by L. C. Tyler
‘After Geraldine left me,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t write anything for a year – maybe eighteen months. But you get over it.’
‘You do, do you?’ she asked. ‘Maybe men are more forgiving than women then. In which case let me give you some advice: if you ever walk out on some poor woman, then watch your back.’
‘Do you think so?’ I asked.
‘I know so,’ she said. ‘You can run, but sooner or later, we’ll catch up with you.’
The second night’s dinner was a formal affair, for which I wore the new white dinner jacket that I had sought and eventually purchased the previous week in Chichester. I was pleased to see that Purbright was also wearing something similar, though Mahmoud and Majid had opted for lounge suits and Proctor appeared in an open-necked white shirt, black trousers and cummerbund, which he described as ‘Red Sea Rig’. The phrase suggested an earlier nautical career for Proctor, of which the current trip up the Nile was merely a logical extension. The two Americans apologized for the fact that they had been obliged to travel light, and they appeared, as usual, looking expensively casual. Campion was the last of the men to arrive, wearing the open-necked shirt and cotton trousers that might have been appropriate for the evening before. He scowled at my dinner jacket as though I was wearing it simply to show him up. Of the ladies, Elsie’s costume was certainly the most imaginative, and had it been the fancy dress evening, it is likely that she would have won a prize. As it was, I saw Miss Watson raise an eyebrow at the brave combination of pink batik and orange paisley that Elsie had selected from her large suitcase as appropriate formal evening wear. Annabelle swept into the room, just as the first course was being served, wearing a figure-hugging, black silk evening dress with a very low-cut neckline and a single row of pearls. My gaze probably followed her a moment longer than it should.
‘Your tie is crooked,’ said Elsie to me reprovingly. ‘And that dinner jacket makes you look like a spiv out of an Ealing Comedy. And . . . for God’s sake . . . what’s that stuffed in your pocket?’
‘Just some interview questions I printed out before we left home,’ I said. ‘In case I couldn’t work on them on the computer.’ I tried shoving them further down and out of sight. ‘I thought I might glance at them over coffee if I had a chance.’
Elsie briefly re-surveyed me to remind herself of the worst aspects of my appearance and character. She shook her head and fingered the batik that she was wearing. ‘It’s a good job one of us has made an effort.’
Wine was included with the menu, but few of us seemed to be drinking alcohol. Only Herbie Proctor entered fully and enthusiastically into the concept of unlimited free wine. It would be a cheap evening for the management.
‘We decided that, travelling in a Muslim country, we would drink what the locals drank,’ said Tom, indicating his karkadé – the bright purple drink that I had previously seen Miss Watson drinking.
‘In New York,’ said John, ‘we obviously drink nothing but Martinis. That’s pretty much all that is available.’
‘The Egyptian wine is surprisingly palatable,’ said Professor Campion, putting down his glass. He had joined Proctor, though on a more modest scale.
‘Not tried it before?’ asked Proctor, possibly imagining he had asked a trick question.
‘I meant this Egyptian wine is very good. Yes, we used to drink it all the time when we were carrying out fieldwork in Nubia.’
‘I’ve been to Nubia,’ volunteered Lizzi Hull. ‘Did you do any work at Meroe?’
Campion shook his head. ‘Another site entirely,’ he said.
‘Have you done any work in Palestine?’ she asked.
‘No. Not my area. And a little dangerous now, perhaps.’
‘Palestine isn’t all suicide bombers.’
‘One or two would be more than enough,’ said Campion archly. ‘Though why anybody would want to be a suicide bomber escapes me.’
‘Wait until somebody steals your country from you, and see how you feel then.’
This last remark implied that Campion had been personally responsible for the creation of the state of Israel, which even Proctor would have been reluctantly obliged to admit was untrue. Around the table there were almost certainly all shades of opinion about Palestine but, being for the most part British, we were disinclined to say anything that might cause the remotest offence to each other. There could therefore have been a lengthy silence had Purbright not supported Lizzi by saying: ‘I think people who can’t understand why somebody would be a suicide bomber simply lack the necessary imagination. We’ve become a bit too comfortable in the West. In other places there are still causes considered worth dying for. You don’t have to agree with the cause to empathize with somebody who feels that way.’
Annabelle looked in my direction and said: ‘I can sympathize with anyone who has their home cruelly taken from them, by whatever means.’
Since, of the other passengers, only Elsie knew of the sale of Muntham Court, nobody was quite sure how to respond to this new contribution to the debate. Lizzi nodded supportively. Mahmoud looked uncertainly at Majid and shrugged. Fortunately Proctor decided that the least controversial thing to do was to bait Campion to breaking point.
‘Which university exactly do you teach at, Professor?’ asked Proctor, with what he may have assumed was guile. A genuine query would not, however, have given quite the same sarcastic emphasis to the word ‘Professor’.
‘UCL,’ said Campion. He had not so much seen through as failed to notice Proctor’s attempt at guile, and was now regarding him with a mixture of concern and contempt. The mixture was slightly biased in favour of contempt, but that might yet change.
‘I’m quite interested in Egyptology,’ said Proctor improbably. ‘Maybe I should Google the UCL Egyptology department and check out the course? I might sign up for it. I could check your own bit of the website too. I would imagine you’re mentioned?’
You had to know Proctor pretty well to realize that he was trying to be subtle.
‘If you wish,’ said Campion with a discernible sneer. It was likely he had seen Proctor’s antiquated phone and realized that the Google threat was not an immediate one. ‘You’re considering taking up archaeology as a profession, Mr Proctor?’
‘I’ve always liked digging. I’m reckoned to be pretty good at it. Digging.’
‘And what is your current line of work, Mr Proctor?’ asked Campion.
‘This and that,’ grinned Proctor. If I had had teeth like Proctor’s I would have grinned a little less and brushed a little more. Orthodontic work is expensive, but toothpaste was probably not beyond Proctor’s budget.
‘Sounds like Tom’s old man,’ said John, breaking off from another conversation. ‘He just did a bit of this and that too. Or that was what he always told the jury.’
‘They never managed to convict him,’ said Tom. ‘And at least he never worked for Nixon, like your father.’
‘Dad said he only ever worked for Nixon in an ironic and postmodern way.’
‘Shame he got three years for it.’
‘That’s what he thought too.’
Annabelle largely ignored me throughout the meal, though she talked in an animated fashion to Purbright, and laughed loudly at anything that he said that was even remotely amusing – and at quite a few things that were not. Once or twice I noticed that she laid a hand on his arm as she spoke to him, and left it there while he replied. At the far end of the table Lizzi Hull was having a fairly intense conversation in Arabic with Mahmoud and Majid. Sky Benson and Jane Watson had also found something in common that required discussion, though Jane Watson occasionally glanced in the direction of the Arabic speakers, as though she had caught a phrase or two that she understood.
Dinner had ended and we were all sitting round drinking a second or third cup of coffee, when Purbright nudged me and said: ‘Fancy a stroll, old boy?’
I followed him out of the room, uncertain why he had selected me as his strolling companion. As soon as we w
ere up on deck, however, it became clear that this was an extension of our earlier conversation. I would need to explain quickly that my links with MI6 were nonexistent.
‘You remember that I mentioned a colleague who had failed to show up?’ Purbright asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well, he’s shown up now. Dead, unfortunately.’
I decided not to ask whether he had been ill for a long time. It didn’t sound like that sort of death.
‘Shot on his way from Cairo to join me at Luxor. The group that we are monitoring is clearly monitoring us too. In fact, it looks as though the balloon is about to go up,’ said Purbright. ‘Mahmoud and Majid have been keeping a pretty low profile so far, but now their people have shown their hand, we can expect some action.’
This was worrying, whatever role he foresaw for me. ‘Do you know what they are planning?’ I asked.
‘Not exactly. The only firm piece of information that I have is that the party on board the Khedive had plans to meet up with some of their friends tonight.’
‘How?’
‘The others were going to join us by motorboat on one of the more deserted stretches of the river. Since the Khedive is making slow progress, however, my guess is that we haven’t yet reached the rendezvous point.’
‘And they are after you specifically?’
‘Me? No, they want to blow up the boat. They are terrorists – probably linked to Al-Qaeda.’
‘So how are you involved?’
‘It’s my job,’ said Purbright. ‘My colleagues in the Egyptian security service are trying to track down the people with the motorboat. I’m keeping an eye on Mahmoud and Majid. They were just a little too curious during this afternoon’s tour of the kitchens, didn’t you think? Planning where to put the explosive, no doubt.’
‘If you say so. But why are you having this conversation with me?’
‘If things go wrong, I need somebody on board I can rely on. As a former agent yourself . . .’
‘I’m not Paul Fielder,’ I said. ‘I write crime as Peter Fielding. Similar names. Not the first time we’ve been confused.’
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you looked like the photos. Too young for one thing.’
The ‘too young’ bit was obviously some compensation, though Fielder was probably now in his eighties.
‘No,’ I said. ‘My Amazon rankings don’t look like his either. Shall I just forget we had this conversation?’
He was nonplussed for a moment, then said: ‘It’s too late for that. And I still need somebody who can, if necessary, get a message back to the right people with our location. Do you have a piece of paper on you?’ I pulled the Southend Evening Echo interview questions from my pocket. He scribbled something on the back and returned them to me. ‘Keep this number until you need it.’
‘OK,’ I said.
He looked at his watch and frowned. ‘Good man. Now, there’s somebody else I need to talk to. If you don’t mind, maybe you could stay here for the moment and we’ll continue the conversation when I return. If you spot anything suspicious . . . well, maybe the best thing is just to come and find me. I’ll be back here on deck in about ten minutes. But if anything goes wrong . . .’
‘I am to phone the number,’ I said. Even an ex-tax inspector could probably do that.
Twelve
The waiters were clearing away the coffee cups when Purbright (or Raffles) dragged Ethelred away for a quiet chat.
I hadn’t quite made up my mind about Raffles (or Purbright). On the one hand, he seemed like a fun sort of guy – plenty of interesting anecdotes. On the other hand, at least if I trusted Herbie Proctor’s version, he’d probably murdered his wife. My two policemen had suspicions about him as well.
I reckoned Ethelred would be safe with him for a while and carried on talking to the other passengers. Most had however decided it was time for bed. Beginning with Annabelle, one by one my dinner companions made their apologies and retired to their cabins or took a final stroll round the deck. Eventually my only remaining buddy was Herbie Proctor, who had partaken a little too much of the free plonk.
‘Well, Elsie,’ he said, successfully slurring both words. ‘Just the two of us now, eh?’
The friendly smile alone was enough to make me decide that it was time for me too to depart, unless Herbie wanted to clear off first. I tried this suggestion on him.
‘Shouldn’t you be watching over your client?’ I asked.
Proctor was clearly a little bemused and, even if he had been sober, might have had difficulty in giving a clear answer. He looked thoughtful, as though trying to work something out.
‘My client is quite safe,’ he said eventually.
‘In spite of the rock that you say was aimed at you?’
Proctor considered this. ‘But they missed,’ he said.
‘Or,’ I said, ‘maybe it wasn’t aimed at you. Maybe it was aimed at Ethelred.’
‘Ethelred? Who would want to kill a third-rate crime writer?’ asked Proctor.
‘Second-rate,’ I said. It wasn’t really true, but as an agent you have to promote your writers actively. Herbie was however right in the sense that Ethelred was part of that class of living creatures that have almost no known predators. Nobody – even Annabelle – would really want to kill him. Accident still had to be the most likely explanation, but then again there had been that text message . . .
‘Have we speeded up a bit?’ asked Proctor.
‘What?’ I said. ‘I can’t hear you above that awful noise!’
‘I said: We’re going like a bat out of hell.’
I hadn’t really noticed but, looking out of the window, I noticed that the bank did seem to be heading north a bit faster than usual. And the gentle throb of the ship’s engines had increased to an unpleasant rumble that threatened to loosen my fillings.
‘I thought we had to go slowly to avoid damaging the engines or something,’ I said.
‘What?’ said Proctor.
‘I said . . .’
But the noise had increased to a point where normal conversation was becoming impossible.
For a few minutes we behaved as if we were a rather unsuccessful mime act, mouthing and gesturing at each other. Then Miss Watson returned and said something to which both Herbie Proctor and I could only mime: ‘What?’
She waved a hand at us wearily and sat down at the table in a resigned sort of way. Then, inexplicably, she stood up again and ran towards the door. She turned and said something but I’m not sure how she expected us to hear her. Herbie Proctor actually had his hands over his ears and I was thinking of following his example. Miss Watson made her hands into a sort of megaphone and tried again, but she might as well have been reciting Keats, frankly.
Then the inevitable happened. There was an almighty crash and the sound of what was probably an old ship’s engine breathing its last.
‘ . . . I said I heard a pistol shot, you cretins,’ yelled Miss Watson, finally audible in the silence. Not a Keats sonnet after all then, or not one of the better-known ones.
‘It was just the noise of the ship’s engine,’ said Proctor, rising to his feet. ‘Blowing up probably.’
‘No, a moment ago, while we were still sitting at the table. I’m sure I heard a gun. We need to go and investigate.’
‘You go then,’ said Proctor. Coming from a private investigator I thought this was pretty wet, but Proctor only private-investigated for cash in hand.
‘What if it’s Purbright?’ I asked.
‘Raffles? Impossible,’ he said. But he was now looking worried. A fee might be claimed eventually from a living client who had attempted to renege on a contract. Extracting a fee from a dead one might be trickier, especially when one of the key terms of the contract had been to keep him alive. ‘You stay here. I’ll go and check.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Miss Watson.
‘I’m certainly not staying here alone,’ I said.
The three of us did
not have to go far. Just out of the door and round the corner, on a sheltered bit of deck, somebody in a white dinner jacket was lying face down. I know references to pools of blood are a bit of a cliché, but ‘lake’ was possibly overstating things and ‘pond’ didn’t quite have the right ring to it, with its connotations of ducks and willow trees.
Just for a moment I thought it was Ethelred, then I caught a glimpse of the lined and leathery face. Miss Watson squatted down by the body, gathering up her skirt so that it did not trail too much in the pool/lake/pond thing, and took the wrist closest to her. It seemed unlikely that the victim would have much of a pulse on the grounds that you need blood inside you for that, but I guess somebody had to try it.
‘He’s dead,’ said Miss Watson after a few moments.
So, there it was. Herbie Proctor had just lost a client. Careless, really.
Thirteen
After that things started to happen quite quickly.
First Inspector Majid appeared from round the corner and came to an abrupt halt. He looked from me to Herbie to Miss Watson, and back to me.
‘It wasn’t us,’ I said, though I wished that I hadn’t sounded quite so much like a third-former caught behind the bike sheds with a couple of roll-ups.
‘We heard a shot,’ said Miss Watson, deciding to go for a more grown-up approach. ‘We came to investigate.’
‘About a minute ago,’ said Proctor. ‘While the engine was making all that noise. The trained ear, though, can always pick up a pistol shot. Miss Watson heard it too, I think.’
My own recollection was that Proctor had had his hands over his trained ears at the time, but Miss Watson seemed inclined to be quite charitable for once – we were, after all, in this one together. ‘That’s right,’ she said simply. ‘The three of us were in the dining room and we heard the shot. Whoever did it must still be close . . .’
Well yes, obviously, the killer could not have gone far. We were on a boat – a boat that was, I noticed, now drifting back towards Luxor with the current, slewing slightly as it did so. I alerted Inspector Majid to this interesting fact, but he replied tersely that he was sure Captain Bashir had things under control. It seemed to me that the Nile had things under control but, as a policeman, Majid was perhaps rightly more concerned that we had a dead body on board.
