The Alexandria Affair (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 11)

by Ashley Gardner

  Grenville sounded amused, not resentful. But then, he hadn’t just been coerced into training the officers of a powerful man who thought nothing of murdering those who got in his way.

  “You have to make them let me come with you,” Brewster growled at me. “His nibs will not be happy if I let you perish inside that place.” He jerked his thumb at the jewel of a palace falling behind us. “This pasha might be the ruler of all Egypt, but Mr. Denis is the ruler of me.”

  “I doubt the man wishes me harm,” I said, trying to sound confident. “He is training his armies in the latest fighting methods, and I did serve under Wellington, the man who defeated Napoleon. It is meant to be an honor.” And if I could ride one of those horses again, it would be a true pleasure.

  “Just you make certain I can follow you,” Brewster warned. “Or we’ll take the next boat for home. I trussed you up and put you on a ship once—don’t think I won’t do it again.”

  “I will do what I can, Brewster,” I said soothingly.

  Brewster wasn’t satisfied, but he said no more as we entered the narrower, busier streets and made our way back to our house.

  I had hoped to see the pyramids that day, but the visit to the palace had taken much time, and the afternoon had already turned hot. Bloody hot. Though it was the end of September, the temperature soared, the sun burning as soon as we stepped out into it.

  Better to visit the pyramids in the morning hours, Grenville said. The trouble with that was, the pasha had just claimed my morning hours for training.

  Ah, well. I would make certain I reached the pyramids directly afterward, and I’d learn to endure the heat.

  Meanwhile, Grenville and I had questions to be answered.

  I found I needed to rest from my ride and our walk across the city. I settled into the house’s small library to read while Grenville spent the afternoon visiting the Englishmen and Europeans in our area of Cairo—its foreign quarter much more extensive than the Alexandrian enclave. He caught up on the latest gossip and casually asked about Signora Beatrice Faber, who had been mistress to Monsieur Chabert.

  Grenville discovered, he told me when he returned, that the lady had gone to Thebes many weeks ago, proposing to return to Cairo in October. Whether she would or not remained to be seen.

  Brewster had also gone out, walking the streets both to learn the lay of the city and also to look for the other Gabriel Lacey, the man we’d agreed to call Marcus. Brewster said he found no sign of him, which displeased him. He’d keep looking, he said.

  Grenville suggested we retire and nap, now that the sun was at its hottest. We’d rise again and go out after dark, when Cairo truly came alive.

  I tried to follow his suggestion and lie down, but sleep would not come—I’d rested enough with my reading. I soon rose again and went back downstairs, the tiled wall of the enclosed staircase cool under my fingers.

  “Do you wish to go out?” Vanni asked me as I made for the courtyard. It was hot, but the cool splashing fountains and shade of the flowering trees was inviting.

  “I am a bit restless,” I confessed. “Even if it’s the same temperature as hell out there.”

  Vanni gave me a small smile, his dark features warming. “It is much worse in the heart of the summer, I assure you, Captain. The cool air in the mornings and evenings these days is sweet to me. If you would like to walk, I can show you a thing or two.”

  He seemed anxious to be quit of the house so I let him lead me out. Brewster saw us go and came after us, cursing the heat and telling me what he thought of me venturing into it.

  As we moved out of the foreign quarter and into narrower streets, mud-brick buildings surrounding us, Vanni seemed to grow nervous. He shot me a quick smile when I glanced at him, but swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple moving.

  He led me to the end of a street that ended in a T and took the left direction without halting.

  “Where are we going?” I asked him.

  The walls narrowed in on us, the street deathly silent. The inhabitants might be sleeping inside the houses to avoid the heat, but I felt a prickle of unease, as though watchers lurked behind the closed shutters. I thought of Grenville’s story of the pasha luring the Mamelukes into a choked passage and raining death down on them from above, and glanced around me in disquiet.

  “It is not far,” Vanni said. He spoke perfect English, but as his nervousness rose, his accent deepened.

  Brewster said not a word. He only trudged behind me, scanning the closed shutters for signs of life.

  The lane petered out at a dead end that formed a little courtyard, the walls around us dirty and crumbling.

  Vanni halted at a high wooden door in this cul-de-sac and turned a sorrowful look to me. “My apologies, Captain. I was told to bring you here as soon as I could.”

  “Told by whom?” I demanded sternly.

  I made to draw the sword from my walking stick, when to my surprise, Brewster stepped forward and took the stick quite forcibly out of my hand.

  “You don’t want to pull a weapon,” Brewster said. “Not here.”

  Before I could ask what the devil he meant by that, the gate opened, and a tall, bulky Egyptian motioned us inside. Vanni followed him readily, and Brewster nodded for me to go after him. Having no choice, I did so.

  The Egyptian silently led the way in through another courtyard to a set of rooms that were nearly as opulent as the pasha’s own. Carpets piled on carpets, low couches strewn with cushions sat near tables filled with trinkets. The arches were tiled in blue and green, giving the space a cool, nautical feeling.

  The man who came through the door to meet us wore a galabiya and a turban, but he was not Egyptian. He had a smooth face, graying hair that stuck out on either side of the turban, and a hard look similar to the ones Denis’s ruffians always wore.

  “Welcome, Captain,” the man said, in a cant from the heart of London. “Mr. Denis told me to keep an eye out for you, if you came this way.” He spread his hands, his smile wide, showing a few missing teeth. “And here you are.”

  Chapter 15

  I turned an astonished look on the still-nervous Vanni. “You work for James Denis?”

  “Regrettably,” Vanni said, his face reddening. “I owe him quite a sum of money, but he is allowing me to repay him in service.”

  Hence Vanni’s inexpensive clothes and his faint air of desperation.

  “You knew of this as well,” I said accusingly to Brewster.

  “Not until Mr. Vanni tipped me the wink this afternoon, Captain,” Brewster said. He fixed his gaze on the man who’d greeted us. “He’s not to be hurt.”

  “Of course not,” the man said smoothly. “I mean to be of service. My name is Sharkey. Sullivan Sharkey.” He looked me up and down, clearly trying to decide what I was made of.

  I had concluded long ago that Denis kept agents throughout the world, men who could obtain artwork, valuable books, or antiquities for him, as well as less tangible things—favors, obligations, influence. Denis owned people. I suspected he owned Mr. Sharkey as much as he did Vanni.

  Sharkey looked like the sharks I’d seen—glittering eyes, smiling mouth, oily skin. It was a good name for him.

  I wondered suddenly why Denis hadn’t asked Sharkey to find Chabert’s book for him, since the man was already in place, but I kept my mouth closed. Denis did not always tell everyone who worked for him what he was about, and Sharkey might not know of the book. If Denis wanted this man to help me look for it, he would have instructed me to seek him out. But Denis had not even mentioned him.

  Brewster had his lips firmly pressed together. He did not look overjoyed to be here, but I noted that he kept hold of my walking stick.

  “Well, what can you do for me, Mr. Sharkey?” I asked. “Presumably you brought me here for a reason.”

  The man did not invite us to sit down or offer us refreshment. As a host, he was lacking in even the most basic manners.

  “To make your acquaintance,” Sharkey said, pr
essing his hands together. “And to tell you that if there is anything you want in Cairo, you have only to ask me and I will provide it.”

  He had the arrogance of the pasha and, I suspected, some of the power as well, at least in Cairo’s underworld.

  “That is kind of you,” I said, keeping my expression neutral. “I am here to sightsee, nothing more.”

  “Not what I ’eard,” Sharkey said. “’E wants you to find something for him, don’t ’e?” His gaze chilled. “I’m in this godforsaken hellhole because I’m good at what I do, Captain. So anything you want, you come to me. Understand?”

  He gazed at me belligerently, a man angry that a trusted task had been given to another. I saw that he might try to make things difficult for me if I did not bring him in on the treasure hunt.

  But if Denis had wanted me to ask for Sharkey’s assistance, his letter would have told me to do so.

  “I assure you, I have no wish to take over what you do in Egypt,” I said truthfully. “As I say, I am here to look at ancient ruins, and then I will return to England. I do not work for Mr. Denis.”

  Sharkey skewered me with an intelligent eye. “Ain’t true. Everyone knows about the cavalry captain he’s taming to his hand. He’d never have let you come here without you bringing something to him in return.” He tried to soften his tone, become the affable Cockney once more. “If we work together, you and me, we’ll make him happy that much quicker, and split the reward. Then you can enjoy poking about the ’eathen tombs to your ’eart’s content.”

  I straightened, keeping my weight off my bad leg. “I am afraid that must be left up to Mr. Denis.”

  Sharkey’s gaze went flat, like that of a predator in the shadows, waiting to strike. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me, Captain. You’re a long way from England. You need friends in Egypt.”

  “I have plenty of friends, Mr. Sharkey,” I answered, letting my tone harden. “I thank you for your concern.”

  Sharkey paused, his brows coming together as he reassessed me. I saw him realize he’d taken the wrong tack, assuming me to be another Vanni. He’d come at me like a bully, but as I’d indicated to Grenville when I’d told him my nickname at school, I too had quite a lot of bully in me.

  Sharkey stepped closer. Vanni had retreated to a discreet distance, but Brewster was right beside me, his sharp eye on the man and the large Egyptian behind him.

  “You’ve made a mistake, Captain,” Sharkey said, his voice smooth. “You’ll want to watch yourself on the streets. ’Tain’t like Alexandria around here. Cairo’s full of thieves and men with knives.”

  I studied him as intently as he studied me. Was it Sharkey’s ambition to take over the Egyptian branch of Denis’s empire, the same way the pasha itched to take Egypt from the Ottomans?

  I decided I was being fanciful, but my idea might be close to the mark.

  “I will keep it in mind,” I said, and gave him a small bow. “Good day, Mr. Sharkey. It is too bad we cannot come to an agreement—an ally here would have been helpful.”

  Sharkey lost all pretense of politeness. “Get out, Captain, before I have my men throw you to the pavement.”

  I had no wish to linger. Brewster silently handed me back my walking stick, giving me a warning look, but I was not foolish enough to draw my sword here among Sharkey’s guards. I used the stick to prop me as I stepped into the courtyard and moved to the gate, though my anger kept me upright more than anything else.

  Once outside the gate, I strode forward, not bothering to look about. The cul-de-sac where Sharkey lived was well-chosen—no one could approach this house without his knowledge.

  Vanni had come out before me, but I got ahead of him and lost my way. Vanni had to catch up to me and steer me to the correct street.

  Sharkey had been right about the dangers of Cairo. Even in the heat of the day, sharp eyes watched me from doorways. I was aware that I was out of place, a foreigner, in a section of town where I was not wanted.

  “You like to stir up trouble, don’t you, Captain?” Brewster asked when we’d reached the busier, wider streets around the foreign quarter.

  I had not climbed down from my anger. “If Mr. Denis did not inform Mr. Sharkey of my task, he must have had a reason. I was not going to fall at the man’s feet and beg him to help me keep Denis appeased.”

  “I didn’t say you should,” Brewster said. “It’s the way you go about things, guv. Like poking a bear with a stick. Sharkey can make things hard for you.”

  “Things are difficult enough already—I’m sure I won’t notice the difference,” I said with grim humor. “How did he become Denis’s agent? I’d think Denis would want someone with more finesse.”

  “Sharkey used to be no different from me,” Brewster said. “A pugilist, and a good one. Mr. Denis raised him up, because Sharkey got results. Always. Never missed. But he’s gotten above himself, I’m thinking.”

  “It is clear he has,” I said. “But if you think I will tell Grenville we should pack up and flee Cairo because of him, you are wrong.”

  “’Swhat I’m afraid of, guv,” Brewster said darkly.

  * * *

  The next morning, a contingent of Turkish guards arrived at our door to convey me to the palace. Whether the half dozen men were meant to ensure I did not forget my appointment or to protect me on the streets, I did not know, but men, carts, and beasts scrambled out of the way as we walked.

  Vanni was allowed to accompany me, but Brewster was not, which put him in a bad temper. Brewster did concede that I’d be well protected with six fully armed Turkish bodyguards, but he pointed out that I’d not be able to protect myself from them.

  Grenville said that he and Brewster would scour the town for knowledge of Chabert’s book and the whereabouts of the other Lacey. The man had not surfaced yet, but that did not mean he’d given up trying to eliminate me from the family tree.

  After meeting Sharkey, I’d been tempted to let the quest for Denis’s book go to the devil. Denis had not warned me of Sharkey, which annoyed me greatly. I could forget about the task, ride the pasha’s horses, dig in the dirt, and buy gifts for my family back home. An idyllic holiday.

  By the time I reached the palace, I knew I’d do nothing of the sort. The possible existence of a book from the Alexandrian library intrigued me. I’d never be able to leave Egypt without first doing my damnedest to find it. If it existed, what a prize it would be.

  Denis knew me well, blast the man.

  At the palace, I again had the privilege of riding the mare. Four Turkish cavalry officers listened to me explain, through Vanni, the things I had done in the campaigns of Talavera, Salamanca, Vitoria. Mostly I had ridden at enemy lines, swinging my saber, hoping that artillery and infantry didn’t blast me out of my saddle, but I didn’t elaborate on that.

  I showed them how to feint and turn, and demonstrated the intimidating factor of yelling at the top of one’s voice when one charged.

  I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Drilling did not heat my blood to the fever pitch of true battle, but I could relive my younger days, when I’d been unstoppable on horseback.

  My knee reminded me, when I at last dismounted, that my antics of ten years ago took more toll on me now. A groom helped me to the pavilion at the end of the ring where a spread of food and drink had been laid out for us. The pasha himself was not there, but he’d assigned plenty of guards to watch us.

  The cavalry officers and I sat on cushions, drank fragrant coffee, and ate everything in sight. The four were fine men, open and talkative, impressed with my riding and wanting to hear all about fighting against Napoleon’s crack generals.

  By the time the meal was finished, I realized I’d made new friends, even if we didn’t speak a word of each other’s language. They wished me well and looked forward to more lessons tomorrow.

  I returned home, buoyed, able to put my unpleasant encounter with Sharkey yesterday afternoon out of mind.

  More pleasure was to be had when I arrived at home
. Grenville had arranged for us to make a journey to the pyramids, and we set off at once.

  * * *

  The most difficult part of our journey proved to be getting ourselves across the Nile to Giza. A profusion of boats ran from the banks, from fishermen’s tiny craft to the barges of the wealthy, but there was teeming confusion and a great crowd. The river itself was congested, this being the largest city in Egypt and the destination for many travelers coming south from the Mediterranean.

  Grenville had been granted leave to borrow the craft of another Englishman, but when we arrived, the boat was not there, and no one seemed to know where it had gone. Grenville and Vanni walked up and down, offering to pay to be ferried across, but the Egyptians were strangely reluctant to take us. I wondered if Sharkey had spread the word to withhold help.

  At long last, Grenville did manage to find a small raft piloted by an Egyptian man who had at some point in his life lost an eye. The socket had scarred over, but it was still a concave mess.

  We crowded onto the craft, the river lapping a few inches from my boots. The man poled us forward, then hoisted a sail when we reached deeper water. Because the raft was so small, we were all recruited to help turn and move the sail to catch the wind. Grenville made no complaint as he closed his expensive gloves over the rough ropes, his dark eyes sparkling as though he vastly enjoyed himself.

  The breeze from the water cooled us somewhat, but by the time we climbed from the river on the other side—and Grenville dropped many coins into our ferryman’s eager hand—the day had turned scorchingly hot.

  I glanced with envy at the light-colored, simple galabiyas of the Egyptians and the loose clothing of the Turks. I vowed then and there to obtain Turkish or Egyptian dress, with a turban to keep the sun from my head. Brewster might disdain me, but I saw no reason to suffer in clothes made for climates that were cool and damp.