A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  De Lesseps’s accusations were obviously without merit and born out of some feral place in his soul, but Pasha blanched at the Frenchman’s anger.

  “I assure you, I know nothing of this situation, and had no idea that the Americans were such swine. My only desire is for the canal celebrations to be joyful, and if you are unhappy, there is no joy for anyone.” Pasha snapped his fingers at Hassan. “I want the Americans brought in now.”

  Hassan bowed obediently and silently left. Soon Sam, Thaddeus Mott, Ross Keating, and Owen Morris had been escorted to the cloakroom under the guard of several ferocious-looking Egyptians. They looked thoroughly mystified—and then horrified, particularly at the sight of their friend lying so pitifully on the floor. Violet cringed, both at their discomfort and at the fact that poor Purdy was now being treated like a zoo animal on display.

  “Your Highness,” Hassan said with another bow to Pasha, “these are all of the Americans in attendance at the servants’ party.” This was only a small contingent, so the others must not have been in attendance at all.

  With everyone’s gaze now upon him, the khedive puffed up and became commanding.

  “Show us your sabers,” he said.

  The soldiers cautiously unsheathed their curved-tip weapons and presented them to Pasha’s guards. Except for Sam, whose scabbard was empty.

  He reacted in speechless shock at the realization that his saber was not on his person. Violet knew exactly what he was thinking, and she shared his thought. How could someone have been stealthy enough to remove it without his knowing?

  “Is my point not proved, Pasha?” De Lesseps said with satisfaction. “Undoubtedly the sword belonging to the undertaker’s husband is the one now buried in the other man.”

  “What reason would I have to kill my comrade?” Sam demanded, finding his voice again.

  Pasha glared at Sam’s daring claim of innocence. “That is not for me to figure out. How can you prove that you were not the wielder of your sword against that man, thus embarrassing Egypt?”

  Thaddeus Mott rose in Sam’s defense. “I have been diligent in training your troops, Your Highness,” he said, anger flickering in those once-teasing eyes. “My men have behaved with honor, and they are all friends. Harper is not part of my contingent, but I served with him and know that he is also a man of honor. It was someone else who did this, not Samuel Harper.”

  But Pasha seemed more concerned with impressing de Lesseps than with reaching the truth. He tried to imitate the delicate shrug that de Lesseps and every Frenchman performed so fluidly, except on Pasha’s frame it seemed like a nervous tic. “It is not for you to decide. You are no more than a paid servant in my employ, and as such, you are subject to my judgment.”

  Mott opened his mouth again, and Violet knew that a diplomatic inferno was about to erupt if she didn’t defuse it.

  “Your Highness,” Violet said, gently but firmly, “it is apparent by the deaths of not only Caleb Purdy but also Karl Dorn, Captain Naser, and Yusef Halabi that we are dealing with a far greater issue than a few brawling Americans, not that there is any evidence that they were ever fighting with one another.”

  Pasha stared at her as if she were a babbling idiot. “Those other deaths were unfortunate accidents. This man here is the only murder, which we see is obvious, madaam, by the sword protruding from his chest.”

  Violet’s head began to ache again, but now it was the khedive’s obtuseness causing it. “Men are not always killed in obvious ways. Murderers frequently seek clever ways of taking their victims so that others believe it to be an accident,” she said with as much patience as she could muster.

  But Pasha was determined to ignore her.

  “You are an obedient wife, concerned for your husband. Therefore, all of these men will be put in the dungeon until we return from the Red Sea, instead of just your husband. Then I will try them. If I find them guilty of various offenses”—he glanced pointedly at Mott—“I will have them all executed.” Pasha nodded his head with satisfaction at his tidy solution.

  “What?” Violet said, panicked. How had they tumbled so quickly into an abyss of words like “dungeon” and “execution”? “What do you mean? They’ve done nothing wrong. Your Highness, there is no justice in this, there is no—”

  Pasha flicked his hand at her, his decision made.

  She appealed to de Lesseps. “Monsieur, surely you do not mean to permit these innocent men to be condemned like this!”

  “We do not know that they are innocent, madame. One of them has an American sword lodged in his chest, which would suggest that one of his friends did this to him, even if it ees not your husband. Pasha has spoken. We will continue on and see about the men when the canal celebrations are over.”

  As if Pasha’s opinion had been the final word on any matter thus far.

  Violet tried again, using a different approach. “You must realize that my husband is a member of the delegation.”

  De Lesseps shrugged. “Not a particularly important one. His government did not send their president or anyone in a high position, did they? I doubt they will miss a few grizzly soldiers.”

  Violet was so mortified and outraged all at once that she could hardly form words in response. The entire trip had been a swirling sandstorm of events stained in red, culminating in this absolute travesty. She couldn’t even contemplate what Pasha’s “trial” might look like in this foreign land. What was she to do? She had to find Sir Henry Elliot so he could attempt to reach a diplomatic solution to this. Maybe even the Prince of Wales himself would intercede. Perhaps—

  Her mind went blank as she watched the group of four men led away, their shoulders slumped. All of a sudden the room grew fuzzy and distant, and she thought she might faint.

  Stop it, she admonished herself. You must help Sam. She reached out a hand and found herself grabbing one of the rolling clothes racks for support. Taking a few deep breaths, Violet contemplated what she would say to Sir Henry, and her energy was marginally renewed. Until she overheard the Frenchman speaking in low undertones to Pasha near Purdy’s body.

  “See to it that the American body ees taken out to one of the canal boats during the night. We do not want the guests to know about this and become agitated. He can be dumped into the Red Sea when we reach Suez.”

  “No!” Pasha whispered back urgently. “Egyptian waters must not be sullied like that. I will have him removed and buried immediately. I can pay some fellahin to take care of it.”

  De Lesseps was unmoved. “If we take him out on a boat, he will soon be a meal for the sea creatures and your waters will not be defiled for long.”

  “I have done all as you wish,” Pasha shot back. “But this must be done according to our customs.”

  De Lesseps continued pressing his point with vehemence. Now Violet was more agitated than ever. Purdy should be preserved and sent home to his family in America, not tossed overboard like rotten fish. The evil that seemed to permeate this place like a thick—

  “Madaam?” Violet felt a light touch at her elbow. She turned to find Hassan standing there. He glanced over at Pasha, who was absorbed in assuaging de Lesseps’s anger and not paying attention to anything else.

  “I regret what has happened here,” he said quietly. “You must understand that I must obey Pasha, although I do not think your husband—or any of the Americans—guilty of anything.”

  Violet wanted to burst into tears at his kindness, but merely nodded.

  He handed her a slip of paper. “You will meet me at this address tomorrow morning, before we head on to Suez. I will personally ensure that you are able to see your husband. Tell no one, for if Pasha were to find out . . .”

  Violet gratefully accepted the folded piece of parchment. “Why do you extend me this courtesy? Surely Pasha will punish you if he finds out.”

  Hassan sighed. “Sometimes, my lady, it is important to do that which creates proper order, not merely that which is given by order. You are a woman of an orderly m
ind, I think. Now, you must go to the rear of the building at this location to meet me. It is where de Lesseps arranged for a prison during the canal building, as there were many troubles among the different nationalities. The cells were cleared out for the celebrations and the prisoners sent elsewhere, so be comforted that the Americans will be the only inmates. I will do what I can for them until they are brought before Pasha.”

  Hassan bowed and slipped away, leaving Violet to decide whether to intercede once more for Purdy. Did she dare antagonize de Lesseps and Pasha one more time to crusade for the proper treatment of the dead man’s body? She thought about how it might affect Sam’s treatment and that of the other veterans. She bit her lip, her insides churning at the impossible choice it was, her concern for her husband at war with her ingrained principles on undertaking rituals.

  However, she knew what she had to do, for although the dead deserved the utmost respect, the living must come first. She followed in Hassan’s footsteps, fleeing the room with the bloody shawl while Pasha and de Lesseps were still busy arguing over Purdy’s disposition.

  Violet stepped into the ballroom, which was now deserted. Undoubtedly everyone had gone outside to witness yet another night of fireworks, which burst happily in the air as if another man had not been killed and Violet’s husband had not been hauled off to some pestilent hole. She couldn’t even imagine what this prison would be like. She shut her mind to it, hurrying back to her tent while fireworks transformed the streets of Ismailia into rivers of fire, her own injuries completely forgotten in light of Sam’s captivity.

  Chapter 26

  November 19, 1869

  Violet was tense to the point of shaking after the previous day’s ordeal and a night without a moment’s sleep. Although her first instinct had been to locate Sir Henry and Bertie and demand that they do something about the situation right away, she decided that, with Hassan’s help, she might be able to secure the Civil War veterans’ release on her own. She would try almost anything to avoid a diplomatic incident.

  She arrived at the prison building early, but Hassan was already waiting for her. The cultural attaché obviously had influence, for the prison guards offered no resistance to him escorting Violet in. Hassan carried a lantern as they walked down a narrow set of endless stone steps that would lead them to the cells, and explained to her that the rooms above were actually Canal Authority offices, occupied by workers from various countries.

  Violet could not have cared less about what the pencil-sharpening men upstairs were doing.

  Seeing that his words had no effect at relaxing her, Hassan said, “My lady, I wish to apologize for my master’s behavior yesterday. He is under tremendous strain to ensure that the canal celebrations go well and that de Lesseps is pleased. Sometimes it causes him to behave a bit rashly. I know it is not helpful to you in this moment, but perhaps one day you will forgive him?”

  The cultural attaché was convincing, but Violet was still pent up with fear and anger, and in no mood to absolve Pasha of his sin.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs and she saw the condition of the cells, her fear and anger transformed themselves into unreserved fury.

  The men were locked away in a stone cell whose walls were broken only by a door with a small rectangular viewing area—not that a larger hole would have done them much good, given how little light there was from the weak candlelight in the passageway. Hassan had the guard open the cell, then handed Violet his lantern while he waited outside.

  Given the condition of their cell, the men were in remarkably good—if still baffled—spirits. They had rough wood benches to sit on, and a barrel in the corner of the cell whose stench made clear its purpose.

  “Sweetheart, how did you get in here?” Sam said as he and the other men attempted to stand at her presence. She noticed that Sam no longer had his cane.

  “Please, do sit. I’m not sure how long I will be permitted to visit you. I must ask you some questions.” Violet set the lantern down in the middle of the floor, illuminating just how grim their confines were. There shouldn’t have been four men in this space, although it was at least dry. They all sank back down on the benches, which creaked under their weight.

  “First, have you eaten?” She would see to their physical needs before questioning them about last night.

  “Yes,” Mott said on everyone’s behalf. “That one Egyptian fellow had some sort of bean gruel sent in. It wasn’t quite what we’ve become accustomed to over the past few days, of course, but it filled us. I don’t believe Harper will be asking your cook to make it again any time soon.” Mott’s vitality sparked and flickered.

  “I confess to you, gentlemen, that I am not quite sure how to achieve a diplomatic release for you other than seeking help from the British ambassador and the Prince of Wales. But that may not be a viable solution. The political situation here . . .” Violet knew she probably didn’t have to explain it all to them.

  Sam laughed mirthlessly. “We know all about how governments and politics tend to get men killed. Ironic, isn’t it, that we would survive the politics of the war, only to be victims of it in this foreign place.”

  She couldn’t let them succumb to dark thoughts. “I do have another thought, though. If I could prove your innocence, then Pasha would have to release you.”

  “How would you do that, ma’am?” Ross Keating asked, the raw hope unmistakable in his voice.

  “By proving who the guilty party actually is.”

  “You believe you can do this?” Now Keating didn’t sound so hopeful.

  “Son,” Sam said, “if anyone can do it, it’s my wife. She has proved the guilt of more than one man.”

  The other men stared silently at Violet, who now represented their only prospect of freedom. Could she manage to deliver it to them? She steeled herself for the task ahead, knowing she would do near anything to see Sam out of this dark, crowded cell. “Now, you must answer my next question very truthfully. Where were all of you prior to the party?” Violet inquired.

  “I was mucking and feeding our horses like the colonel asked,” Owen Morris volunteered.

  Mott nodded. “I want my own men taking care of our horses, not foreigners who know nothing about our Morgans.”

  Violet wanted no part of a competitive discussion over Morgan versus Arabian horses. “And you, Colonel, where were you before attending the party?”

  “I was in my tent, writing out lessons on camp layouts for Pasha’s recruits. But somehow I found myself indisposed and unable to work with them before Pasha granted me leave. Perhaps you will have to take over for me, Mrs. Harper, and show the men the proper manner in which to arrange tents and huts. Remember, dear woman, kitchens and latrines on opposite ends of the camp, with latrines running downhill.”

  Violet smiled at Mott’s continued easiness in light of his uncertain situation.

  “You will be back at your post in no time, Colonel, I promise you,” Violet said with a confidence she wasn’t sure was real. “And you, sir, Mr. Keating, isn’t it? How did you spend your time leading up to the party?”

  Violet expected a similar answer to that of Mott or Morris, and was surprised when the man hesitated. “I, er, I was engaged socially.”

  This obviously came as a surprise to the other men. “What does that mean?” Mott demanded.

  Even in the lantern light, Violet could tell the man was reddening.

  “I had a— I had been invited— You see, sir . . .”

  “What were you doing?” Mott was practically shouting.

  “There is this young miss with the French delegation. Very pretty, she is, and an accent to charm the saddle off a horse. She asked me to escort her through the Arab tents, and that’s where I was.”

  Various women were running through Violet’s mind, and certainly she didn’t know every single one attached to the French delegation, particularly not the servants. “What was her name?” she said.

  “Ah, well, I’m not sure I should—”

>   “Damnation, man!” Sam exploded. “I’m not going to be shot or hanged because you won’t reveal the name of your doxy.”

  “She’s not a doxy! She is a sweet girl, a lady. I won’t have you speak of her that way.”

  “Mr. Keating,” Violet broke in, impatient with the man’s obliviousness over the gravity of the situation, “I understand that you wish to protect the reputation of your lady friend, to ensure no one thinks ill of her for spending private time with you. However, I remind you that all of you are under suspicion, not just Sam, and not only do you require an alibi, but I need every possible scrap of information to enable me to find out who did this to Mr. Purdy.”

  But now Keating was resolute, stubbornly jutting his chin forward, as though Violet were some enemy interrogator. She remembered that Julie spent considerable time with the soldiers during last night’s Dinner of the Sovereigns before her clandestine meeting with General Ignatiev. There must be a connection.

  Violet’s next visit would be with Julie Lesage.

  “Gentlemen, I have just two more questions. One, did any of you see the moment Sam lost his sword?”

  “Violet, I didn’t lose it. My sword was taken from me,” Sam insisted.

  “I’m sorry. Of course. Presumably none of you saw his sword being taken?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “And yet someone must have done so, and used it to kill Caleb Purdy sometime between Sam’s arrival at the party and my discovery of the body. Sam, when did you notice it was missing?”

  “Truthfully, not until I was asked to present it. So much had happened, what with the maid screaming, the search for the body . . .”

  Yes, someone had been quite successful working under the cover of total bedlam, a bedlam created by Julie Lesage.

  “I will ask you a final question. Have any of you been eating opium since you arrived in Egypt?”