Read Herring on the Nile Online
Authors: L. C. Tyler
Herring on the Nile (27 page)
‘Yes, we wondered about this missing passenger too. We checked up on him. It turned out to be somebody called Raffles – no one of any importance or significance as far as this is
concerned.’
‘What happened to Raffles exactly?’
‘He was stopped at the airport.’
‘The Egyptians thought he was too unsavoury a character to allow him in?’
‘No. They thought he had swine flu. He’s still in quarantine at a hospital in Cairo. Hopefully he’ll be able to join the
Khedive
for its trip next week. Apparently he
knows Mr Proctor. He’s been trying to get through to his mobile all week, but it doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said.
‘That would explain it,’ said Masterman.
‘So,’ I said, ‘in the absence of anyone better, Purbright recruited me to help.’
‘Yes, that was a silly mistake,’ said Masterman. ‘He’d confused you with some other writer.’
‘Paul Fielder,’ I said.
‘That’s the one. He’s really good. Have you read him at all?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You should. Exciting, accurate stuff. He’s always in the best-seller lists . . . I suppose you also sell a few books though?’
‘Now and then. I’m apparently going to be quite big in Latvia.’
‘Yes,’ said Masterman. ‘So your agent tells me. Well done, you. Anyway, our conclusion, and that of the Egyptian police, is that Purbright was shot by Mahmoud. The gun, by the
way, had been stolen from a shooting club in Cairo. And the two of them could have been responsible for that incident with the rock at Edfu. It’s just possible. Even though they claimed to
have been back at the boat, it would have been easy for one or both of them to get to the temple by one of the horse-drawn carriages and back again before the rest of you. Purbright had been
standing with you shortly before the rock fell. Whichever of them went up onto the roof wouldn’t have realized Purbright had moved on and that Proctor had taken his place. But my own view is
that the rock was simply displaced accidentally by somebody who went up there ignoring the safety signs. That’s what my Egyptian colleagues think too, and that’s likely to be the
official version.’
It all made sense. Everything that Masterman had described – the rock at Edfu being an accident, the silencer causing the confusion about the timing of the shot – could have applied
if the killer was Tom’s female suspect. But in the end, Masterman had made a convincing case for it being the two terrorists, who had the motive that was missing from Tom’s version of
events.
‘Since Purbright, Mahmoud and Majid are all dead,’ said Masterman, ‘we’ll never know for sure exactly what happened – but that’s it more or less. Trust
me.’
‘So all the loose ends are in place then?’
‘Pretty much. One rather sad task remains – to tell Purbright’s wife.’
‘Doesn’t she know yet?’
‘It was difficult to track her down. They’d been separated for a very long time, but apparently she’s still technically his next of kin. We’ve finally got a mobile number
for her. Jones is going to contact her once we have put you all on the coach back to the airport.’
We hadn’t seen much of Jones – very much the junior partner in the operation, and now clearly given the least desirable of tasks. I didn’t envy him that one.
‘Good morning, Mr Masterman.’
‘Good morning, Miss Watson,’ said Masterman, switching his attention to the new arrival. ‘All of your little bits and pieces packed?’
‘I travel light,’ said Miss Watson. She was again wearing the dust-coloured dress I had seen her in on the first day. She had also resumed the floppy hat. She had acquired a suntan
and some more silver bangles, but otherwise she looked pretty much as she had done when she arrived. It was clear that Masterman regarded her as being of little importance, and he was about to
leave when something occurred to him.
‘A mutual acquaintance sends his good wishes,’ said Masterman to Miss Watson. ‘Colonel Ahmed Mohammed in Cairo.’
‘Ah, yes, dear Ahmed. I saw him when I was passing through a week ago. He is an old, old friend. You know him well?’
‘We’ve been working with him on the case. He was concerned that you had come on this boat in spite of his advice – he knew Purbright was planning to join the boat, of course,
but wouldn’t have been able to tell you that. He wanted me to check that you were safe. I’ll tell him you are.’
‘You may add that the trip was very satisfactory,’ she said.
‘Satisfactory? A strange way of describing it, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Masterman.
‘Is it? I have had a most pleasant and informative trip. I have visited a number of very interesting places and met some very special people. It would be ungrateful to suggest that my
visit to his lovely country had been less than satisfactory. You may tell him that I hope to return very soon. I’m looking forward to seeing him.’
Masterman grunted dismissively. Duty had been done, and he was now anxious to be on his way. He made a brief pretence of looking at his watch then said: ‘Excellent. If you’ll both
excuse me, I’ll go and find out whether your coach has arrived.’
The coach ride to Luxor airport was short and the check-in surprisingly quick and efficient. We were through immigration, and our X-rayed baggage was probably already heading
happily across the tarmac towards the plane, when the inevitable announcement was made that we would be delayed for an hour. Our group dispersed around the departure lounge, in search of
last-minute souvenirs or, in the case of one literary agent, the possibility of exotic chocolate. Just as we had coalesced over the first hours and days of the trip, the group was now rapidly
decaying. The glue that had held us together for a week was drying and cracking, unperceived but relentlessly, in the arid heat of the departure lounge. One by one we broke away and became a
handful of passengers who just happened to be heading in a similar direction.
I had already weighed up all of the known advantages of purchasing a fluffy toy camel or some bright piece of pharaoh-related jewellery; nor was there anything in the small selection of books
that appealed to me, though I noticed two of Paul Fielder’s spy stories. Both had, I observed with pleasure, been much thumbed and then returned unbought to their shelves. I also noted smugly
that a markedly inferior statuette of the ibis-headed god Thoth was ten times the price that I had paid for mine in Aswan. Thoth, currently nestling amongst the socks in my suitcase, would look
well in my sitting room, once I had cleared a space for him on the mantelpiece.
Halfway through my second circuit of the terminal floor, I opted out and located the only spare table in the cafe, where I sat drinking a farewell
karkadé
. Jane Watson must have
had much the same idea and appeared shortly afterwards, clutching a small cup of sweet Egyptian coffee but no other purchases, looking round for a vacant seat. Though we had spent so much time
together on the
Khedive
, the change in location seemed to demand a formal enquiry from her as to whether she could join me. I could think of no reason why not. After a few minutes her mobile
rang.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Mrs Purbright? Yes, speaking – though I haven’t used that name for many years. My husband? Dead? Dear me, what a shame for him. But you say he
died in the line of duty? That will be a great comfort to somebody, I’m sure. It has of course been many years since we were together. And his earthly remains . . . eaten by crocodiles, you
think? I hadn’t realized you still got them below the Aswan dams, but if you say so. At least nobody will have the annoyance of transporting him back home for burial. Thank you so much for
telling me. I’ve always tried, over the years, to keep up with what he was doing, so it’s good to have one last update . . . yes, you too, Mr Jones. And I really do appreciate your
condolences so much. Have a nice day now.’ She snapped the phone shut and put it away. Around us the buzz of conversation continued. Only I had overheard the call.
Then I suddenly realized what Tom had noticed over dinner. Jane Watson had concurred that the murder weapon had an automatic firing-pin safety – which was odd if she’d never seen it
or handled it before.
I looked at her and she smiled back at me unconcerned. The case was, after all, now officially closed. Colonel Ahmed might know the whole story, but it was unlikely he would be telling it to
anyone. There was nothing I could do, and she knew it.
‘Just out of interest,’ I asked, ‘what was your event in the Olympics?’
‘Pistol,’ she replied. ‘I was pretty good. I almost won a medal once.’
Postscript
Q: What’s the worst possible way to end a detective novel?
A: Too many explanations. Stuff about what the characters all did afterwards or how minor characters fitted in. A crime novel should end with the revelation of the murderer. You
don’t need to explain every last detail. Let people go back and reread bits if they can’t work it out. You don’t want the book to tail off.
Q: Our readers are always interested to hear how authors work. Describe the room you are writing in at the moment.
A: I am back in my flat in Sussex after a research visit to Egypt. Outside, the village square is covered in snow. It’s early morning. Nothing is stirring in the winter
darkness. From a window I can see, a little way down Horsham Road, the lights of a Christmas tree shining on the pristine white blanket. In front of me is my computer and a pot of coffee.
I’ve just started writing a new book. It’s surprising how little you need to be happy.
Q: A recent press release from your agent says that your ambition is to marry a pole dancer. Is that right?
A: I think that may have been irony. I’ll check
Fowler’s Modern English Usage
.
Q: What’s the most exciting thing to have happened to you recently?
A: When I went to Egypt I was kidnapped by terrorists. I don’t think it made any of the newspapers here, in spite of our having a journalist with us.
Q: Recently published interviews with you have apparently resulted in death threats from the Mayors of Sunderland and Dunstable and from the Margery Allingham Society.
We understand Dan Brown’s next book is to feature a pathetic failed writer named Ethelbert Trossider, who is brutally murdered in the first chapter. Are you planning to be more cautious
about what you say in future?
A: Yes. And that’s the truth.
Acknowledgements
This book took shape during a trip on the Nile (where else?) and I would like to thank the captain, crew and passengers of the
Misr
for making my research so enjoyable.
Nobody, I’m pleased to say, was murdered on that voyage, nor were we ever marooned even for a moment on a sandbank, but I have borrowed one or two minor features of the journey.
My debt to Agatha Christie is perhaps too obvious to mention. Those familiar with her work may enjoy spotting the parallels with and references (sometimes deliberately obscure) to
Death on
the Nile
.
Two characters in the book bear the names of real people. One was a fellow passenger on the
Misr
with whom we shared many pleasant meals and temple visits. The other very generously bid
in a charity auction to ‘name a character’ in what was then no more than half of a first draft of a novel. Neither of the fictional characters purports to be a totally accurate portrait
of the genuine owners of those names.
I must thank everyone at Pan Macmillan for their help. In particular, I am grateful to my editor Will Atkins and copy-editor Mary Chamberlain – whose suggestions and corrections were, as
ever, wise, knowledgeable and always tactful – and to my publicist Philippa McEwan.
My thanks too to the other writers who are, or were originally, published under the Macmillan New Writing imprint for mutual support in good times and bad.
Finally, I would like to thank my family, both two-legged (Ann, Tom and Catrin) and four-legged (Thistle), for putting up with having a writer amongst them.
Also by L. C. Tyler
The Herring Seller’s Apprentice
Ten Little Herrings
The Herring in the Library
A Very Persistent Illusion
First published 2011 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2011 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-230-76098-1 EPUB
Copyright © L.C. Tyler, 2011
The right of L.C Tyler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
