The delta fanned out with fingers of blue and green, seeping into sand until sand was all there was. Every so often they would cross a finger of river again, with green agricultural land on either bank, but in between was the desert and the mysteries it held. The flight from Alexandria to Cairo, the last leg of their journey, was just over an hour through a cloudless sky. Clara spent most of it following the tributaries of water, and then ribbons of road, winding their way past squares and circles in the sand. Some of the shapes were towns and villages, but some, Larry told her, were the remains of ancient settlements or archaeological digs. At one point Clara was convinced she’d seen a camel train, a tiny black line moving along a desert road. She wished she had binoculars with her. But then, there came a point where binoculars weren’t needed. And instead of circles and squares, three pyramids appeared on the horizon, rising out of the desert on one side, and a lush flood plain on the other. Clara gasped. ‘Are those … are those … the real pyramids?’
Larry laughed. ‘The genuine articles, Miss Vale, and look, see that beast lying in wait?’
‘The Sphinx!’ Clara was utterly speechless. She had seen pictures in books, she had watched films at the cinema, she had read about them in Uncle Bob’s letters, but seeing them in real life, from thousands of feet up in the air, was beyond anything she had ever imagined. She felt a warm glow of immense satisfaction. This, surely, was something she’d remember for the rest of her life.
She craned her neck as they flew over the site then, as she looked forward again, was struck by a vast city sprawling in every direction with a wide river running through it. ‘Cairo?’
‘And Giza,’ said Larry. ‘The pyramids are in Giza. That’s on the west bank of the Nile. Cairo’s on the other side. Twin cities. We’ll be landing north-east of Cairo in Heliopolis. Oh, in about seven minutes’ time. So prepare yourself for the descent. Your ears might pop like they did before.’
Clara could cope with a bit of ear popping and was relieved to hear they would soon be on the ground. The journey had taken them two days longer than expected, as there was an aviation fuel shortage in Malta and they had to wait for it to be delivered, and then some inclement weather that Larry didn’t think it was wise to fly through. Clara had enjoyed the rest, and the tour of the island, but was worried that the head start she thought she was going to get on Jack Danskin was ebbing away. The cruise ship was due on Sunday morning, so, counting from tomorrow morning, she only had three days grace, instead of five. There was no time to waste.
Clara closed her eyes, gripped the edge of the seat, and focused on staying calm.
Cairo. In spite of an appreciable westernisation that has taken place over generations in this metropolis of the Nile, Cairo remains to most of us, even at this day, the embodiment of Oriental romance, the essential ganglion of Islam. Here, as you drive from the railway station to your hotel in the European quarter of the city, you are at first impressed by the resemblance to certain Southern European cities. But it is, after all, a superficial resemblance. The architecture, the shops, and the hurrying stream of motor traffic, are of the Occident; and over all this vibrates the peculiar, ineradicable rhythm of the East. There is a famous terrace in Cairo, in the Sharia Kamil, where in the cool evenings it is customary – indeed, almost a social obligation – to sit watching the varied life of Cairo as it streams and eddies by …
Clara looked up from reading her Cook’s Traveller’s Handbook to Egypt and the Sudan to perform that very social obligation. She was not on the terrace of the Sharia Kamil (and had no idea where that was; she ought to check the map) but on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel, the very hotel where her uncle had stayed eighteen months earlier. It was likely from this terrace that he had viewed the wedding procession he had described to Charlie. There was no wedding this evening, but Clara imagined him watching the stream of traffic passing on the road beside the Nile Corniche promenade below. There was the tall man in a white robe with a small boy walking beside him leading a donkey with a large crate of oranges strapped to its back. And the cart overflowing with watermelons that nearly collided with a motor vehicle. A loud argument ensued between the respective drivers before a khaki-clad policeman, wearing a red fez, moved them on. Beyond the palm-tree-lined road was the Nile itself, with triangular-sailed feluccas drifting by. Directly below Clara was an enclosed courtyard where servants from the hotel beat oriental rugs draped over the walls, and a black cat stretched out in the last of the evening sun.
Clara stretched her legs out, too, grateful to be out of the cramped confines of Larry’s aeroplane. Larry had arranged a taxi from the airport to the hotel through wild rush hour traffic. If there were any rules of the road in Egypt, no one seemed to follow them. Clara’s heart was in her mouth as pedestrians strolled across busy thoroughfares, putting their trust in the grace of God and the braking skills of motorists. Donkeys, horses and camels were as numerous as cars, while raggedy children and emaciated dogs dashed through any gaps that were left. Little boys jumped on bumpers to catch a ride and jumped off without waiting for the vehicle to stop. Clara spent so much time with her eyes closed that she missed most of the landmarks Larry pointed out en route, in a blur of mosques, minarets, citadels and tombs. And the chillingly named City of the Dead.
Eventually they reached central Cairo with its European-inspired architecture, and pulled up outside Shepheard’s Hotel, overlooking the Nile. It was just a block away from the British Residency to the south, a few blocks to the Egyptian Museum in the north, and just a mere gunshot away from military barracks just up the road. Larry tipped the driver, dispatched a horde of beturbaned dragomen (offering everything from trips to the pyramids to special prices on oriental perfume for the lady) and saw Clara and her luggage into reception. But then he withdrew, with a flourish of his hat, and a charming bow, saying he had some urgent business to attend to. Clara thanked him sincerely for all his help, but she was grateful he was going. She didn’t want him hovering. She didn’t want him – or anyone else – to think they were a couple.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow that she was travelling alone, not even with a maid, but when she told him her assistant would be joining her in a few days’ time, he nodded in approval. ‘That will be safer for you, madam. It is best not for a lady to travel in Cairo alone.’
‘But I need to travel. I cannot wait until my assistant arrives. Is there a guide I can hire?’
The receptionist pursed his lips. ‘I can recommend a dragoman, yes. But it might be best if you join another tour group.’
Clara let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I am not here on a tour. I am not here on holiday. I am here on business.’
The eyebrow arched again. ‘As you wish, madam.’ He snapped his fingers and called over a porter who showed her to her room. It was a beautiful, spacious suite, with white linen and green potted palms and a balcony overlooking the Nile. There was also an en-suite bathroom with a sunken tub, which Clara soaked in for over an hour, topping up the hot water at least three times.
And now here she was on the hotel’s main terrace sipping a Bee’s Knees, dressed and ready for dinner. She had decided to wear her cocktail dress – the one in navy-blue jersey silk with a hip sash that cascaded down the front and back. As it was sleeveless, and the evening was cooling down, she also wore a cream silk shawl that matched her brocade shoes. Looking around at the other guests – a mix of archaeologists, tourists, diplomats and soldiers, all smartly dressed but not extravagantly so – she was affirmed in her decision. The full-length green gown would be a little over the top. Perhaps if she were to go to a formal ball, yes, but just for an ordinary evening she felt comfortable in the blue.
The dinner gong boomed and she made her way to the restaurant with the other guests who were cascading down stairs and streaming in from terraces, gardens and bars. She stood waiting to be seated. Once again, she was asked if she would be joining anyone. Once again, she said, ‘No’. She could not see Larry Winter and everyone else seemed set in their groups. She would be quite happy to sit on her own, and told the maître d’ so. But then, suddenly, she was hailed by another woman, of around forty, sitting alone at a table. ‘Come join me!’
The woman looked familiar.
‘That is Mrs Christie,’ said the maître d’.
Clara’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘The Mrs Christie? Mrs Agatha Christie?’
‘Indeed, it is she,’ said the maître d’. ‘Will you be joining her, madam?’
Clara smiled. ‘I would be delighted to!’
A few moments later and Clara was seated with the blonde woman and introductions were made. Mrs Christie’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘They do make a fuss, don’t they, when a woman is travelling alone.’
‘Oh, they certainly do!’ exclaimed Clara. ‘I assume you are, too?’
‘You assume correctly,’ Mrs Christie smiled. ‘I travelled all the way, on my own, on the Orient Express. A woman is perfectly capable of doing so. And I am now travelling on to Mesopotamia. I shall be leaving in the morning.’
‘Goodness me! What an adventure,’ said Clara, trying to place Mesopotamia on a mental map. ‘Have you been before?’
Mrs Christie nodded. ‘I have. This will be my second visit. I went first in ’28. I have friends there, archaeologists. You may have heard of them: Leonard and Katharine Woolley?’
The names were indeed familiar. ‘Actually, I have,’ said Clara, ‘and at the risk of sounding pretentious, I have just viewed some of their collection at the British Museum!’
‘Ha!’ said Mrs Christie. ‘I helped dig some of that lot up! How’s that for sounding pretentious?’
The two women laughed, warming to one another.
After the waiter took their orders, Mrs Christie leaned forward. ‘So, what are you doing here, Miss Vale? What adventure are you embarked upon?’
Clara thought for a moment and was tempted to confide in the writer of detective fiction that she herself was a private detective, investigating a real-life case, but she thought better of it. She did not know Agatha Christie beyond what she’d read in the papers, and didn’t know if she could be trusted with such confidences. I might, thought Clara wryly, end up in one of the famous author’s novels. What might it be called? Murder on the Nile? The Case of the Egyptian Mummy? Or perhaps The Pyramid Murders. Clara smiled, No, best I don’t tell her the whole truth.
Eventually she said: ‘I am here to see where my late uncle, Bob Wallace, spent so many enjoyable months. He passed away recently and donated his Egyptian collection to the Hancock Museum in Newcastle.’
Sadness washed over Mrs Christie’s face. ‘Bob Wallace has died? Oh, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard. I met him briefly a couple of years ago. Please accept my condolences, Miss Vale.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clara, sincerely, ‘he’s sorely missed. And yes, he mentioned he’d met you in letters home. He seemed quite star struck by you.’
Mrs Christie smiled, gently. ‘He seemed a lovely man.’
‘He was,’ said Clara, quietly.
For the rest of the meal Clara and Agatha – as she asked to be called – spoke about Bob and his collection. Clara decided not to mention that her uncle had been murdered, and instead, when all things Bob had been exhausted, she spoke about the fictional murders in Agatha’s books. Which ones she’d read, which ones she hadn’t, and which ones she was looking forward to reading. ‘I believe, Miss Marple – from your short stories – is making her novel debut later this year,’ said Clara, enthusiastically.
Agatha’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes, it’s currently with my editor. The Murder at the Vicarage, it will be called. I can’t tell you, Miss Vale, how refreshing it is to write about a lady detective. I hope my readers will love her as much as I do.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ said Clara, and raised her glass. ‘To Miss Marple.’
‘To Miss Marple,’ said Agatha, chinking hers. ‘And to Bob Wallace.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Clara, ‘to Bob Wallace too.’