“And hens have teeth,” Eugenie said sarcastically.
“Quite,” Ursula replied.
Eugenie looked around quickly. “I tried to speak to Harvey Pasha, commandant of the Cairo police, but he refused to talk to me. Said I had to go through Whittaker or this man Harrison. Something is terribly wrong, my friend.”
“I know,” Ursula replied, taking Eugenie by the arm. “Tell me what you have found out.”
Ursula and Eugenie squeezed through the crowd that was gathered near the door to the terrace. As they passed, Ursula caught snatches of conversation, mostly centered around the day’s gymkhana, interspersed with the occasional comment on weightier concerns such as the possibility of home rule for Ireland, and the recent coal miners’ strike in England. Italy’s bombardment of Tripoli was also a topic of some contention, for there were some in the British Army who feared it might spark a “holy war” against Western imperialist interests in the region. For many of the guests, the world seemed very uncertain.
A couple of army officers, in their regimental finery, stepped aside for Eugenie and Ursula as they approached the doorway, and continued their conversation.
“Churchill’s got the right idea, don’t get me wrong,” the older man said to his companion. “It’s naval power that’s the key.”
They drew on their cigars and nodded. Winston Churchill was the First Lord of the Admiralty. Ursula took a dim view of Churchill’s jingoism as well as his antisuffrage views and had to restrain herself from making any comment as she walked by. The younger man looked at her keenly, and she felt rather like one of the horses in the day’s gymkhana, sized up for both breeding and potential. The older man leaned over and whispered something in the other man’s ear. The younger man sniffed. “Pity,” he said with disdain. Ursula flushed.
She and Eugenie walked onto the terrace that overlooked the expansive gardens, polo fields, tennis courts, and croquet lawns. The scent of oleander and roses filled the air. The gymkhana was over, and apart from the occasional servant rushing to and fro to replenish provisions, there was no one to disturb them.
“Katya’s death was not a political matter. You have my assurance on that,” Eugenie began, “but the British have detained a number of innocent people for questioning, which has angered a number of my husband’s friends. Luckily, so far no one is advocating any reprisals.”
Ursula took hold of Eugenie’s hand. “I know this must be very hard for you.”
“It is a difficult time,” Eugenie acknowledged. “Especially for those of us who advocate a peaceful means of obtaining independence from Britain.”
“Do any of your friends have any idea who may have been responsible for Katya’s death?”
Eugenie’s face was grave. “No. Peter Vilensky is, of course, a very powerful man. As with many bankers, he is heavily involved in securing loans to the British and other imperialist governments. He is also very close to that man Whittaker, whom I have long suspected is involved in more than just the Ministry of Interior.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one has ever had any real evidence, but many of us believe Whittaker is more than what he seems.”
“Like what?” Ursula prompted.
“No one’s entirely sure but he seems to have surprising influence. We’re never sure whether he is acting on behalf of the British government. There are even rumors of arms trading. These days it’s hard to keep up with all the political and military intrigue.”
“Who knows what Whittaker is up to?” Ursula commented. “But I cannot imagine Peter Vilensky involved in anything like that.”
Eugenie shrugged. “Even if he was, why would Katya be killed?”
“Katya may have heard the rumors,” Ursula reminded her.
Eugenie shrugged, unconvinced. “I doubt that Whittaker would concern himself with Katya.”
“Unless she threatened to disclose publicly what she had found out?”
“Perhaps . . . but—”
“Mrs. Mahfouz!” Ursula interrupted loudly. She had suddenly noticed Ambrose Whittaker and Chief Inspector Harrison approaching them from the other side of the pavilion. “You can’t believe how grateful I am for your kind invitation. I haven’t explored the Museum of Greco-Roman Antiquities—shall we set up a time when I am in Alexandria? Oh, and have you seen the latest edition of
La Gazette du Bon Ton?
I can’t believe sprigged muslin may be returning—I swear we shall all look like milkmaids by summer!”
Whittaker raised an eyebrow as he passed by.
“Come and see me in Alexandria,” Eugenie whispered, planting a kiss on each of Ursula’s cheeks. “We can talk more there.”
“Miss Marlow.” Chief Inspector Harrison held out his hand. Ursula, amused, reached out and shook it. Whittaker stood next to Harrison and smoothed back his thinning hair.
Eugenie took her leave, shooting both men an arched stare.
Ursula looked at Harrison and said, “A bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” Harrison fingered his mustache, unsure of how to respond.
“I mean, our meeting like this,” Ursula explained. “I half expected to be woken in the middle of the night and dragged off to the British Agency for questioning. Isn’t that how you chaps operate?”
Harrison knew better than to take the bait.
“Aren’t you a little far from your usual territory?” Ursula continued, taking a quick sip of her champagne. “I thought East End anarchists and German spies were now your sort of thing?”
Harrison accepted a tall glass of Pimm’s from one of the servant’s trays that passed by.
“I admit my remit has widened since we last met, Miss Marlow, but there’s no need for concern. I am not here to search for any German spies.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Ursula responded drily.
“Perhaps we could speak alone for a moment?” Harrison said evenly. “Whittaker, would you mind?”
Ursula noticed that Harrison’s East End accent, which used to creep through, was now totally suppressed.
“Not at all, old chap!” Whittaker replied blithely. “I’ll see you back inside,”
Once Whittaker had left, Ursula allowed Harrison to light her a cigarette as they stood side by side, gazing out over the polo field. She was amused. A year ago Harrison would have been horrified to see a woman smoking.
“How have you been?” Harrison began cautiously.
“Fine,” Ursula replied blandly. “Apart from witnessing another murder, of course.”
“His lordship was very concerned to hear about that,” Harrison responded, and held up his hand quickly before she could react. “Don’t worry, he didn’t send me here. . . . I merely meant that we had been in communication since my arrival in Cairo. He is aware of what happened to Mrs. Vilensky.”
“I’m not sure I understand. What has Lord Wrotham got to do with any of this?” Ursula asked, taking a long drag on her cigarette to suggest her indifference as to the answer.
“No interest, except obviously in your well-being,” Harrison replied as he smoothed down his neatly trimmed mustache. “As for the Vilensky matter, well, it’s probably best not to talk too much about it here.” Harrison tossed aside his cigarette. “Are you available to meet tomorrow?”
“But I thought this was an internal political matter?”
Harrison shrugged. “I’m conducting a routine follow-up. Nothing more.”
“Really?” Ursula didn’t bother to hide her skepticism. “So tell me, why would a member of the Scotland Yard’s Special Branch be interested in conducting a routine follow-up?”
Harrison ignored her. He merely raised his drink and smiled.
“Mr. Vilensky is a powerful man,” he replied.
“Yes, he is.”
“Powerful men have powerful friends.”
“Yes,” Ursula replied carefully. “They can also have powerful secrets.”
Six
The following morning, Harrison arranged for Ursula to visit a private house on Rhoda Island, southwest of central Cairo. He was accompanied by a young Egyptian in a cream suit and red fez, who remained silent and implacable as he stood in the corner of the room while they spoke. Ursula sat on the huge be-cushioned divan beneath the lattice-screened window, her body almost consumed by the polished cottons and silks that surrounded her. Her simple white frock seemed flimsy and insubstantial in contrast to the elaborate decoration of the inlaid marble and fretwork that adorned the high-ceilinged room.
Harrison started by asking Ursula to describe the scene at the bazaar on the day Katya died, taking out a tan-and-black notebook from his jacket pocket. He scribbled his notes in it with the lead of a half-chewed pencil. He was particularly concerned about whether Ursula could describe any of the men who had been in the bazaar that day.
Ursula screwed up her eyes but could recall only a sea of indistinguishable faces, the flash of dark eyes, and the swirl of white cloth.
“I really only remember the man with the monkey—and it’s not like that’s a rare sight in downtown Cairo. But I would describe him as bigger than the other men—stockier, I mean. Yes. And although he had brown eyes, I remember thinking that he didn’t look like one of the fellahin—I’m not exactly sure why I thought that, but I did.” Ursula leaned back on the divan. “Not much help, I’m afraid. Told as much to the Egyptian authorities—I mean, it all happened so quickly. There was so much confusion. I see a blur of faces, nothing more. Maybe if I saw some of them again I’d recognize them, but I really can’t be sure.”
Harrison simply nodded. “It’s to be expected. The men were creating a diversion—and it worked.”
Ursula’s lips pursed. Recounting the story had made her feel like a half-witted young girl, easily distracted by something as obvious as a performing monkey.
“You said you believed Katya was concerned about her own safety?” Harrison prompted.
“Yes,” Ursula replied, and she recounted the conversation she’d had with Katya the morning of her death. Harrison didn’t seem to hold much stock in her theory, but Ursula continued. “Look, I know it sounds absurd, but I sensed that Katya was looking out for someone. Watching to see who was there. And I don’t just mean her husband, although Peter Vilensky did make a thorough nuisance of himself, following her just to make sure she wasn’t having some secret affair with Hugh Carmichael. Really, that man was the limit!”
Harrison raised his eyebrows and Ursula continued on a more rueful note. “I sound like one of those penny romances, seeing shadows in every corner, but, Chief Inspector, I really do think there was something that Katya had found out, something she had discovered, that made her believe her life was in danger.”
“And what do you think she had discovered?”
“Don’t you know? Isn’t that why you’re here?” Ursula demanded.
Harrison shook his head. “I told you before this is a routine matter, nothing more.”
Harrison’s eyes wouldn’t meet hers. Ursula knew him well enough to know that he would not be drawn out yet.
“Just make sure justice is served,” Ursula responded quietly. “Someone must be brought to account for her death, and I want to ensure that justice is done. You waited too long last time, and my father and Cecilia died as a result. Do not make the same mistake again.”
Ursula’s reference to the deaths of her father and Cecilia Abbott made Harrison flinch. “Believe me, Miss Marlow, I am well aware of the risks. But these are difficult times—we may well be at war sooner than you think. My priorities are different now—England’s security is under threat—but I promise you, I will not lose sight of what needs to be done to solve Katya Vilensky’s death.”
“You know her death had nothing to do with the nationalists!” Ursula began, hoping that she might be able to find out more using this line of inquiry.
“Let me worry about that,” Harrison interrupted. “But I can assure you the British government has been watching a number of secret societies since Boutros Ghali’s assassination that may have connections to the incident in the Khan el-Khalili.”
“It wasn’t a mere incident,” Ursula interrupted coldly. “It was the murder of a young woman. My friend.”
Harrison sighed. “Please, Miss Marlow, just be patient. There are far bigger things at stake here. The British Empire may be at risk.”
“So it’s my patriotic duty not to investigate Katya’s death, is that what you’re telling me?” Ursula’s self-control was rapidly diminishing.
“No.” Harrison’s response was smooth, though there was an unspoken threat beneath it. “To be honest,” he continued, “I think you have better things to be worrying about—like keeping your father’s business from collapsing around you.” Noticing her shock, he continued, “Yes, I know about the attacks on your mills and factories. That’s what you should be focusing on—because, believe me, there are few policemen inclined to help a suffragette rabble-rouser when she’s in business difficulties.”
Harrison’s words hit her hard. Ursula got to her feet and summoned all her self-control. “I’ve heard enough threats for one day,” she said with an imperious glare. “If you don’t mind, Chief Inspector Harrison, I think it’s time that I end our little chat, enlightening though it has been, and return to my hotel.”
Harrison had his Egyptian associate escort Ursula downstairs and arrange for a carriage to return her to Mena House. As it pulled up at the hotel, Ursula saw Hugh Carmichael walking quickly along the path that led to the gardens. She opened her mouth to call out, but something about his demeanor and the fury of his stride made her stop. She hesitated for a moment before climbing out of the carriage. Peering round, she spied Peter Vilensky standing by the hotel entrance, watching as Hugh retreated down the path. He straightened his jacket, smoothed back his dark brown hair, and then signaled for his motorcar to be brought round. Ursula turned back and sank down in her seat. There were getting to be too many secrets in this place.
The next day, Ursula returned to Mena House after a morning spent on the Giza plateau. She needed time away from people and had found a degree of solace walking among the ruins of the great pyramids—although she could hardly say she was ever really alone. No matter where she wandered, there were always the familiar outstretched hands and the call for baksheesh. Then there were the vendors of so-called antiquities and fossils, supposedly from the sands near Zawiyet el-Aryan. Each and every one Ursula dismissed with a wave of her hand, clutching her trusty Baedeker guide in the other.