Roger Carstairs stood there, his head bowed beneath the low ceiling. With one swift movement he pushed her back into the cabin and stepped in after her, bolting the door behind him.
‘How dare you!’
He pushed her sharply so that she collapsed backwards onto the bed and was forced to watch as he picked up the candlestick and swept it around, scrutinising her belongings.
‘Where is it?’ he hissed.
‘Where is what?’ She was at a disadvantage, sitting down, forced to look up at him but there was no room to stand without actually pushing him away. She shuddered. ‘How dare you come in here?’ she repeated. ‘Get out! I’ll call for help! There will be terrible trouble if you are found in here with me.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He laughed. ‘The Forresters wouldn’t dare cross me, my oh so proper little Mrs Shelley. Especially when I tell them how eagerly you received my attentions this afternoon.’ He reached down and caught her chin between iron fingers just as he had before, forcing her to look at him. ‘Yes, you do remember. I shall have to be careful. You are wilful. You think you can resist me.’ He breathed out heavily through his nose. ‘So, Mrs Shelley. Where is it?’
‘The scent bottle?’ There was no point in pretending she didn’t know what he meant. ‘I’ve hidden it ashore.’
His eyes blazed. ‘Not today. It was not possible today. Yesterday, then. You left it at Philae? Where?’ He pushed her head back against the cabin wall. ‘Tell me,’ he whispered through gritted teeth.
The cabin had suddenly grown very cold. The candleflame flickered and streamed black threads of smoke. His eyes were dark pits, close to hers. She couldn’t look away. Desperately she shut her eyes, trying not to breathe the unpleasant sweet scent of his breath.
‘I’ll never tell you.’ She pushed her fist against his face and was rewarded with a quiet laugh.
‘Oh, you’ll tell me, sweetheart. Believe me, you’ll tell me.’ He caught her wrist.
With a little gasp of pain she felt the small delicate bones crushed between his fingers. ‘Help me!’ Her cry was no more than a whisper. ‘Anhotep, if you exist, help me now!’
The candle flared.
Carstairs laughed once more. ‘So, our little widow invokes the high priest, but she doesn’t know how.’ He pushed her back so violently against the cabin wall that all the breath was knocked out of her body. ‘Where is the bottle –’ He broke off in mid-sentence. The boat was rocking violently. Above, on deck the reis looked over the side. A mooring rope had come loose and the Ibis had swung with the strong current. They heard the shouts and the thud of urgently running feet.
‘Why?’ she gasped. ‘Why do you want it so badly?’
He stared down at her. ‘I have to have it. It is imperative I have it. It is not a bauble for you to play with. It is a sacred chrismatory. It contains power. Power only I know how to use!’ His eyes glittered feverishly as his hand tightened round her wrist.
‘Anhotep!’ Louisa struggled ferociously. ‘Don’t let him hurt me –’
As the candleflame flickered and streamed sideways in the tiny airless cabin she opened her eyes to peer past him towards the window. A figure stood there – misty, indistinct. Through him she could see the wall, the shutters, the shawl she had thrown down across the stool.
‘Anhotep! Help me!’ Her voice was stronger this time. Her fear of the man half-sprawled across her was greater by far than her fear of a shadow from the distant past.
Carstairs moved back slightly, aware of the change in the atmosphere in the small space, aware of the strange behaviour of the candleflame. Noticing her gaze focused somewhere over his shoulder he glanced round towards the window and gasped. In a second he had pushed himself off the bed.
‘Servant of Isis, greeting!’ He bowed low, ignoring Louisa who cowered back on the bunk, making herself as small as possible.
The cabin had become totally airless; the candleflame, a moment before flaring wildly and streaming smoke, had died to a tiny glow. In a second it would be out altogether. The figure was fading.
Louisa launched herself off the bed towards the door, groping for the bolt. Frantically she scrabbled for it as the light died altogether. As the figure vanished totally Carstairs turned back towards her. She felt his hands groping for her shoulders just as her flailing fingers found the bolt. Desperately she pulled at it and felt it slide back but it was too late. He was dragging her away from the door, thrusting her back onto the bed. She drew breath to scream and felt his hand clamp over her mouth. Once again she heard him laugh. There was excitement in the sound now, and triumph.
At the very moment he began to rip open her blouse there was a loud knock at the cabin door.
9
Homage to thee, Amen-Ra who passest over the heaven, every face seeth thee. Men praise thee in thy name. Millions of years have gone over the world. Thou dost pass over and dost travel through untold spaces…
Once more the sands drift here and there. The open abandoned tomb is buried yet again. The mummies are gone for ever to the dust of oblivion; only their names survive, safe on walls of rock. Centuries pass and the priests are shadows without substance, nothing in the sunlight, nothing beneath the moon, dying vows forgotten, spent anger no more than a sigh in the wind across the dunes.
God has come to the Land of Kemet under a new name. The old gods of Egypt sleep. Their servants have lost their glory. It is 3000 years since the tomb was first sealed on the bodies of the two priests.
The hand that digs the small forgotten bottle from the dune, as his father seeks for greater treasures in the night, is that of a child. The boy scrabbles it free with eager fingers and holds it aloft in delight, seeing the colours of the glass against the rising rays of the new-born sun.
Coalescing from the breath of the dawn like so much moisture on the leaf of a papyrus, first one shadow then another looks down at the boy and smiles. Only the donkey senses the danger. Its ears lie back and it cries its fear into the empty desert wind.
The knock was repeated. Anna looked up, frowning. It was dark outside the open window and the only light came from the small bedside lamp. Confused, she put down the diary, her mind full of Louisa’s terror. Standing up she went over to the cabin door and pulled it open, her thoughts still half in the dark smoky cabin of the dahabeeyah.
Ibrahim stood there, his empty tray under his arm. He gave her a look of grave anxiety. ‘You are not well, mademoiselle? I was concerned that you were not at supper.’ Behind him the corridor was empty.
She dragged herself back to the present with difficulty. ‘I’m all right, Ibrahim. I’m sorry. I was reading and I didn’t realise what time it was. I didn’t hear the gong.’ She rubbed her face wearily with the palms of her hands.
He was studying her closely and after a moment he seemed satisfied with what he saw. Slowly he nodded his head. ‘I will bring you something to eat in your cabin.’ He didn’t wait for her to reply. He turned and walked away. She watched his slow stately gait. In his white galabiyya, his turban and his leather sandals he was a timeless figure, almost biblical. She turned back into the cabin, leaving the door ajar and stood staring thoughtfully out at the night. Poor Louisa. She must have been so afraid. And so angry. The words in the diary conveyed a mass of conflicting emotions as the small neat writing in faded brown ink moved steadily down the page, the only sign of her perturbation the way the lines drew closer together, the words more slanted, here and there, a careless stroke joining word to word as the writing speeded up, once or twice a fine spray of ink droplets from a nib pressed too hard too often.
‘Mademoiselle?’ A gentle knock and Ibrahim was in the doorway again. He had a tray with a glass of hibiscus juice and a plate of bread with a hard boiled egg and some cheese. He slid it onto the dressing table and gave her a grave smile. ‘There is one other thing, mademoiselle.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out something attached to a fine gold chain. She could see it as the links slid between his fingers.
‘I would like you to wear this, mademoiselle.’ He held it out to her. ‘As long as you are on the boat. Please give it back to me the day you go home to England.’
She stared down at his hand, then slowly she reached out her own. ‘Ibrahim, what is it?’
He dropped a gold charm into her palm. It was small and intricately worked. ‘It is the Eye of Horus. Allah yisallimak. May God protect thee. It will help to keep you safe.’
She found her mouth had gone dry. ‘Safe from what?’ She looked up and met his deep brown eyes. He held her gaze for several seconds before giving a small shrug. He looked down at the floor in silence.
‘Ibrahim? Is this to do with the old gods? And with the cobra?’ She swallowed.
‘Inshallah!’ There was no shrug this time. Instead, the ghost of a nod.
‘Then thank you. Thank you very much. It is gold, Ibrahim. You are very generous to trust me with it.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘I wish I knew the right thing to say in Arabic.’
‘You say: kattar kheirak.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘Kattar kheirak, Ibrahim.’
He bowed. ‘Ukheeirak, mademoiselle.’ He gave her a huge smile. ‘Now I must go and work in the bar. Bon appetit, mademoiselle. U’i. Leilt ik saideh. That means take care, and may thy night be happy.’
After he had gone she stared down at the charm in her hand. It was an eye surmounted by an arched brow with below it a tiny swirl of gold. The Eye of Horus was, she knew, a symbol of protection and healing used for thousands of years all over the world to ward off danger and illness and bad luck. She held it for a moment tightly in her hand then felt for the clasp and carefully hung it around her neck. It touched her enormously that Ibrahim should have trusted her with something so precious. It also terrified her. What did he know that had made him so afraid for her? She glanced down at the dressing table drawer, but she did not open it. Some time today she would see that the bottle was put away in the safe. She shivered.
Picking up the glass of scented fruit juice she sat down on the bed and reached for the diary. In the morning she would decide whether to go on the sailing trip which was scheduled on the blackboard outside the dining room or whether to take the chance to track down Serena whilst Andy was well and truly out of sight and talk to her at leisure and without a chance of being interrupted. But first, tonight, she must find out what happened to poor Louisa at the hands of the villainous Roger Carstairs. Pulling the pillows up around her she put her hand for a moment to the small gold charm and she smiled. It had made her feel safe and cared for, something, she realised, she hadn’t felt for a very long time. She sat for several minutes lost in thought, savouring the feeling, then she opened the diary again.
The candle held high in her hand, Jane Treece surveyed the scene. It was clear what had been going on. Louisa Shelley had been behaving like the trollop she had always suspected she was, entertaining Lord Carstairs in her darkened cabin. With one disdainful look she took in Louisa’s flushed face and bruised mouth, her torn blouse and the handsome angry man hastily climbing off the bed. He was still fully dressed, so she had arrived in time to thwart their lust. With a self-satisfied smile Jane Treece cleared her throat.
‘Would you like me to help you get ready for dinner, Mrs Shelley, or shall I come back later?’ Her voice was at its most repressive.
‘Thank you, Jane. Yes. Please stay. I should like to change.’ Louisa’s voice was shaking. She turned to Lord Carstairs and pointed at the door. ‘Go.’
For a moment he hesitated, then with a smile he ducked outside. In the narrow passage he turned and raised his hand. ‘A bientôt, sweetheart. We’ll continue our delightful discourse very soon.’
Louisa closed her eyes. She was shaking as she watched Treece light her bedside candle and the others on the table. In a very short time the cabin was full of gently flickering light.
Without a word Treece gathered Louisa’s discarded clothes from earlier that afternoon and folded them. Then she picked up the ewer and withdrew to fetch hot water and towels. Louisa glanced at her dressing case. It was still locked, the tiny ornate key safely hidden beneath the thimble in her small sewing box.
With shaking hands she reached up to her pins and combs and allowing her long chestnut hair to fall round her shoulders she picked up her hairbrush and began to brush it with slow rhythmic strokes, trying to brush away the feel of Carstairs’ hands, the smell of his breath, the cold fascination of his glance.
She looked up as Treece reappeared. ‘Thank you, Jane.’ She bit her lip, trying to steady her voice. ‘Has Lord Carstairs left the boat?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, Mrs Shelley.’ Treece put down the heavy jug with a resentful bang which slopped the water onto the dressing table. ‘Did you wish me to run and fetch him back for you?’
Louisa stared at her. ‘You know I don’t! The man is a vicious brute.’ She found herself suddenly fighting back tears. ‘I only wished to be sure he had safely gone.’
There was a long pause as the woman considered her words and Louisa saw a slight softening of the grim expression on her face.
‘I had thought to hear them say he was staying for dinner,’ she commented as she took Louisa’s ruined blouse and stared at it distastefully. ‘This will have to go to the ghasala woman to be washed and mended.’ She looked up. ‘The Forresters are thrilled to have made such friends with another member of the aristocracy and one of so high a rank. They would be very put out if they thought one of their guests had upset him.’
‘Would they indeed.’ With pursed lips Louisa reached for the soap. ‘Please pour out some water.’ She shivered, though the cabin was still very hot. ‘I’ll wear my silk for dinner, thank you, if you could find it for me, then you can go and help Lady Forrester.’ She straightened suddenly and looked the woman in the eye. ‘Please do not speak about this to the Forresters. As you rightly said, it would upset them.’
She intended to speak to Sir John herself, and soon. But she had no wish for the sour-faced Jane Treece to spread the word first. Although she had detected a slight thaw in the woman’s attitude, she was, she suspected, quite capable of relaying the story in some no doubt biased and unpleasant way. She watched with a deep sigh as Treece closed the cabin door, then she sat down on the stool and wearily surveyed her image in the mirror, taking in her full rounded bosom, shown off by the ribboned corset with its low neckline, her narrow waist and the long luxuriant hair hanging round her shoulders. Her face, for all her care with sun hat and parasol had caught the sun a little and the unaccustomed colour in her cheeks had made her dark eyes sparkle. Had she in some unknowing way led him on? Not deliberately, certainly. Never that. She shivered, and plunged her hands into the basin, splashing her face and neck, feeling her hair trail in the water.
When she looked up once more she could see nothing, blinded by the water. Shaking the droplets from her eyes she stared at the mirror and she gasped. In the steamy glass she could see that there was a figure standing immediately behind her.
With a cry of terror she spun round, but there was no one there. All she had seen were shadows from the masthead lamps of a boat, edging close beside them in the narrow mooring, blending with the criss-cross of shadows from the candles. Clutching the towel she stared round. The cabin was empty but for her. It glowed warmly as the light fell on the luxuriant colours of the hangings which decorated it. Steadying her breath with an effort she reached for her comb. It was her imagination. Nothing more. There would be no further ghostly visitations tonight. When she was dressed she would have a few minutes to soothe herself by catching up with the entries in her journal, then she would go to the saloon and if she must, brave the cruel hard eyes of Roger Carstairs for the rest of the evening.
Getting up Anna wandered over to her own dressing table and broke a piece of bread in half. Cutting up the egg and selecting a slice of cheese she made herself a sandwich and moved back to the bed. The Eye of Horus nestled between her breasts, the gold warm against her skin. She pause
d for a moment, listening, and glanced at her watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. The others would by now have finished listening to the talk by Omar on the modern history of Egypt which had been scheduled for this evening. They would be quietly chatting and drinking amongst themselves in the lounge before finally going off to bed.
Sir John was in the saloon on his own when Louisa walked in. He stood up hastily. ‘My dear, you look beautiful!’ He eyed the midnight silk, and as though unable to stop himself, took her hand and kissed her fingertips. ‘Louisa, m’dear. I fear I have some disappointing news. Roger has had to leave us. He had a message that there was a problem with one of the crew on his own boat, and he has had to go back. He asked me to beg your forgiveness for leaving so abruptly.’
‘I don’t think it was leaving he was begging forgiveness for!’ Louisa said tartly. She sat down on the cushioned seat near him. ‘Is Augusta joining us soon?’
He shook his head. ‘Alas, the excitements of the day have proved too much for her. She has retired early. So I have asked Abdul to serve dinner early for us.’ He reached for the decanter. ‘Allow me to pass you a drink, m’dear. And let us toast our ascent of the cataract and its happy completion tomorrow.’
She sipped from the glass he gave her and then put it down. ‘John, I’m afraid I must ask you not to allow Lord Carstairs to set foot on this boat again. He came to my cabin this evening and behaved with shocking impropriety.’
Sir John stared at her, his pale blue eyes huge above his moustache. She saw him drum his fingers on the table.
Whispers in the Sand Page 26
