepped out of the lamplight. He was trying to sound nonchalant, but Ursula was not deceived.
“Come on, man, out with it!” Hugh replied. “You’re obviously not here for an idle chat.”
“It’s really nothing—just wanted to give you a heads-up if the chief inspector should ask you anything. He’s arriving tonight, don’t you know. And from what I’ve heard, he’s quite an important man in Scotland Yard these days.”
“I thought the Egyptian authorities said it was a political matter which they were handling internally.”
“Of course, of course . . . No need to get riled up, old boy. The chief inspector just happened to be in Cairo and came forward to offer his assistance. You know how we British are—just want to make sure we dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.”
“As I said, what’s it to me?”
Ursula frowned; the chill in Hugh’s response was unexpected.
“You might want some time to think through your story.”
“Again, what’s with the ‘my story’? There isn’t any story to tell.”
Whittaker coughed politely, and paused before saying in low tones that Ursula strained to hear, “But you must be aware of the rumors . . .”
“Rumors?”
Ursula felt the tension rise. She was well aware of the stories swirling about Cairo society concerning Hugh Carmichael and Katya Vilensky.
“Yes, reports of a . . .” Whittaker hesitated for a moment before continuing, “. . . liaison between you and Mrs. Vilensky. That she was on her way to meet you when she was attacked in the bazaar. Surely you must be aware of these?”
Hugh fell silent.
“Let me give you some advice,” Whittaker said. “Steer clear of Peter Vilensky for a while. He’s heard all the tittle-tattle, and let’s just say he’s concerned. Given his very special relationship with the British government, that makes me very concerned. I want to see his fears put to rest. So if you were to discredit these innuendos, perhaps by telling the chief inspector that your affections were engaged elsewhere, well then, that might put paid to the whole thing.”
“Tell him that my affections were engaged elsewhere?” Hugh replied with exasperation. “You test a man’s patience to the absolute limit!”
“Now, now,” Ambrose Whittaker reproached him mildly. “Don’t get your back up. Only trying to help. I just know if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t want Scotland Yard sniffing around my personal affairs—never know what might come out.”
Ursula sensed Hugh stiffen. The atmosphere between them, already tense, suddenly became acrimonious.
“Some secrets are better left buried. Don’t you think?” Whittaker said.
“So what do you suggest? I insinuate that Miss Marlow and I are somehow involved?”
Ursula’s eyes narrowed, and she straightened up.
“Well,” Ambrose Whittaker replied slowly, “given her reputation in London, it would hardly com
e as a surprise.”
That night, Ursula slept fitfully despite taking some of the sleeping draught left out for her. At first she had been angry and then, by turns, humiliated and depressed. The brief respite she had enjoyed before Katya’s death was now well and truly broken. She felt weighed down again by the pressures of London, the necessity of conforming to society’s expectations, and her failure to be able to do so. The strain of trying to make her own way as an independent businesswoman while remaining true to her socialist and suffragette principles had already taken its toll. Now she felt an additional humiliation—that a man such as Ambrose Whittaker had no compunction about impugning her reputation galled her. Though she believed Hugh Carmichael would never countenance Ambrose Whittaker’s suggestion, she was angry that she could be exposed to the possibility of such a scandal. Why could she not be a man, able to make her way in the world on her own terms, without the threat of censure merely because of her own determination and passion?
Ursula tossed and turned in bed until mental exhaustion finally forced sleep upon her. She dreamed she was lying beside a river, gazing up at the sky. Two men came and lifted her into their arms. One was Alexei, a lover she had not seen in years. The other man’s face was shrouded in shadow. Alexei whispered in her ear that it was time she returned. Ursula struggled against his grip, but as she looked below, as she saw the deep, dark depths of the river, she gave in and let the undertow take her from his arms. She felt the icy water seep into her skin as she drifted along. She saw her father’s body float past, saw a man rise from the riverbank in a halo of fire. Slowly she started to emerge from the water. She struggled to the shore, her limbs heavy and her dress sodden. The man from the shadows was standing in the distance. She cried out to him, but he turned and walked away. The river was forgotten. The sense of water was forgotten. The sun bore down. The sand burned beneath her toes. She was left parched and alone.
Ursula’s eyelashes quivered. The morning sun was streaming in through the lattice shutters of her room, and her mouth felt dry and dusty. Her eyes opened. She was awake, with the taste of sand, like the bitter taste of death, still on her tongue.
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 4
