The Khamsin Curse Page 19

  “That implies he knew they would be inside the Temple of Hathor.”

  “Hmm, yes, well he could have followed them with Lorna Baxter in tow and then after depositing her in this temple, doubled back, lured the two men to the Inner Courtyard, killed them and returned in time for Mrs Baxter to think nothing of it. The distances we are talking about are not vast. The entire island,” he reminded, “is only twelve hundred feet in length.”

  She wasn’t convinced. The theory relied too much on pure luck. “What about the urine?”

  “I’m glad you asked! He must have prepared urine in advance. He could have hidden a vial of urine somewhere in the chamber and used that when the victims were tied down.”

  “So, no woman was involved at all?”

  “Yes! No! Making it look like a woman did the deed would be just like him. He’s a wily, clever, conniving, snake in the grass. Plus, he was the one who planted the idea in your head that Golden Rain is performed by women? Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “He was the one who explained it to us.”

  “How convenient that he is on hand to explain it all!” His tone oozed facetiousness. “He should have been with Hayter scouting the eastern side of the island. But, of course, if he already knew there would be nothing to find on the eastern side, he could have ditched Hayter easily enough. If he’d wanted a partner to ditch, Hayter would have been the ideal choice. And it was Moran, remember, who decided on the pairing-up. So, he ditches Hayter and makes a beeline for the small chambers where he expected to find Gideon and me, but finds you and Moriarty and Gideon. Even better! An Irishmen who will support him and a woman who is, er, sleep-deprived.” He chose that last word with great care. “When did he turn up to explain his theory?”

  She was feeling flushed and it had nothing to do with the heat. She felt annoyed that she may have played into Moran’s hands. “He turned up sometime, I cannot say when exactly. I was sleep-deprived and not thinking clearly.” She borrowed his phrase because it was convenient. “Gideon led Moriarty and me into the chamber to see Mallisham. I was terrified at first that it might be you. We then went into the chamber that contained Lee. While we were discussing the murder we heard a noise in the courtyard. It was Moran. I don’t know if he heard us talking. I cannot say how long he was there before making his presence known. He walked in and seemed to know at once what had taken place.”

  “I’m not surprised!”

  “I didn’t mean in that way. I meant that the modus operandi was familiar to him. Hang on! He was surprised to learn there was a second body. When we told him Mallisham had been killed in the same manner he sprinted off to check for himself. He seemed surprised at that and not a little shocked.”

  “Nice ruse! What we are dealing with here is a criminal mastermind out of the ordinary. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Moran spent years with Professor Moriarty, criminal mastermind extraordinaire. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “He is, according to Sherlock Holmes, the second most dangerous man in England. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “He is clever enough to therefore stage his own crime and point the finger at whomever he pleases.”

  “What about motive?”

  “As if being a criminal mastermind isn’t motive enough,” he scoffed, amazed at his own ratiocination. “If Mallisham or Lee were planning to give him the flick that would be reason enough. Agreed?”

  “Yes. But I would like to speak to Lorna Baxter before we accuse Moran of murder. I want to hear what she has to say about what happened in the Temple of Harendotes. Did he go off and leave her alone? Are they conducting an illicit liaison and how long has it been going on?”

  They walked out of the shade of the ruin into bright sunlight and the doctor sneezed.

  “You really have picked up an allergy,” she said, looking to the east to make sure the Khamsin wasn’t about to make a come-back.

  “I don’t think it’s an allergy. Gideon told me about a chap he knew who sneezed whenever he looked directly at a bright light or stepped from darkness into light. I’d heard of it before but I’ve never come across any cases of it. I think that’s what I have. It’s a photic-nerve response to bright light. Nothing to do with an allergy or having a cold,” he said happily. “Let’s go back to the ship for lunch.”

  They walked the rest of the way without talking. When they reached the jetty, the others were on the aft deck under the striped canopy.

  The Countess lowered her tone, although she did not expect to be overheard. “I want to speak to Hypatia about the voices she heard calling for help while she was in the Temple of Hathor. Did she mention if they were male or female voices?”

  He gave a shrug; as far as he was concerned the case was closed and all they needed was a motive to tie up the last loose end, although being an evil mastermind was motive enough. Yes, some people were born evil. “I cannot recall if she said male or female and I don’t really think it matters. We have our man.”

  16

  Ibn-the-Mad

  They were about to sit down to lunch under the striped canopy when a massive explosion rocked the ship. All the birds in the doum palms took to the skies. Crocodiles and hippopotamuses basking lazily on the bank in the midday sun took to the water. Splashes set off a ripple effect that continued to rock the hull long after the blast abated.

  It was first thought that the ship’s engine had exploded. But when black smoke started billowing from the vicinity of the construction camp they rushed to the guard rail and squinted into the heat haze where sooty clouds were making ugly smudges against a pristine blue sky.

  Ali Pasha was in a felucca which also felt the force of the waves. The boat bobbed up and down and the slanted sail swung back and forth. The antiquities trader was returning to his accommodation on one of the other islands.

  “Do you think that was a normal explosion?” asked Herr Graf, who had managed to drag himself out of bed in time for lunch.

  “What do you mean by normal?” quizzed Colonel Hayter, never far from a gin and tonic.

  “I think he means not sabotage,” suggested Miss Clooney, who seemed unafraid to speak her mind now that her uncle was no longer riding rough-shod over everyone. “Ali Pasha was saying last night at the party that someone was stealing explosives. Several boxes of dynamite were missing from the storehouse at the dam site.”

  “Oh, yes,” added Fraulein Graf, “I heard him say suspicion fell on the foreman because he was related to someone called Ibn-the-Mad.”

  “Ibn-the-Mad?” quizzed the Countess. “Was he referring to Ibn al-Haythem?”

  The fraulein gave a shrug. “I’m not sure. I stopped listening to what he was saying because a serving woman brought a fresh platter of flat bread and my uncle asked me if I could pass him one while they were still warm.”

  “Yes, yes,” confirmed Herr Graf. “That is who Ali Pasha was referring to. He was talking about the eleventh century mathematician, Ibn al-Haythem, also known as Alhazen, when the flat bread arrived.”

  Gideon had been studying the plumes of black smoke and he didn’t like what he saw. It looked not like a planned explosion, but more like the sort of blast that is accompanied by a burn-off of flammable materials. “Are you saying Sharif the present-day foreman at the dam is related to the man who was asked to build the original dam in the eleventh century?”

  “That’s what Ali Pasha said,” confirmed Herr Graf. “Sharif is a direct descendent of Ibn al-Haythem the man who feigned madness for a decade to avoid confessing to the Fatimid Caliph that constructing a dam was impossible.” He gave a hearty chuckle. “Quite clever, if you ask me! He wouldn’t be the first man in history to feign madness to avoid a difficult task!”

  They were about to return to the table when a second blast rocked the boat. It came from the same direction. Birds that had settled to nearby canopies took to the air again, temporarily blocking out the sun as they c
ircled overhead flapping frenzied wings.

  “I don’t like the sound of that second explosion,” said Dr Watson portentously, aiming a dispirited glance at his ex-army chum. It was midday and the Acting High Commissioner was looking red-faced and knock-kneed already. If left to him, the two murders would never get solved.

  He wondered if he should perform a post mortem just to rule out other poisons. Urine may have been used to mask the smell of something much more common. And the bodies needed to be stripped and examined properly for puncture marks or unusual wounds. They were all going by the theory proffered by Colonel Sebastian Moran that this was some sort of Pashtun ritual carried out by women. No one was questioning his judgment. Not even the Countess.

  The two men who died were both important figures in their own right, and yet there didn’t seem to be a direct link between them apart from the island of Philae. The situation as it stood was highly unsatisfactory. He resolved to raise the subject at lunch, or perhaps straight after the ladies left the table. Yes, he would spare the ladies any further distress.

  Fortunately, Miss Hypatia Lee had decided to stay in her cabin. She was still sobbing convulsively. He had looked in on her and recommended regular spoonfuls of sugary lemonade to keep her strength up since she refused all offers of food. Her lady’s maid was doing her best to follow his instructions.

  Mrs Lorna Baxter had also opted not to join them for lunch. She had put a lot of effort into the surprise birthday party and was aghast at the horrible turn of events. Everyone sympathized with her plight. They could all recount similar stories of similar scenarios where large amounts of emotional energy had been poured into a certain event or outcome and when the result was the opposite of what was expected it left one totally drained.

  On top of that, was the sudden death of her wealthy employer, Mr Lee. Clearly, she didn’t know to what to make of it or even what arrangements to make about the body. And for a well-organised woman, that can be more difficult to deal with than for a woman who just lets come-what-may. Colonel Hayter was no help. She had tried to ascertain what procedures to put into place but he seemed not only unhelpful but useless.

  However, the second explosion brought her out of her cabin. She joined them at the luncheon table looking more pale than normal, with dark circles under her eyes, though still impeccably groomed, with her stunning red hair perfectly up-pinned.

  Dr Watson refused to think badly of the American widow. He put the dark circles under her eyes down to khol that was hard to wash off and not a night spent pleasuring an evil mastermind in an Egyptian temple. If there was anything of that sort going on, the good doctor was sure it had more to do with coercion than freewill.

  “I heard two explosions,” she said as she slipped into the vacant seat between Herr Graf and Gideon Longshanks and accepted a glass of Pimms from the latter. “Did the blasts come from the construction site or the army camp?”

  “They came from the construction site,” supplied Gideon matter-of-factly, pouring a Pimms for himself to cover up the fact he was feeling edgy and thinking that sabotage might be the new name of the game.

  He wanted to pay another visit to the dam site as soon as possible to check what those explosions resulted from and if any deaths had followed. Plus he wanted to make sure Jim had organized for the crocodiles to be removed from the Kiosk sooner rather than later. He needed to impress upon him the importance of the expediency of the task. Hopefully, everyone would take a nap this afternoon to make up for lack of sleep last night and he could hail a passing felucca to take him across to the mainland.

  He also wanted to inform the three engineers that Mallisham and Lee were dead. They might even be able to shed some light on the matter. They knew Mallisham quite well because he opposed the work they were doing.

  Moreover, he wanted to find out if they were aware Sharif was a descendent of Ibn-the-Mad. Questioning the foreman about the missing explosives might prove helpful too in establishing a motive for those crocodiles. That was a cold-blooded act that could not be left to go unsolved. Someone wanted them off the island. Was that because it was a sacred site? If someone considered the island sacred, did they also consider the dam a sacrilege?

  The Countess could tell Dr Watson had something on his mind. He kept fidgeting with his napkin, running his fingers along the creases, slapping it on the table as if he were finished with the meal and then slipping it back onto his lap.

  When the three ladies departed for the peace and quiet of their cabins, and Herr Graf and Colonel Hayter shuffled off to the nearest deck chairs, she lingered at table with the man she had come to know better than anyone and the man for whom she felt a warm stirring not only in the fork of her body but in her heart.

  Jack had made her heart dance and sing. Jim made her heart skip a beat. But Major Inigo Nash made her heart stand still and swell.

  That’s why - or so she told herself - she had not yet solved this espionage case. She had allowed romantic fantasy to get in the way of her work. There was something she was overlooking. Perhaps that’s why women made such hopeless detectives. They let their emotions get in the way of their logic. Take the other night. She should have been aware that following the crocodile incident it was important to stay alert, to watch proceedings keenly, and to keep abreast of all possible eventualities. That’s what Sherlock would have done. Instead, she allowed herself to be led by the hand like a small helpless child away from the action and into the darkness.

  And look at the result.

  Two murders.

  Right under her very nose.

  And no closer to finding the foreign agent responsible for undermining the British war effort either. Her prevarication was putting at risk the lives of brave men and prolonging the misery for everyone. She waited until the three of them were quite alone.

  “What are you thinking?” she put bluntly to her sleuthing counterpart.

  “Me?” he said, fidgeting with his napkin, always uncomfortable when put under the gun like that.

  “You have something on your mind,” she pressed.

  He scrunched his napkin into a tight ball. “Well, I’m thinking that I need to examine those two bodies. Here I am, a trained doctor. I have had experience with post mortems. Someone needs to perform a post mortem. We cannot just accept what Moran said about the Pashtun ritual. Urine could be covering up another poison.”

  Gideon began nodding. “I agree. But you cannot do it on your own. Questions will be asked as soon as you start undressing those dead bodies. There’s a British surgeon at the construction site and a proper hospital, albeit in a mud hut. He has all the instruments you will need. I have the authority to instruct him to perform post mortems and you can assist him. That way you are on hand but it looks as if he is doing the work on behalf of the British government.”

  The Countess began nodding too. “Let’s not tell him how the men supposedly died. Let him reach his own conclusions in his own good time. When can you arrange it?”

  “I’m going across in a felucca as soon as I can hail one. I thought the one that ferried Ali Pasha might make a come-back. I can take the two bodies with me.”

  “Leave the bodies here,” advised the Countess. “You go across and make all the arrangements and we can take the bodies in the Sekhmet tomorrow. That way it looks less desperate.”

  “Yes,” agreed the doctor. “And we don’t yet know what just happened when those explosions went off. If the surgeon is dealing with serious injuries the last thing he needs is a double post mortem and I will have to perform the task myself here after all.”

  “Speaking of explosions,” said Gideon. “I was thinking that what happened with the crocodiles might be related to what is happening at the dam. If someone wants us off the island, they might also want the dam to fail. They want the status quo to prevail. I need to speak to the three engineers to make sure they’re aware Ibn-the-Mad and Sharif share the same bloodline.”

  Dr Watson drained the dregs of wine at the bottom of
his glass which was now warm and unpalatable. It made him wince. “All hell will break loose with the local population when they see those dead crocodiles inside the Kiosk.”

  “I’ve asked Colonel Moriarty to take care of it. That’s another reason I need to go to the mainland. I want to ensure he understands that it’s a task that requires speed and discretion.”

  The Countess looked past Gideon’s broadly contoured shoulder. “There’s that felucca now. It’s coming this way. Dr Watson can hail it while you go and get your jacket and hat.”

  She followed him into his cabin. They hadn’t had a moment alone together since before the party. And she was painfully aware she had spent the night with Jim while he had been searching frantically for his gun, worried sick about his weapon and about her too. Her arms coiled themselves around his neck. And she gave him a quick kiss.

  “Is that a guilty conscience kiss?” he said, cinching her waist before she could think to step back from the embrace.

  “I don’t need an excuse to kiss you.”

  “And neither it seems does Jim when it comes to kissing you.”

  “He wasn’t aware how I felt about you.”

  “But you made it clear to him?”

  “The conversation didn’t go that way.”

  “I see – which way did it go?” He was still holding onto her waist, forcing her to look at him or drop her gaze.

  “It meandered all over the place.”

  “Like your hand?”

  He let go and watched her spring back like a female Jack-in-the-box “What?”

  “You heard.” Deftly, he scooped up his jacket and threw it over his shoulder, grabbed his Panama hat and glided smoothly past her to the door. “Before you give me a lecture about jealousy being unbecoming, let me just say, two-timing is worse.”