For only a little way. Then they stopped, and after a moment or two turned back.
‘What are we doing?’ said the clerk. ‘That is the way to Denderah!’
‘We will go somewhere else first.’
This arm of the fork was more overgrown and they had to push past scrub branches which dangled across the path.
There was the sudden crack of a rifle shot and a branch in front of them jumped suddenly. The clerk hurled himself to the ground.
Mahmoud stepped back behind a tree. ‘Stop shooting!’ he shouted. ‘There are people here!’
There was no reply. And then a man pushed out of the bushes ahead of them. ‘Frightfully sorry!’ he said, speaking in English, not in Arabic. He came forward, one hand held up before him apologetically.
He was an Egyptian, however, not English, a man in his mid-twenties. His hair was already beginning to recede, leaving the top front of his head bald and shiny, and there seemed something odd about him.
He was immaculately dressed in a newly laundered white shirt and newly pressed trousers. ‘Frightfully sorry!’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t know you were there. We don’t get many visitors. And, anyway,’ he said in a puzzled voice, ‘I don’t know how I came to miss it! I don’t usually. I think I may have caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye and been distracted. Yes, that would be it! I don’t see how I could have missed it otherwise. I saw it quite clearly. A big fat one perched on a bough. An easy shot. Frightfully sorry! I hope you’re all right?’
‘No damage done,’ said Mahmoud.
‘Oh, good!’ He looked down at the clerk still lying on the ground. ‘And what about you?’
The clerk rose sheepishly.
‘You look all right. Not a scratch, as far as I can see. But, I say, you must come back into the house! Have a drink or something.’
He went up to the door, which had remained closed, and hammered on it. ‘Yussef! Osman! Wake up!’
The door opened slowly.
‘Come on, Yussef, it’s only me. Except that I’ve brought some visitors. This is …?’
‘Mahmoud el Zaki. The Parquet.’
‘Mr el Zaki. Nearly shot him. And this is his man. Take him into the kitchen and give him some water. Cold water, that’s the thing! On a hot day like this. Especially if you’ve been shot at.’
The clerk, a little hesitantly, followed behind.
‘Don’t worry, you’re all right now. No shooting inside the house, that’s the rule. She’s very strict about it. No shooting inside the house! Mother!’ he called. ‘We have visitors. Come and meet Mr el Zaki!’
He led Mahmoud into what was obviously a reception room, the exact replica of one you would find in a rich man’s house in Cairo, with a marble floor which sloped slightly down to a little indoor pool in which a fountain was playing. At one end of this room was a traditional dais, spread with leather cushions. He sat, or rather lay, on the dais and indicated that Mahmoud should lie beside him.
Then he jumped up to greet an elderly lady who had come into the room.
‘This is my mother. You must meet my mother!’
She came forward. She was dressed in the conventional burka but her veil was pushed aside. She had sharp, intelligent eyes.
‘This is Mr el Zaki, Mother. He has come to visit us.’
‘I heard shots,’ she said.
‘That was me. I nearly shot Mr el Zaki.’
‘It was as well that you didn’t.’
‘He came by the back path, you see, and I was not expecting him.’
‘Even so, you should be more careful.’
‘Sorry, Mother! I saw a great fat pigeon-’
‘Where is the gun now? Have you put it away properly?’
‘Left it at the door.’
‘Unloaded?’
‘Yes, Mother. Unloaded. I made sure.’
She nodded. ‘Good.’ Then she turned to Mahmoud. ‘And what brings you here, Mr el Zaki?’
‘I am from the Parquet.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘The Parquet! This is an honour. It is not often that Cairo remembers us.’
‘I am investigating a case.’
‘Down here? I thought the Parquet never stepped out of Cairo!’
‘We do occasionally. When the case is important.’
‘So this one must be.’
‘Yes, it is. It concerns something sent to your husband.’
‘A bomb, I hope?’
‘Not quite, no. But equally shocking. A bride box.’
‘Are you insane?’
‘No. It was sent from Denderah. By people from this estate.’
‘Now I know you are insane! A bride box? To my husband? I would have thought he’d had enough of marriage. And should it be going to him anyway? I would have thought it would be sent to her. Whoever she is.’
‘The thing is, you see, the bride box was not empty.’
‘Well, no, it wouldn’t be.’
‘It contained the body of a young girl.’
The woman’s hand flew up to her throat.
‘A young girl?’
‘Whom I think you know,’ Mahmoud added.
FIVE
‘What do you want?’ asked the Pasha’s lady.
‘I want to talk to your servants.’
‘Why?’
‘Because servants from the estate brought the bride box to the railway station at Denderah and put it on the train.’
‘I do not think you can be right,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘It is a long way from here to Denderah on foot. Especially carrying a box.’
‘Perhaps a cart?’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying. A cart? How do you think I could spare a cart? This is a small estate. Our carts are in use.’
‘It wouldn’t take long to get there and back. It could be done in an afternoon.’
‘And who by? Do you think I can spare servants as easily as that?’
‘Nevertheless, I would like to talk to them.’
‘All of them?’
‘All those who work in the fields.’
‘They are in the fields now.’
‘Call them in. As you said, this is a small estate. It would not take long.’
The Pasha’s lady laughed. ‘You do not know our fellahin,’ she said. ‘Let them lift their heads and they won’t put them down again! Not today, they won’t!’
‘I would not ask it if it were not important.’
‘Have you tried the main house?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I need to try yours.’
The lady laughed again. ‘Got nowhere, did you?’
‘I talked to the men.’
The lady raised her eyebrows. ‘Ismail let you?’
‘He had them come in, and I talked to them.’
‘Well, that is a surprise!’
‘As I said, it is a matter of importance.’
She stood for a moment, undecided.
‘I shall not keep them long,’ said Mahmoud.
‘It is the interruption,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘The afternoon will go to pieces.’
‘I would not ask it if it were not important,’ he said again.
‘I do not see how it could be our people,’ said the lady, wavering. ‘My Osman makes sure they keep their heads down. As does Ismail. That is what they are there for. Would you like to talk to Osman first?’
‘It needs to be all.’
She hesitated, and then made up her mind.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will tell him to bring them in. But you must allow two hours.’
‘Two hours!’
‘Yes, Osman has to get there, and they are not all together. They are scattered over different fields. And then they all have to get back here.’
‘Very well,’ said Mahmoud, submitting to the inevitable.
The lady swept out.
‘Would you like to see my guns?’ asked the Pasha’s son, at a loss for conversation.
‘Guns?’
‘I have a collection of them.’
‘Well, yes, I would, please. And, may I ask, what is your name?’
‘Karim. And you are Mahmoud?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I will show you.’
He led Mahmoud along a corridor and then into a small room with racks for rifles. Dozens of them.
‘These are all yours?’
‘Yes. They are my collection.’
There was an old, toothless man in the room. He grinned at them and gave a half-bow.