As Ursula stood watching the proceedings from beneath the brim of her wide hat, she caught sight of a tiny squirrel of a man heading quickly toward the customs house. He darted in and out of the crowd, past crates filled with bananas and packing cases stuffed with straw and artifacts, even a motorcar being hoisted aboard by a huge steel winch. He wore a blue suit and Panama hat and looked like one of the many clerks that worked for the major shipping lines. The man seemed rushed and uncomfortable, but as he hurried past the
Caledonien,
he took a moment to look up and caught sight of Vilensky strolling along the gangway. Ursula immediately sensed the intense scrutiny with which the shipping clerk regarded Vilensky. For a moment she thought Peter Vilensky was going to call out, but it passed without either man saying a word. Intrigued, Ursula decided to follow the man in the Panama hat. The man was walking briskly, but Ursula had managed to catch up to him by the time he reached the customs house.
“Excuse me!” Ursula called out as the man opened the glass-fronted door. The man ignored her and continued walking across the foyer. It was dark and cool inside, a haven from the chaos of the port.
“Excuse me! Do you speak English?” she shouted again, and the men at the front counters looked up. The man paused in midstep; he clearly did not want to make a scene in the middle of the customs house.
He turned round. “Yes, yes. I speak English. What can I help you with?” His tone was polite, and his eyes would not meet hers.
“Do you know Mr. Vilensky?” she asked. “I saw you at the steamer, and I wondered . . .”
“Of course, of course. Very important man. I don’t know him well. No, not well . . .” The man finished on a hesitant note, peering at Ursula anxiously. “Why do you ask?”
“You heard about his wife, then?” Ursula prompted.
“Yes . . . but I really must be getting back. Yes, must be getting back.”
“I was wondering if I could ask you some questions,”
“Questions?! Questions?! No, no . . .” The clerk turned away and hurried toward the wood-paneled door that led to the customs offices at the rear of the building.
Ursula followed him quickly. She caught the door with her hand before it closed.
“I’m sure Mr. Vilensky would be most upset if he heard that you had refused to help me,” Ursula said, hoping that the threat of displeasing an extremely powerful man such as Peter Vilensky would have an impact. “I’m his private secretary, and as you can see, he is leaving today for Britain. He has sent me here urgently, to follow up on his wife’s previous enquiries.” The lies rolled easily off her tongue.
The shipping clerk stopped in his tracks. After a momentary hesitation he then peered over his shoulder and gestured for her to follow him quietly.
“What has he told you?” the clerk asked anxiously, after almost pushing Ursula into his tiny office and closing the door.
“As I said, he asked me to follow up on something his wife was investigating,” Ursula lied, uncertain where such a ruse might lead her.
The clerk sat down in his chair heavily.
“She only came to see me the once, and I . . . I couldn’t be of much assistance. . . .”
Ursula demurely took a seat, trying to conceal the pounding of her heart in her chest.
“Just tell me everything you told Mrs. Vilensky.”
The shipping clerk chewed his lip nervously.
“It was many weeks ago,” he protested weakly. “I’m not sure I can remember all that she—”
“Tell me everything,” Ursula urged.
The clerk opened the bottom drawer of his desk and rummaged in it for a few moments.
“She asked only about the
Bregenz,
” he said, his voice muffled as he rummaged still further.
The clerk pulled out a leather-bound ledger and set it down on the desk with a thump. “I could only provide her with minor details.”
“Go on,” Ursula replied firmly.
“The
Bregenz
took on further cargo and passengers at Port Said bound for Jaffa and then Smyrna. I only showed her the entry I had in our register.”
The clerk’s fingers drummed as he kept the ledger closed.
“Can you show me the entry?” Ursula asked
The clerk watched her carefully. “You said Mr. Vilensky knows you are here?”
Ursula got up and walked around the desk. She traced her finger across one of the maps on the wall.
“Why can’t you tell me?” she asked softly. “Was Mrs. Vilensky afraid? Are you afraid too? Is that why you don’t want to tell me?”
The man’s face was inscrutable. Ursula remained silent, waiting to see how he would respond.
The clerk licked his lips and opened the ledger.
“The
Bregenz
,” he said. “Here is the entry—please don’t ask me for anything more.”
Ursula bent over to read the entry. The clerk pointed to the middle of the page to an entry written in blue ink. The date was December 29, 1911. The entry read: “Master: Captain Murphy, appointed to the vessel 1910. Steel twin screws steamer; 2 decks; fitted with electric light and refrigerating machinery. Accommodation for 30 passengers. Water ballast. 7,524 tons gross. Construction: 1901, Carmichael & Co. Ltd., Tyneside. Owners: Dobbs Steamship Co. Ltd. Port of registry: Liverpool.” Ursula made a mental note to follow up the connection to Dobbs, although it was hardly surprising, given the number of ships operated by Dobbs’s company in the Mediterranean.
“She was bound for Jaffa and then Smyrna,” the clerk said. “Carrying mainly cargo, but I believe there were twelve passengers who embarked at the port of Thessaloniki.”
“Did Mrs. Vilensky tell you why she was interested in this ship?”
The man shook his head.
“No.” His response was unconvincing.
“What did she tell you?” Ursula asked gently, but he would not meet her eyes.
“Nothing. Now please, you must go.”
Ursula heard the desperation in his voice, his dormant fears now laid bare.
“Are you sure there’s nothing more you can tell me?” she asked.
The clerk put the ledger away and urged her to leave. Ursula opened her mouth to protest, but his fears seemed to escalate with each minute she remained.
“What if I came back tomorrow?” she asked from the doorway, but there was no reply.
The clerk busied himself in the paperwork on his desk, and she accepted, at least for now, that their interview was over.
Ursula walked down the corridor back toward the foyer. A group of officials in formal frock coats and hats passed her by without comment. A lone clerk remained at the front counter, and she nodded to him as she passed. Ambrose Whittaker was coming through the front door to the customs house as she exited. He tipped his hat politely, saying, “Poor Mrs. Lawrence is in a bit of a flap about some artifacts that were confiscated when she arrived, so I have accompanied her to Alexandria to help sort it all out.”
It seemed a remarkable coincidence that Whittaker should be at the customs house, but Ursula was well aware that this was the time of year when many British vacationers were returning home from Egypt. Alexandria seemed to be full of English travelers, and she suspected Whittaker had to spend a great deal of his time placating travelers frustrated by the Egyptian customs bureaucracy.
“Just smoothing some ruffled feathers,” Whittaker continued. “But I trust we can expect the pleasure of your company at tonight’s little soiree? It’s really the last for the season.” Ursula forced a polite smile and a nod. “Good, then I trust I will be seeing you there tonight.” She was in no mood for Ambrose Whittaker’s inane conversation.
Outside, the bright gold light was a sharp contrast to the dark coolness of the customs house. Ursula felt uneasy. The shipping clerk’s behavior puzzled her, just as Katya’s once had. Why should Katya have wanted information about a ship that had departed over three months ago? What information could she have possibly gained that would have made her feel that her life was in jeopardy? None of it made any sense.
That afternoon Ursula decided to visit Eugenie Mahfouz to see whether her investigations had yielded anything further regarding Katya’s death. The Mahfouz residence was a modest limestone villa in the heart of fashionable Alexandria. Eugenie Mahfouz kept to the old Egyptian traditions, however, and Ursula’s driver stopped at the door that led through to the courtyard and the women’s quarters, at the rear of the residence. Ursula had been here before and needed no guidance as she navigated across the courtyard, through the curtained doorway, and up the stairs to the harem. One of the Sudanese eunuchs who served as a servant met her at the door at the top of the stairs.
“Good afternoon, Mehmed,” Ursula said with a smile. “Is Mrs. Mahfouz available?”
The servant nodded his head. “Please wait here, I will let her know you are here.”
“Thank you,” Ursula replied.
Only a few minutes passed before the door was reopened by Eugenie herself, and Ursula was welcomed with open arms into the elaborate antechamber that led to the women’s parlor. Eugenie was wearing a long gray dress and a silvery light cloak that seemed to shimmer about her. Once again Ursula was struck by the duality that surrounded Eugenie’s life. Despite her European origins, Eugenie seemed to have accepted the situation as a necessary part of assimilating to her husband’s way of life in Egypt. As always, there was a fleeting image of a young Egyptian woman, veiled with kohl-rimmed eyes, only to be superimposed on another image—this time of
la belle époque
, conjured up by the peek of a dark curl from beneath Eugenie’s veil, the curve of her waist, and the unmistakable smell of Guerlain’s
L’Heure Bleue
perfume.
“I am pleased you have come,” Eugenie said quietly. “I will tell you what I have learned about Katya.” She moved a box of Groppi chocolates from the table. “Mehmed!” she called out. “Bring us more tea!”
First, Ursula told Eugenie what had transpired at the customs house earlier in the day and about the postcard inscription she had found amid Katya’s belongings.
“I have heard nothing about a place called Hartuv or of a ship called the
Bregenz,
” Eugenie commented when Ursula finished. “It seems odd that Katya would be interested. But then, what about this incident makes any sense to us? Ah, thank you, Mehmed. Here, Ursula, you should try some of the
gâteau aux fruits.
It is my mother’s recipe.”
Ursula settled back in her seat, and Eugenie began to speak. “After we met last week, I made inquiries through a friend of mine, Aminah Nasif. She is heavily involved in the Red Crescent society, helping repatriate refugees from the Italian-Libyan conflict. She met Katya briefly at one of their charity dinners. Aminah told me that Katya asked about helping fund a relief center. What was interesting was that Katya also mentioned providing money to a relief group with definite nationalist sympathies.”
Ursula frowned. “But that totally undermines the theory that nationalists targeted Vilensky—I mean, why would they bite the hand that feeds them?”
Eugenie nodded vigorously. “I agree. But unfortunately, that is all I have discovered so far. Apart from Vilensky’s donations to the museum, I haven’t heard anything of interest to us. You are aware, of course, of Vilensky’s relationship with Whittaker, but that seems to relate solely to governmental matters. Then there are the extensive loans to the Dobbs Steamship Company, but I am sure you know all about those.”
Ursula’s jaw tightened at the mention of Christopher Dobbs’s company. She rubbed her temples with her fingers. Any reference to Dobbs always made her uneasy, but now she was also frustrated. She couldn’t put all the elements together to make any coherent story. Was Whittaker somehow involved? Was the British government concerned over Katya’s influence in funding nationalist extremists? Neither of these possibilities seemed plausible, and they hardly explained Chief Inspector Harrison’s interest in the matter. If the government had countenanced Katya’s death, they’d hardly send someone in to investigate it further. And what was Katya’s interest in Hartuv or the
Bregenz
?
The soiree Ambrose Whittaker referred to was a charity ball to raise money for a new dispensary for poor women and children hosted by the khedive Abbas Helmy II at the El-Salamlek Palace overlooking Montazah Bay. Ursula, wearing a deep green Poiret dress, felt conspicuous as an unaccompanied female. At least here there were continentals and members of Egypt’s most notable families, unlike at the exclusively English domain of the Khedival Sporting Club in Cairo. Ursula was speaking with a Belgian archaeologist when she was drawn into a debate with a wealthy Greek merchant on the recent war in Libya. Just as the two men began discussing the use of aerial bombardment, Ursula caught sight of three other women arriving. As soon as she recognized them, Ursula extricated herself from the discussion, grabbed a glass of wine, and retreated to the terrace that overlooked Montazah Bay and the busy port of Alexandria.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Hugh Carmichael said as he appeared from behind one of the potted palms. “Seems like we both had the same escape plan in mind!”
“With the likes of Millicent Lawrence, Violet Norton, and Emerence Stanley, can you blame me?” Ursula replied.
“I thought I saw them in there—surrounding the punch bowl like coyotes at a water hole,” Hugh said.
“Those three are worse than Macbeth’s witches. If I have to spend one more moment listening to their moralizing and condemnation, I think I will throw up.”
“Well, so long as you throw up inside, I won’t object.” Hugh replied.
They both stood for a moment, enjoying one of the few moments of levity they’d shared in recent weeks.
Ursula watched as the sun began to set, casting an orange glow across the long, dark sea edge.
“Is it my imagination, or does it seem unusually busy for this time of evening?” she asked. “I thought most of the steamers would have left by now.” She pointed to the row of steamer funnels.