Shadows on the Nile

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘No.’

  But he knew this was not the end of it. ‘He will make enquiries.’

  She nodded.

  Monty recalled the way Prince Abdul had looked at his enchanting young visitor from England. It set his teeth on edge and made him scrutinise her fine-boned face with cautious eyes. How far was Jessie prepared to go to find Brother Tim? With a muttered curse he snatched two champagne glasses from a passing tray.

  ‘So,’ he asked grim-faced, ‘what are you expecting?’

  She accepted the drink, her eyes bright. ‘To learn under which rock the snakes are hiding.’

  ‘Snakes,’ he reminded her, ‘bite.’

  Monty was careful to be gracious to all who came seeking out the newcomer with the title attached to his name, and the striking girl attached to his arm.

  While Egyptian music played softly in the background, he smiled at army generals and captains, he nodded serenely at tedious British government diplomats and listened with attention to a passionate young man, Herr Zimmermann, from the German delegation who advocated the imminent seizure of power in Germany by Herr Adolf Hitler to replace the senile Field Marshal Hindenburg. But it was the Egyptians that Monty sought out. Most had adopted the western dress of suits and high collars, but some came decked out in traditional Egyptian robes that made the Europeans look like drab sparrows by comparison.

  He moved smoothly between the different groups, casually inserting the name of Musgrave into the conversation at intervals but each time drew a blank. That struck Monty as odd. Informers should have picked him up, whether for the British or the Egyptian authorities, yet somehow he seemed to have slid through their nets. It sent a shot of cold lead down his spine. On the excuse of tracking down a brandy, he broke free from the chatter around him. Enough was enough, damn it. He headed over to a bald man who was standing near one of the many arched windows, eyeing the gathering balefully over the rim of a whisky glass. To Monty’s annoyance, Jessie had already been spirited away from his side by a couple of the more glamorous evening gowns and now she was barely visible to him, firmly secured behind a phalanx of attentive white evening jackets. A flash of lace, a shimmer of pearl hair-clip, that was all he had of her for himself.

  ‘Good evening, ambassador,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘We met in London last spring.’

  ‘Remind me, young man.’ The American accent was smooth as honey, and he tapped his temple with his glass. ‘My mind is too full of names.’

  Monty smiled easily. ‘I’m not surprised. Mine is Montague Chamford.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you’re that new guy causing the women to flutter their silly fans. A lord or knight of the realm, aren’t you? Some darn title.’

  ‘Something like that. Tell me, sir, how are things out here at the moment?’

  Ambassador William Jardine was a rare breed of man: one who was immensely practical, as well as immensely academic. A farm boy from Idaho made good. His passions were agriculture and education, and he had served both well as Secretary of Agriculture under President Calvin Coolidge. But politics is always a dirty game and two years ago in the Herbert Hoover administration he had been elbowed out to the post of American ambassador to Egypt, where his expertise in agriculture could be put to good use.

  Monty had respect for his judgement.

  Jardine scratched one of his large ears. ‘We’re looking at a very fragile stability of the triangle of power, I can tell you, Montague.’ He held up three fingers. ‘The British Residency, King Fuad and the Wafd Nationalist Party.’ He clashed his fingers together. ‘You Brits had better keep your wits about you. I keep saying the same to old Pompous Percy over there, but does he listen … bah!’

  ‘Pompous Percy?’

  Jardine tossed back the last of his bourbon and growled, ‘Hell, boy, that’s what we call your High Commissioner, lord of all he surveys. Sir Percy Loraine himself.’

  He nodded in the direction of a distinguished gentleman standing centre stage in the room, with his hair oiled straight back and a cleft in his jutting chin. To Monty’s surprise, a slender figure in a white frock and a mother-of-pearl hair-clip was at the man’s side, talking earnestly.

  ‘But I heard he was working closely with King Fuad, handing him more control over the government. Giving Egypt to the Egyptians,’ Monty pointed out.

  ‘To the rich Egyptians, you mean. The man’s a jackass. And don’t think I’m telling tales out of school because I tell him the same to his face. He’s asking for trouble back home and, more vitally for all of us, asking for trouble with the Nationalists.’

  ‘The Wafd Party?’

  ‘Yep.’

  A silent servant in brilliant red robes with a white sash and cap glided to Jardine’s elbow with a tray of whisky. Clearly the ambassador’s tastes were well known.

  ‘Bourbon?’ Jardine checked.

  ‘Of course, effendi.’

  ‘Take one, young man,’ Jardine said to Monty. ‘You’ll need it out here, I warn you. It lubricates the throat in this sand-blasted country.’

  Monty accepted the drink. As he took a swig, he wondered how close to the ground the Americans had their ears. ‘Have you crossed paths, by any chance, with a young English chum of mine? Sir Reginald Musgrave is his name.’

  ‘Another English toff! God knows, Cairo fills up with them at this time of year when you all flock over for a break from your miserable weather.’ He inspected Monty more closely. ‘What does this fellow of yours look like?’

  ‘Fair-haired, blue-eyed, an archaeologist.’

  ‘Ah, one of those guys. Nope, can’t help you there. Well, he has probably shifted up-river to Luxor. That’s where most of the digs take place. Not a man for mucking around in the past myself.’ He took a generous swig of his drink. ‘The future, that’s what counts.’

  Monty raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘Excuse me now, if you don’t mind. Time for me to go and bend the wealthy ear of our illustrious host. I’m trying to get him to fund an irrigation scheme for local farmers.’

  ‘Of course. It was a pleasure to meet you again.’

  As Jardine was about to walk away, he clapped a hand on Monty’s shoulder, his eyes suddenly serious and whisky-free. ‘You strike me as an intelligent young man, so I’m giving you a word of advice if you stay in Egypt. The Wafd are not the ones to worry about. Unrest is growing on the streets. Not yet at the riot stage like it was in 1919 when an anti-colonial frenzy got eight hundred of the poor bastards killed. But it’s getting there.’

  Monty listened attentively. ‘If not the Wafd, who is to blame?’

  ‘The Ikwhan. That’s the Muslim Brotherhood. New on the scene, but deadly. Hassan al-Banna, he’s inciting them. He’s the one to watch. A darn schoolteacher, of all things. That’s the guy who is the real threat to you Brits and to your inflated imperial egos.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning, sir.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Just a friendly word.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I hear whispers that they’re even in league with the Nazis. They’re distributing Arabic translations of Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler’s cheerful little treatise.’

  ‘To stir up trouble with the Jews?’

  ‘You got it in one.’

  ‘Another nail in the colonial coffin.’

  ‘May the good Lord preserve us. Here, have a cigar. We need to make the most of the good things in life while we can still enjoy them.’

  He thrust a fat cigar into Monty’s breast pocket and rumbled away into the crowd.

  Monty took his cigar out into the night on the terrace. Flanked by gigantic black and gold sphinxes and by awesome statues of blank-eyed pharaohs – all with their distinctive high forehead and almond eyes – he felt Egypt reaching out to him. It set his pulse racing. He’d only been here a few hours, for Christ’s sake, but already he found himself slipping into the grip of its overpowering sense of timelessness. As though nothing had changed for thousands of years. Its ancient dynasties had fought and k
illed to possess this country, just as fiercely as this Hassan al-Banna and his followers were planning to do now.

  As he leaned his elbows on the parapet overlooking the fragrant garden below, the darkness rose up to greet him like the breath of its ancient gods. He drew it deep into his lungs, aware of its power to play tricks on the mind. Instantly it swept into his head the image of Timothy Kenton, a trickle of blood seeping from one nostril onto the flagstones, his hand limp and unresponsive between Monty’s fingers.

  ‘Timothy!’ he had called out, his heart trampling on his ribs. ‘Can you hear me?’

  The eyelids lay still as the gateway to a tomb.

  ‘We’ll take care of him,’ Scott had announced. ‘Let’s get him into his car. Go and deal with the rest.’

  And Monty had dealt with it.

  The memory gave him a jolt and he drew hard on the plump cigar, relished the aromatic smoke clogging the pathways to his brain. He’d made the wrong choice, but it wasn’t too late. Please God it wasn’t too late. He would have to tell Jessie. He knew that. He exhaled a thick trail of smoke into the darkness, as if it could spiral its way into the past. He’d have to tell her. Soon.

  28

  ‘Hello, stranger. You deserted me.’

  It was Jessie. He had meandered down into the black shadows and paced restlessly between the shrubs and palm trees away from the lights of the palace. He had just seated himself on a stone bench carved in the shape of a scarab when she found him. She sat down beside him and her arm immediately encircled his waist, warm and secure. She leaned her shoulder against his.

  ‘Not enjoying it?’ she asked softly.

  ‘I just needed to clear my head. It’s been extremely interesting, in fact. How about you?’

  ‘Yes. I am entranced.’

  ‘How was the High Commissioner,’ he asked. ‘Sir Percy?’

  He felt a small tremor skip through her and wondered why.

  ‘He was fine.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But it seems new arrivals from abroad are often checked out by the police.’

  ‘Oh.’ He tilted back his head and gazed up through a web of palm leaves at a sky filled to the brim with stars. ‘Not good news.’

  ‘No. Tim’s travelling on a false passport. But at least we know he got as far as Mena House.’

  ‘Yes, that’s something, I suppose. But where next?’

  She followed his gaze upwards, rolling her cheekbone across the curve of his shoulder. The night sky arced over them in a layer of velvet. It seemed solid and touchable, just like Egypt’s history slowly delivering up its secrets to man’s probing fingers.

  ‘Why does the sky look so much bigger in Egypt?’ Jessie murmured.

  He smiled in the darkness and felt her body relax against his. ‘Maybe because it’s older.’

  She touched the back of his hand with the tips of her borrowed evening glove. They felt warm on his skin.

  ‘Thank you, Monty. For coming with me.’ She lifted her head and with one hand she gently turned his face to hers. In the deep shadows her eyes were masked from his view but he could see the outline of her cheekbones and the glint of her hair in the starlight. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘did you come?’

  It was easier. Having this conversation in the dark.

  ‘I told you.’ He spoke slowly. Letting her think about the words. ‘I am responsible for the séance and it was the séance that was responsible for Tim’s disappearance, it seems to me. I’m trying to make amends.’

  ‘You think he’s dead, don’t you?’

  No words came. They sat knees touching, looking at each other’s eyes in the scented darkness, unable to peel back the shadows to see the truth in them. Monty heard her breath, caught the sound of her swallow, and instead of answering her question he leaned forward and kissed her mouth. A firm decisive kiss. The taste of her lips was like none he’d ever known. It stopped all thought in his head. She tasted of sky and the fresh breeze off the Nile, of peaches and spiced wine, of unknown secrets that lingered on her soft lips. With a shock he realised she already tasted of Egypt.

  He drew back.

  She took a long breath and he could feel her thigh pressed against the length of his own.

  ‘Jessie,’ he murmured.

  He took her hand and undid the pearl buttons of her glove, peeling it back to expose her bare skin. Slowly he lowered his head and buried his lips in her palm. Instantly her other hand found his hair, trailed fingers through the short bristles of the back of it and down the muscles of his neck. He took her in his arms and she felt small and slight but she fitted perfectly against his chest as if handmade for it. Her response was strong and needy. Her hands cradled his face at first as he kissed her mouth, but then her thumbs dug into the skin of his temples. Her fingers twisted themselves into his hair, into his jacket, twined around his neck. She was fierce with her kisses. He caressed the long line of her back and when his lips found the soft slope of her throat and the delicate dip inside her collarbone, she uttered a low aching moan.

  He breathed in the scent of her, found himself consumed by it as it scored deep channels through him. He could feel the frantic pounding at the base of his throat and it was with a huge effort that he pulled away from her. Gently he held her by her bare shoulders, the shawl discarded on the ground, her breath hot on his lips.

  ‘Jessie, we must go in.’

  ‘Must we?’

  Even in the blackness he could see that her eyes were huge. She made a sighing sound and he felt his heart lurch, but he forced himself to his feet, retrieved her lace shawl from the dirt and held it open for her. She took a long breath, then stood in front of him, but instead of turning her back to him so he could wrap the shawl around her shoulders, she remained facing him and lifted her hand to smooth down his hair and straighten his tie, soft tender touches.

  It was no good. To be so close. He could not prevent himself reaching for her once more, his arms curling around her waist and drawing her against him.

  ‘You smell of Egypt,’ he whispered into her hair.

  ‘What? Of donkeys and camels and bad drains? Thank you.’

  They laughed and the tension flowed out of them with the laughter. He kissed her one last time and released his hold on her. After he had replaced the shawl around her, he took her hand in his and together they walked back towards the lights. But now nothing looked the same.

  Monty was fetching her a long cool drink of pomegranate juice.

  ‘I won’t be a minute,’ he’d said.

  Her face was changed. A soft fullness drenched her mouth that had not been there before.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ she said as she stared at the mosaic floor and smiled.

  After the cool of the garden, the air inside was slick with heat despite the huge brass ceiling-fans stirring the mix of tobacco smoke and perfume. As he strode back with the drinks he was accosted by an elegant Egyptian wearing an Eton tie, eager to discuss the recent riots of the Unemployed Workers’ hunger march in London. Monty brushed him off lightly, but by the time he reached the spot where he’d left Jessie, she had vanished. Where? He looked around, eyes quick, and he spotted her over by an indoor fountain with a bronze lion in the centre.

  Her eyes were half closed and her head swayed gently to the music. She was watching golden carp gliding through the pool of water at the base of the fountain, mesmerised. He opened his mouth to call her name as he approached, but a plump man in a white dinner jacket and carrying a briar pipe in his hand hailed her first.

  ‘Miss Kenton, I do believe. What a surprise! What are you doing all the way out here in the Land of the Pharaohs?’

  Monty saw Jessie turn.

  ‘Dr Scott!’ she exclaimed.

  Monty was there in an instant. ‘Scott, good evening, I wasn’t aware that you were in Cairo.’

  ‘Dear boy, I come every year, don’t you know?’ He smiled with pleasure at Jessie. ‘Dicky lungs, I’m afraid. Touch of mustard gas in the war.’

  Jes
sie looked delighted to see him. ‘What a coincidence to meet you here.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Monty said drily.

  Dr Septon Scott winked roguishly at her, and Monty’s stomach sank as he realised the man was flushed with drink. ‘If you’re not careful,’ Scott joked, ‘I’ll get the idea that you are following me, Miss Kenton. When did you arrive?’

  ‘Just today.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ He waved his pipe expansively. ‘I came a few days ago. That proves my point,’ he chuckled. ‘A wonderful country, Egypt is. You’ll love the pyramids. It’s like stepping back into history, eh, Monty?’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Monty said coolly. ‘Do you know this Prince Abdul well?’

  ‘Oh, our paths have crossed every now and again. He gads about Europe often enough. And talking of paths crossing, Miss Kenton,’ he observed her amiably as he drew on his pipe, ‘any news of that brother of yours?’

  She moved to stand beside Monty and shook her head mutely. Monty thought about hitting him. Knocking his pipe right down his throat. Instead he handed Jessie her glass of juice, aware of her fingers brushing his and the quick intimate glance she gave him, and said in a neutral tone, ‘Jessie, the High Commissioner’s wife mentioned that she would like a word with you.’

  He saw the dismissal register. She didn’t blink. Just a brief tightening of her mouth before she nodded pleasantly enough.

  ‘Of course. I’ll go and find her.’

  After she left, he didn’t move. For a heartbeat of time he watched her, then he rounded on Dr Scott.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Scott looked surprised. ‘I told you, Monty, I always come out for the dry air. Does my old lungs a power of good.’

  ‘Scott, we both know you go nowhere unless you can turn a profit.’

  ‘Ah, now, now, dear boy, no need to be—’

  ‘Timothy Kenton hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘So I gather. Bit of a mystery.’ He stared thoughtfully into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Can’t imagine why. We left the fellow in good fettle.’