Shadows on the Nile (28 page)

As he leaned his elbows on the parapet overlooking the fragrant garden below, the darkness rose up to greet him like the breath of its ancient gods. He drew it deep into his lungs, aware of its power to play tricks on the mind. Instantly it swept into his head the image of Timothy Kenton, a trickle of blood seeping from one nostril onto the flagstones, his hand limp and unresponsive between Monty’s fingers.

‘Timothy!’ he had called out, his heart trampling on his ribs. ‘Can you hear me?’

The eyelids lay still as the gateway to a tomb.

‘We’ll take care of him,’ Scott had announced. ‘Let’s get him into his car. Go and deal with the rest.’

And Monty had dealt with it.

The memory gave him a jolt and he drew hard on the plump cigar, relished the aromatic smoke clogging the pathways to his brain. He’d made the wrong choice, but it wasn’t too late. Please God it wasn’t too late. He would have to tell Jessie. He knew that. He exhaled a thick trail of smoke into the darkness, as if it could spiral its way into the past. He’d have to tell her. Soon.

‘Hello, stranger. You deserted me.’

It was Jessie. He had meandered down into the black
shadows and paced restlessly between the shrubs and palm trees away from the lights of the palace. He had just seated himself on a stone bench carved in the shape of a scarab when she found him. She sat down beside him and her arm immediately encircled his waist, warm and secure. She leaned her shoulder against his.

‘Not enjoying it?’ she asked softly.

‘I just needed to clear my head. It’s been extremely interesting, in fact. How about you?’

‘Yes. I am entranced.’

‘How was the High Commissioner,’ he asked. ‘Sir Percy?’

He felt a small tremor skip through her and wondered why.

‘He was fine.’

‘But?’

‘But it seems new arrivals from abroad are often checked out by the police.’

‘Oh.’ He tilted back his head and gazed up through a web of palm leaves at a sky filled to the brim with stars. ‘Not good news.’

‘No. Tim’s travelling on a false passport. But at least we know
he got as far as Mena House.’

‘Yes, that’s something, I suppose. But where next?’

She followed his gaze upwards, rolling her cheekbone across the curve of his shoulder. The night sky arced over them in a layer of velvet. It seemed solid and touchable, just like Egypt’s history slowly delivering up its secrets to man’s probing fingers.

‘Why does the sky look so much bigger in Egypt?’ Jessie murmured.

He smiled in the darkness and felt her body relax against his. ‘Maybe because it’s older.’

She touched the back of his hand with the tips of her borrowed evening glove. They felt warm on his skin.

‘Thank you, Monty. For coming with me.’ She lifted her head and with one hand she gently turned his face to hers. In the deep shadows her eyes were masked from his view but he could see the outline of her cheekbones and the glint of her hair in the starlight. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘did you come?’

It was easier. Having this conversation in the dark.

‘I told you.’ He spoke slowly. Letting her think about the words. ‘I am responsible for the séance and it was the séance that was responsible for Tim’s disappearance, it seems to me. I’m trying to make amends.’

‘You think he’s dead, don’t you?’

No words came. They sat knees touching, looking at each other’s eyes in the scented darkness, unable to peel back the shadows to see the truth in them. Monty heard her breath, caught the sound of her swallow, and instead of answering her question he leaned forward and kissed her mouth. A firm decisive kiss. The taste of her lips was like none he’d ever known. It stopped all thought in his head. She tasted of sky and the fresh breeze off the Nile, of peaches and spiced wine, of unknown secrets that lingered on her soft lips. With a shock he realised she already tasted of Egypt.

He drew back.

She took a long breath and he could feel her thigh pressed against the length of his own.

‘Jessie,’ he murmured.

He took her hand and undid the pearl buttons of
her glove, peeling it back to expose her bare skin. Slowly he lowered his head and buried his lips in her palm. Instantly her other hand found his hair, trailed fingers through the short bristles of the back of it and down the muscles of his neck. He took her in his arms and she felt small and slight but she fitted perfectly against his chest as if handmade for it. Her response was strong and needy. Her hands cradled his face at first as he kissed her mouth, but then her thumbs dug into the skin of his temples. Her fingers twisted themselves into his hair, into his jacket, twined around his neck. She was fierce with her kisses. He caressed the long line of her back and when his lips found the soft slope of her throat and the delicate dip inside her collarbone, she uttered a low aching moan.

He breathed in the scent of her, found himself consumed by it as it scored deep channels through him. He could feel the frantic pounding at the base of his throat and it was with a huge effort that he pulled away from her. Gently he held her by her bare shoulders, the shawl discarded on the ground, her breath hot on his lips.

‘Jessie, we must go in.’

‘Must we?’

Even in the blackness he could see that her eyes were huge. She made a sighing sound and he felt his heart lurch, but he forced himself to his feet, retrieved her lace shawl from the dirt and held it open for her. She took a long breath, then stood in front of him, but instead of turning her back to him so he could wrap the shawl around her shoulders, she remained facing him and lifted her hand to smooth down his hair and straighten his tie, soft tender touches.

It was no good. To be so close. He could not prevent himself reaching for her once more, his arms curling around her waist and drawing her against him.

‘You smell of Egypt,’ he whispered into her hair.

‘What? Of donkeys and camels and bad drains? Thank you.’

They laughed and the tension flowed out of them with the laughter. He kissed her one last time and released his hold on her. After he had replaced the shawl around her, he took her
hand in his and together they walked back towards the lights. But now nothing looked the same.

Monty was fetching her a long cool drink of pomegranate juice.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ he’d said.

Her face was changed. A soft fullness drenched her mouth that had not been there before.

‘I’ll wait,’ she said as she stared at the mosaic floor and smiled.

After the cool of the garden, the air inside was slick with heat despite the huge brass ceiling-fans stirring the mix of tobacco smoke and perfume. As he strode back with the drinks he was accosted by an elegant Egyptian wearing an Eton tie, eager to discuss the recent riots of the Unemployed Workers’ hunger march in London. Monty brushed him off lightly, but by the time he reached the spot where he’d left Jessie, she had vanished. Where? He looked around, eyes quick, and he spotted her over by an indoor fountain with a bronze lion in the centre.

Her eyes were half closed and her head swayed gently to the music. She was watching golden carp gliding through the pool of water at the base of the fountain, mesmerised. He opened his mouth to call her name as he approached, but a plump man in a white dinner jacket and carrying a briar pipe in his hand hailed her first.

‘Miss Kenton, I do believe. What a surprise! What are you doing all the way out here in the Land of the Pharaohs?’

Monty saw Jessie turn.

‘Dr Scott!’ she exclaimed.

Monty was there in an instant. ‘Scott, good evening, I wasn’t aware that you were in Cairo.’

‘Dear boy, I come every year, don’t you know?’ He smiled with pleasure at Jessie. ‘Dicky lungs, I’m afraid. Touch of mustard gas in the war.’

Jessie looked delighted to see him. ‘What a coincidence to meet you here.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Monty said drily.

Dr Septon Scott winked roguishly at her, and
Monty’s stomach sank as he realised the man was flushed with drink. ‘If you’re not careful,’ Scott joked, ‘I’ll get the idea that you are following me, Miss Kenton. When did you arrive?’

‘Just today.’

‘There you are, then.’ He waved his pipe expansively. ‘I came a few days ago. That proves my point,’ he chuckled. ‘A wonderful country, Egypt is. You’ll love the pyramids. It’s like stepping back into history, eh, Monty?’

‘Indeed it is,’ Monty said coolly. ‘Do you know this Prince Abdul well?’

‘Oh, our paths have crossed every now and again. He gads about Europe often enough. And talking of paths crossing, Miss Kenton,’ he observed her amiably as he drew on his pipe, ‘any news of that brother of yours?’

She moved to stand beside Monty and shook her head mutely. Monty thought about hitting him. Knocking his pipe right down his throat. Instead he handed Jessie her glass of juice, aware of her fingers brushing his and the quick intimate glance she gave him, and said in a neutral tone, ‘Jessie, the High Commissioner’s wife mentioned that she would like a word with you.’

He saw the dismissal register. She didn’t blink. Just a brief tightening of her mouth before she nodded pleasantly enough.

‘Of course. I’ll go and find her.’

After she left, he didn’t move. For a heartbeat of time he watched her, then he rounded on Dr Scott.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Scott looked surprised. ‘I told you, Monty, I always come out for the dry air. Does my old lungs a power of good.’

‘Scott, we both know you go nowhere unless you can turn a profit.’

‘Ah, now, now, dear boy, no need to be—’

‘Timothy Kenton hasn’t turned up.’

‘So I gather. Bit of a mystery.’ He stared thoughtfully into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Can’t imagine why. We left the
fellow in good fettle.’

‘That’s what you told me in London. I am beginning to doubt it.’ Monty watched Septon Scott closely. ‘You took him back to London, you said, and he recovered fully from his “accident”, enough to drive himself off in his car. What then?’

A little of Scott’s good humour was wearing away. ‘There you’ve got me. Not heard from him since, exactly as I told his sister in London.’ He glanced around for a passing drink but none was in retrieving distance. ‘By the way, what on earth are you doing bringing the pretty young filly out here? Not a place for women right now, not with all the political disturbances going on. Damn foolish, if you ask me.’

‘I’m not asking you.’

A silence settled between them. Neither looked at the other. If Monty looked at this man too long, he would be tempted to put an abrupt end to the strained civility between them that passed for politeness.

‘Give me your word,’ Monty said with a grim expression, ‘that Timothy Kenton has not been in touch with you since.’

Scott removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘Suspicious bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Your word?’

Scott drew himself up to his full height, his already ruddy cheeks growing a shade darker. ‘You have my word.’

For what it’s worth
.

‘Thank you.’

Monty turned away, unwilling to remain any longer breathing this man’s smoke. He moved off to find Jessie.

‘Made a decision yet, have you, Monty?’ Scott called after him.

Monty looked back. ‘No.’

‘Well, I’m not waiting for ever. If you don’t sell me that land, I will have to foreclose on the loan.’

Wisely, Monty walked off without a word.

*

In the centre of the palace lay a courtyard. The word
‘courtyard’ was far too scant for the lavishly appointed arena crammed with entertainers of all kinds. Monty paused for a moment at the edge to watch. It was the sort of spectacle that made the boy in him cheer boisterously: fire-eaters and snake charmers, acrobats and whirling Tanoura men, all in a kaleidoscope of colours and noise that made Monty think of the circuses of his youth. Belly-dancers with bold eyes and scarlet skirts swirled their veils at him and rippled their stomachs as they swept past. He tossed one a coin and watched her spin on one foot in return at a speed that made his eyes water. The crowd was thickest across the far side of the arena where a man with black Nubian skin and black robes was giving a display of horsemanship on the back of a magnificent white Arab stallion.

Monty’s heart tightened at the sight of the horse and its proud white mane. He was drawn across the arena by a sharp need to touch the animal. His own horses were all gone, even his beloved Jezebel. He approached close enough to admire the animal’s fine lines and powerful hind quarters, joining in the rapturous applause for its beauty as it dipped its forelegs to allow its rider to sweep a gold coin from the ground with his sword. That was when the explosion came.

A dull thump. It vibrated his eardrums, punched his ribs. For a second, white lights sparked behind his eyelids. A bomb. God knows, he’d heard enough of the evil devices to recognise the sound at once. But the explosion was not in the courtyard. His pulse pounded, while around him people screamed, though none was hurt. He turned and ran.

Only one thought crashed through his mind: Jessie.

People were in a panic, uncertain in which direction to seek safety. No music playing now, just shouts and cries and a French woman having hysterics. He bellowed Jessie’s name as he elbowed a path through the crush of guests, but instantly he realised that the bomb must have exploded in the garden because all along that side the windows had blown in. Thank God for the wooden latticework. It had taken the worst of the blast, but still he saw traces
of blood on faces and a woman picking glass from her hair.

‘Jessie!’

He couldn’t see her. Frantically he searched. The garden? Had she gone back out there? Back on their scarab bench when the blast went off? Images of her golden hair streaked with blood shackled his brain.

‘Jessie! Jessie!’

And then he heard her voice.

‘Monty! Over here!’

He swung round in the direction of the sound. He saw her at once.

On the lion. She had scrambled up the fountain onto the back of the bronze lion to reach a vantage point from which to search for him.