The bus was waiting. I collapsed into a seat with a sigh of relief and accepted a glass of water, tinkling with ice, from a smiling waiter. Not for us the crowded rest house where ordinary tourists ate and drank, risking not only discomfort but the pharaoh’s curse; the seats had attached trays, like those on planes, and we were served chilled wine and food on fine porcelain. Even as I thought how easy it was to accustom oneself to such luxuries, my scholar’s conscience reminded me that the exhaust was pouring out pollution that gnawed away the very stones of the pyramids.
As soon as everyone was settled, Feisal addressed us. ‘Some of you know that one of our friends was taken ill this morning. You will be glad to hear that Mrs Tregarth is now comfortably resting in a Cairo hospital . . .’
I didn’t hear the rest. One word had forced its way through the layers of stupidity that enrobed my brain.
Cairo. The Cairo Museum was in Cairo. Take it slow, Vicky, slow and easy; you obviously aren’t up to complex reasoning. Right. No question about it. The museum was in Cairo. And now John was too.
Not only was he in Cairo (where the museum was) but his departure had been sudden, unexpected, off schedule. I had told myself I had three more weeks. I should have known – damn it, damn it, I should have known! – that John never stuck to schedules and that the unexpected was his stock-in-trade. The mere sight of me would have warned him that someone had got wind of his scheme. He wouldn’t abandon it, not John, not until he had to; he’d change his plans, catch me off guard, find an excuse to get to the scene of the crime ahead of schedule, a nice valid excuse like . . .
Poisoning his own mother?
It seemed a trifle extreme, even for John.
All the same . . .
I blundered up out of my seat, squeezing past the tray with its load of china and glasses. Bright and Sweet were a few rows ahead of me; I could see Bright’s thick, brown expensive hair over the top of the seat. They beamed a welcome, but I didn’t wait for an exchange of greetings.
‘It’s a shame about Mrs Tregarth, isn’t it?’
‘Very sad,’ Sweet said cheerfully. ‘But Feisal says she is on the road to recovery. It should be a lesson to us all, you know; the poor dear lady was constantly overeating. That is especially dangerous when one is unaccustomed to strange food and water.’
Bright nodded vigorously. He probably wouldn’t have spoken even if he had been able to, but in this case he wasn’t; he had just shoved an entire stuffed egg into his mouth.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I wonder how long they’ll stay in Cairo. Where the – ’ I managed to stop myself. Larry, in the seat across the aisle, was watching me with a bewildered smile.
‘Let us hope she will be able to join us again soon,’ Sweet said. ‘A pity to lose part of such a delightful trip.’
I tried again. ‘Especially when it’s also a honeymoon. I suppose her son will stay in Cairo with her?’
‘I suppose so.’ Sweet gave me a puzzled look.
I got a grip on myself and turned to go. ‘Well. See you later.’
‘We will meet in a pyramid,’ Sweet called after me.
I inserted myself into my seat and picked up a sandwich – nothing plebeian like cheese or chicken, but a masterpiece of shrimp and chopped egg yolk and some mysterious sauce. Sweet and Bright didn’t appear to be concerned; in fact they had both looked at me as if I were losing my feeble mind. Of course, I told myself; they were professionals. Like the others they had heard of Jen’s illness. They might not know John was the man they were after, but they’d be on the alert for anything unusual. They probably even knew the Cairo Museum was in Cairo.
I can’t say I enjoyed the remainder of the tour of Sakkara, even though Feisal was at his most eloquent and Alice stuck with me most of the afternoon. She was good company, knowledgeable and yet unassuming, with an unexpectedly wicked sense of humour. Watching Suzi, who had attached herself to Feisal, she said with a grin, ‘Looks as if she’s going to settle for youth and beauty instead of cash. Larry will be relieved, he looked like a cornered rabbit last night.’
‘He’s a very nice guy,’ I said. ‘Larry, I mean. Do you know him well?’
‘Nobody knows him well.’ Striding briskly, her hands in her pockets, Alice looked as fresh as a woman half her age. ‘I’d met him once or twice; he’s truly dedicated to archaeology and very well informed. But I was surprised to find him on this trip, he’s a very private person. Of course the highlight of the cruise is the reopening of Tetisheri’s tomb and that has been his major interest for over three years. He’s probably hoping to persuade the other filthy-rich types on board to support similar projects.’
She stopped, waiting for the others to catch up, and I said, trying not to pant, ‘He’s not with the group this afternoon. Trying to avoid predatory females?’
She caught my meaning. ‘Not you. You made quite a hit. In fact he sidled up to me and asked me if I thought you’d like to accompany him this afternoon – he’s gone off to see the Eighteenth-Dynasty nobles’ tombs, which aren’t open to the public’
‘And you told him I wouldn’t? Hell’s bells, Alice, how am I going to catch myself a millionaire if you interfere?’
Alice laughed. ‘Don’t blame me. He talked himself out of it before I could reply. Honest to God, I felt like a high school student counsellor trying to convince some bashful kid it was okay to ask the cheerleader to a dance. But,’ she added, with a shrewd glance at me, ‘don’t get your hopes up. He likes you because you treated him like a human being but I don’t think he’s interested in matrimony.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘Sensible woman.’
‘Why didn’t you go with him? This tourist stuff must be boring for you.’
‘My dear, I’m on duty. Anyhow, I never tire of the tourist stuff. I haven’t been inside the Teti Pyramid for years.’
‘Is that the next stop? I’m getting confused,’ I admitted.
‘No wonder. We’re cramming an awful lot into one day. The brain overloads. You don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to.’
‘I think I won’t. Go ahead, I’ll sit here and admire the view.’
All but the most energetic were beginning to flag, after a long morning and a large lunch. Some had stayed on the bus, others wandered off in search of souvenirs, of which there was no dearth. Only a dozen people expressed an interest in the interior of the pyramid. Among them were Bright and Sweet and the large square woman who had been pointed out to me as a famous novelist. No one could have accused her of treading on Egyptian sensibilities; she was draped from shoulders to shins in flowing robes, with a scarf wound wimple-style around her large square face. Her features were vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen them, and I thought I would have remembered that face. Not many famous lady novelists have perceptible moustaches.
‘What’s her name?’ I whispered to Alice.
‘Louisa Ferncliffe. But she writes under the name of Valerie Vandine. Ever heard of her?’
I had. I had even, for my sins, read a couple of her novels. She was one of Schmidt’s favourite authors. Schmidt only reads two types of fiction: hard-boiled mysteries featuring lean tough detectives, and torrid historical romances featuring helpless voluptuous heroines. Violence and sex, in other words. I studied the massive form ahead of me with disbelief. The woman must have an incredibly vivid imagination. The sexual gymnastics she described in such interesting detail would have been physically impossible for someone built like that.
So that was why she looked familiar. The photographs on the backs of her books had omitted the moustache and the lines scoring her forehead. A couple of chins had been airbrushed out too.