Herring on the Nile (8 page)

Eight

My father must have spent a great deal of my childhood thinking up words of advice that would benefit me in later life. One of the few aphorisms that I still follow – or
indeed can now recall – is that, on holiday, you should always opt for an early breakfast. In my father’s opinion, the fruit juice and boiled eggs were that much fresher. The stocks of
cereal and jam would still be complete. The staff would be that much more attentive. The view from the window would be softer, still in the glow of the newly risen sun. It is true that he based
this policy on the shortcomings of certain cheap hotels in the Peak District or North Wales in which he, and therefore my mother and I, endured our summer holidays thirty or more years ago.
Nevertheless, it was one of his better dicta. There really is something about an early breakfast that puts a spring in one’s step and makes one’s spirits rise.

‘What are you playing at, you pillock?’

My thoughts were interrupted by a short, plump literary agent thrusting a mobile phone in my face.

‘That’s my phone,’ I said, eyeing it from roughly three inches away.

‘No,’ said Elsie. ‘This is
my
phone. Unless you are sending text messages to yourself. Why are you threatening to kill me?’

‘What are you talking about?’ I tried to focus on the screen in front of me. By moving my head back slightly I managed to get the words to take shape:
I am going to kill you,
Ethelred.

‘I’m talking about that!’ said Elsie, whipping the phone away again. ‘You are not allowed to send me death threats, Ethelred. It’s in your contract. Para 65.2
b.’

‘Are you sure it’s in the contract?’

‘It’s a standard clause. Ask any agent.’

‘But I didn’t send you that message,’ I said.

‘Then how come it’s on my phone?’ asked Elsie. She clicked once or twice to reveal the number of the sender. ‘Are you saying that isn’t your phone
number?’

I sighed. ‘No, that isn’t my number. But that is my phone.’

Elsie looked blank.

‘When you compared phones on the plane, you must have taken the wrong one. I’ve clearly got your phone and you have mine there in your hand. That’s
my
phone.’

‘But . . .’

‘Read it again. That message doesn’t mean:
I am going to kill you, kind regards, Ethelred.
It means:
My dearest Ethelred, I am going to kill you.
’

Elsie looked at the message again, then at me, then at the message again.

‘Your phone?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘A message to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not a message to me?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘So who is the message
from
?’ she demanded.

‘Nobody you know,’ I said.

‘Ethelred, you are a crap liar. Your face gives you away every time.’

‘It’s just a joke,’ I said. ‘From a friend.’

‘You have weird friends,’ said Elsie.

‘Better than weird enemies,’ I said. Though obviously it wasn’t much better.

Elsie might have taken this conversation further, but there were other more pressing matters on her mind. She had switched to tapping her fingers on the table and looking round the dining room
impatiently.

‘So, where are the sensible people?’ she asked, in what would probably prove to be a rhetorical question. ‘Ah, yes – they are all asleep in their beds. That’s why
there are only morons here at present.’

‘As far as I can see, it is just the two of us,’ I pointed out, having briefly checked the room. ‘I am sure that the others will all be here in a few minutes, regretting their
tardiness. In the meantime, I am going to get myself a fresh omelette.’

‘Ethelred, the normal people won’t be here for another couple of hours. You have time for at least a dozen omelettes, some using eggs from hens as yet unborn, before the first of the
other passengers shows.’

‘Since we are to visit the temple at eight, it would be most unwise of them to delay so long.’ I gave a little chuckle at this excellent riposte.

Elsie showed her contempt by buttering a croissant with slow, sarcastic strokes of her knife.

‘In any case,’ I added, ‘I am curious to see what happens next.’

Elsie nodded, her mouth now full of butter mingled with small quantities of croissant. On this point at least we were in agreement. The conversations that we had overheard established that
Professor Campion and Miss Benson not only knew each other but had some plan of action that they wished to keep quiet for the moment. So would they again opt for different tables? Purbright too was
already acquainted with one of the other passengers, and he had not been pleased to see him – or her. Would a glance or remark give away who it was?

‘So, who
was
Purbright talking to?’ asked Elsie.

‘Proctor?’ I suggested. ‘We know that Proctor thinks he is here to guard Purbright. Maybe that was Purbright telling Proctor his services were not needed. He couldn’t
throw him off the boat, but—’

‘But Purbright isn’t Raffles,’ said Elsie. ‘The policemen have him down as the man who is planning to
kill
Raffles. So, he can’t be Proctor’s
employer.’

‘They’re not policemen,’ I said.

‘Whatever,’ said Elsie. ‘I still say Purbright is acting suspiciously. That conversation up there on deck last night was very odd.’

‘Purbright is . . .’ I began. Then I stopped. If Purbright really was MI6, then the last person I should tell was Elsie.

‘Purbright is?’ she asked. ‘Ethelred, any sentence from you lacking a complement always makes me suspicious. You have deliberately terminated what you were about to say, your
brain having belatedly caught up with your tongue and given it a good slapping. So, what have you just decided not to tell me about Purbright?’

‘I think somebody has been pulling your leg,’ I said, providing both subject and predicate in full this time. ‘Policemen don’t just blow their cover in the way you say
these two have. They’re simply a couple of passengers who decided to have a joke at your expense. If you want to believe any of the stories we’ve been told, collectively or
individually, then we can at least be sure that Herbie Proctor
is
a detective – of sorts. And he’d hardly be on this boat unless somebody was paying his expenses in
full.’

‘So you are dismissing my two nice policemen and relying on the word of the worst private detective known to man?’

‘Your rather touching assumption that they are policemen is based on a couple of pieces of paper purporting to be warrants and waved briefly in front of you,’ I said.

‘And you think I can’t spot a real Egyptian warrant?’ she demanded.

‘I do indeed. If the warrants were in Arabic,’ I pointed out patiently, ‘you wouldn’t have been able to read them. If conversely they had been in English, then they would
most certainly be forgeries made entirely for your benefit. Or perhaps they were in Latvian?’

‘God, you’re pompous,’ said Elsie, as she usually does when I am right.

‘They are not police,’ I said. ‘Take my word for it.’

‘Well, if we have two fake policemen on board, then we really have problems. Either they are with the Cairo police or they are up to something very funny indeed.’

Here Elsie had a point. ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘we should alert Captain Bashir . . .’

‘They said to tell nobody,’ said Elsie.

‘But the captain—’

‘Obviously they feel they can trust no one on board – except me.’

Which of course was final and absolute proof that they could not possibly be policemen. Elsie was about to reply when she noticed we had company. I was not, after all, alone in believing that an
early breakfast was best.

‘Mind if we join you?’ The two young Americans were both wearing sleeveless cashmere jerseys against the early morning chill – Tom’s was beige, John’s
rose-coloured. They seemed to be enclosed in an aura of soap, toothpaste and aftershave.

‘Do we just collect stuff from the buffet?’ asked John, as he sat down.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You go and choose but you’ll find the waiters then bring it over for you. That’s as close to self-service as this boat gets.’

‘Interesting learning the local customs. Interesting place generally. Folk back home think we’re nuts coming here, what with all the terrorists. Of course, we try not to look too
much like Americans,’ said John.

‘You look totally like an American,’ said Tom.

‘And you don’t?’

‘Observe,’ said Tom. ‘Beige cashmere. Not pink. I blend with the desert. At fifty yards, the upper half of my body is completely invisible.’

‘And the cream slacks?’

‘You reckon the terrorists are going to hang around when they see a pair of disembodied cream slacks heading for them? I don’t think so somehow.’

‘Ignore him. He’s mad,’ said John.

‘Ignore him. He’s from Kansas,’ said Tom. ‘Never trust anyone from Kansas, even if they have a cute dog with them. Sooner or later they’ll dump a house right on top
of you and steal your ruby slippers.’

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, that sounds rather unlikely. Is this seat taken?’ Miss Watson sat down without waiting for a reply. The black-uniformed waiter, who had been
following a few paces behind her, whisked the bowl of fruit he had been carrying onto the table and unfolded her napkin for her with a well-practised flourish.

‘
Shukran
,’ she said. Then to the two Americans she added: ‘I think we met in Cairo.’

‘So we did,’ said Tom. ‘You were with an Egyptian gentleman.’

‘Unsurprisingly since it was Cairo.’ She seemed in no hurry to explain who it was. She took a grape out of her bowl and held it for a moment between finger and thumb before popping
it into her mouth, unpeeled.

‘Weren’t those mummies scary?’ said Tom. ‘Didn’t you think they were about to burst out of their glass cases and grab you?’

‘No,’ said Miss Watson. ‘That’s not what they do. Except possibly in American films. I think yoghurt might go well with this, don’t you? In a moment, I’ll get
one of the waiters to carry over a pot from the buffet. They seem to enjoy carrying things.’

Eventually all were present and accounted for except Elsie’s ‘policemen’. I still needed to correct Purbright on the Fielder/Fielding business but it seemed unlikely that I
would now be able to mention it casually over an omelette, he being at one table and I at the other. Perhaps there would be a chance at the temple this morning. There was no urgency. I could
experience being a famous author for a little longer.

It was as Elsie and I were finishing our breakfasts that the purser appeared. He glanced from one table to the other and then coughed. Everyone turned and looked at him, including the small
queue that had built up (
precisely
as I had predicted) in front of the omelette chef.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. You will be aware that your trip is to be accompanied by a guide. Unfortunately he failed to join us at Luxor. I had hoped that he might still travel down by train
overnight, but regrettably that will not be possible. I now hope that our usual guide will be able to join us tomorrow. We are trying to contact him. In the meantime, you will of course be issued
with tickets for each of the temples, and a member of the crew will accompany you, but your visits will be without an expert.’

‘That is really too bad,’ said Miss Watson, looking up from her yoghurt. ‘We have paid for a proper guide.’

‘I am sure there will be a refund . . .’

‘That is scarcely the point.’

I wasn’t sure that the purser appreciated being addressed like a naughty third-former. I felt sorry for him, though it has to be said that Miss Watson was speaking for most of us. We had
all paid for a guide, even if one of us was hoping to recharge everything to their elusive client.

‘We shall manage,’ I said, with what I hoped was good grace. ‘We do have Professor Campion with us. You won’t mind giving us the benefit of your knowledge,
Professor?’

It was clear that some of the party had not known we had an Egyptologist amongst the passengers, and several heads turned curiously in Campion’s direction.

For a moment he said nothing, then he exclaimed indignantly: ‘I am supposed to be on
holiday
, you know!’

‘We wouldn’t expect very much,’ I said quickly, remembering his reaction when he thought I was suggesting he should run a course. ‘You need only to point us all in the
right direction and tell us what to look out for.’

‘The problem . . .’ he said, uncertainly. He was not happy.

Sky Benson conversely seemed quite perky and on the ball. ‘Professor Campion,’ she said, ‘as an internationally renowned expert in Egyptology, it would be only natural for you
to offer to help us, surely?’

‘Would it?’ he asked.

‘I think so.’

Miss Benson, perhaps because of the previous evening’s conversation, rather seemed to be enjoying putting Campion on the spot – at least, from the safety of our table.

‘That would appear to be settled, then,’ said Miss Watson, mainly I think because that was so far from being the case. ‘I am so much looking forward to being guided by
Professor Campion.’

‘Then if I must . . .’ Campion was both on the spot and backed into a corner and didn’t seem to like being either.

‘Excellent,’ said the purser. He had wisely remained silent during this conversation, but now decided it was time to close the deal. ‘Ali will accompany you to the temple and
purchase tickets. The
very
distinguished Professor Campion will most kindly guide you round. For sure, I wish you all a very fine day.’