The grand duke was courteous enough to ignore her ashy appearance, as well. He muttered something unintelligible to Ignatiev, who responded in equally harsh Russian. Ignatiev stepped forward once more and said, “His Highness was here earlier. He wishes you will say more.”
What was the man talking about? She looked to Sir Henry for help, but he seemed baffled, as well. “His Highness wishes me to say more about what, General?”
Ignatiev frowned and spoke respectfully to the grand duke again, who gestured toward the lumberyard. Ignatiev appeared to disagree—politely, of course—but when he received a stern look he turned back to Violet. “He would know more about body, Violet Rose.”
Violet gasped. “How does His Highness know about this?”
Ignatiev offered what might have been a smile but looked for all the world like a grimace. “Not everyone runs like mountain hare in face of danger. Some confront it, like wild boar against brown bear.” He pounded his fist against his chest for emphasis. “We moved toward fire. And we found you, Violet Rose, with dead body, while Ferdinand Marie watched you.”
“What is this?” Sir Henry said, aghast. He turned to face Violet. “Did you kill someone, Mrs. Harper?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, angry to have been so accused and distressed that already de Lesseps’s secret was out and he would likely blame her. “I am an undertaker. I preserve the dead, I don’t create them.” Once more, she found herself holding up her empty tapestry bag, as if it were some ubiquitous symbol of her profession.
Ignatiev spoke in Russian once more to the grand duke, whose face registered shock. Perhaps an undertaker was more frightening than either a boar or a bear.
Unfortunately, Sir Henry was just as interested in the situation as the Russians. “Do you mean to say that someone perished in the fire? Tragic! I hadn’t heard. Who was it?”
“I . . . I am not—” What was Violet to say? To vindicate herself was to ignore de Lesseps’s orders.
“Surely it wasn’t a delegation member, or de Lesseps would have sent word,” Sir Henry said, urging Violet to say something. Ignatiev and the grand duke also waited intently for her to reveal who the mysterious body was.
Sir Henry tried one final gambit. “Where has the body been taken?”
Violet lashed out in frustration. “That’s just it, I don’t know! De Lesseps asked me to take care of him, but he was spirited away.”
Ignatiev chuckled, and it was disturbingly throaty, like the growl of a wolf in a children’s tale. “Ah! So you tell us about him, Violet Rose.”
How had Violet managed to get herself snared so easily? Before she could respond, Franz-Josef strolled by, Eugénie on his arm. Both of them looked as fresh as cream, another artifice suggesting that the fire had never occurred and all was well. Violet swiped a hand across her face and felt the grime that had encrusted itself on her. She needed to get to a washbowl soon.
More intriguing, though, was the expression on Ignatiev’s face as he watched them disappearing into the crowd together. The man swallowed several times as his eyes hardened and glittered malevolently, and Violet wouldn’t have been surprised to see bile spewing from his throat at any moment.
Interesting.
Ignatiev fixed his features once more, and although he still looked ferocious, he at least didn’t seem to be wishing to snap bones with his teeth. “So you tell us about dead man?”
What else was Violet to do? They already knew that someone had died. She capitulated. “It was Yusef Halabi, one of the sons of the lumberyard owner. He worked here with his father,” she said.
Ignatiev nodded thoughtfully and spoke to the grand duke once more in Russian, while Sir Henry expressed his shock. “How could he have possibly died in the fire? The lumberyard is completely exposed, so he wouldn’t have been trapped by smoke, and the fire didn’t spread so quickly that he couldn’t have run from it.”
Violet didn’t like where the conversation was going, as she had already gone against de Lesseps’s orders, and the British ambassador was so near the truth that he would soon have it figured out. “I cannot say,” she simply and truthfully replied.
Seemingly satisfied with her vague answer, Ignatiev cut off Sir Henry’s next question with, “You are unusual woman, an undertaker. I have met only one other woman as strange as you. She was nurse in Crimea. Very forceful and bold about care for injured men. Only Briton not notoriously incompetent, nor worried about interfering with Russian rights over Ottomans.” He bared his yellowed teeth in a smile. Sir Henry responded with a strangled sound, although he maintained a diplomatic expression.
“I know Miss Nightingale,” Violet said. “I have served her family as undertaker for many years.”
Ignatiev shook his head. “Both of you very strange,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Grand Duke Michael spoke to the general and then crooked a finger to instruct the military man to follow him. Before he turned away, though, Ignatiev said softly to Violet, “You be careful of Ottomans, Violet Rose. They do not respect others.” He strode off before she could ask him what that meant.
Baffled, she stared after the general, trying to understand his cryptic words. Sir Henry was quick to offer his own opinion. “Ignatiev is not very forgiving, you must understand. Great Britain has embarrassed him on two occasions, causing enormous damage to his pride.”
“But he offered caution about the Ottomans—”
“Yes, but it was a veiled complaint about us. You see, the immediate cause of the Crimean War involved the rights of Christian minorities in the Holy Land, which the Ottoman Empire controls. Egypt conquered the area in 1832, but their rule was chaotic and turbulent. In 1840, Great Britain ensured that control was returned to the Ottomans, which seemed a fitting solution at the time. But Christians were not well treated by the Ottomans. France was enraged by offenses made against Catholics, while Russia was equally incensed over injustices served Eastern Orthodox Christians.”
“But surely the general doesn’t blame Great Britain for the sultan’s actions?” Violet asked, still confused.
“Not exactly. He is actually angrier that Great Britain thwarted his country’s ambitions. In the confused mission of the war, Russia decided to take territory and power at Ottoman expense, leading to further bloodshed and butchery. Great Britain—along with France, Sardinia, and, of course, the Ottomans—was ranged against Russia’s lust for land. Ignatiev was involved in postwar negotiations over the demarcation of the Russo-Ottoman frontier, a great humiliation for his homeland.”
Ignatiev had made his national pride quite clear, so Violet could imagine how painful it was for him to sit at a table and sign away territory he believed rightfully belonged to Russia. “You said, Sir Henry, that the general was embarrassed twice by our country?”
“Yes.” Sir Henry brushed away an insect that had discovered his curling, wiry eyebrow hair. “After the Crimea, he was appointed military attaché at the Russian embassy in London. He wasn’t there long when he was discovered to have pocketed a newly developed cartridge while inspecting the ordnance works of the British Army. He claimed he had done so inadvertently, but no one believed him. After all, ammunition cartridges do not exactly fall into one’s clothing, do they?”
Violet was also hard-pressed to imagine how that could have happened accidentally. “Was he arrested?” she asked.
He shook his head, once more sending the buzzing insect on its way. “No, but to avoid diplomatic embarrassment, Russia summoned him home. I will admit that he has had great political successes since then, particularly in annexing Outer Manchuria from the Chinese, and forcing the emirate of Bukhara into a vassal state. It was these achievements that led to his posting as ambassador to Constantinople, a position he has held for about five years now. His quarters are in the same district as mine, but as you might imagine, we do not have much occasion for socializing.”
No, these two men assuredly did not share port and cigars together. And,
good heavens, there seemed to be more posturing on this spit of land called Port Said than in a park full of peacocks. “May I ask, why do you think Russia is in attendance at the canal’s ceremonies? After all, they feel humiliated by Great Britain and France through the Crimean War results, then again by Britain after the diplomatic incident in London, and they have no love for the Ottoman Empire, of which Egypt is a part. Why, then, attend a spectacle in which you are a nonentity?”
The insect made for Elliot’s eyebrows once more. This time he reached up and grabbed it, crushing it and then rubbing his fingers together so that the remains scattered to the ground. “That is an excellent observation, my dear Mrs. Harper. Why indeed are they here?”
Later, though, Violet arrived at another observation. How was it that Sir Henry always seemed to arrive just in time to rescue Violet from delicate situations? First in the shopping district, then with the Russians. Was he keeping an eye on her?
Violet was exhausted. Much had occurred since she landed in port, and she was not only filthy but hungry, too. Her boots were rubbing at her heels, and her new bag seemed to be heavier by the moment even though it was empty. In the darkness she had lost sight of Sam, who was no doubt having a rollicking time with his friends, even though they had spent hours in a dangerous situation together.
She couldn’t fault him. Sam had given up much to live with her in England. She was actually glad that he had found some fellow Americans for comradeship. Perhaps she could return to the ship to clean up and have word sent to him that she was there before collapsing in bed. She could tell him about everything that had happened tomorrow morning as they were sailing for Ismailia.
The idea blossomed quickly in Violet’s mind, and she started to make her way to where Newport was berthed. She dreamed along the way about scenting the washbowl with lavender and snuggling into her underfilled pillow, which smelled overly of sea air and mustiness, but which right now appealed to her more than the riches of Midas.
Once again, she was intercepted before she had gotten far. This time it was Louise-Hélène, who was without her maid for the first time. Even without fireworks bursting in the air to add light to the unevenly spaced torches, Violet could see that the girl was nervous, looking around furtively and licking her lips. Several pins must have given up on their futile task of taming her hair, for strands of it had escaped their loose confines and trailed down the side of her face. It was actually a rather charming look, far more so than her efforts to look as polished as the older women around her.
“Mademoiselle, may I be of assistance to you?” Violet asked, hoping that it was something she could quickly answer for de Lesseps’s fiancée.
“Oui, Madame Harper, I was hoping I might find you before the evening’s activities were over. Have you noticed my maid, Isabelle, anywhere?”
“No, I have never seen her other than at your side. Do you fear she is lost? I’m sure she has simply found a tent of interest and forgotten herself in the middle of all the excitement.”
Louise-Hélène frowned, as if seriously considering Violet’s placating statement. “Perhaps that is so. But it is fortunate that I have found you alone, madame, as I wish to apologize to you.”
What could this meek girl have to express regret about? “I see no reason for you to do so, but whatever it is, consider yourself forgiven as if it had never happened.”
Violet’s assurance confused Louise-Hélène even further, if the look of disbelief on her face was any indication.
“But you do not know what it is for which I crave your forgiveness,” she said indignantly. “Perhaps it is for something grievous.”
Looking at the future Madame de Lesseps, with her unmanageable locks and bewildered expression, Violet could hardly countenance such a thing.
“Very well,” she said gently. “Tell me, mademoiselle, why I should forgive you.”
“Because I am about to speak ill of my future husband, and I know I shall have to confess all to Monsignor Bauer to cleanse my soul.” Louise-Hélène sighed, and another wisp of hair came loose.
The girl was truly lovely. In Violet’s opinion, slander against others was practically a sport, with a person’s reputation the ball that the disparaging cricket bat sent flying across the field.
Violet took Louise-Hélène’s hand in her own. “Mademoiselle, perhaps it is not my forgiveness you need, but a confidential ear?”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears but she blinked them back. “Oui, perhaps it is as you say. Madame Harper, I am most worried about my fiancé. Today’s most”—Louise-Hélène looked upward, reaching for a word—“unfortunate events have left Ferdinand almost insensible, may the Sacred Heart comfort him.”
“How so?” Violet said, wondering if anxiety was giving the older man heart palpitations or something that required a doctor. Was there even a physician among all of the delegation members?
“He is so very . . . angry,” Louise-Hélène replied, seeming to struggle again for what she wished to say.
“Angry over what?” Violet clasped the girl’s hand tighter.
“The fire. He believes it to have been deliberately set.”
On that point, Violet and de Lesseps were in agreement.
“Perhaps, then, it is time for your fiancé to ask the khedive to bring in whatever sort of police force exists in Egypt.”
Louise-Hélène looked at Violet sadly. “I’m afraid that is impossible.”
“Why? Are there no police? We have only had professional police in Britain since—”
“No, that is not it, madame. The problem is that Ferdinand believes the fire was started by the khedive himself. Or ordered by him.”
Violet’s mind reeled, trying to grasp what the young Frenchwoman was saying. “But . . . that makes no sense. Isma’il Pasha is as committed to the success of the opening ceremonies as de Lesseps. Why would he commit such an atrocity against himself and his own interests?”
“I believe there is much we don’t understand about Egypt’s politics, madame. If I understand Ferdinand correctly, though, the khedive’s first loyalty is to Ferdinand. But he must also obey the sultan, who is not as forgiving about transgressions as my fiancé.”
Louise-Hélène was speaking in riddles. “What transgressions has he committed?” Violet asked, dropping the girl’s hand.
Louise-Hélène shook her head. “I do not know. I have simply heard Ferdinand say that the khedive will have to pay more tribute to the sultan to alleviate the Ottoman ruler’s concerns, or Ferdinand will have to fix the situation himself.”
Violet was still confused. What did the Ottoman sultan and his misgivings have to do with de Lesseps’s suspicion that the khedive had deliberately set the lumberyard fire? How would such an act be in either the khedive’s or the sultan’s interests?
She opened her mouth to voice these questions, but Isabelle had appeared from nowhere, breathless and flushed.
“Je m’excuse, mademoiselle, for my absence. I got caught up watching a performance of trained weasels and lost track of the time. Such tricks they could do!”
Isabelle was lying about her disappearance, Violet was sure, but Louise-Hélène just smiled at her maid and said, “All is well. But now I need to return to my cabin and remove these hideous stays.”
Bidding Violet adieu, Louise-Hélène abruptly strolled back to where L’Aigle sat docked, with Isabelle following closely behind her, as if Louise-Hélène had completely forgotten her concerns about de Lesseps. It was almost as if the young woman had been an actor in a Greek tragedy who had delivered lines and walked offstage.
Standing alone in the dark, staring at their retreating backs, Violet wondered upon whom, exactly, her growing suspicions should rest.
Chapter 7
In any case, Violet decided that Louise-Hélène’s idea of getting out of her corseted dress was a good one, and so the undertaker made her way to Newport, determined not to let another soul interfere with that goal.
It was not to be, though, for in her path was a cluster of men, including Sam, Thaddeus Mott, de Lesseps, the khedive, and a handful of Egyptians, fiercely intent in a discussion.
Violet approached Sam, who was frowning and shaking his head while the khedive spoke. “I shall send men with axes to quickly destroy it,” Pasha was saying, making a chopping motion with his hand.
“Mon Dieu, that will take days,” de Lesseps said. “We should set it afire, then send men overnight to collect the flotsam.”
Violet touched Sam’s arm. “What is wrong?” she whispered.
He turned to her while de Lesseps and the khedive continued their discussion. “De Lesseps has a telegram that a ship has run aground in El Qantarah, about fifteen miles down the canal from here. Apparently, the captain was in his cups and passed out at the wheel.”
“Good heavens,” Violet murmured. “Is the poor man all right?”
Sam shook his head. “Don’t know. The primary concern is moving the hulk. She’s lodged in the bank, and no one will be able to get past her tomorrow morning.”
More disaster for the opening ceremonies.
Discussion ensued, with de Lesseps and Pasha volleying back and forth ideas for eliminating the problem as quickly as possible. The word “dynamite” was uttered.
“Monsieur de Lesseps,” Sam interrupted, “I have some experience with dynamite and have performed several blasts under the tutelage of Alfred Nobel himself. I would like to offer my services to you.”
“Nobel, you say, Monsieur Harper?” De Lesseps appeared impressed, and said in an aside to the puzzled khedive, “Nobel invented dynamite. If what he says ees true, then Harper is probably quite skilled with it.”
With de Lesseps’s approval, the khedive readily agreed to Sam’s assistance. In short order, it was agreed that Sam and Mott would accompany de Lesseps and Pasha, along with several servants, down to where the ship was lodged in the bank.
All thoughts of bath and bed faded. Violet took Sam’s arm, fully intending to accompany her husband to the wreck site to check on the poor captain, whom no one seemed to care about, but de Lesseps frowned at her.
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