Authors: Anna Lord
Tags: #murder, #espionage, #egypt, #empire, #spy, #nile, #sherlock, #moran, #khamsin, #philae
The Khamsin Curse
Khamsin
Curse
Watson & The Countess Series
Copyright © 2016 by Anna Lord
Melbourne, Australia
All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced in any
form or by any electronic or mechanical
means including information
storage and retrieval systems—except in
the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or
reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictitious or are
used fictitiously. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and not intended by
the author.
1
“To breathe the air of Egypt,”
she sighed, “is to inhale the incense of antiquity.”
Countess Volodymyrovna,
standing idly by the guard rail of the Queen of Cairo
paddle-steamer as it docked, watched the solar-disc slip behind a
cluster of doum palms that since the days of the Pharaohs had lined
the banks of the Nile.
Sunset washed the timeless
palette in rose-gold hues while the busyness of the wharf began to
slow down as if attuned to the softening of the light. Water reeds
swayed and rustled as boatmen moored their feluccas for the night.
On the opposite side of the river bank, where old Cairo dipped to
the east and the horizon was defined by the Citadel of Saladin, the
call went out to the faithful. Plaintive cries drifted on a
blissful caress of warm dry air that anointed every cheek with the
healing balm of Gilead.
Every cheek except one.
“Aaatchoo!” Dr Watson fumbled for his handkerchief. “Well, I just
inhaled a lungful of old dust!”
A quizzical glance over a
scrupulous shoulder came with an overture of mild reproof.
“I thought you’d managed to
shake off that head cold back in Venice?”
“I don’t think it’s a head
cold. My head feels clear and my nose isn’t runny. There must be
some Saharan sand in the air. It’s a precursor to the Khamsin. You
realize this is the worst time of year to visit Egypt.”
He was referring to the
sandstorm that blew intermittently for fifty days starting around
April somewhere on the Arabian Peninsula, increasing the
temperature in Cairo by up to 20 degrees before sweeping across
North Africa.
“Are you having second thoughts
about this assignment?”
“I’ll answer that in a minute.
I want to grab a clean handkerchief before we disembark.” He
spotted a group of fellaheen clambering up the wobbly gangway
anxious to scoop up the luggage and cart it down to the queue of
waiting wagons before rushing off to evening prayers.
Now, into which compartment of
his suitcase did Fedir pack the handkerchiefs? This inexplicable
sneezing was exasperating. He knew it wasn’t a head cold. He didn’t
have any of the usual symptoms. It was most likely an allergic
reaction to dust, or perhaps sensitivity to sand particles. Yes,
the Khamsin was on its way.
Armed with a freshly ironed
handkerchief, he refastened his suitcase but the second sneeze he
was bracing for never came. “To answer your question,” he replied
circumspectly, pocketing the neatly folded nose-wiper, “I cannot
say I’m sorry to shake off the madness of Mardi Gras or turn my
back on the austerity of Lent. Plus, it’s good to be somewhere warm
and dry, but things could get hot fairly quickly, and I’m not just
referring to the daytime temperature. This is a rum business. I
don’t like lying to old chums.”
“You can hardly be expected to
share state secrets with someone you haven’t seen for umpteen
years. How well do you really know Colonel Hayter?”
“We met during the Anglo-Afghan
war. He was a patient of mine. I operated on him – a case of acute
appendicitis. He was immensely grateful. I rarely saw him in the
years that followed though we kept up a correspondence of sorts and
he always ended his letters by inviting me to stay at his country
house in Surrey. I eventually took him up on the invitation just
before that nasty Reichenbach business put an abrupt halt to
everything. Sherlock was suffering from ‘nervous prostration’ after
a particularly harrowing case. A quiet spell in the countryside was
called for and the village of Reigate in Surrey fit the bill.
Colonel Hayter played host. He’s a capital fellow. None
better.”
“That Reichenbach business
happened in 1891 and we are now at the beginning of April in the
year 1900.”
“It seems like yesterday.”
“I’d normally say
tempus
fugit
but in the Land of the Pharaohs time stands still.
Nevertheless, we need to bear in mind this isn’t just another
murder case. There’s more at stake.”
Some people learned to worry
less as the years went by. They took things in their stride. They
gave a shrug of the shoulders and simply got on with life. He was
not one of them. A wave of worry washed over him as he ran his
tongue over dry lips which felt sore and cracked from the warm dry
wind that had been blowing non-stop across the deck ever since they
left the port city of Alexandria. But one thought, above all
others, bolstered courage and gave him heart.
“Colonel Hayter is one of the
most decent chaps I ever met. You’ll like him from the moment you
are introduced. Honest and straightforward but at all times a
gentleman, hale and hearty though he’d be nearly sixty now,
courageous, loyal and totally trustworthy. I’m not surprised they
offered him the Acting High Commissioner’s post at such short
notice after the previous chap, the so-called Hon. Rex Bootham,
eloped with the eighteen year old cousin of the Pasha of the
Kingdom of Tripoli. Gerald Hayter would be just the ticket to
smooth things over with the Tripolitanians.”
“He sounds like the epitome of
British diplomacy and dependability but we better stick to
Mycroft’s suggestion: we are on holiday. You’re interested in
purchasing an Egyptian mummy on the black market and I’m keen to
try my hand at archaeology.”
“That’s a hopeless cover story.
I cannot believe Mycroft even suggested it. Every foreign spy in
Egypt pretends to be interested in archaeology.”
“But everyone
is
interested in archaeology,
mon ami
. That’s what makes it
such an unassailable cover story. The French, Germans and Americans
are mad for it.”
He gave a cynical snort.
“There’ll be nothing left to dig up shortly.”
“Mmm, if Lord Carnforth doesn’t
get a move on with that excavation in the Valley of the Kings he
will miss the boat.”
“Tomb robbers probably got
there first anyway. Here comes a vacant calash. I better hail it
before that German chap elbowing his way down the gangway grabs it.
Are you sure Fedir and Xenia will be able to keep an eye on your
luggage with all those shifty-looking foreign fellows loitering on
the dock?”
The Countess never travelled
light and he often wondered how half her bags didn’t go astray.
Fifteen pieces at last count; granted five of them were hat boxes;
and that was only the summer wardrobe. She’d left all her winter
things at the Palazzo Pagano in Venice. The fact she travelled with
so much valuable jewellery was also a worry. Although the
eye-catching, Moroccan, purple leather, jewel case contained
nothing more than an old pair of boots. She stashed her precious
joaillerie
inside socks which were then stuffed into the
boots stored in the luggage belonging to her Ukrainian maid and
manservant.
He signalled for the calash to
swing round and pick them up.
A calash was a fast-moving
carriage about the size of a hansom drawn by a single horse. The
driver sat at the front and the hood was always retracted because,
unlike London, it hardly ever rained. The wheels were gaily
painted, usually in red or purple, and the seats were upholstered
in vivid fabrics.
“Quite sure. They’ve had years
of practice. Let’s go. I want to bathe in ibis water.”
“What?”
“It’s an old Egyptian saying –
the water from which ibises drink is pure and sacred.”
“I’ll settle for clean and
tepid. What rotten cheek! Did you see that?”
“Yes, that German chap nabbed
our calash.”
“Here comes another. Wait here.
I’ll catch it before it wheels round.”
He darted off across the dock,
dodging sacks of grain, weir baskets, coiled ropes, racks of dried
fish and a group of men repairing fishing nets. After narrowly
avoiding collision with a man pushing a luggage trolley, he leapt
boldly into the vacant calash as soon as it slowed into the curve.
When it came to a halt in front of the first class passengers
gathering at the foot of the gangway of the Queen of Cairo, he
smugly helped the Countess up and directed the driver to The Mena
House.
Built originally as a hunting
lodge, and quaintly dubbed the ‘Mud Hut’, The Mena House was now a
palatial hotel owned by an English couple who had completely
refurbished it in 1886 and added a swimming pool in 1890. It was
now the
piece de resistance
of oriental decadence. It had
been named after a First Dynasty Pharaoh called Menes and befitting
its namesake it had an unsurpassed view of the plateau where sat
the three pyramids of Giza.
Architecturally speaking it had
been re-built in the modernist Khedivial style, similar to the
Khedive Opera House, an Isma’il homage to the Paris of Haussmann.
Tourists always felt a little disappointed at first glance that a
palatial Egyptian hotel did not resemble something Cleopatra might
have swanned around in. But when they crossed the threshold they
were pleasantly surprised to discover a sublime melange of exotic
souk, Mamluk fortress and Coptic Church.
There were low-hanging Moorish
lanterns of red and turquoise glass, Byzantine chandeliers dripping
gold, Persian tiles foliaged with arabesques, lavish friezes
depicting ancient Egyptian life, curtain walls made of shimmering
copper discs threaded together that glimmered like a thousand baby
sun-gods, and everywhere, all around you, a darkly delicious,
luminous coolness that recalled the burial tombs which made Egypt
the premier wonder of the world.
Cairo being a cosmopolitan city
and the favourite destination of intrepid travellers meant the
foyer of The Mena House was bound to be a vibrant cultural mix.
Several languages could be heard at any one time but right at this
moment the loudest was English, or that particular branch of it
called American.
“Isn’t that Mr Jefferson Lee?”
said Dr Watson, alerted to the booming voice of a red-faced man who
was an expostulation of blood and thunder.
Countess V followed his gaze
into the adjoining lounge-cum-bar where a trio of high-backed
chairs centred a trio of ivory inlaid coffee tables strewn with
cartographer’s maps over which America’s cattle king was casting a
cracker-jack eye none too happily. “Yes, and according to the
Cairo Gazette
he owns half of Texas and is now the fourth
richest man in America.”
“I never understand how they
come up with those figures. Who are the two young ladies with him?
Do you recognize them?”
“The attractive blonde is his
daughter, Miss Hypatia Lee. The
Cairo Gazette
said she is
passionate about archaeology. Daddy Lee is here to bankroll her
passion.”
“What about the brunette?”
“I have no idea. She looks a
bit overwhelmed, or perhaps overshadowed would be a better
description. She does not have the same elegance or mien. Her
shoulders have slumped and she’s not sitting back in the chair.
Posture speaks volumes about status. A paid companion perhaps.”