Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) (4 page)

Chapter Four

The crowed train slowly came to a stop. Despite his bulk, a kindly gentleman, who had befriended Lucy and me somewhere between Cairo and Luxor, leapt up and called for a porter to assist us with our baggage.

   Nearly hoarse from talking nonstop about Egypt’s king and queen and their marital problems, he called out a final farewell to us and then sauntered off the train. His departure was a bit of a relief, as several times he had made mention of having tea with him and his wife once we arrived in Luxor. While he had been congenial company, I was certainly eager to make our way to the hotel and get to the start of our business in Egypt.    

   With the help of the porter, we made our way off the train and onto the platform. I was quite excited when I saw a tall native in exotic dress holding a sign with my name.

   Lucy had seen the
dragoman
as well. “There he is!”

   I became perplexed when a dapper young man standing behind the native fellow closed his watch and dropped it back into the pocket of his vest and then took the sign.

   Just nearing the two, the tall one mumbled something in his native tongue and then went about his business.

  The blond-headed man holding the sign clapped eyes on us and said, “I say, is that you, Mrs. Stayton? And you must be Ms. Wallace—welcome to Luxor.”

   Lucy and I looked to each other with wide eyes before I asked the chipper fellow, “Who are you?”

   “Linus Warner.” He took my hand to give it a delicate shake and then pointed at his flaxen hair. “But my friends call me Sandy.”

   Linus Warner, or rather Sandy as it was, did not fit the bill of a
dragoman
. He spoke with a very upper crust English accent and was dressed to the nines, albeit in ivory and khaki rather than typical dark colors. He cut a rather dashing figure, and seemed most charming.

   “I hadn’t realized that you were English,” I told him as he pointed to the porter and mumbled something in Arabic to the lad. 

   “I’m not sure that I still am. I’ve been here since the war, and I absolutely love the place. I have forgotten what a grey sky looks like, and snow—well, that sounds like some sort of fiction to awe children.

   “There are plenty of us old Brits here, anyway. Half of Luxor shuffles off for tea come four o’clock—I suppose that’s when the natives get their business done, while we all eat cucumber sandwiches in the hotel lobbies.” He chuckled at his conclusion.     

   Lucy and I were following him while he spoke, and before I knew it we were standing beside a very large black sedan. A dark-skinned fellow in livery dress opened the backdoor with a quick bow.

   “Climb on aboard; how in the world a giant American automobile made its way to Luxor, I don’t know, but the thing is as roomy as the Pyramids.” Sandy spoke again to the porter, and our luggage was taken to the rear of the car. The chipper fellow gave a chuckle and then corrected himself, “Truth be told, the Pyramids aren’t roomy at all, narrow shafts, little pockets here in there, dreadful really, but everyone wants to climb around in them—at least once that is.”

   While there was plenty of room in the back of the large automobile, Sandy showed his good manners by sitting in the front seat next to the chauffeur. While I, a widow, played the part of Lucy’s chaperon, it was simply better form for the dapper fellow not to become overly familiar with us.

   “So, Mrs. Stayton, you are from America. I suspect you are accustomed to these big cars,” Sandy said, his head turned so that he could converse with us.

   “Why yes; in fact, my father has a motorcar much like this,” I responded.

   “You don’t say; a driver too?” Sandy asked, showing his skill at making small talk.

  “Oh yes. I can’t imagine my father attempting to drive his way about. He’s a brilliant doctor, but he always seems preoccupied.”

   Wanting to add to the conversation, Lucy said, “Her father may not drive, but she has become quite the driver herself.”

   “You don’t say. Is that a fact?” Sandy waved about and said, “I haven’t driven in years. I never know which lane is for normal cars, giant Packards, or donkeys.” He ended his comment with a little chuckle.

   The narrow road, choked with gritty sand in the air, was densely populated. Stall after stall lined the avenue, if you could call it that. Foods of all sort were sold from carts of various condition and upkeep. A throng of people waded just inches away from the moving sedan, inspecting melons, dried fruit, and strange objects I knew not what.

   In addition to the many natives, I was surprised by the amount of non-locals who strolled about the street; Luxor seemed a great melting pot of peoples.

   Sandy asked, in his pleasant-natured way, “Now, I am a bit confused. Mr. Farber said that you two would be arriving at the airport, two days ago. Then I received a message that you had caught a ship from France and were headed to Alexandria, with intent of traveling by train to Luxor.”

   Lucy and I exchanged quick glances, and she spoke only after I shrugged. “Yes, well, we had a change of heart.”

   Sandy gave a chuckle and said, “I don’t care for biplanes; crazy contraptions. A big ship, that’s the way to travel. Did you have a pleasant crossing?”

   Again, Lucy and I exchanged quick, nervous glances. She responded, “We had the finest accommodations offered on the particular ship. The trip was uneventful.”

   “Which ship were you on?”

   This question caused Lucy and me to look away from each other before she replied, “The
S.S. Amiemois.
”

   Sandy gave a harrumph and said, “Never heard of her.”

   I was not surprised by his lack of familiarity with the vessel, as it was a cargo ship. Lucy and I had shared a very tight cabin that only the two best of friends could have managed in. The ship was quite small, and the rough seas had not been kind to poor Lucy’s disposition. In short, I doubted that we would ever speak of the experiences, unless pressed to recall the dreadful passage.

   Sparing Lucy the effort of a pleasant reply, I responded to Sandy’s comment. “You would prefer one of the flying contraptions over this particular ship.”

   Sandy gave a friendly chuckle and let the subject rest. “Righto. Well, I suppose I should start earning my keep, ah?” He pointed to the west. “Across the Nile there, see the hills?”

   I nodded my chin. What he called hills looked like mountains to me.

  “Those are the Theban Hills, and there is where you will find The Valley of the Kings. Beyond that is the dessert, and no man’s land. Of course, you find some little monasteries and bands of nomads, but that’s nothing the tourists care to see.”

   The handsome man gave a flourish of his hand to the east. “And here is Luxor. Back in the days of the pharaohs, the city was called Thebes. Temples, palaces, this was the place to be.”

   Lucy remarked, “I thought Cairo had been the capital.”

   “What’s that? Oh, yes, well, Memphis was the old-old capital. That all changed in the Eighteenth Dynasty. Invaders took over Egypt, but with the help of the priests in Thebes, these foreigner usurpers were driven off.”

   Lucy smiled and replied, “How interesting.”      

   Approaching the Nile, we arrived at a large hotel situated on the edge of the East Bank of the famous river. Constructed some twenty years ago, the place was quite grand. Faced with white limestone, the building was dazzling in the late afternoon sun. The bulk of the hotel ran parallel to the river, and at the center was a horseshoe-shaped double staircase that led from the street level to the second floor. This effect reminded one of a French palace. At each end of the main building were short wings, housing many rooms.

   Sandy pointed at the hotel and said, “The Winter Castle, Luxor’s modern marvel.”

   The motorcar came to a stop, and a porter opened the sedan’s door. I was surprised that the young man was not a native. He gave me a little bow and said, “Bonjour.”

   The French greeting was quite simple, but always fearful of butchering the language, I replied, “Good afternoon.”

   Sandy gave a chuckle and said, “Righto, the Winter Castle staff all speak English; seems they want to put us
dragomen
out of business!”

   Lucy and I ascended the stairs, and I was surprised by how mild the temperature was. So many people in London spoke of winter travel to Egypt to enjoy the warmth. I dare say on my first afternoon in Luxor, the temperature was no more than sixty degrees; of course, compared to the grey winter days in England, I suppose that was warm.

   Entering the hotel lobby, I was taken aback by how decidedly European the décor was. A guest would scarcely realize he was in Egypt by the look of the place. I had hoped not for opulence, but rather exoticness.

   Lucy looked about the grand staircase and bright white walls, which were crowded with wainscoting, and remarked, “How lovely.”

   “Yes, isn’t it?” I replied agreeably.

   Sandy was standing at the reception desk, explaining who we were, and a well-dressed fellow gave us a wave before ducking around the counter and racing toward us; he too was not an Egyptian.

  “Mrs. Stayton, it is our pleasure to have you and your friend as our guest at the Winter Castle. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant.”

  Sandy clarified that this Englishman was the hotel’s general manager; he then politely gave the fawning fellow the brush-off and said, “I suppose you two need a bit of rest…”

    “Actually, Sandy, I am eager to meet the expedition team,” I told him.

   He took his watch from his vest and looked at the time. “Righto; I say, you two ladies will want to change your attire and then meet me here at half past four. I’ll introduce you to the gang—sounds good, yes.”

   Lucy and I looked down to our kaftans, which had caused many an odd glance, and I replied, “Yes, we will do just that.”

   Before our departure from England, Lucy and I had thumbed through a great many issues of
The Science and Archeology Chronicle Quarterly
in search of photographs
that might show us what female adventurers wore.

   With the help of our seamstress and a cobbler, Lucy and I devised a number of seemingly suitable outfits. Riding boots were made to fit us, but the soles were given more grip to allow us better footing for exploring tombs. We had several wool skirts of modest length made, with pleats that hid higher than normal slits, which would give us the ability to climb on and off camels with greater ease. We had a collection of practical, loose-fitting blouses to be worn under our special-made vests. As we had seen in pictures, our vests had a great many pockets, which I suppose would be handy if we found artifacts or clues. I even had a pocket for a little pearl-handled gun that Mr. Jack had forced upon me, although the object was really too heavy for the vest.

  Lastly, Mother Stayton had helped to create a bonnet for Lucy. One quarter helmet, one quarter a sun blocker, the rest was pure fashion, as the scarf that kept it in place was leopard print and three shortened peacock feathers jetted from the left side.

   I had no need of a bonnet. All kitted out, standing in front of the mirror, I looked at my reflection with some amount of pride. Xavier’s pith helmet rested upon my head just perfectly.

   My dear Lucy clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “You look perfect!”

   Ever so pleased with ourselves, we left our room and headed down the grand staircase.    

   Catching sight of Sandy in the lobby, I noticed his eyes widen and his smile waver. Upon the last step of the stairs, I asked him, “What do you think?” with a flourish of my hands. I supposed that he saw few women who were properly attired for the West Bank.

   “Don’t you look … the part!” he said with a chuckle.

  Lucy and I gave a little bow, and then Sandy gestured not to the nearby exit, but toward a sitting room that was set for teatime.

   I was just about to tell him that we would dine after we returned from the Valley of Kings when I noticed an ensemble of people keenly watching us.

   Confusion clouded the polite smiles of the men who stood, one of whom crossed the space to take my hand.

  Sandy spoke rapidly. “Professor Kinkaid, may I introduce you to Mrs. Xavier Stayton.”

  Speaking with a lyrical English accent, the man replied, “How very nice to meet you at last.” I knew this statement was quite untrue.

  Alec Kinkaid was not quite fifty years old, but despite his salt-and-pepper hair and suntanned skin, he retained some element of youth about him. He kept a short beard, and close-cropped hair. Wearing tan trousers, white-and-brown wingtip shoes and an ivory jacket, he looked much more like a professional golfer than an Egyptologist.

   After a moment of supreme embarrassment, I replied, “Likewise.”

   Kinkaid gestured to a woman sitting on the opposite side of the settee he had risen from, “My wife, Martha.”