The Illusion of Murder (15 page)

He raises his arms. “I surrender!”

“I don’t take prisoners.”

“Yes, I can see that. I’ve faced charging rhinos that are less aggressive than you.”

I suppress my ire and turn back to the canal, in need of changing the subject before I make a fool out of myself or worse—put him so on guard he never slips up and exposes his true part in the intrigue.

“I left New York so suddenly, I didn’t get a chance to research places I’d see. Is it true that the lives of one hundred thousand laborers were sacrificed in the building of the canal? A ship’s officer told me that.”

“I’m sure the authorities were not counting the bodies, but I have heard that estimate and from stories about how the canal was dug. I have no reason to doubt the figure.”

I pat my face with my handkerchief. “This heat is quite oppressive. We could use a good sea breeze.”

“Yes, but we won’t see one until the ship can gather speed. Ships have to travel slowly, no more than five knots, or they create wakes that erode the sand walls.” He hesitates, as if he’s making a careful choice of words. “That incident in the marketplace, what convinces you that it was John Cleveland? Were you acquainted with Mr. Cleveland?”

“We weren’t formally introduced, but passed each other in the corridor several times during the voyage from Brindisi to Port Said. As he lay dying in my arms, I’m certain I looked into the face of Mr. Cleveland.”

“But you never spoke to the man? Or heard his voice?”

“True on both counts. But we can assume that he had a British accent.”

I didn’t mention that I knew he was British because I’d searched his room.

“Yes, that is a reasonable assumption. But just as you know, British accents are like American ones—they vary according to where one is raised. And there are many places in the world where the local peoples—”

“Yes, I am fully aware of the fact you Brits have scattered your accent around the world. But you haven’t spread white legs, have you?”

That gives him a pause. “White legs?”

I describe the fall the “Egyptian” took on the road.

“And you are certain that the man on the bike is the same person you saw in the marketplace?”

“Yes.”

“Frankly, I’m forced to question your powers of observation. If a hundred of these followers of Muhammad appeared before us right now, I would venture that we would remember robes and hoods but few personal features. Why am I to believe that your powers of observation are any better than that of the rest of mankind?”

That does it. “
Mr. Selous
 … I see no evidence that entitles you to be a judge of me. You were not there.
I was
.”

He holds up his hands in surrender again. “You’re correct, you were there. My concern is that you have been put through so much trauma in a short time. First the violence in the marketplace, then that accident at—”

“Accident? You mean the attempt to kill me?”

“Miss Bly—”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have rivers to cross, mountains to climb, and castle walls to storm. Important matters. I’ll leave you with your errands for Lord Warton.”

I stalk off, my stomach and jaws tight. What insufferable insolence, but I’m irked at myself for being ruled by my emotions. Angry tantrums not only keep me from learning anything, but confirm Warton’s opinion of me. It’s hard, though, to maintain a reporter’s detached, professional assessment of the situation when I’m the bloody damn victim.

18

Barely able to keep from boiling over, I go down the deck to another spot as far away as I can get from him and everyone else. And I keep an eye out for Frederick Selous. Something tells me I am not rid of the man. He doesn’t appear to be a man who steps aside from a problem—even one acting like an angry bee. But at the moment I’m tired of dueling and wish I could have an ally rather than an opponent.

What have I gotten myself into? Why I’m staying in the mess as a target is another good question. An easy way out would be to hand over the key to the ship’s captain and publicly admit that the man who whispered his last word to me was an Egyptian. But if I turn tail and run, I would do the same the next time I am confronted by a threat of violence. Shakespeare said something about meeting danger head-on so it doesn’t get the advantage and that’s what my instincts tell me I must do. It’s not like I can jump overboard and swim to the next port.

A moment later Mr. Selous leans beside me again on the railing.

I don’t give him the benefit of even a glance. “I’m going to ignore you in the hope you will go away. Rail leaning has become a bad habit on your part, at least when it’s next to me.”

“What about dragons? Do you also fight dragons during your storming of castle walls and other adventurous activities?”

I turn and lock eyes with him, hoping to see beyond his rich blue eyes and into his soul. “I have a strict policy of not harming dragons. There are so few left in the world outside of children’s stories.”

“Did I mention I considered a career in law before I took up hunting?”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Your manner is that of a bullying lawyer.”

“Yes, I deserve that. But may I ask you what I believe would be a lawyerlike question?”

“Why? To discredit my observations?”

“I can assure you that is not my intent.”

“But is that Lord Warton’s intent?”

He chews on that for a moment. “As an American, you may not be fully aware of all the ramifications of the presence of my country in Egypt. I have spent my entire adult life in Africa and I am acutely sensitive to the situations we face in our colonial empire—and the fact that the Mahdi movement along the Nile is the most violent opposition we face at the moment.”

“If you’re trying to tell me that Lord Warton has the best interests of his country in mind, that has occurred to me. But he hasn’t come to me as a gentleman and expressed that. Instead, he treats me like I am a foolish woman with a wild imagination. And he acts as if he has some official authority concerning the matter, rather than just being a witness, as I am. Who exactly is Lord Warton, other than a man who inherited a title?”

Mr. Selous leans closer and speaks in a confidential tone. “I became acquainted with him yesterday for the first time, but I do know he has served in the Foreign Office. Briefly and without distinction. Rumor has it that the only thing that entitled him to a position was his title and old school chums.”

“In other words,” I whisper back, “his lordship is probably not a spymaster.”

He clears his throat and hides a grin behind his hand. “I’m not aware of all his activities, but that is not a role I would pen for him if I were writing a story about the marketplace killings. More likely a chance bystander, but as a staunch British gentleman, ready to defend queen and country if he sees a threat.”

He gives me an appraising look. “I suspect that Lord Warton’s reaction to your slant on the situation may well be colored since he believes you’re a reporter noted for, shall we say, sensationalism?”

I give him the smile that Mr. Pulitzer once described as the grin of a barracuda.

“I believe that I am noted for my objective reporting, sir, and that it is the wrongs of those I investigate that are sensational, not my reporting.” I tap his lapel with my forefinger. “I am not a threat to queen or country. I just want the truth. If someone would reveal it to me, you may rely upon my discretion and the fact that I would act in a manner that neither you, Lord Warton, nor your Foreign Office would find fault. You can report that to him.”

“You’re right, you deserve the truth. The Good Book says that the truth will set us free. And I apologize for approaching you as an inquisitor, even if it was with the best of intentions. I trust that you are a person of great moral responsibility and would not do something that could result in furthering the already terrible toll of death and disorder the Egyptians are suffering. Now please, tell me exactly what you observed in the marketplace.”

I laugh and shake my head and get a frown in return.

“I’m not laughing at you,” I say, “it’s just that you are the same as me, always peeking under the rose to see what is hidden.”

He grins and offers his arm for a stroll. “I confess that sometimes I also get pricked by the rose when I stick my nose under to snoop. Would you care to accompany me on a quest to find a cool drink, perhaps lemonade? And share with me the details of what you observed?”

*   *   *

W
E SIT ON DECK CHAIRS
shaded by an awning and sip lemonade as I relate what occurred from the time I first observed the victim on his bike and later at the marketplace.

I omit my search of Mr. Cleveland’s room and the discovery of the scarab and key.

“So you believe that he spoke his wife’s name,” Mr. Selous says.

“That was my impression. I’m certain he said ‘Amelia,’ not an Arabic word. Whether Amelia is his wife is yet to be seen, but that she’s a woman in his life is probable.”

“Did you find anything of interest when you searched his room?”

I keep from giving a start. Fortunately, it’s too hot to make any quick movements, giving me a chance to mull over the question. He saw me leave the room, but doesn’t actually know I searched it. I have to tell him something, throw him a bone so he doesn’t think I’m being evasive.

“Not really. He’s a cutlery salesman from Liverpool.”

“With a wife named Amelia?”

“I found nothing about a wife. But I had only made a quick search.” I yawn and stretch. “I suppose Lord Warton told you that I had tricked the steward into leaving me alone in the room.”

He gives me a grin. “Actually he hadn’t, but I assumed as much since you escaped out of his room and into mine when you heard them coming. You also recognized the luggage being taken off last night.”

Damn!
… He bluffed me into a confession.

“Empty cases,” I point out. He doesn’t respond but I don’t let the subject drop. “You didn’t see the trunk open?” He said he didn’t last night, but I wonder what his response will be now that we are on friendlier terms.

“No, I must confess, I didn’t, but I don’t doubt that’s what you thought you saw.”

“Thought I saw?”

He holds up his hands to block my attack. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put it that way. It’s just that it was dark and happened so quickly. And I really can’t imagine why anyone would conduct a charade about the luggage.”

Neither could I.

“You saw nothing of interest in your search?”

“Not really. I found his lack of personal correspondence unusual but he may have only recently begun his journey away from home. He had a book about Egypt and one on the laws of Yorkshire.”

“Doesn’t seem unusual.”

“I suppose not. There was a series of numbers on a piece of paper in the law book.” I give Mr. Selous a mischievous grin. “Perhaps he’s studying the law also.”

He shrugs. “Perhaps. The incident at Tanis, is there any possibility that you were overcome by the desert heat—”

“And fainted because of my frail female disposition? Or perhaps from a lack of oxygen when I was strangling myself.”

“Yes, I see we should avoid Tanis. May I ask you this: If a man’s life depended upon your testimony, could you with complete confidence state before God and a jury that it was John Cleveland who was murdered in the marketplace?”

I give a big sigh and lean back, fanning myself.
The white of his leg. The British accent. Amelia. The key I can’t tell him about. John Cleveland’s sudden decision to stay in Port Said. The empty steamer trunk.

It all adds up to a scheme to keep the dead man’s identity a secret. But what if I had only seen his face and not the white flesh? I had not really taken much notice of Mr. Cleveland. So what was it that made me think it was him?

“I admit there was nothing distinguishing about the man’s face that leads me to conclude that it was him. However, my impression is that it was.”

“You didn’t answer my question. It calls for merely a simple yes or no.”

I fan my face more furiously. “Is this the way you badger your wife? A demand for simple yes-and-no answers?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“I can well understand why!”

“Madam—”

“Sir … I suggest you direct any further
lawyerlike
questions to Lord Warton or anyone else but at my doorstep. Good day!”

“Miss Bly!” he yells as I hurry away.

I swing around—reluctantly.

“We’ll stop at Ismailia shortly to pick up passengers. There will be time for a brief visit ashore to see the khedive’s palace. Will you join me?”

I make a small bow. “I shall be honored to do so, kind sir.”

It is a relief to go below and get away from the sweltering heat of both the air and the cross-examination, but I had discovered three things of importance:

I need more proof that the dead man is Mr. Cleveland.