The Khamsin Curse Page 2

  Professor Max Mallisham. He was overseeing an important project on the island of Philae. He looked about mid-forties, rugged and tanned. He was doing most of the talking with the other man doing most of the listening.

  Also an outdoorsy type, lean and wiry, the second man had sweat patches under his arms, a dusty shirt stuck to his back and a gun strapped to his waist. He was wearing a pith helmet and his arms were crossed in front of his chest as if he didn’t like what he was hearing. His cynical scowl was just short of total insolence.

  She turned back to the frieze and pointed at some lapis-lazuli ducks swimming among the water reeds. “Turn this way and pretend to be interested in the frieze.” She waited for him to turn around and was surprised to see his face was bloodless. “Are you all right? You’ve gone white.”

  He appeared momentarily unsteady on his feet. “It’s been a shock…To see him after all this time…I was hoping he was dead.”

  Exasperation reached fever pitch. “For pity’s sake who?”

  “Colonel Sebastian Moran.” His voice fairly croaked.

  She recognized the name of course and felt a chill despite the heat. So that was Professor Moriarty’s right-hand man, his henchman, and Sherlock’s sworn nemesis. “Is he the man talking to Professor Mallisham?”

  “Who’s Professor Mallisham?”

  “The suntanned chap wearing the wide-brimmed hat and dusty boots. He’s the world famous, British Egyptologist, and quite the ladies’ man. Don’t turn around,” she warned when he made a move to check. “Wait till we get to the reception desk. Let’s go across together now. Take my arm. It will help you steady.”

  2

  Pharaoh’s Palace

  Unafraid of most things, including colour, the Countess was radiant in an evening gown of chartreuse silk, lavishly embellished with black bugle beads across the bodice and along the hem which then flowed out to a curved train which shimmered in her elegant wake.

  Dr Watson, looking dapper in black dinner suit and white tie, was still reeling from the sight of Colonel Sebastian Moran in the flesh when he joined the Countess in her luxurious suite. She was pulling on some black silk evening gloves. Ah, the glamour of gloves – a lady’s ensemble was never complete without gloves.

  “Where are those photographs?” he said without preamble.

  “I’ve laid them out on the couvre-lit. Ali Pasha, the antiquities trader, is the man wearing the green fez. Professor Max Mallisham is the other one.”

  “I wonder what he was talking to Moran about.”

  “Whatever it was the colonel didn’t look too happy.”

  “Colonel Moran is a dangerous man – never lose sight of that fact,” he warned. “You might recall he tried to kill Sherlock with an air rifle. His presence puts a completely new light on this assignment. That was a huge oversight on Mycroft’s part, to omit a photograph of the colonel. I wonder if he did it deliberately, knowing how much it would rattle me.”

  The vehemence of his tone did not surprise her. “I realise the colonel vowed to avenge the death of Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls but that was almost a decade ago. Sherlock is still very much alive. The colonel must have put the incident behind him. Perhaps it’s time…”

  “Don’t lecture me about Moran,” he cut in brusquely. “I know exactly what you’re going to say. It’s time to put it behind me. Well, you have yet to learn what he’s like. Some people are born evil. I can’t believe I just said that. But there you go. Be warned.”

  She turned away from him and plucked a dazzling diamond necklace out of an old sock. “Be a darling and do the clasp up for me. Would you have refused this assignment if you’d known Colonel Moran would be here in Cairo?”

  He exhaled windily as he fiddled with the gold clasp and tried not to snag any wispy caracols feathering her slender neck. “Probably not, but it would have prepared me better. The shock of seeing Moran in the flesh, well, it was a shock, that’s all.”

  She surveyed herself in the oval mirror on the dressing table. “Do you think yellow diamonds clash with chartreuse?”

  “What?”

  “Should I go for green emeralds instead? Chartreuse is an impossible colour to match but I do like the way this new gown drapes.”

  “Yellow diamonds look fine. I think we should have Colonel Hayter arrest the blighter and be done with it.”

  She gave the yellow diamonds another critical appraisal. They always looked better on blondes with blue eyes – of which she was neither. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, absolutely! He’s a vicious scoundrel!”

  “I meant the yellow diamonds. If it were that simple Mycroft would have seen to it. He wouldn’t have asked us to look into this business. Even if Colonel Moran is involved with undermining the British war effort there must be others involved too. Arresting one man doesn’t stop the espionage. We need to expose the ringleader.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, and the yellow diamonds look fine, truly, though I’m probably not the best person to ask about colour combinations. Grey, black and brown are my remit.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I took the liberty of having three linen suits made up for you before we left Venice – taupe, puce and off-white. I bought you a Panama hat as well. It’s white. A Panama hat should always be white. No other colour looks quite the same. Xenia is pressing the linen suits as we speak.”

  “What on earth is puce?”

  “It’s a brownish-lilac colour.”

  “I am not wearing lilac!”

  “It’s more brownish than lilac and you need to bear in mind this is Egypt. The light is different. It is probably more like the colour of sand.”

  “Oh, very well. And what is taupe?”

  “A soft grey.”

  “Hmm, that sounds all right. At least I know what off-white looks like. I should probably thank you. I was intending to buy a Panama hat in the bazaar tomorrow. I apologise if I sounded brusque. Put it down to the shock of seeing Moran.”

  She nodded understandingly and turned her attention to the photograph of Max Mallisham. He was a ruggedly handsome man in his forties with the craggy features one would expect of an archaeologist who had spent years labouring in the desert under a baking hot sun. He made his mark early when he unearthed the tomb of a high priest in Memphis. He was only in his mid-twenties at the time and the coup meant he had no trouble financing future excavations, though his subsequent successes had been few and far between. She passed the photograph to her companion to divert his thoughts from Colonel Sebastian Moran.

  “Hmph,” he grunted, following her gaze. “I can’t fathom what the ladies see in this sunburnt specimen.”

  “All his digs are financed by women. Lady Catchpoole almost went through her entire fortune financing his unsuccessful dig in Edfu, and before her it was the Marchioness of Minterne-Magna. She ended up forfeiting the Minterne rubies when creditors insisted on her honouring the debts pertaining to his failed dig in Kom Ombo.”

  “And now in steps Miss Hypatia Lee, albeit with her father’s fortune. Let’s hope his pockets really are deep.” He shifted his focus to the three remaining photographs. “Willcocks, Baker and Aird – do you know which is which?”

  He was referring to the three British engineers charged with the construction of the Lower Aswan Dam which was being financed by Mr Ernest Cassel, a Jew reputed to be the wealthiest man in England. The construction was facing hostility because it was feared the rising water from the dam might flood the island of Philae where some particularly beautiful temples were situated. It pitted the three engineers against Professor Mallisham.

  The Countess pointed with her black-gloved hand. “This is William Willcocks, designer and engineer. John Aird, contractor and engineer. And Benjamin Baker, a third engineer.”

  “It would be marvellous to see the construction of the dam while we’re in Egypt.”

  “If Mycroft included the trio of engineers and Professor Mallisham among the faces to get to know then I’ve got a feeling your wish mi
ght come true.” She aimed one last critical glance at the mirror to check the yellow diamonds. “Let’s go down to dinner.”

  The Mena House dining room was a modern masterpiece of orientalist splendour. The ceiling was of beaten copper which reflected the tremulous candlelight in the most theatrical way imaginable. Gentlemen in smart dinner suits and ladies richly robed and jewelled glowed like living gods in a spectacular banqueting drama.

  The sheer brilliance of the scene made our two sleuths catch their breath as they paused in the doorway, waiting for the maître d’, who was currently busy on the far side of the room making sure all was right with America’s cattle king.

  Mr Jefferson Lee was being ushered to a large round table set in an alcove that resembled a Turkish harem but with the carved screens thrown open for a rare glimpse inside the nabob’s private world. In keeping with the harem theme, were the three women in his life: his beautiful blonde daughter, the mousy brunette and the mature attractive redhead.

  “Ah,” greeted the maître d’ genially as he hurried back to his post, “Countess Volodymyrovna and Dr Watson! Mr Jefferson Lee has just instructed me to request that you join his party for dinner.”

  Refusal was clearly not an option. The round table was surrounded by ten chairs, six of which were vacant. Besides, from their point of view it might even be considered a stroke of luck. If Mr Lee was financing the project headed by Max Mallisham, and Mallisham was on their list of people to keep an eye on, it was best to start the ball rolling in said direction.

  Introductions were conducted by the red-faced American. He naturally started with himself then moved on to the ladies in his party. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Hypatia Lee, my niece, Miss Daisy Clooney, and my personal secretary, Mrs Lorna Baxter.”

  The three women, seated ensemble with their backs to the dining room, were forced to crane slender necks over slender shoulders when the two newcomers stepped up to the table. They each smiled politely without speaking then turned back to take their cue from the nabob.

  “Please, take this seat to my right, Countess,” directed their host, “and Dr Watson, if you would take the chair to my left. Joining us for dinner this evening will be Mr Willcocks, Mr Aird and Mr Baker. You have probably read about the Aswan Dam?”

  Grateful to take his mind off Colonel Moran, Dr Watson warmed to the topic at once. “I believe it is the largest construction of its kind ever undertaken?”

  “Yes, yes, an absolute engineering marvel. I haven’t seen it yet but I am looking forward to taking in the measure of it when we move camp to the island of Philo.”

  “Philae,” corrected Miss Lee, smiling indulgently at her father before launching into her own pet topic. “It’s located at the first cataract of the Nile. We will be joining a project supervised by Professor Mallisham, the esteemed British Egyptologist. You may have heard of him. He unearthed the tomb of Hierax the high priest in Memphis in the year...”

  “Speak of the devil,” interrupted Mr Lee, sounding like a snorting bull about to charge. It was a wonder he didn’t paw the ground.

  Now, a rugged outdoors man dressed in formal attire is like a caveman in a dinner suit. The sight creates a primeval dichotomy in the female brain that is simultaneously alluring and provoking. The esteemed archaeologist acknowledged the ladies, ignored his host, barely glanced at Dr Watson then turned his attention to the Countess. The irresistible lustre of a fleur fetiche collier of nine yellow diamonds surrounded by a swathe of flawless white diamonds was probably the drawcard but, even without the jewels, the intelligence that shone out of her blue-grey eyes marked her out as a gem worth bagging.

  “Max Mallisham,” he announced with a husky timbre as he parked himself next door to the Countess much to the disappointment of Miss Lee who had already turned to her right as if expecting him to occupy the vacant chair.

  When he discovered the name of the lady with the dazzling yellow diamonds his eyes seemed to dilate in proportion to the stream of Slavic syllables. “Not the grand-daughter of Zoya Volodymyrovna?”

  “Step-daughter,” supplied the Countess with uncharacteristic modesty.

  “Your step-aunt financed some of the most notable digs of the nineteenth century. Are you also interested in archaeology?”

  “Hardly interested,” teased the Countess, sensing a man on the make and playing the part of the spoilt dilettante in need of an expensive diversion. “Passionate!”

  Everyone laughed, except Hypatia Lee. Miss Clooney suddenly sat upright and straightened her shoulders; while Mrs Baxter pretended to cough into her napkin to disguise a half-smile. Clearly, all was not harmonious in the cattle king’s harem, and now here was a prospective new concubine to add to the jealous mix.

  “You must join us in Philo,” snorted their host, refusing to be side-lined at his own dinner table. “We are travelling upstream three days hence. I have a paddle steamer moored at the wharf. I purchased her from a Swiss canton. She was plying the waters of Lake Constance. I had her shipped overland and then organized for an Italian crew to sail her to Cairo three months ago so that we could decamp in comfort. None of these beastly camel treks for me! What’s that proverb? When a slave gets on a camel he tries to sit on both humps! Well, good luck to him! The first time I got on a camel the ornery creature dumped me head first into the sand! I can ride a horse all day. I think I was born on a horse. Possibly conceived on one…”

  “Oh, daddy,” chastised Miss Lee.

  Mr Lee ignored his daughter’s blushes. “Jefferson Lee never does things by halves. The Lady Constance…”

  “Sekhmet,” corrected Miss Lee, recovering quickly.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right, Sekhmet. She’s having her haunches spruced up with a lick of paint as we speak. We shall re-brand her with a bottle of expensive bubbly before we board. There are twelve promenade cabins. Plenty of room for two more guests on the floating ranch. The more merrier I say! What do you say?”

  Dr Watson didn’t hesitate. “I think I speak for both myself and my travelling companion when I say we will be delighted to take you up on the invitation, Mr Lee. I am keen to see the Aswan Dam and my companion is keen to turn her hand to jigsaw puzzles in the form of broken shards of pottery.”

  The red-faced rancher grinned from ear to ear. Miss Lee managed a smile that reached no further than her tightly pursed lips.

  “It’s not really a dig,” pouted the daughter. “We aren’t excavating shards of pottery. Isn’t that right Professor Mallisham?”

  “Quite right, Miss Lee. Philae has some unspoilt temples with magnificent cartouches that have lost none of their vivid colour and some first rate hieroglyphs. It is worth noting the last hieroglyph to be carved in Egypt was done in Philae. We will be documenting everything should the Nile flood the island after the dam is completed. The whole project could cause enormous devastation to the island. It is a travesty…”

  “There you go again, Mallisham,” berated a voice from somewhere behind them.

  “Give it a rest,” advised another.

  “Put a sock in it,” gibed a third.

  It was the trio of British engineers. They introduced themselves to the two newcomers and made themselves comfortable. The conversation bounced from Camp Philae to Camp Aswan for the remainder of the evening. Dr Watson found himself gravitating toward the latter and the Countess toward the former. Beneath the polite hostility, which managed to sound outwardly jovial, ran an undercurrent of tension and rancour.

  Following dessert and coffee, the party dispersed. Most of the men shuffled off to the smoking room for cognac and cigars, Mrs Baxter retreated to her bedroom for an early night. Miss Lee and her mousy cousin, Miss Clooney, found a table in the piano bar where they sipped American cocktails prior to a visit to the in-house casino. Professor Mallisham stepped onto the terrace and seemed to vanish into thin air.

  The Mena House sat in an oasis of palm trees which beckoned several guests to take an after-dinner stroll in the moonlight. Dr Watson and
Countess Volodymyrovna were among them as one lit up a calabash pipe and the other a cigarette and they followed the gravel path through the perfumed garden.

  “I should have consulted you,” began Dr Watson hesitantly, “but I’m afraid I got carried away with the prospect of seeing the Aswan Dam. Are you happy with the idea of travelling with the Lee party to Philae? If not I can make our apologies…”

  “I’m thrilled, mon ami. I caught a glimpse of the Sekhmet moored on the east bank when we docked earlier this evening. She’s not like those clunky, top heavy, paddle steamers you see plying the Mississippi. She is sleek and elegant. Besides, we need to check out what Mallisham is actually doing in Philae, if only to eliminate him from our investigation. The floating ranch will have us in Philae in next to no time and wrap us in the height of luxury as we go.”

  He felt reassured. “What about Miss Hypatia Lee? I sensed some antipathy.”

  “Oh, phooey! She regards me as a rival for the attention of the esteemed Egyptologist. He is only interested in my diamonds. He could hardly take his eyes off them all night. Yellow was the right choice after all. I will string him along because he may be involved in the business we’re looking into. Once she realizes I am not interested in the professor she will relax her dislike and we will be great friends. I suspect she harbours a secret fear I might set my sights on her father too. His relationship to the three women in his life is interesting. I kept picturing a nabob and a harem, not that I am suggesting anything sordid or incestuous, but I have no intention of becoming his next concubine.”

  Dr Watson laughed with relief. “I pictured the same thing! Miss Clooney hardly spoke at all; she seemed over-awed, possibly even frightened of the nabob. Mrs Baxter only replied when directly addressed and each time she checked to make sure her remarks were not displeasing to the master. Miss Hypatia Lee is a feisty young lady but even she seemed mindful of her father’s displeasure. I wonder if he has a foul temper.”