The Alexandria Affair (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 11)

by Ashley Gardner

  “I can think of several scenarios,” Grenville said as he calmly spread soft cheese on his bread. “If both brothers were born and raised outside of England, your father and grandfather not returning until the brother was dead, those in Norfolk might not know, especially if this brother was never spoken of. Or, your grandfather did not acknowledge his first son and abandoned him, perhaps believing him illegitimate.” Grenville paused to consume a bite of bread while I sat impatiently. “Or perhaps,” he went on, “your grandfather sired a son by a first wife, then left both mother and son in Canada, returned to England, married again—to your grandmother this time—and she produced your father. Perhaps your grandfather believed the first son dead as well, or perhaps he never married his first son’s mother, in which case your cousin is wrong about being legitimate and the rightful heir.” He set down his knife, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and folded the napkin into a neat square. “You would be amazed at the machinations that go on in landed families to claim inheritance, Lacey. My own family has many bizarre examples.”

  “My father never spoke of Canada in his life,” I said. “Not in my hearing, anyway, and no one told me of it. He certainly never went there, at least not after I was born. If my grandfather had been in Canada, I never heard of it either. Though I admit I tried to pay little attention to what villagers said about my father and his family—they knew what a profligate and philanderer he was. I learned to not listen. When I was eight, I was bundled off to school and spent very little time in Norfolk after that.”

  Grenville nodded his understanding. “In any case, your father could have been raised entirely separate from his half brother. Your father might not even have known of his existence, not at first.”

  “And then he runs off and murders him?” I asked, incredulous. “My father had a violent temper, yes, but he was also an inherently lazy man. I cannot imagine him scouring the earth to search for a rumored older brother.”

  “A lazy man can pay others to do things for him,” Grenville pointed out.

  “My father was tightfisted, except for what he lavished on courtesans.”

  Grenville eyed me shrewdly. “You told me he ran through your fortune. Paying an assassin could help deplete that fortune.”

  Everything Grenville said was possible, but I could not make myself grasp it. “I will have to quiz the imposter again,” I said. “I am not inclined to believe him outright—he will have to provide proof.”

  Grenville looked thoughtful. “We must find another moniker for this man. It’s unwieldy to keep calling him the imposter. What did you say his second name was?”

  “Marcus,” I said. “So he claims.”

  “Then we’ll refer to him as Marcus. Simple and brief. I could ask the bey to let us see him. Or we might appeal to our new friend Haluk—he is some sort of official. He might be able to persuade the bey to help us.”

  “If Haluk is in exile, possibly not,” I warned. “Ahmed the soldier was quite derisive about him.”

  Grenville nodded. “We can but ask. Not all Turks in Alexandria might agree with volatile young Ahmed.”

  That I could well believe. I said, “What puzzles me is—who fired the shot last night, and why?”

  “Yes, I’ve been pondering that. You and Brewster saw no one?”

  “Not a sign,” I said. “Bloody odd.”

  “Then we must discover many things today,” Grenville said. He pushed back his plate and rose. “Tomorrow, we will begin our journey to the Nile.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “We are quitting Alexandria already?” I’d wanted to scour more of it for the Hellenistic city it had once been and continue looking into Ibrahim’s murder.

  “We will return. I have let this house for the duration of our journey. But the pyramids beckon. Besides, we must hunt the river’s length for Monsieur Chabert’s mysterious lady.”

  “Yes, I would very much like to speak to her,” I agreed. “I do not quite believe that she knows nothing about Chabert’s book. A man confides in his mistress things he will not to his wife, or even his closest male friends.”

  Grenville sent me an amused look. “Do you speak from experience, Lacey?”

  “Hardly. I never had a mistress long enough to confide all my secrets to her.”

  “Well, I have,” Grenville said. “And you are correct. When I was very young I told my first mistress everything. I learned to regret it, and never did it again.”

  He raised his brows as though daring me to ask him for further details then excused himself to get ready for the day.

  I watched him go, wondering if his reticence in speaking to mistresses extended to his current one—Marianne Simmons—and whether that was why she grew so frustrated with him.

  I had not told Donata all my secrets. I was saving them for the day I was certain she would not despise me for them.

  * * *

  We visited Haluk, who professed himself happy to see us. He offered us refreshment, which we politely accepted, though I was still full from our tasty breakfast.

  When Grenville asked Haluk whether he could speak to the bey for us to allow us to speak to the man we were calling Marcus, Haluk gave us a surprising answer.

  “That man, he is gone,” Haluk said. “Took ship this morning, no one knows where.”

  Chapter 13

  Gone?” I echoed. “Why?”

  I did not expect an answer. Marcus leaving suddenly was not what I had expected. Perhaps he’d taken me at my word when I’d said I’d give up my home in Norfolk to him and had rushed back to England to claim the house.

  I’d let him have it. The other Lacey could worry about the sagging walls, holes in the roof, and rising damp in the cellars.

  More likely, he had gone to look for the book. Lord Randolph had given him valuable information, and perhaps Marcus was hunting up Signora Beatrice to find out what she knew.

  Why should he want the book? I thought in frustration. For its value? Or to simply confound me because he knew I wanted it?

  Grenville asked Haluk, “How do you know this? Did the bey tell you?”

  “No, no, no.” Haluk shook his head vigorously. “He tells me nothing. Karem heard of your adventures in the night, Captain, and discovered all. He learned that Bey Mahmut had an English guest in his house, one who looked very much like you and called himself Gabriel Lacey, but that the man had taken ship early this morning.”

  Karem, who had hovered nearby to serve us coffee, said, “I can find out where he went if you would wish it, Captain. I know many men in the harbor.”

  I gave him a grateful look. “I would wish that, Karem. Thank you.”

  Karem bowed, looked to Haluk for approval, and then left the room, apparently to go and ask on the moment.

  While Karem was gone, we spoke about the death of Ibrahim. I told Haluk how his friend Ahmed had followed me into the desert and tried to fight me. “In truth, he is very upset about Ibrahim’s death and worried about who might have killed him,” I concluded.

  “Young Ahmed brought us gifts,” Haluk said, setting down his coffee cup. “He came to our house and prostrated himself before the gate. He made a long, flowering apology, and left a basket of grain, a length of silk, and bottle of fine oil.” Haluk shook his head. “Quite a lot for a young soldier. It must have set him back a long way. My daughter’s heart was softened.”

  He looked slightly worried, as though fearing his daughter would find the gesture romantic.

  “Good,” I said. Ahmed must have taken my admonition to heart. “I feel a bit sorry for him, I confess. I was once that young and impetuous.”

  Haluk admitted that he had been so also at that age, and we spoke of lighter matters for a time. When the muezzin called, Haluk excused himself and went to the niche in the room that faced east, kneeling on his rug and bowing deeply. Grenville and I waited, quietly sipping coffee until he finished. Not long after that, Karem returned.

  Karem had sent boys running to the harbor to ask several of his fri
ends for news of the bey’s English guest. All three boys reported similar stories, so Karem knew they were telling the truth. The English stranger had set sail on a small ship bound for Cairo.

  Good. I was heading in the same direction. I’d chase him up and down the Nile if I had to.

  We stayed a while longer, as it would be impolite to simply rush off. Before we left, Haluk made us a present of a coffee service, small cups and a tall coffeepot of etched silver, like the set I’d admired the first day we’d come here.

  Haluk also gave me a small box made of sandalwood and urged me to open it. Inside I found a hair comb made of ebony studded with blue jewels.

  “Lapis lazuli,” Haluk said. “My wife gives it to your wife. Because you saved our daughter.”

  My heart warmed. Haluk was smiling, so happy to give me the gift.

  I closed the box. “Thank you,” I said sincerely. “I know my wife will like it.”

  On our previous visit, I’d suspected that Haluk wished to hug me instead of shake my hand. On this visit, he did precisely that.

  I found myself enfolded in an embrace by the smaller man, surrounded by warm silk and the scent of tobacco and cardamom. I awkwardly patted his shoulder.

  Haluk straightened up, laughed at himself, and thrust out a hand for Grenville to shake.

  “Safe journey,” he said, and then ever-present Karem escorted us to the door.

  * * *

  I wanted to set off for Cairo immediately, but of course, many preparations had to be made. We could not possibly leave until the next day at the soonest.

  At least we would not be taking nearly as much baggage. The furniture would remain in this house, as the house Grenville would use in Cairo belonged to a friend, an Englishman who had already furnished it.

  “We will have the use of most of his servants as well,” Grenville told me. “He has gone on a journey with the strongman, Belzoni, to the Red Sea, in search of the lost city of Berenice. Mad.” Grenville shook his head. “I am adventurous, but walking across the desert with no knowledge of where I am going or whether I’ll be able to return does not appeal to me. I do hope the old chap makes it home alive.”

  “I’d like to meet Mr. Belzoni,” I said. “I wish them safe travels.”

  “He’ll return,” Grenville said without concern. “Belzoni has an amazing knack for finding important antiquities. He enrages his rivals, but in my opinion they should cease berating him and try to learn from him. But they are snobs. Why should a man who performed at Sadler’s Wells be able to find lost tombs when the scholars of Britain and France cannot?”

  “He knows how to look,” I suggested, more intrigued than ever. I determined to introduce myself to the man if I were lucky enough to see him.

  We spent an uneventful day, except for an encounter with Lady Mary when I returned to inspect the obelisks near the harbor. She burbled with concern about the other Gabriel Lacey attacking me last night and thought it a grand idea that I continued my travels unabated.

  “I will soon see you on the Nile,” she said breezily as we parted. “Tell Grenville I will host a soiree there far grander than anything Dolphin can undertake. He may look forward to it.”

  She held out her hand, expecting me to bow over it in an old-fashioned manner. Lady Mary bellowed out a laugh as I did so, exploding a loud haw-haw in my ear.

  “So pleased to have met you, Captain,” she said as I straightened up. “But we will not be apart for long.”

  Lady Mary’s words rang out, then she turned and sailed back to her donkey, her faithful Miguel helping her aboard.

  Of the death of Ibrahim, no progress had been made. Karem, who seemed to know when every grain of dust turned over in Alexandria, came to inform us that the soldier accused of killing Ibrahim had been released—too many men had been with him the night of the murder to convince a magistrate that he’d done it.

  The magistrate concluded that a passing madman, maybe one of the defeated enemies of the empire, had killed Ibrahim then fled. Alexandria was a harbor town, with men from all over the world landing there. The question of why Ibrahim had left his billet that night was not addressed.

  Irrelevant, Karem said. Young men will be young men, was his opinion.

  I thanked Karem for all he’d done, and he bowed and left us. I wasn’t convinced the magistrate was correct that someone off a foreign ship had seen a lone Ottoman soldier, gone mad, and bashed him over the head. But it was a convenient verdict.

  I also took leave of the Porters, reflecting that I’d not had time to see anything of their digs. They told me not to worry—they’d have plenty for me to look at when I returned.

  Grenville and I dined with Lord Randolph that evening, then went home to pack the last of our things. I finished quickly, as I always traveled light, then went to Grenville’s chamber. I lounged in a chair to watch him instruct Matthias on exactly which of his suits were to stay and which were to come with us.

  “I understand why you call Lord Randolph Dolphin,” I remarked as I sipped a brandy Bartholomew brought me. “A natural play on his name. But I’ve only heard your friends call you Grenville. What was your name at school?”

  Grenville flushed. “I had to work bloody hard for a long time to throw off any and all ridiculous nicknames,” he said. “That is why they call me Grenville and that alone.”

  “Was it so cruel then?” I asked. I knew from experience that taunts of boys could be particularly terrible.

  “Not so much cruel as direct,” Grenville said. “I recall telling you when we stayed at the Sudbury School that when I was a very young chap, I was rather small, weak, and timid. They mostly called me That Weasel-Faced Sod, which became shortened to Weasel after a while.” He shook his head. “By the time I was in university, though, I had thrown it off. I’d learned that a quick wit and a sharp tongue assisted when strength did not. I’d also made certain to hone my skills in boxing, swordplay, and shooting, realizing that expertise will make up for lack of height and girth.” Grenville shot me a curious glance when he’d finished. “That is my tale. What did they call you?”

  My cheeks warmed. “The Fist,” I answered.

  Grenville left it at that, but as I moved back to my chamber to prepare for bed, I heard him laugh heartily.

  The next morning, we boarded a craft small enough to navigate Alexandria’s eastern harbor, and made for the Nile. It was a fair day, the wind from the sea strong. When the ship upped anchor the sails caught readily, propelling us out of the harbor to open sea.

  Grenville had already gone below, but Brewster and I and the two footmen remained on deck, watching Alexandria slip away. We rounded the point of Aboukir and headed for the opening to the river.

  About twenty-five miles later, we were turning south toward a broad expanse of green crisscrossed with waterways. Those waterways resolved into one, the mighty and legendary Nile opening before me. I spread my arms as though embracing it.

  * * *

  I should have been weary of traveling, I reflected as we entered the river. In my life I’d sailed the long, hard way around the Cape to India and back again, lived a brief time in France, gone to Norway and then the Peninsula, spending years fighting a seemingly endless war against the well-trained French army.

  The last four years in London, however, had made me itch to explore the world again. The new, the exotic, never failed to quicken my breath.

  What I saw around me was very flat and green, green, green. Water flowed everywhere. It was the time of the Nile’s annual flooding, which happened with such regularity that the entire civilization of Egypt was based upon it. The tops of palm trees poked out of the rushing water, and in places we saw only rooftops—whole villages had flooded.

  Plenty of other craft surrounded our one-masted ship. Rafts made of nothing but boards lashed together were poled across the shallows. Boats of all sizes moved along the deeper water, either rowed or propelled by single sails.

  I saw a larger boat with a cloth canopy built
over the stern deck. Under this canopy, shaded from the endless sun, were men in European dress. As they passed us, the wind taking their sails fully, they waved at me. I lifted my hand in polite response.

  Nowhere did I see desert. I knew it was out there, hovering, waiting, but as we floated through the delta region, there were green lands, black earth in the few places the river didn’t cover, expanses of reeds, and wide, empty sky. In Alexandria, clouds had formed from time to time, but as we traveled south, every cloud evaporated, giving way to a huge arch of blue.

  The air warmed as well. Alexandria was a Mediterranean city with a Mediterranean climate. Though I’d found it pleasantly warm, especially for late September, ocean breezes had kept it from growing too hot.

  As we left the sea behind the humidity rose. Bartholomew and Matthias, English born and bred, soon sought shade and dozed off in the heat. Brewster was also English born and bred, but he remained at my side, perspiration covering his broad face under his small-brimmed hat.

  “Where do you hail from, Brewster?” I asked in curiosity. I knew very little about his early life.

  His look told me my lack of knowledge was to his preference. “London. Thought you could tell from my speech.” He pronounced thought as fawt but I had noticed that Brewster could move in and out of his London cant as he pleased.

  “London is a large city,” I pointed out.

  “Whitechapel, if you’re going to be prying. Near Spitalfields. I learned my craft scratching a living on those streets. Had to, to survive.”

  I was not surprised. The streets around Spitalfields were narrow and crammed with houses of dark brick under leaden skies. Entire families lived in a few rooms in each of those houses. A greater contrast with this wide land, bright with perpetual sunshine, could not be imagined.

  “Soak in the heat, then, Brewster,” I said. “We’ll miss it when we’re home.”

  “If I survive to go home,” Brewster said darkly. He peered into the murky waters. “Alexandria was all right, but they say there’s crocs in the Nile ten feet long.” He nodded at the surface below us. “And you want to run up and down on it.”