Clara lay in bed listening to Bella singing the chorus from Fats Waller’s ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’ as she got ready for bed in the cabin next door. She had a lovely voice – and she was a good dancer, too! After dinner the passengers had taken to the dance floor and Bella had been quite the belle of the ball. Herr Werner (Rudy, as Bella now called him) was a slick mover, too, and the two of them danced to tune after tune until the early hours. Clara had done a few obligatory turns with first Larry Winter, who was an attentive and competent partner, then Professor Petit. But when the latter insisted on closer than necessary contact during a waltz (saying it was the way they did it in Paris) Clara had declared she was going to have an early night. It wasn’t just that she wanted to avoid the professor’s invasive pelvis and straying hands, but she wanted to avoid thoughts of Andrew too. She couldn’t help but think of the last time they had danced together, and her heart ached knowing how much she’d hurt him when she turned down his proposal at the riverside. As she bid good night to her fellow passengers, Bella said she’d accompany her. However, Clara had insisted she would go alone. Besides, she had some reading to do.
She climbed into bed with a glass of cognac and the cache of letters from Bob to Charlie. She’d told Charlie he could remove anything he thought too private, but skimming through the letters, it didn’t look as if much had been left out. She was touched that Charlie trusted her to read such intimacies. However, it was not her uncle’s affection for his lover that concerned her, but what she could learn about the experience of archaeologists in Egypt – and what she might expect to encounter when she arrived there.
The first letter was dated 1st September 1928, Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo, Egypt. She too would be staying at Shepheard’s, so she read the letter with expectation.
Dear Charlie,
I hope this letter finds you well, old sport. To be frank, I hope it finds you at all! Some of the fellows who’ve written home tell me their letters have been languishing in the Cairo post office due to a strike by the local workers. Not that I blame them. They’re paid half what they would get in England. But listening to the colonials in the bar here over sundowners, you’d swear they’d forgotten that we’d given Egypt back to the Egyptians in 1922, and it’s up to them to run their own affairs. But let me not wallow in politics. ‘Get on with it, Bob!’ I hear you say. And oh, I wish I could hear you say it here, right in my ear …
I do hope you will come here with me some day, Charlie, and indulge me as I indulge my little hobby. I understand you couldn’t spare the time this year after taking over the practice from your father. But perhaps you’ll make it for the next digging season – if I come again. We could do with a good doctor. I was in Amarna last month – as you know – and I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say you vicariously saved a chap’s life. He’d got an infected mosquito bite – yes, just like old Carnarvon! And he would have gone the same way, too, with the infection spreading to his blood, if I hadn’t given him that medicine you got from your friend Alex and insisted on packing for me. Well, you can tell the good Dr Fleming that his penicillin – is that what he called it? – really works!
So, with the Curse of the Pharaohs avoided, I accompanied this chap back to Cairo for more dedicated medical attention. I was tiring of the dig anyway, and I don’t think I shall be joining the same team again. That’s why I say ‘if’ I come again. I shan’t put it all in this letter, in case it is intercepted (‘Yes, yes,’ I hear you say, ‘you’re sounding paranoid again Bob!’) But that’s what happens when you work as a private investigator: you get a nose for these things. And I’ve begun to sniff out something corrupt. Something to do with flaunting the laws put in place by the Egyptian authorities to prevent the looting of their heritage.
I shan’t say more here. Walls – particularly at this hotel – most definitely have ears.
Yours, as ever, in intrigue,
And with unspoken but not unfelt affection,
Bob
Clara sat back and sipped her cognac. Good gracious! Did Bob have evidence of artefact looting and smuggling? Had he seen something? Might it have something to do with the jewels that were hidden in the sarcophagus? Or was that just a sinister coincidence? It was far too early to tell. She’d have to read more. She picked up the next letter.
4th September 1928
Shepheard’s Hotel
Cairo, Egypt
Dear Charlie,
I have been thinking of you these last few days. I expect you have been in your garden cutting hydrangea blooms for the house – your hydrangea is always glorious this time of year. Late summer into early autumn is quite different here from England. There are mango trees, date palms and sycamores everywhere. Very welcome they are for shade. And not enough of them when you get out into the desert! But along the Nile, and in the city limits, they line the streets. Further out on the outskirts, on the way to the pyramids, there are orange and lemon farms, but no fruit this time of year.
However, there is still plenty of colour! The bougainvillea and poinsettia are probably the most blousy flowers. The poinsettia can grow up to twenty feet – magnificent! And the bougainvillea, what it lacks in height it makes up for in spread. It’s planted in private gardens and hotel courtyards. White, orange and cerise blooms along every wall and balcony. In September the flowering slows. By the end of the month, it will lie like confetti on the ground.
Speaking of confetti, there’s a hotel down the road from here that caters for the more well-to-do locals and hosts weddings nearly every day. The whole wedding party processes up the street with drums and tambourines and dancing, and the women making this high-pitched cry. It’s called ululation. The Europeans here seem to find it tedious. There have been complaints made to the authorities that they should try to keep the noise down – to no avail! And I’m glad because I find it exhilarating. I expect you – knowing how you like your peace and quiet – might be taking something for a headache!
Which reminds me: our ‘patient’ is doing much better. I haven’t told you much about him, have I? His name is Reginald Yorke. And I literally stumbled on him one day at Amarna. I was having an evening walk, away from the main camp, when I heard someone moaning. I found this poor chap collapsed in a wadi. He was delirious. I called for help from one of the Qufti (that’s one of the local dig supervisors) and together we carried him to my tent. As I said, we didn’t have a doctor, but the Qufti and I both agreed that it looked like he had fever from an inflamed bite. He might have had malaria too.
I asked the other archaeologists about him and they said they had no idea who he was or where he had come from. It was only later that he was able to tell me his name. But before that, all we could tell was that he was European. A big, bearded chap. Possibly in his early forties. Couldn’t tell what nationality. Turns out he was a Scot – despite the name Yorke! He wasn’t working for anyone. He was just a lone adventurer, hoping to join our dig. He’d made his way to Egypt and foolishly paid a dragoman to bring him to Amarna – across land, not by river. Not surprisingly, the dragoman pulled him off his camel, robbed him, and left him to fend for himself. He’d been walking in the desert about four days before I tripped over him. We couldn’t look after him at the dig so it was agreed that me, the Qufti and his daughter (who was there to cook) would take the patient back to Cairo. We managed to secure a berth on a passing dahabeeyah – that’s one of those traditional Nile boats you’ll have seen in paintings, and a far more comfortable mode of transport than a camel!
I gave the patient some quinine then administered your friend Dr Fleming’s powder. It did wonders, and he was greatly improved by the time we got to the city. But we – that is the Qufti and I – still think we made the right decision to evacuate him. I must tell you about this Qufti. He’s a very interesting man. But it’s getting late, and I need to turn in, so I shall save that for a future letter.
I shall write again in a few days. Hopefully by then I should have an idea of whether I am going home, returning to the dig, or joining another. I have a meeting tomorrow with a scholar at the Egyptian Museum. An Egyptian chap who also works at the university. An acquaintance of Daphne Coleman’s, as a matter of fact.
But I’m yawning. So I shall retire to bed – alone – and hope to dream of … well, you know who.
Indiscreetly yours,
Bob
Clara was yawning too. And she was disappointed. While it was lovely to hear her uncle’s ‘voice’ again, and to have a glimpse into his feelings for Charlie, she had been hoping that Bob would expand on his cryptic comments at the end of the first letter about illegal activities. There was nothing in this second letter about it. Descriptions of the flora of Cairo, colourful native weddings and the story of how he saved a sick Scotsman were all well and good, but what corruption had he sniffed out? And what did he mean in the first letter about walls at the hotel having ears? She flicked through the sheaf of letters – hopefully she’d find out. But not now. It was after one in the morning and Bella had stopped singing and gone to bed. Clara wanted to get up early tomorrow to do some jiu-jitsu practice and have a swim before breakfast. So the letters would have to wait. She put them in her bedside drawer, drained the last of the cognac and turned out her light. It didn’t take her long to fall asleep.
Clara was on a camel. She could feel the beast swaying under her and started to feel a little seasick. She looked towards the boat that was sailing along the river beside her. On board she saw Uncle Bob. He smiled and waved then pointed to something beyond her. She turned to see a young Egyptian woman, stirring a pot hanging over a cooking fire. The young woman looked up and met Clara’s eyes. She stopped stirring and gestured for Clara to get down from the camel and follow her. Clara did so. The young woman walked away from the river towards a pyramid in the desert, silhouetted against a blazing sun. Clara followed until they reached a tunnel at the base of the pyramid. In the entrance to the tunnel, a black cat lay curled up as if asleep. It opened its green eyes and looked up at the young woman, meowed, then rubbed itself against her legs before padding down the tunnel under the pyramid. The young woman gestured for Clara to accompany her and together they followed the cat. The tunnel was steep, low-roofed and narrow. Clara had to bend over but didn’t quite have to crawl. Eventually they reached a small chamber that expanded upwards, and Clara could stand. The walls and ceiling of the chamber were carved with hieroglyphic markings. There was a door on the far side of the chamber with more hieroglyphs – including one of a cat and another of a woman with a palm shoot on her head. The real cat stood on its hind legs and pawed at a bolt, securing the door. The young woman tried the bolt, but it was stuck. She rattled it again, but it didn’t comply. The rattling got louder and louder until …
Clara slowly emerged from the dream. The pyramid was gone, the sun was replaced by the darkness of the cabin, and the young woman and cat were no more. But the swaying of the camel continued, like the gentle movement of the ocean liner at anchor, and so did the rattling of the door.
With alarm, Clara realised the door actually was rattling; someone was twisting the door handle of her cabin. She heard scratching and clicking … she’d heard that sound before: someone was trying to pick the lock. She slipped out of bed and crawled on the floor to the cabin’s safe. Her mind scrambled to remember the combination: in a few moments she had it. She opened the safe and retrieved her revolver. Just as she was getting to her feet, the cabin door clicked and opened … Clara stepped forward, the revolver (which she knew wasn’t loaded), pointed towards the intruder. She was just about to say: ‘Take one step further and I’ll shoot you’ – or something equally menacing – when her foot caught on the leg of a table. She fell, grabbed at whatever was in reach, and caused an almighty clatter.
‘Are you all right, Miss Vale?’ came Bella’s voice from next door.
And without saying a word, the intruder withdrew and closed the cabin door.
Clara leaped up, gun still in hand, and opened the door. She looked left and right down the corridor, just in time to see the back of a man, slipping around the corner into the stairwell. She considered giving chase but knew that with the head start he had she was unlikely to catch him.
‘What is it, Miss Vale?’ Bella was now behind her and had turned on the light in the cabin.
Clara turned around.
Bella gasped at the revolver in her hand. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Exactly what I’d like to know,’ said Clara, grimly. ‘We’ve had an intruder, Bella.’
‘Are you going after him?’ asked Bella, her face as white as her nightdress.
Clara shook her head. ‘Not tonight; he’s got too much of a head start. But I’ll get him, Bella. Mark my words, I’ll get him.’