Shadows on the Nile

by Kate Furnivall

  Jessie hesitated a moment, amused, and called out again, ‘Mrs Randall! Where are you staying?’

  ‘At Shepheard’s.’

  Jessie nodded approval. Even she had heard of Shepheard’s Hotel, the finest in Cairo. Built by an Englishman in the nineteenth century, its elegant terrace on Ibrahim Pasha Street became world renowned as the place to see and be seen. Yet it surprised her. Shepheard’s was where the celebrated and elite of society chose to stay, and the wealthy with time on their hands. Mrs Maisie Randall didn’t strike Jessie as fitting into either of the first two categories, but maybe she slotted comfortably into the third one. You never could tell.

  ‘Nice work if you can get it,’ Monty muttered at her side, and sauntered over to a battered old Chevrolet whose taxi-driver salaamed, and opened the dented rear door for Jessie with a torrent of Arabic and English in an incomprehensible mix.

  ‘Where you go?’

  Jessie looked at the man. In his long galabaya, khaki green in colour, a dark scarf wound around his head, his bottom front teeth missing from his wiry face and a smile ready and waiting on his wide mouth, he was exactly as Tim had described Egyptian workers to her. On his first dig in Egypt two years ago at Medinet Habu, the mortuary temple of Ramses III, the men had impressed him. Eager and obliging, working long hours, skin the colour of the evening desert sand and a look in their eye as old as the pharaohs themselves. They had seen it all. Masters come and masters go. When you live in a land as ancient as this, everything is ephemeral. Even life itself.

  ‘Where you go?’ he asked again politely.

  ‘Mena House Hotel.’

  25

  Mena House Hotel was a bizarre concoction. An impressive mix of Moorish and English architecture that sprawled in all directions and sprang up at Jessie out of the utter blackness of a desert night. The taxi-cab had ground its way out of the city of Cairo and up onto the Giza plateau, and now was rattling down the drive along the hotel’s dusty avenue of palm trees that loomed in the headlamps.

  The car sighed to a halt outside the hotel’s grand entrance.

  ‘Jessie,’ Monty murmured beside her, his hand pinning hers for a second to her seat, ‘don’t expect too much.’

  She looked out of the side window at the hotel’s Arabian arches and elaborate latticework, at its curved balconies and its army of sparkling lights that obliterated the stars.

  ‘I expect,’ she said quietly. ‘to find something. I don’t know what … but something that will point the way.’

  His hand cradled hers. ‘How can you be so damn sure that this is where Tim would come?’

  She turned to him and for a moment in the patched back seat of the tumbledown car, the gap between them seemed to narrow. She felt a connection to this man. Not just because he had travelled so far across the world at her side, but because she could feel a part of herself linked to him. From the start it had been there, this sense of something more between them. Something unsaid. She didn’t understand why or where it came from. She had constantly pushed it away, refusing to acknowledge its presence, but now, in the darkness of an Egyptian night – suddenly it was here between them on the seat of a taxi-cab, as insubstantial as the starlight in the black sky.

  ‘He is my brother,’ she said. ‘He may not have stayed here at this hotel, but he knows this is where I would come to start looking.’

  ‘Why here?’ he asked.

  But at that moment the doorman opened Jessie’s door with a flourish and a rush of chill desert air brushed her cheek. She tried to move, but Monty tightened his grip on her hand.

  ‘Take care.’ He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘Take good care of yourself now we’re here. I’ll always be watching your back.’

  He released her hand and climbed out of the car.

  But who will be watching yours?

  How do you put a value on a word?

  Sir.

  Such a small word, yet worth its weight in gold, it seemed, in this world of sultans and princes.

  Sir Montague.

  It opened doors. Jessie understood now that he was right. Men’s eyes skipped over her and came to rest with respect on the tall English man in the pale linen suit and crisp panama, on whose shoulders the right of entitlement sat like a second skin. Her value depended solely on his, and his was high. She could see it in the bowing and scraping and the deep salaams as he strode across the wide reception hall, and in the bright eyes of the man behind the desk. They recognised the breed of man who had stamped his foot all over the British Empire and painted almost half the world pink on the map.

  ‘Did you have a good journey, Miss Kenton?’ the man on the desk asked politely. He had smooth shiny skin and an attentive manner, but she wasn’t fooled.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Very interesting.’

  There was no point in letting it irritate her. Here in Egypt she may be a third-class citizen just because she was female, but it meant attention would not be on her. She was nothing more than a pale shimmer of moonlight next to the sun that was Sir Montague Chamford. It would suit her purpose perfectly. She smiled at him and looked around her with interest.

  They had walked into a magnificent Arabian palace, complete with mashrabiya windows of exquisitely carved latticework and elegant horseshoe archways. The whole place was luminous. It dazzled with its gold decorations and polished brass, and lavished on its visitors the reflected light from embossed brass doors, blue tiles and mosaics of marble and mother-of-pearl. Like the Sir of Sir Montague, it was there to impress.

  And Jessie was impressed.

  No wonder Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had brought his wife, Touie, here to Mena House Hotel in the winter of 1859 when she was dying from tuberculosis. Did he place her on one of these richly coloured sofas? Did he weave for her a thousand and one tales of Sherlock Holmes to keep her alive, the way Scheherazade did for her Persian king? Did Touie lie here looking out at the pyramids, envisaging her own tomb?

  Jessie knew it was time to act before they left the desk. She turned quickly to find Monty signing the hotel register.

  ‘I think this place will do us nicely, Sir Montague,’ she smiled.

  But for once he didn’t respond with his usual laugh. ‘Yes, I rather think it will.’ He addressed the desk-clerk. ‘We believe Miss Kenton’s brother stayed here recently, so could you look and see when he was here?’

  The man’s face took on a pained expression as he handed back their passports. ‘I am sorry, Sir Montague, so very sorry, but we cannot give out any information about guests.’

  ‘Please, make an exception in this case,’ Monty said, turning the full force of his aristocratic charm on the Egyptian clerk. ‘I would be very grateful.’

  He slid an English five-pound note onto the counter. It took three seconds for the man to make his decision. His black eyes flitted around the hall to check for observers, while his hand crept forward. The note vanished. He straightened his tie.

  ‘The name?’ he asked.

  ‘Timothy Kenton. Some time during the last month.’

  The clerk popped a pair of rimless spectacles on his nose and with a casual air started to flick through past pages of the register, running his thick thumbnail down the list of names.

  ‘There’s no Mr Timothy Kenton.’ He looked unhappy to be the bearer of bad news.

  ‘Oh, come now. Check again, there’s a good chap.’

  He checked again.

  ‘Still no Timothy Kenton, sir.’

  ‘He may have been with others.’ From his breast pocket, Monty drew a photograph that Jessie had given him. This one was of Timothy wielding a croquet mallet at the All England club. ‘Maybe you recognise him. Fair-haired and a very amiable young fellow.’

  The clerk looked miserable. ‘No, sir, no. I don’t.’ He shook his head balefully.

  ‘Ah. That’s a bally nuisance.’

  ‘May I take a look at the register?’ Jessie asked. ‘There might be the name of one of his friends I recognise.’

 
; ‘La! No!’ He pulled the register to his side of the desk. ‘It’s not permitted.’

  Monty took his time lighting a cigarette, and puffed a stream of smoke straight at the offending register. ‘Not even if I am extremely grateful?’

  The man shuddered and shook his head regretfully. ‘No, sir. I cannot. I lose my job. The manager is just here.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door behind him.

  ‘Is he, indeed?’

  Time was running out. They had the keys to their rooms and a porter was hovering over their luggage. Jessie wanted to snatch the register and run.

  ‘The esteemed Sir Montague Chamford, I believe?’

  Monty raised a smile for the smart young stranger approaching them, as if he received such greetings wherever he went. The stranger was dressed in a dark frockcoat over a white tunic and was wearing the traditional red tarboosh hat with a black tassel. ‘I am Mohammed Sawalha.’ He salaamed respectfully, but did not even glance at Jessie. ‘I come from Prince Abdul al-Hakim. My prince sends greeting to our esteemed visitor to Cairo and extends the hand of friendship.’

  Jessie watched Monty salaam gracefully to the young man and wave a hand at herself. ‘May I introduce my travelling companion, Miss Kenton.’

  ‘Good evening, Miss Kenton. I am honoured to meet you.’

  He didn’t look honoured, not one bit. She nodded stiffly.

  ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’ Monty asked.

  ‘Prince Abdul heard of your arrival in our favoured city today. He is holding a reception at his palace this evening and wishes to invite you to join him. He would be honoured. The British High Commissioner and his wife will be attending, as well as most of the British and French “top brass”, I think you call it.’

  He extended a beautifully groomed hand that held out what was clearly an official invitation on a thick embossed card edged with ornate gold. Monty took it, inspected it, and looked expectantly across at Jessie.

  No, Monty. She felt a swoop of disappointment that he was so easily distracted from their purpose here. She gave a quick shake of her head.

  ‘You go,’ she said quietly. She started to turn away, uneasy at the sudden change in their situation. Who were these people who knew they were here? How did they find out?

  ‘Please convey my thanks to Prince Abdul,’ Monty said courteously to Mohammed Sawalha. ‘I shall be delighted to attend.’

  ‘We shall send a car for you. In one hour.’

  The messenger bowed and, pleased with himself, he strutted towards the door of the hotel. Monty stared thoughtfully after the departing figure and stubbed out his cigarette in the brass ashtray on the desk.

  ‘Interesting,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘I think it has been a long day,’ she said.

  He frowned. ‘It’s not over yet.’

  ‘I hope you enjoy your evening.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said.

  She heard his intake of breath. Abruptly he drew her further from the desk and lowered his voice. ‘Did you think I would go without you?’

  ‘You are a free agent, Monty. You do as you wish.’

  She started to move away but he immediately stepped close to her and laid a hand on her shoulder, anchoring her.

  ‘Don’t do this, Jessie. Don’t push me away. Not now.’

  His voice was different. The light, lazily bantering tone that was so much a part of him had vanished. This was the Monty Chamford from Trafalgar Square, the one who had fought his way to her side when she was in danger. For a heartbeat the moment hung suspended on a thread, then she smiled.

  ‘I haven’t come all this way to go gallivanting round blasted palaces,’ she told him.

  ‘On the contrary, this could be exactly what we need.’ He wafted the invitation through the air, releasing her shoulder. ‘Think about it. There will be many from Cairo’s European clan there, I’m certain. They may have crossed paths with your brother or heard of his arrival. Someone may know something.’

  ‘You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. Of course we must go.’ Jessie felt a rush of sudden excitement. ‘Tim might even be there.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up too high.’

  She was grateful. He didn’t call her a fool, though the idea that Tim would be at this evening’s reception was utterly foolish. Jessie knew that. But she also knew that nothing about this trip was predictable. Anything was possible.

  ‘Silly me,’ she said, tapping a hand to her forehead in mock despair. ‘I forgot to pack my ballgown.’

  ‘You look lovely in any frock.’

  ‘But seriously, I do need evening gloves, long white ones, or they won’t even let me in!’

  ‘No need for such …’ He stopped, frozen in mid-thought, eyes wide. ‘Come,’ he whispered.

  He whirled round and strode back to the reception desk. He waved the embossed invitation under the nose of the startled clerk who snatched off his spectacles and jumped back a foot. Monty placed a guinea on the counter.

  ‘My travelling companion, Miss Kenton, requires a pair of ladies’ white evening gloves,’ he declared in his best and loudest Sir Montague voice. ‘I’m certain you have spares lying around here. You chaps always do.’ He rapped the counter with the ivory head of his cane. ‘Ties, gloves and umbrellas. Must have cupboard-loads of the things. Go!’ He pointed at the door behind the clerk. ‘Go and inform your manager. White gloves.’

  ‘But, sir, I mustn’t leave this …’

  ‘Go, man! Gloves!’

  ‘Please, I …’

  ‘Now!’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Go!’

  The man went. Jessie didn’t hesitate. Before he had even closed the door behind him, she had seized the register, twirled it to face her and was scouring the lists of guests.

  Less than one minute later the clerk emerged with a wide grin on his face and a delicate bundle of tissue paper held across his hands like a votive offering.

  ‘White evening gloves,’ he announced.

  ‘Good man,’ Monty praised him.

  The register was back in place. Jessie’s heart was hammering in her chest.

  ‘So?’ Monty asked.

  Jessie waited until she had shut the bedroom door. The porter, in his white belted tunic, had insisted on padding around the ornate room, prodding the bed to prove its softness, throwing open the carved wardrobe to reveal its spaciousness, pointing out the alabaster bowl loaded with peaches and dates for her refreshment. He pulled the heavy wine-coloured curtains closed.

  ‘No open window,’ he chattered happily. ‘Night full, bad mosquitoes.’ He pinched at his own brown arm to demonstrate their viciousness. ‘My name Youssif. Anything to you, I get. I good.’

  ‘Thank you, Youssif.’ She dropped a few of Monty’s Egyptian piastres into his waiting hand and shooed him out the door.

  ‘So?’ Monty repeated.

  ‘I have it.’

  He rolled his eyes impatiently. ‘Who?’

  ‘Reginald Musgrave.’

  His eyebrows drew down into a sceptical line. ‘Who the hell is Reginald Musgrave?’

  She threw off her jacket and opened her mouth to speak, to say why the name had jumped out at her from the register at once. But all that was in her head suddenly seemed to crash together and instead of words, a strange gasping sound escaped. Immediately he came to her. His arms gathered her to him, gently stroking her back. The shakes lasted no more than a minute, but her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered and attempted to pull away.

  But he held her.

  ‘Hush,’ he whispered. ‘Relax. Breathe gently.’

  She closed her eyes and felt something inside herself hitch loose, something that had been stretched too tight. She let the murmur of his voice wrap around her and felt the weight of his jaw against her head. Slowly the hard knot in her throat untied.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she s
aid and lifted her head from his shoulder, surprised at a small damp patch on his pale jacket. Had she been crying?

  ‘Don’t be.’

  He released his hold on her and tousled the thick blonde waves of her hair with his fingers. The gesture was so unexpected, so intimate that it took Jessie by surprise.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘My pleasure. A mere ripple on the smooth surface of our plans.’

  And that was that.

  ‘What are these plans?’ she queried. ‘Other than snatching hotel registers, I wasn’t aware that we’d formed any plans.’

  He chuckled and lit a cigarette for each of them. ‘It sounds better,’ he said, ‘to talk of plans. As if we know what we’re doing. Not just flying by the seat of our bally pants.’

  ‘Does that scare you?’

  ‘No, quite the reverse. But I’m worried you’ll go streaking off somewhere when my back is turned.’ He exhaled a narrow string of smoke. ‘That does scare me.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  He considered her carefully, as if counting every hair. ‘No,’ he answered, ‘no, I don’t think I do.’

  ‘I’m offended.’

  ‘Don’t be. I am no more trusting of people than you are.’

  ‘What makes you think I don’t trust people?’

  He moved closer and tapped both his forefingers on her eyelids, gentle butterfly nudges. ‘These. The way they look at people.’

  ‘I trust you,’ she insisted.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ He shook his head. ‘But I don’t blame you in the slightest. I wouldn’t trust a blithering idiot like me either.’

  ‘Monty!’ she said sternly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Stop it.’

  He looked startled, as though caught with his fingers in the honey jar, but then he laughed.

  ‘Now,’ she said, sitting down on the bed, ‘let’s talk about Sir Reginald Musgrave.’

  ‘Ah! The mystery name in the hotel register. A baronet, I assume.’