The Serpent and the Scorpion (6 page)

“So what do you suggest? I insinuate that Miss Marlow and I are somehow involved?”

Ursula’s eyes narrowed, and she straightened up.

“Well,” Ambrose Whittaker replied slowly, “given her reputation in London, it would hardly come as a surprise.”

 
That night, Ursula slept fitfully despite taking some of the sleeping draught left out for her. At first she had been angry and then, by turns, humiliated and depressed. The brief respite she had enjoyed before Katya’s death was now well and truly broken. She felt weighed down again by the pressures of London, the necessity of conforming to society’s expectations, and her failure to be able to do so. The strain of trying to make her own way as an independent businesswoman while remaining true to her socialist and suffragette principles had already taken its toll. Now she felt an additional humiliation—that a man such as Ambrose Whittaker had no compunction about impugning her reputation galled her. Though she believed Hugh Carmichael would never countenance Ambrose Whittaker’s suggestion, she was angry that she could be exposed to the possibility of such a scandal. Why could she not be a man, able to make her way in the world on her own terms, without the threat of censure merely because of her own determination and passion?

Ursula tossed and turned in bed until mental exhaustion finally forced sleep upon her. She dreamed she was lying beside a river, gazing up at the sky. Two men came and lifted her into their arms. One was Alexei, a lover she had not seen in years. The other man’s face was shrouded in shadow. Alexei whispered in her ear that it was time she returned. Ursula struggled against his grip, but as she looked below, as she saw the deep, dark depths of the river, she gave in and let the undertow take her from his arms. She felt the icy water seep into her skin as she drifted along. She saw her father’s body float past, saw a man rise from the riverbank in a halo of fire. Slowly she started to emerge from the water. She struggled to the shore, her limbs heavy and her dress sodden. The man from the shadows was standing in the distance. She cried out to him, but he turned and walked away. The river was forgotten. The sense of water was forgotten. The sun bore down. The sand burned beneath her toes. She was left parched and alone.

Ursula’s eyelashes quivered. The morning sun was streaming in through the lattice shutters of her room, and her mouth felt dry and dusty. Her eyes opened. She was awake, with the taste of sand, like the bitter taste of death, still on her tongue.

Five

Ursula stood with her back to the sun and, using the winding key, prepared the film on her Kodak Brownie camera to take the next shot. She held the camera firmly against her body, looked down into the viewfinder, and scanned the landscape. The mounds of limestone, rocks, and sand slowly began to take shape in the wash of light. In the distance lay the pyramids of Abusir and Giza on the horizon. To the southeast the step pyramid of Sakkara rose from the sandy plain, and beyond that the palm trees bordering the green valley of the Nile. Ursula steadied the camera, adjusted the shutter, and then held her breath for a moment as she pushed down the lever to take the photograph. Satisfied, she looked up and wound the film on once more, ready for the next exposure.

“Miss Marlow!” the unmistakably plummy English voice of Ambrose Whittaker called out from a distance. Ursula ignored him and pretended to fiddle with the camera instead.

“I say, I didn’t know you were interested in photography!”

Ursula sighed and knelt down to place the camera in her khaki knapsack.

“Out alone again?” This time his voice was insidious. Whittaker had walked up and was now standing right behind her. Ursula stood up quickly.

“Julia is unfortunately feeling unwell. I advised her to remain in her room for the day to recover,” Ursula replied, without turning around.

“I had no idea Julia’s stomach was so obliging.”

Ursula turned and looked at him shrewdly. In that one comment, the mask of cheerful bonhomie dropped, and she caught a glimpse of the real Ambrose Whittaker.

“I’m taking some photographs for an article I’m writing.
Lady’s Realm
wants a story about my perceptions of Egypt, and I thought I might include some photographs. Perhaps I’ll juxtapose the pyramids with the street urchins in the back streets of Cairo and entitle it ‘The Path of Progress’?”

Ambrose Whittaker flushed at her remark, sensitive to any criticism of the British presence in Egypt. Ursula was about to continue when she spied, rising over the nearest sand dune, the dreadful yet all too familiar sight of an English tourist party on the loose. Each perched on a donkey, wielding a commanding stick, and shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, the tourists stared at her with unified amazement.

“Let me introduce you to my guests,” Ambrose Whittaker said with a sly smile. “I’m showing them the sights personally.”

“Miss Marlow!” An exclamation came from one of the ladies in the tourist party as she edged her donkey forward from the rear of the group. Ursula stifled a groan. The lady was Mrs. Millicent Lawrence, a Scottish vicar’s wife whom Ursula had met at a salon in Alexandria. Despite their common political agenda to achieve votes for women, Ursula had found Millicent’s sense of colonial superiority over the Egyptian women unbearable. She was also dismayed by Millicent’s dogmatic crusade against all forms of what she called “moral corruption.” Accompanying Mrs. Lawrence were two women, one bespectacled and thin, the other stout with flaming red hair. They were both dressed, inappropriately given the fine weather, in black serge wool skirts. Millicent Lawrence had spoken of two Methodist missionaries who were accompanying her home after two years in the Sudan. Ursula could only assume that the two women on donkeys were these. They both stared at her with faint disapproval as they were introduced in turn, and Ursula suspected that Mrs. Lawrence had already told them of her “unsavory” past.

“Mrs. Lawrence, what a pleasant surprise,” Ursula replied with a deadpan expression. “When did you arrive in Cairo?”

“Only yesterday, but I managed to convince Whittaker here to take me on a tour of Giza and Sakkara today. Tomorrow he’s promised to join our little party on a tour of the Church of the Virgin. Coptic churches are fascinating, don’t you think?!”

“Indeed,” Ursula responded blandly, trying to think of some means of extricating herself from Whittaker and his party. She had already told the dragoman who had brought her to Sakkara to leave, and she hadn’t spied Hugh Carmichael, whom she was expecting to meet, as yet.

The distinctive whirr of an airplane engine overhead caused everyone to look up. Silhouetted against the sky was Hugh’s Blériot monoplane, circling as it descended to land. Despite the presence of Whittaker and his companions, Ursula felt a surge of adrenaline as she saw the airplane dip across the sky.

“An exciting but rather dangerous pastime, don’t you think?” Ambrose Whittaker commented. “You heard, of course, about Mr. Carmichael’s copilot.”

“Yes, I did.” Ursula’s eyes narrowed as she regarded Whittaker closely. “Hugh told me. An accident in Palestine. Tragic. I believe the other plane was totally destroyed.”

“Luckily Mr. Carmichael’s still rich enough to own not one but two of the world’s finest airplanes.”

“I guess so.”

Hugh had brought both airplanes to Egypt in preparation for a series of test flights across the Libyan Desert. His plan, he told Ursula, was to enter next year’s air race from Egypt to England. “Assuming,” he had noted dryly, “that both I and my business are still living.” Carmichael Shipyards in Newcastle had been plagued by recent industrial problems, and Ursula had heard rumors that Hugh’s earlier, riskier forays into petroleum were faltering. The loss of his copilot had hit him hard, and Ursula had even heard him speak of abandoning flying altogether.

“Ever thought about going up in one?” Whittaker asked.

“Yes,” Ursula replied candidly. She thought the idea of flying quite exciting.

“Really, Miss Marlow, that would hardly be seemly!” Mrs. Lawrence interjected, perspiration trickling down her ruddy face.

The donkeys, bored by the wait, shuffled in the sand. Miss Violet Norton and Miss Emerence Stanley, the Methodist missionaries, exchanged glances but remained mute.

Ursula turned west toward the Djoser complex. “Well, that’s where I’m headed, so I’d better be off,” she started to say, but Whittaker, immune as always to the snub, beamed. “Excellent, just where we were headed! Come along, Milly, mustn’t dawdle, we have a great deal to accomplish today.”

“Right-oh, Whittaker. Lead on!”

Ursula was forced to trudge through the sand beside the donkeys conveying Whittaker and Mrs. Lawrence. The missionary ladies followed in silence.

Shards of pottery dotted the sand, tiny remnants of ancient Egypt that only hinted at the riches that lay beneath in tombs and shafts. There was such feverish anticipation associated with every archaeological dig that Ursula couldn’t help but feel the lure of the past with every footfall. She only wished she could stay in Egypt longer, unhurried by business concerns, and learn more about the digs that seemed to set up daily among the ancient ruins. Instead, as they reached the entrance wall to the complex, Ursula focused once more on the questions surrounding Katya’s death and turned to Whittaker.

“Have you seen Mr. Vilensky?” she queried. She hadn’t seen him since the days that followed Katya’s death.

“I met with him yesterday about donating some of his private collection to the museum. I believe he is in the process of finalizing his plans to return to London,” Whittaker responded.

“I thought he may have gone back to Palestine,” Ursula ventured.

Whittaker cast her a sideways glance. “He was lucky we could even make the arrangements for Mrs. Vilensky in time. If he wasn’t such an important fellow, I doubt we could have managed it. It’s their custom, you know, to arrange the burial within twenty-four hours. We had to get a dispensation from a local rabbi to delay the matter by just a few days to transport the body. I had to really pull strings to arrange it all.”

“I’m sure Mr. Vilensky is exceedingly grateful,” Ursula replied evenly. “I must confess, though, I was surprised by the speed with which everything happened. I thought the Egyptian authorities or local coroner would have wanted to wait to examine the body further.”

Whittaker coughed. “Oh, that wouldn’t have been the done thing at all—besides, it was clear what happened. No need to upset Vilensky further. Although I must say the chap from Scotland Yard was most put out when I told him on the telephone that the body was long gone.”

Ursula shivered involuntarily. The way Whittaker described Katya Vilensky dispassionately as “the body” chilled her.

“I’d heard that Scotland Yard was now involved,” Ursula said. “Bit unusual, isn’t it? I thought this was a local political matter. Shouldn’t this chap of yours have contacted me by now, to discuss what happened that day in the bazaar?”

Ambrose Whittaker sniffed disdainfully. “The chief inspector is conducting some discreet inquiries in an unofficial capacity. No doubt he will speak to you when he is good and ready. I wasn’t aware that anyone else knew he was here yet. How did you find out?”

“Oh, you know, I have my sources,” Ursula replied airily, but she noted the change in Ambrose Whittaker’s behavior. He was wary of her now.

“Goodness gracious me!” Millicent Lawrence interrupted their conversation with a shriek. “That man must be absolutely mad!”

Hugh Carmichael, piloting his plane, executed a dramatic dip before slowly descending for a near-perfect landing on a stretch of sandbank west beyond the step pyramid. The young local mechanic who always followed him rode across the sand on a white Arabian colt. Ursula bit her lip. Hugh’s recklessness had begun to worry her greatly. She had heard that since his wife’s death two years ago, Hugh had taken up all sorts of dangerous pastimes—racing experimental motor cars, flying planes, even alpine climbing—to the point where he had frittered away a great deal of his fortune on such pursuits. Katya and his copilots’ deaths seemed to have brought out the very worst in him, and Ursula wondered whether Hugh cared now whether he lived or died.

“Shall we go see Mr. Carmichael?” Ambrose Whittaker gestured with his hand. “After all, that is why you are here, is it not, Miss Marlow?”

Ursula bit her tongue and restrained herself before replying, with a disingenuous smile, “How clever you are! I was indeed planning to meet Mr. Carmichael here. He’s promised me a flying lesson before I return to England.”

“Oh, my,” Millicent Lawrence said faintly.

“Of course he did,” Whittaker answered smoothly. “And I would hate to see you disappointed. Will you be attending tonight’s celebrations at the club?”

Ursula returned another smile. “Of course. Will the chief inspector, what’s his name, be there?”

“Chief Inspector Harrison will indeed be there,” Whittaker replied as smoothly as before. His eyes watched for her reaction closely.

Ursula’s mouth went dry.

“But of course,” she murmured.

“Miss Marlow is well acquainted with the chief inspector.” Ambrose Whittaker turned to a bemused Millicent Lawrence. The missionary ladies exchanged glances once more. “He investigated the murder of her father a year or so ago,” Whittaker explained.

“I’m hardly likely to forget that, now am I?” Ursula responded, mustering all her self-control to ensure her tone remained even. “And if you will excuse me, I must go and see about that flying lesson. Good day, Mr. Whittaker.” Ursula gave him a perfunctory nod. “Good day, Mrs. Lawrence”—she turned to the twin missionary sisters—“Miss Norton, Miss Stanley.”

Ursula hitched her narrow skirt up and, with a kick of her flat-heeled suede shoes, stomped off across the desert.

 
Hugh was bending over, inspecting the plane’s diagonal wire bracing and bamboo skid tail, when he heard Ursula approach. The mechanic, ignoring Ursula, knelt down to check the landing gear that appeared, to Ursula at least, to consist of little more than a pair of bicycle wheels connected by a wooden beam.