The Khamsin Curse (34 page)

An hour later, Countess V was
still sitting in the same chair under the striped canopy. Her third
cup of tea was now tepid, untouched, and the uneaten, dainty,
ribbon sandwiches had shrivelled up and morphed into dried-up
corpse-like fingers. Her listless gaze was vaguely aware that Mrs
Baxter was foraging for scorpions on the mainland. A group of eager
young boys were darting between the rocks, leaping and pouncing
like lion cubs at play. Every now and then their excited,
high-pitched voices drifted toward her.

Triangular white sails crossed
her line of vision at regular intervals but she was unaware of them
until a felucca came to moor at a nearby jetty and disgorge two
passengers. She recognized the wiry frame of Colonel Moran and the
Enfield rifle that seemed perennially attached to his right hand.
She recognized the imposing physicality of the second man as he
took a flying leap onto a flat boulder like mythical Ra or Apollo
leaping to earth from a moving chariot, sure-footed, golden-haired,
a powerhouse of vitality and certainty - a darling of the gods.

Jim did not disembark from the
felucca and a queer tug in her belly reminded her how much she
cared for the reckless Irishman. She fought back a frisson of fear
and hoped this would not be the last time she would ever see him
alive.

Just as a woman could love more
than one child, she could love more than one man. Love was
infinite. She loved Dr Watson too. She loved the three men in her
life in different ways. She would never be able to choose one over
the other to the exclusion of any of them. That’s why she had no
intention of rushing into marriage. Marriage would change
everything. Being a wealthy young widow was the best of all
possible worlds.

Colonel Sebastian Moran
remained on the jetty. He bent down to tie up a bootlace as he
watched the felucca sail slowly upstream. Gideon spotted her on the
aft deck and began striding across the sand toward the Sekhmet. He
had almost reached the gangway when a gunshot rang out and his body
crumpled.

21

Someone screamed.

The Countess leapt to her feet
and began running. It wasn’t until she was stumbling down the
gangway that she realized the scream had emanated from her own
throat.

The shrill sound shook Dr
Watson out of his nap. He burst out of his cabin and was flying
past Colonel Hayter’s room when the door flew open and his ex-army
chum almost crashed into him.

“What happened? I heard a
gunshot!”

“This way!” cried the doctor
without stopping. He recognized the voice and knew at once the
Countess was in trouble. She was not given to hysterics. There was
no way she would scream if the situation did not warrant it. He
spotted Moran on the jetty, kneeling on one knee, rifle trained and
ready to fire – typical sniper’s position. He aimed his Webley but
the distance was too great. He fired anyway.

Moran fired off a shot too but
not in the direction of the Sekhmet. He aimed inland at a group of
boulders. Someone fell but the doctor couldn’t see who it was as he
hurtled down the gangway, Hayter hot on his heels.

“Moran must be the saboteur!”
deduced the doctor in the blink of an eye. “See if you can get
closer and take him down!” He indicated a stand of doum palms. “Go
that way! I’ll see to Major Nash.”

Bugger this secretive espionage
business! His brain was in turmoil. A handful of servants had
gathered at the lower deck but he no longer cared who heard him - a
man’s life hung in the balance.

Distress was etched into every
line of her stricken face and the doctor realized in that moment
how much she cared for Major Nash. She was on her knees, poised
over the limp form of the handsome baronet. Blood was gurgling from
a head wound. It trickled through a web of elegant lace fingers
before sinking into the sand. Head wounds always looked worse than
they were he told himself as he bent over the prostrate body and
felt for a pulse in the carotid artery. It was weak but the major
was still breathing.

“Staunch the wound,” he
instructed. “Use your petticoat.”

She did as she was told for
once. “It wasn’t Moran. Call Hayter back. If he takes a pot-shot at
Moran, Moran will shoot him. He won’t miss. Call him back. Before
it’s too late!”

Her judgment had always proved
unerring but he doubted she was thinking straight. “If not Moran,
then who?”

She cradled the bleeding head
in her hands and pressed a thick wad of broderie anglaise against
the wound as she looked back over her shoulder. “Someone standing
near the rocks. I think it was Lorna Baxter.”

Lorna Baxter! Now he knew she
was mistaken. He gave his concentration over to the head wound and
felt a wave of relief wash over him. “It’s not a bullet wound. He
must have hit his head as he fell. There’s a rock here with some
blood on it. A cushion of sand thankfully lessened the impact.”

She drew breath for the first
time since that gunshot shattered the lazy afternoon, and looked at
the half-hidden rock poking out of the sand. “Moran wouldn’t have
missed.”

Dr Watson realized she was
right. Desperately, he pushed to his feet and started running.
“Stop! Stop!” he called out to Hayter. “Hold fire!”

Too late!

Hayter fired his Smith &
Wesson.

In an instant Moran re-trained
his rifle and fired back. A bullet clipped the Acting High
Commissioner and he went down hard with a groan. The gun flew from
his hand and skittered across the sand.

Dr Watson was still running,
still shouting. “Hold fire! Hold fire!” He didn’t know whether to
tend to his ex-army chum or keep running toward the second most
dangerous man in England. Adrenaline was pumping. His legs seemed
to take on a life of their own. Moran could have taken him out with
one bullet. He could have taken them all out for that matter! But
for some reason he didn’t pull the trigger.

A brief, garbled exchange took
place before the two men sprinted toward the boulders where they
found the dead body of Lorna Baxter. She had been shot through the
heart. Near the body was the green Morocco jewel case lying empty.
Cradled in her pale hand was a Webley. Gingerly, Dr Watson
retrieved it, noting it had recently been fired.

“This belongs to Major Nash,”
he blurted, forgetting himself completely; the sight of the lovely
American widow crawling with scorpions was not something that
concentrated the mind.

A quirk of Irish brows
registered the faux pas. Colonel Moran knew instantly that Major
Nash and Gideon Longshanks were one and the same. His instincts
were as honed as ever. Age had not dulled them. Except where women
were concerned – no fool like an old fool. He winced inwardly and
knew in that moment that the attractive widow had been feigning
affection in order to set him up in some way, though he couldn’t
figure out why. He knew she didn’t murder Lee or Mallisham because
she had not left his side during the night. There was something
else going on besides murder and he was curious as to what it was.
He handed his rifle to the doctor, used his dusty boot to flick
scorpions off the body then with a bitter sigh he scooped up the
ragdoll frame with bony arms.

As he carted Lorna Baxter back
to the Sekhmet, a felucca came into view. It was Jim and his two
cadres, lured back by the sound of gunfire.

Colonel Hayter limped slowly
back to the ship, while Duffy and Brian searched for his lost
weapon. They found it about five yards from where the colonel fell.
Major Nash had regained consciousness. Jim helped him to his cabin.
Hardly any words were exchanged. Everyone was in a state of mild
shock. In all of this kerfuffle, neither Hypatia nor Daisy nor
Ursula made an appearance. No one noticed their absence except the
Countess.

A pink sunset heralded the
arrival of Ali Pasha, Dr Bell and the trio of engineers as they
gathered on the aft deck for pre-prandial drinks, along with a
patched up Major Nash and Colonel Hayter, who had suffered a minor
flesh wound to his thigh.

Jim was urged to stay for
dinner. With the major and the colonel injured it might be wise to
have back-up in the form of three Irish Guards. Azrafel had not yet
been arrested. And the night of the crocodiles was still fresh in
everyone’s memory.

Jim accepted the invitation. He
still wasn’t sure what had happened. There had been five gunshots.
There was a chance Moran would be blamed for the murders of Lee and
Mallisham as well as Mrs Baxter. He could tell by the look in the
Countess’s eye that she was gearing up to give one of her speeches.
He likened that look to foreplay and wondered if she actually
climaxed at the end. He’d heard some women could orgasm just by
thinking.

Hypatia Lee emerged reluctantly
from her cabin after being paid a courteous visit by the Countess,
who reassured her that it was quite safe to do so. Mrs Baxter was
dead, and Daisy and Ursula would not be joining them, said the
Countess, promising to explain all prior to dinner, noting the torn
burqa draped over the back of a chair.

Hypatia followed the Countess’s
gaze. “My maid found the burqa in the laundry room. It was torn. I
don’t know why you’re interested in my burqa, but there it is.”

Drinks were liberally dispensed
as the twelve dinner guests settled comfortably into rattan
armchairs and a natural hush fell over the group in anticipation of
having everything explained to them. The Countess took a refreshing
sip of Pimms to clear her throat.

“We have been dealing with four
separate things – crocodiles, sabotage, murder and espionage,” she
said. “I will deal with one at a time. First, there is the incident
with the crocodiles.” She glanced at the three engineers and Dr
Bell and knew at once that they had heard the rumours; no lengthy
explanations were necessary. “It could not have been staged by
anyone who attended the party in the hypaethral temple because the
chance of succumbing to a fatality was not only probable but
certain. It was only the sharp-shooting of Colonel Moran and
Colonel Moriarty that spared our lives. It had to be organized by
someone who was aware in advance that a party would take place,
someone who wanted to create maximum fear and who had no qualm
about killing off a dozen foreigners, including a wealthy American,
a representative of Mr Cassel, a high ranking British official and
a number of young women, in other words, someone daring and utterly
ruthless. The incident went above and beyond preserving the
sacredness of the holy island. If the crocodiles had succeeded in
killing everyone off, then by its extraordinary gruesomeness the
incident would have shut down operations in Aswan for months. It
can thus be linked to the sabotage of the dam. This leads us to one
man…”

“Sharif!” supplied Ali Pasha.
“The descendant of Ibn-the-Mad!”

“Not Sharif,” said the Countess
firmly. “He is finally doing what his brilliant ancestor was unable
to do – build the dam. As Major Nash pointed out - he is highly
respected by the workforce. I doubt he could pull the wool over
hundreds of eyes. Moreover, we recently discovered that the
sabotage of the dam is connected to Azrafel because he used
scorpions to murder the two sappers who set the explosives, most
likely at his bidding. Colonel Moriarty and his men can arrest
Azrafel before we sit down to dinner. I suspect he feels quite safe
at present because Mrs Baxter is now dead. The scorpions belonged
to her and it neatly implicates her in the men’s deaths. He is
probably concocting a story to further implicate her as we
speak.”

Major Nash began shaking his
head – the woman had tried to kill him with his own gun. “Are you
saying Lorna Baxter is innocent?”

Dr Watson was loath to think
badly of the attractive widow but facts were facts. She had the
major’s missing weapon in her possession. He had pried it from her
dead hand. “She stole the Webley on the night of the party.”

“I’ll get to Lorna Baxter
shortly. One thing at a time,” she reminded. “Although we have
dealt with two so far – the crocodiles and the sabotage of the dam
– both tied to Azrafel. Let me outline my theory of who committed
the murders of Mr Lee and Professor Mallisham. For those not
familiar with the modus operandi, I will explain.” She took another
sip of Pimms.

Hypatia had not yet been
informed as to how her father and lover had met their deaths, her
curiosity was piqued and she sat up straighter than usual.

“Mr Lee and Professor Mallisham
were murdered in a bizarre manner that mirrored an ancient Pashtun
ritual. It was practiced by women on men. The two men were tied
down, their mouths propped open with sticks; urine was poured down
their throats until drowning occurred. Death would have been
agonizing and humiliating.” She heard some gasps - the loudest from
Hypatia - and continued in a carefully modulated tone.

“This was not a spontaneous act
but something planned in advance. Ties were required to secure the
men. Black strips of fabric torn from burqas were used for this
purpose. Interestingly, burqas are symbolic of female oppression.
They might make good dust covers but they effectively reduce the
woman inside to a walking corpse. The sticks had to be the right
size to prop open the mouth without allowing the victim to swallow
too much too quickly, and yet be firm enough to withstand snapping
or being dislodged by the tongue.”

Hypatia began to sob quietly.
She dabbed her eyes and refused all entreaties to retire to her
cabin, steeling herself for what was to come – the name of the
killer or killers.

“The two men had to be lured to
the death chambers adjoining the Inner Courtyard. This was no easy
feat considering the party had broken up in disarray and everyone
set off in different directions. I think the incident with the
crocodiles and the arrival of the Khamsin almost put paid to the
double murder but our two murderers were determined to succeed come
what may. The night of the party was important for another reason.
It was the night of Hypatia’s birthday. It was her special night
and the murderers wanted to ruin it.”