Herring on the Nile

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Can she?’

  ‘She’s having a good try. And if she challenges the will, then I guess buyers will not be too keen to pay out good money on something they may never get their hands on.’

  ‘So you can’t sell it?’

  ‘I think I might give it away,’ he said. ‘It’s scarcely the sort of place I’d like to live in myself. And, frankly, I’m not comfortable having the sort of money I’d get if I sold it – I’ve done nothing to deserve it, after all. I’ll find a suitable charity and offer it to them. Maybe it could become a hospice? Their lawyers may have to fight Annabelle’s claim, if she really decides to make one – but I don’t think she will. And the courts are less likely to rule against a charity.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to give it to me, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want it either. Anyway, she clearly didn’t need to kill me. That was never her plan. She always had another perfectly good way of getting what she wanted. As far as I’m concerned, we are back to having no female killer matching Tom’s theory.’

  It still seemed to me that Annabelle might have had Plans B and C as well as a Plan A, but there didn’t seem much point in explaining this to Ethelred. Short of some sudden last-minute revelation, we would just have to accept the official version of events.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘this literary novel of yours had better be good if you’re going to make your fortune from writing.’

  Ethelred fingered the newspaper wrapping, as if consulting his personal deity. ‘I’ve gone off the idea of a literary novel,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll carry on writing crime. I may not sell that many, but as long as anyone wants to read them and I can get somebody to publish them, that’s what I’ll do. Crime – and maybe the odd spy story.’

  ‘What will the next one be then?’ I asked. ‘Crime or spies?’

  ‘Maybe both,’ he said. ‘I think I could probably write something that overlapped the two genres.’

  ‘It has to be one or the other,’ I said. ‘Anything that mixes up spies and crime will just be a mess.’

  ‘I’ll work on the plot while we travel back to Luxor,’ he said.

  ‘Good luck,’ I said.

  He looked at me uncertainly. He knew deep down that I was right.

  ‘You’re meeting Masterman there, aren’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, just before we fly back. He said he wanted to tie up a few loose ends.’

  ‘Good luck with that too,’ I said.

  The End

  ‘I think that pretty much ties things up,’ said Masterman.

  We were on the sun deck of the Khedive again, now securely moored at Luxor. From the direction of the engine room came the constant sound of activity as the repairs to the engines were finally completed.

  ‘I’m still not sure I understand it all,’ I said.

  I had toyed with the idea of explaining to him that Annabelle had possibly shot Purbright in mistake for me, but Masterman was in ‘transmit’ rather than ‘receive’ mode. He therefore proceeded to tell me what had happened.

  ‘The two terrorists, Mahmoud and Majid, were both British citizens, as you’d possibly worked out,’ he said. ‘Hence our involvement. We’d been onto them for some time and had followed them out here. We knew too that they’d made contact with a group based in Egypt. Their initial plan was to blow up the Khedive. It was an attempt to resume the attacks on tourist targets in Egypt. Unfortunately the boat’s progress was slow and they were going to miss their rendezvous with their local friends, who had the explosive. So they got Captain Bashir to go faster – hence the engines blowing when they did. They had also decided they would have to get rid of our man, Purbright, before the rendezvous, to improve the odds. One of them – Mahmoud we think – arranged to meet Purbright alone on some pretext and shot him. Then, or perhaps a bit later, he dumped the pistol in the cabin by the dining room, which Miss Watson had carelessly left unlocked, according to the captain, after her inspection of it. Afterwards he joined Majid and the boat’s captain on the bridge.’

  ‘But Captain Bashir said they were both on the bridge when the shot was heard.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve thought about that. I had a word with your Mr Proctor – a very astute man. He’d come up with what seems to me to be the solution to that problem. His theory is that Purbright was killed a bit earlier, using a gun with a silencer. The “shot” people heard shortly after was just part of a very old engine giving up the ghost. When Mahmoud and Majid discovered what people thought they knew, the two of them threw the silencer over the side of the boat, deliberately allowing people to find a gun that apparently had to be audible. Very clever. So there was confusion about the timing of the shot.’

  ‘Jane Watson was convinced,’ I said. ‘She said she knew what a gunshot sounded like.’

  ‘Typical woman,’ said Masterman. ‘Absolutely sure of herself but totally wrong. She’d have scarcely misled you all deliberately, of course, but if she was right about when the shot was fired, none of the rest of it makes sense. On the other hand, take out that one small piece of incorrect information and it all fits together, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Mahmoud and Majid were adamant that it was somebody else,’ I said. ‘They said they had abandoned their initial plan to blow up the boat because Purbright’s death convinced them that one of the other passengers must be from another group with similar aims. They didn’t want to kill somebody from their own side and needed time to confirm whether they had sympathizers on the boat. They were pretty sure it was a woman, by the way. Apparently when the Egyptian agent was shot he was talking on his mobile and said something about a woman he was going to have to watch out for.’ But I was aware that I was losing my audience.

  Masterman shook his head and gave me another of his sad smiles. The quality of my thinking was clearly only just above that of Jane Watson. ‘The Egyptian security people said nothing to us about a woman terrorist.’

  ‘Or maybe one of their own agents?’

  ‘You have to remember,’ said Masterman, ‘that Mahmoud and Majid were just stringing you along. Obviously they had to make up something vaguely plausible. There was a great deal of play-acting for your benefit – that bit of Majid’s phone call, for example, about wanting to come in from the cold – thrown in simply for you to overhear and assume to be a Le Carré reference. Ridiculous. Anyway, to continue the story, when the boat ran aground, they realized that they simply wouldn’t have time to plant the bomb before our people arrived. So they decided to switch to a Plan B that they’d had in reserve for some time – kidnapping a prominent member of the party.’

  ‘Me,’ I said, ‘but they decided I wasn’t important enough.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t,’ said Masterman. He smiled at me understandingly. ‘At one point they were considering taking Lady Muntham, but it would seem that your agent – Elsie, isn’t it? – persuaded them you were the one to go for. Anyway, though we knew, as I say, about the original plan, we didn’t know about the change in tactics until after you had been taken.’

  ‘For a while, I genuinely thought Majid was on our side.’

  ‘As I say – poor-quality play-acting. The pretence that Majid was a double agent was purely for your benefit, to persuade you to carry the bomb back on board the boat. Having discovered you were no earthly use to them, it was the best plan they had left. The whole story they told you was laughable when you think about it. Why did they have to take you back to the boat, when they could easily have dumped you at some remote spot to find your own way back? And why should anyone have resorted to such a clumsy way of communicating with us as passing on a briefcase full of papers? An encrypted CD ROM, maybe, or a data stick . . . They must have thought you were completely unacquainted with modern technology in any form.’

  ‘Possibly,’ I said.

  ‘What beats me is that they were stupid enough to think that anyone would fall for something so crude and unsubtle.’

  ‘I did fall for it,’ I said. />
  ‘Yes, but how likely was it that somebody like you would fetch up just when they needed them?’ Masterman chuckled and shook his head, inviting me to share the joke.

  ‘Pretty unlikely,’ I said.

  ‘But to continue the story,’ said Masterman, ‘Purbright was supposed to be accompanied on this mission by a thoroughly reliable member of the Egyptian security service – the Egyptian was to pose as the tour guide, so that he could watch the crew while Purbright watched the passengers. It had all been arranged with the owners of the boat; but none of the crew, even Captain Bashir, knew. Unfortunately, as you say, the local man was killed before he even got to the boat – hence Purbright boarding alone and hence your not having a guide.’

  ‘I’d wondered if Purbright’s colleague was the missing passenger.’

  ‘Yes, we wondered about this missing passenger too. We checked up on him. It turned out to be somebody called Raffles – no one of any importance or significance as far as this is concerned.’

  ‘What happened to Raffles exactly?’

  ‘He was stopped at the airport.’

  ‘The Egyptians thought he was too unsavoury a character to allow him in?’

  ‘No. They thought he had swine flu. He’s still in quarantine at a hospital in Cairo. Hopefully he’ll be able to join the Khedive for its trip next week. Apparently he knows Mr Proctor. He’s been trying to get through to his mobile all week, but it doesn’t seem to be working.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I said.

  ‘That would explain it,’ said Masterman.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘in the absence of anyone better, Purbright recruited me to help.’

  ‘Yes, that was a silly mistake,’ said Masterman. ‘He’d confused you with some other writer.’

  ‘Paul Fielder,’ I said.

  ‘That’s the one. He’s really good. Have you read him at all?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You should. Exciting, accurate stuff. He’s always in the best-seller lists . . . I suppose you also sell a few books though?’

  ‘Now and then. I’m apparently going to be quite big in Latvia.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Masterman. ‘So your agent tells me. Well done, you. Anyway, our conclusion, and that of the Egyptian police, is that Purbright was shot by Mahmoud. The gun, by the way, had been stolen from a shooting club in Cairo. And the two of them could have been responsible for that incident with the rock at Edfu. It’s just possible. Even though they claimed to have been back at the boat, it would have been easy for one or both of them to get to the temple by one of the horse-drawn carriages and back again before the rest of you. Purbright had been standing with you shortly before the rock fell. Whichever of them went up onto the roof wouldn’t have realized Purbright had moved on and that Proctor had taken his place. But my own view is that the rock was simply displaced accidentally by somebody who went up there ignoring the safety signs. That’s what my Egyptian colleagues think too, and that’s likely to be the official version.’

  It all made sense. Everything that Masterman had described – the rock at Edfu being an accident, the silencer causing the confusion about the timing of the shot – could have applied if the killer was Tom’s female suspect. But in the end, Masterman had made a convincing case for it being the two terrorists, who had the motive that was missing from Tom’s version of events.

  ‘Since Purbright, Mahmoud and Majid are all dead,’ said Masterman, ‘we’ll never know for sure exactly what happened – but that’s it more or less. Trust me.’

  ‘So all the loose ends are in place then?’

  ‘Pretty much. One rather sad task remains – to tell Purbright’s wife.’

  ‘Doesn’t she know yet?’

  ‘It was difficult to track her down. They’d been separated for a very long time, but apparently she’s still technically his next of kin. We’ve finally got a mobile number for her. Jones is going to contact her once we have put you all on the coach back to the airport.’

  We hadn’t seen much of Jones – very much the junior partner in the operation, and now clearly given the least desirable of tasks. I didn’t envy him that one.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Masterman.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Watson,’ said Masterman, switching his attention to the new arrival. ‘All of your little bits and pieces packed?’

  ‘I travel light,’ said Miss Watson. She was again wearing the dust-coloured dress I had seen her in on the first day. She had also resumed the floppy hat. She had acquired a suntan and some more silver bangles, but otherwise she looked pretty much as she had done when she arrived. It was clear that Masterman regarded her as being of little importance, and he was about to leave when something occurred to him.

  ‘A mutual acquaintance sends his good wishes,’ said Masterman to Miss Watson. ‘Colonel Ahmed Mohammed in Cairo.’

  ‘Ah, yes, dear Ahmed. I saw him when I was passing through a week ago. He is an old, old friend. You know him well?’

  ‘We’ve been working with him on the case. He was concerned that you had come on this boat in spite of his advice – he knew Purbright was planning to join the boat, of course, but wouldn’t have been able to tell you that. He wanted me to check that you were safe. I’ll tell him you are.’

  ‘You may add that the trip was very satisfactory,’ she said.

  ‘Satisfactory? A strange way of describing it, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Masterman.

  ‘Is it? I have had a most pleasant and informative trip. I have visited a number of very interesting places and met some very special people. It would be ungrateful to suggest that my visit to his lovely country had been less than satisfactory. You may tell him that I hope to return very soon. I’m looking forward to seeing him.’

  Masterman grunted dismissively. Duty had been done, and he was now anxious to be on his way. He made a brief pretence of looking at his watch then said: ‘Excellent. If you’ll both excuse me, I’ll go and find out whether your coach has arrived.’

  The coach ride to Luxor airport was short and the check-in surprisingly quick and efficient. We were through immigration, and our X-rayed baggage was probably already heading happily across the tarmac towards the plane, when the inevitable announcement was made that we would be delayed for an hour. Our group dispersed around the departure lounge, in search of last-minute souvenirs or, in the case of one literary agent, the possibility of exotic chocolate. Just as we had coalesced over the first hours and days of the trip, the group was now rapidly decaying. The glue that had held us together for a week was drying and cracking, unperceived but relentlessly, in the arid heat of the departure lounge. One by one we broke away and became a handful of passengers who just happened to be heading in a similar direction.

  I had already weighed up all of the known advantages of purchasing a fluffy toy camel or some bright piece of pharaoh-related jewellery; nor was there anything in the small selection of books that appealed to me, though I noticed two of Paul Fielder’s spy stories. Both had, I observed with pleasure, been much thumbed and then returned unbought to their shelves. I also noted smugly that a markedly inferior statuette of the ibis-headed god Thoth was ten times the price that I had paid for mine in Aswan. Thoth, currently nestling amongst the socks in my suitcase, would look well in my sitting room, once I had cleared a space for him on the mantelpiece.

  Halfway through my second circuit of the terminal floor, I opted out and located the only spare table in the cafe, where I sat drinking a farewell karkadé. Jane Watson must have had much the same idea and appeared shortly afterwards, clutching a small cup of sweet Egyptian coffee but no other purchases, looking round for a vacant seat. Though we had spent so much time together on the Khedive, the change in location seemed to demand a formal enquiry from her as to whether she could join me. I could think of no reason why not. After a few minutes her mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Mrs Purbright? Yes, speaking – though I haven’t used that name for many years. My husband? Dead? Dear
me, what a shame for him. But you say he died in the line of duty? That will be a great comfort to somebody, I’m sure. It has of course been many years since we were together. And his earthly remains . . . eaten by crocodiles, you think? I hadn’t realized you still got them below the Aswan dams, but if you say so. At least nobody will have the annoyance of transporting him back home for burial. Thank you so much for telling me. I’ve always tried, over the years, to keep up with what he was doing, so it’s good to have one last update . . . yes, you too, Mr Jones. And I really do appreciate your condolences so much. Have a nice day now.’ She snapped the phone shut and put it away. Around us the buzz of conversation continued. Only I had overheard the call.

  Then I suddenly realized what Tom had noticed over dinner. Jane Watson had concurred that the murder weapon had an automatic firing-pin safety – which was odd if she’d never seen it or handled it before.

  I looked at her and she smiled back at me unconcerned. The case was, after all, now officially closed. Colonel Ahmed might know the whole story, but it was unlikely he would be telling it to anyone. There was nothing I could do, and she knew it.

  ‘Just out of interest,’ I asked, ‘what was your event in the Olympics?’

  ‘Pistol,’ she replied. ‘I was pretty good. I almost won a medal once.’

  Postscript

  Q: What’s the worst possible way to end a detective novel?

  A: Too many explanations. Stuff about what the characters all did afterwards or how minor characters fitted in. A crime novel should end with the revelation of the murderer. You don’t need to explain every last detail. Let people go back and reread bits if they can’t work it out. You don’t want the book to tail off.

  Q: Our readers are always interested to hear how authors work. Describe the room you are writing in at the moment.

  A: I am back in my flat in Sussex after a research visit to Egypt. Outside, the village square is covered in snow. It’s early morning. Nothing is stirring in the winter darkness. From a window I can see, a little way down Horsham Road, the lights of a Christmas tree shining on the pristine white blanket. In front of me is my computer and a pot of coffee. I’ve just started writing a new book. It’s surprising how little you need to be happy.