A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  He merely shrugged.

  Now it was Violet who wanted to bring a hand to her mouth at the callousness of the response. “Monsieur, did you not hear me? I say the man has been murdered. We must find who killed him.”

  But it was as if Violet had told him some food was spoiled and could not be served. He merely turned up his nose. “No, the only thing we must do is get rid of the cadavre now. The father is beginning to embarrass me. I cannot have the most important event in the history of the world ruined because some savage attacked and killed another one.”

  “Monsieur de Lesseps, I take great umbrage and exception to such a callous—”

  “That is all very well, Madame Harper, and you may lecture me and poke me with your parasol later. For now, though, we must see that the father removes his son immédiatement. I must salvage the evening so that all ees forgotten by the time we set sail in the morning. You will refrain from saying anything to anyone about what may—or may not—have happened, and we will once again have harmony over the Suez Canal.”

  De Lesseps smoothed his mustache for emphasis and turned on his heel. The other two women followed him, but not before Louise-Hélène turned back and once more shyly waved to Violet. This time, the undertaker’s blood was boiling too turbulently beneath her skin for her to respond.

  What a hideous encounter. Well, there was nothing to be done but to ensure the man’s body was cared for. Realizing that the father’s wailing had finally ceased, she turned back to comfort him once more.

  Except he was no longer there. In fact, the father, his son’s corpse, Hassan, Rashad, and the cloth were all gone. She couldn’t see them anywhere. Had de Lesseps signaled them without Violet’s awareness?

  Were they properly handling Halabi’s body? Had they securely wrapped him? His burnt condition made him so fragile. If she discovered that his body had been dropped and broken up in the street . . .

  Violet was now so furious that she saw black spots before her eyes. “Here is something else de Lesseps should know about Egypt’s funeral customs,” she muttered fiercely under her breath. “It is not good luck to disregard the dead.”

  

  Trying to shake off her anger, Violet sought out Sam, who was happily covered in soot and soaked in canal water as he talked with two of the Americans. “Men, this is my lovely English bride, Violet. Sweetheart, this is First Sergeant Caleb Purdy. He was a cavalry scout in the war.”

  Violet shook hands with a man whose hair was too scraggly, his beard unkempt, and his clothing rumpled, but he was exceedingly polite to Violet. He greeted her with an unexpected gallantry, even as he joked about Sam.

  “Your husband was infantry, ma’am? A shame. Everyone knows the infantry is made up of mangy critters unable to sit astride a horse properly.”

  Sam laughed aloud. “What my friend here means to say is that the cavalry are good for scouting missions and leading raids, but never have the nerve for anything truly dangerous, like the infantry boldly head toward. After all, who ever saw a dead cavalryman?”

  Purdy pretended to shoot Sam with his thumb and forefinger, but accepted the good-natured insult with aplomb.

  “And this is Sergeant Ross Keating,” Sam said, introducing another man. “I knew this worthless little mongrel from Fredericksburg. We did some reconnaissance together.”

  Keating was surely in his late twenties but appeared to be no more than a boy, with his clear blue eyes seemingly unspoiled by the horrors of war and his smile containing no hint of sadness. Most of the Civil War veterans Violet had met in her time in America—Sam included—carried a faint melancholia about them, even in their happy times. But with Keating, the only clue of the difficult life he’d experienced lay in the scar that stretched from the end of one eyebrow back into the hairline above his ear. A bullet grazing, perhaps?

  Violet smiled and chatted pleasantly with them, hoping her agitation did not show through. It was easy enough to let her mind drift as the three continued reminiscing about leaking tents, maggot-filled hardtack, and harmless pranks played on fellow soldiers.

  Violet, meanwhile, considered all that had happened tonight. The shopping expedition, the theft of her fan, the mausoleum tour, the showering fireworks . . .all culminating in the tragedy of the lumberyard fire and the discovery of a body stabbed to death.

  And de Lesseps would not permit her to report it, to save his grand opening. But what of the indignity served to poor Yusef Halabi? And to his father? That man deserved to know what had happened. He probably blamed himself for the fire, which meant he would also view himself as responsible for his son’s death. He shouldn’t have that guilt shrouding him the rest of his life.

  How could de Lesseps refuse to clear up the doubts?

  The situation was most intolerable.

  Well, he was not going to prevent her from telling her husband about it, for certain. Perhaps Sam and his friends would have an idea about the fire’s origins.

  The men were joined by yet another soldier, this one introduced as Thaddeus Mott. A hardened, middle-aged man whose leathered skin had done nothing to wear down his handsomeness, Mott bent over Violet’s hand and introduced himself. “Mrs. Harper, a pleasure. I confess to you here and now that I am an adventurer, a sailor, and a soldier of fortune, in no particular order.” He removed his dark blue hat and swept it out with a grand flourish, as though he were a romantic cavalier from another century.

  Sam and the others laughed uproariously, with Sam telling her, “He’s a former Union officer. He also took part in wars in Mexico, Italy, and Turkey. A man among men.”

  Mott nodded his acceptance of the flattery. “And as such, here I am in Egypt, with the sorrowful task of whipping a few Americans into whipping quite a few more Egyptians into something resembling an army.”

  That statement completely shook Violet out of her reverie. “Pardon? You are creating an army?”

  “Yes, dear lady. The viceroy, Isma’il Pasha, wishes to modernize Egypt and return her to greatness, much as Ferdinand de Lesseps wants preeminence for France. It is a wonder the two men get along so well, although I suppose the Suez Canal is a mutual interest in each obtaining glory and grandeur.

  “The Suez Canal is only one part of Pasha’s plan, though. He has built thousands of miles of railroads, started enormous cotton plantations, and reduced slave trading. After fighting for four years to end slavery in the United States, I could hardly say no to a man who wants to end it here, could I?” He grinned at Violet, as though his years of deprivation and slaughter were no more than a pleasant holiday at the seashore.

  The other men’s respect and admiration for Mott was palpable.

  “No, I suppose it would have been ungentlemanly to do otherwise,” Violet replied lightly.

  Mott raised an eyebrow at Sam. “You didn’t adequately describe what a vision she is, Harper. Perhaps I need my own English bride.” He turned back to Violet. “Could you find an equally lovely lady for me, Mrs. Harper? Someone who might ignore my face but instead be dazzled by a lieutenant colonel who seeks international fame and great wealth?”

  The man obviously knew his own magnetism and his self-deprecation was false, but it was done with such charm that Violet could only smile in return. “Surely no woman is equal to the task of being your helpmeet, sir.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps not. I suppose, then, that I shall stay married to my Emily.” Mott grinned at Violet. “For now, though, I am busy enough with the boatload of boys I brought with me to help the khedive with his army. I am thoroughly surprised by how undisciplined and unwilling to be led they are. This fire was a good exercise for training recruits in unexpected situations.”

  Violet was again taken aback. “Are you saying that you deliberately set this fire during the speeches as a training aid?”

  Mott tapped his hat against his thigh, having never replaced it on his head. “Dash it, no, Mrs. Harper. It was simply a gloriously convenient coincidence.”

  “Glorious” wasn’t exact
ly the term Violet would have used, but “convenient coincidence” was. She was beginning to think that something very sinister was occurring at Port Said behind the facade of laughing faces, brightly colored apparel, and extravagant entertainment.

  What it was, she had no idea, but she was determined to provide that dead man an answer. The dead deserved no less.

  Before Violet could get Sam alone to tell him what had happened, she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Undertaker lady?” asked a man’s urbane voice.

  She turned, leaving the Civil War comrades on their own again.

  His face was shadowy in the torchlight, but Violet recognized Samir Basara, the owner of the mausoleum. Gads, that felt like days ago, although only mere hours had passed since she had toured his family’s crypt.

  He nodded at her. “Yes, I thought I recognized your clothing. You and your husband are enjoying Egyptian hospitality, despite the fire? I suspect the khedive will launch fireworks again as soon as everyone returns. The joy must proceed, eh?”

  “It has certainly been an exciting evening,” Violet replied noncommittally. Then an idea struck her. “May I speak with you privately?”

  He frowned at her request. “We must have your husband’s permission.”

  Violet sighed. Sam was still surrounded by Purdy, Keating, Mott, and now some other men. One of them had produced a banjo—that peculiarly twangy instrument beloved in America—and they were singing patriotic songs, enthusiastically if not especially on key. Purdy had even broken out into some kind of stumbling jig. Clearly the army was not a place for learning the social refinements.

  With Basara behind her, Violet sought out Sam, who instantly recognized the archaeologist. Basara asked in an almost courtly way permission to speak with Violet, which Sam granted, adding, “You misunderstand my wife if you think she will not do as she wishes.”

  Basara frowned again. “Perhaps your wife needs a firmer hand.”

  Sam winked in Violet’s direction. “I have learned that I can no more put a firm hand to my wife than I could put one to the wind to stop it.”

  Basara grunted in disapproval, but did not refuse to speak with Violet. They made their way through the crowd, which had grown in size almost to what it was before, as she led him back toward the charred remnants of the lumberyard. As they walked, Violet wondered how she would ask her questions while trying to accommodate de Lesseps’s desires.

  She took Basara directly to the spot where the dead man had lain, thinking it was as private an area as any, given that most of the revelers were avoiding the spot where the extinguished fire still released intermittent wisps of woodsy smoke. The acrid odor was overwhelming, and smothered the pleasant smells she had carried with her from the spice stalls. Basara looked distinctly uncomfortable, but Violet wasn’t sure if it was because of the location, or for being alone with her here.

  However, back in the spot where she had so recently been outraged, Violet was overcome with calm, as the right questions implanted themselves in her head. “Mr. Basara, do you know the owner of this lumberyard?”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Old Halabi? He has been here for decades. Everyone knows his family.”

  “So he has a family?” she pursued.

  “Of course. Does not every man strive to have a family? Why these ridiculous questions about a simple merchant?” There was a hint of irritation in his voice.

  Violet was not about to be deterred. “He has a wife? Children? Sons, perhaps?”

  “Yes to all of this. A wife, Hagar. A chattering magpie of a girl, Ati. And two sons, Nebi and Yusef. Yusef works with his father, while Nebi, the younger son, decided to seek his fortune in antiquities, stealing and then selling them to foreigners. Nebi should be seized and hanged in the public square, but he seems to have friends who protect him.”

  An interesting note about Nebi, but Violet was not interested right now in the brother’s illegal enterprises, so she bore down gently on what she wanted to know. “Did Yusef and his father get along well? Was there any trouble between them?”

  “Trouble? What sort of trouble do you mean? Yusef was very obedient, unlike his brother. Nebi tried to convince him to join in his criminal acts, but Yusef never did so.” Basara shook his head at the perfidious actions of the errant younger son.

  It was a sure sign that Violet had been involved in far too many crimes that her mind immediately leapt to the conclusion that perhaps Yusef’s brother had killed him for not participating in his misdeeds. She shook her head at the suspicions running rampant through her mind.

  As her thoughts cleared, another question occurred to her. “Does the family have a mausoleum? Do you know where it is?” Perhaps she could convince the family to permit her to see the body once more before it was buried. Unlikely, but she was at least willing to try.

  “As I said before, most families have them. I do not make it my business to map them out. Where it is depends on how old his family is, though. A newer family will have one in a cemetery, unlike my family, which is old enough that the town has grown around the mausoleum.”

  Violet could not mistake the note of extreme pride in his voice about that fact. “Another question, sir. Do you know if anyone had a grudge against Halabi the father? Has he ever wronged anyone?”

  Basara spread his hands as if fending off an assault. “Why do you ask such questions? Are they not better placed directly to him? Anyone could have been angry with him. A dissatisfied builder, a log shipper, a ship’s captain. But I know of no specific instance. Is that all?”

  Violet realized that Basara was becoming irritated with her, and she had no desire to alienate him. Perhaps a friendly overture was in order. “Not quite. I am interested in your archaeological work.”

  At that, Basara’s defensiveness softened perceptibly. “You are? What are you interested in?”

  “You said that you work for the Museum of Antiquities. Do you help to uncover ancient burial grounds? I am, of course, most interested in such things.” Violet held up her empty tapestry bag, hoping he would understand it to represent an undertaker’s accoutrements.

  “Yes.” Basara quickly warmed to the subject. “I am currently working for Monsieur Mariette near the Temple of Seti. This is the first temple one visits on a tour of Upper Egypt. I am primarily responsible for finding suitable workers. It is difficult, for Monsieur de Lesseps consumed most labor sources for the canal and the khedive does not hold the special interest for discovering the past that his father did but, rather, seems to be focused on the future. There is no more corvée labor to be had, thanks to your country’s— Well, because that practice was ended, so our efforts to find men who are not the pestilent fellahin have doubled in recent years. With the canal finished, we should be able to accelerate the digging. Many precious artifacts have been placed into the museum, but they are just a single grain of sand as compared to the desert of items that exists. Provided we can work faster than thieves like Nebi Halabi.” His face darkened.

  Violet thanked him for speaking with her, convinced that any more questions would only serve to further provoke him. As he left, she, too, started walking back to where Sam and his friends were. A waiter reappeared with glasses of karkadé, and she happily took one, stopping to enjoy its singular sweetness. As she drank, the fireworks began popping again, and a collective ohhhh floated up from the regathered crowds.

  Violet rejoined Sam with his comrades, and they watched the spectacle of the fireworks, although she found herself detached from the festivities. It was as though the fire had never occurred, a body had never been found, and nothing untoward had ever happened in bustling, humming Port Said. Who, she mused, wandered about pleased to see that his crime had been effectively incinerated away?

  Chapter 6

  As Violet sipped the last of her drink, even swallowing the hibiscus leaves, she was approached by two more men in uniform. To think that she had humored Sam when he opted to wear his uniform! The port was now a sea of vivid Egyptian tunics and sharply uni
formed Europeans.

  One of the men was clearly the other’s superior, walking slightly in front with the careless swagger that comes with knowing there is always someone behind you to catch your cloak.

  This was confirmed for Violet when the second man, larger and more imposing but less regal, spoke to make introductions.

  “Excuse me, you are British devushka?” he asked. His luxurious and full, dark, drooping mustache was a contrast to his thinning hair. His gaze upon Violet was intent to the point of ferocity.

  “I am Violet Harper with the British delegation,” she replied cautiously, handing her glass back to another server who passed by, his tray full of glasses drained by others who apparently loved hibiscus tea as much as she did.

  “Please you tell me your patronymic,” he said.

  “Pardon me, my what?”

  “He wishes to know your middle name. It is a sign of respect.” Once more, Sir Henry Elliot had appeared from nowhere with Asa Brooks trailing silently in his wake. It was as though the ambassador had a secret assistant telegraphing him every few minutes of Violet’s whereabouts.

  “Oh.” Violet held out a hand politely. “I am Violet Rose Harper,” she said.

  The mustachioed man placed a palm under hers without touching her and said, “Violet Rose, I am Count Nikolay Pavlovich Ignatiev of Russian delegation. I am ambassador to Constantinople. This”—he stepped back so that the other man filled her view—“is Grand Duke Michael Nikolaevich, brother of Tsar Alexander. The duke is governor of Caucasus, while his brother is now Alexander II.”

  Was Violet supposed to offer this man her hand? Curtsy? And wherever was the Caucasus? She hadn’t realized how badly she would need international etiquette lessons before departing Dover. She figured it was best now to go overboard on flattery, though, and curtsied as though she didn’t look and feel like human wreckage.