Mr. Impossible Page 4

  “Clear as a bell,” he said.

  “Good.” She indicated the divan opposite. “Kindly sit down. I have a great deal to say, and it is tiring to look up at you. You needn’t take off your shoes first. Eastern custom is inconvenient for those wearing European dress. Not that I am at all sure why people here go to the trouble of taking off their shoes before stepping on the rugs, when the sand easily covers rugs, mats, divans, and everything else with no help from us.”

  He took the seat she indicated, plumped up a cushion, and leaned back on it. As she settled onto the divan opposite, he noticed that she had shed her shoes. He caught a glimpse of slim, stockinged feet before she tucked her legs under her.

  He doubted she’d done it on purpose. She was not that type of female at all. But those nearly naked feet teased all the same, and the usual heat started down low.

  The lady opened her mouth to start lecturing, or whatever she had in mind, and he was turning his mind to imagining the view from her ankles up when Leena burst in. She pulled in after her the sturdy, cheerful fellow Rupert had waved to in the courtyard a short while earlier.

  “Drugged!” the maid cried. “Look at him!”

  Everyone looked at Wadid. He smiled and salaamed.

  “All day long he has been smoking hashish — or perhaps it was opium — mixed in his tobacco,” Leena said. “I could not tell what it was, because a perfume disguised the smell. But anyone can see that Wadid is in a heavenly place, and looks kindly upon everyone. He can tell us nothing.”

  Rupert got up, walked up to within inches of the gatekeeper’s face, and peered down into his half-closed eyes. Wadid smiled and nodded and said something in singsong.

  Rupert grasped him by the upper arms, lifted him off the floor, and held him aloft for a moment. Wadid’s eyes opened wide. Rupert gave the man a shake, then set him down.

  Wadid stared at him, mouth opening and closing.

  “Tell him, the next time I pick him up, I’ll pitch him out the window,” Rupert said. “Tell him, if he doesn’t want to test his flying skills, I recommend he answer a few questions.”

  Leena spoke rapidly. Wadid stuttered an answer, occasionally darting a frightened look at Rupert.

  “He says thank you, kind sir,” Leena said. “His head is much clearer now.”

  “I thought it might be,” Rupert said. He looked enquiringly at Mrs. Pembroke.

  Her remarkable eyes, too, had opened very wide. Her mouth, previously taut with disapproval, shaped an O. The prim expression had acted, apparently, as a sort of corset. Freed of it, her mouth was soft and full.

  He would like to pick her up, too, and bring that amazing face close to his and test the softness of those lips….

  But he was not that stupid.

  “You wished to interrogate him, I believe?” he said.

  She blinked, and turning to Wadid, launched into a stream of foreign talk.

  Wadid answered haltingly.

  While they went back and forth, Rupert departed, in search of coffee.

  After a few wrong turns in the maze, he found the stairway, and soon, on the ground floor, what looked like the cooking area.

  Its occupants had apparently deserted the place in great haste. He saw evidence of a meal in preparation. A bowl of chickpeas, partly mashed. Wooden implements on the floor. A ball of dough on a stone. A pot on the brazier.

  He found the silver coffee service with its tiny, handleless cups, but discerned no signs of coffee.

  He stepped into a small, adjoining room, which looked to be a sort of pantry. He started opening jars. Then he became aware of movement. A faint rustling. Rats?

  He looked in the direction of the sound. Several tall crockery jars stood in a dark corner. He saw a fragment of blue cloth.

  He crossed the room. The lurker attempted to dart past him, but Rupert caught the back of his shirt. “Ah, not so quick, my fine fellow,” he said. “First, let’s have a friendly chat, shall we?”

  Chapter 3

  THOUGH ONE COULD NOT TELL BY LOOKING AT her, though she seemed her usual controlled self, it took Daphne a good deal more time than it did Wadid to recover from Mr. Carsington’s demonstration of brute strength.

  She had felt, for a moment, like a character in The Thousand and One Nights who’d inadvertently let a genie out of a bottle. A large, powerful, and uncontrollable genie.

  She tried to concentrate on her few clues, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. It produced, too clearly, the look on Mr. Carsington’s face when she raised her veil.

  She had no name for the look. He was a man far outside the narrow bounds of her experience. She could hardly name her feelings, either: a wild hammering within and a chaos of thoughts and no way to make sense of a single one. There was only a powerful awareness — of the world having turned wild, unpredictable, and unrecognizable — and the sense of something dangerous let loose.

  This was irrational, she knew.

  But she was too overset to think clearly: Miles gone, the fine papyrus stolen, the house abandoned, the doorkeeper drugged.

  When her mind worked in the proper manner, Daphne did not believe in genii, good or bad.

  She made herself examine matters logically.

  Mr. Carsington was merely an English male of above average but by no means unusual height, she reminded herself. He appeared larger than life because (a) the average Turk or Egyptian was several inches shorter, and (b) he had the muscular physique more commonly associated with certain members of the laboring classes, such as black-smiths — and boxers, possibly, although she couldn’t be certain, never having seen a boxer in the flesh.

  Furthermore, the demonstration of brute strength proved how well Mr. Carsington suited her purposes. With him about, no one would dare intimidate her or stand in her way or refuse to cooperate.

  True, he was a blockhead, but that, too, was to her advantage. He could not confuse or cow her as her erudite husband had done so often and easily. Mr. Carsington would not assume, as Miles did, that she was too intellectual and unworldly to comprehend everyday life’s coarse realities.

  Considered calmly and rationally, in short, Mr. Carsington was perfect.

  Her mind once more in proper order, she focused on Wadid.

  He was more than willing to talk now. The trouble was, he didn’t know anything.

  He didn’t know which coffee shop boy had delivered the drugged tobacco. How could he? There were scores of such boys in Cairo, he said. They ran away. They died of plague. They found work elsewhere. Who could keep track of them? He had no idea where the tainted tobacco had come from — assuredly not from Wadid’s usual source, one of Cairo’s more respectable coffee shops.

  As to who had invaded the house and driven the other servants away, Wadid was equally in the dark. He’d been in a beautiful dream, he said. People came and went. Dream people or real people, he could not say.

  On learning that someone had stolen the master’s beautiful papyrus, he wept and blamed himself. He hoped the master would return soon and beat him, he said.

  But please, he begged, would the good lady tell her giant not to tear him limb from limb? The lady was kind and merciful, everyone knew. Had she not brought Akmed back from the dead? The men carry him in, and all the breath is gone from his body. Then she gives him a magic drink, and behold, he breathes again.

  Akmed had in fact been breathing, and the “magic drink” was tea from Daphne’s precious stores, the sovereign remedy for every ailment, physical, emotional, or moral. But having started talking, Wadid showed no signs of stopping. She let him carry on his monologue while she wondered what had become of her “giant.”

  He’d been gone rather a while.

  Gone back to the consulate, no doubt, she thought grimly. And who could blame him?

  She had a man’s mind in a woman’s body. The feminine arts were a far greater mystery to her than Egyptian writing. She had at least a rational hope of solving the latter. But when it came to femininity, her case was hopeless
. Virgil’s efforts to change her had only infuriated her — quite as though she were a man.

  Had she learnt those mysterious arts, had she behaved more prettily with Mr. Salt, he might not have been so quick to dismiss her concerns and fob off on her his aristocratic lummox of an aide.

  She had behaved even less prettily with Mr. Carsington. A proper woman would have exercised more tact. Even dumb beasts had feelings, and men could be sensitive about the oddest things.

  She rose. She would have to find him. She would return to the consulate, if necessary, and apologize.

  “We’ll speak more of this later, Wadid,” she said. “Go back to your place. Perhaps while you sit quietly, you’ll remember more.” She hurried across the room and out of the door through which Mr. Carsington had vanished.

  “Mistress?” Leena called behind her.

  Daphne turned her head to answer.

  And collided with something big, hard, and warm. Very big. Very hard. Very warm. Physical sensation knocked out thought, and she tottered, unbalanced.

  A large hand clamped on her upper arm and steadied her.

  “What a dervish you are, always hurrying this way and that,” Mr. Carsington said. “Pray consider the heat and the possibility of a brain fever.” He released her arm.

  The warmth lingered, and she still felt the impression of long, strong fingers on her skin.

  She retreated a pace.

  “I came looking for you,” she said, her voice strained, as though she’d labored up a pyramid to find him. “I thought you were…lost.”

  “Oh, I never get lost,” he said. “Not for long, at any rate. I only went looking for coffee. Turkish coffee is a wondrous beverage, and I thought we all needed a stimulant.”

  “Coffee,” she repeated stupidly.

  “Yes. And see what I found.” He moved aside. Behind him the twelve-year-old Udail carried the coffee service. “Lucky thing I was in front, eh, Tom, else she might have bowled you over.”

  “His name is Udail,” Daphne said.

  “Tom,” said the boy, gazing worshipfully up at Mr. Carsington. “Esmi Tom.”

  My name is Tom.

  In mere minutes, the man had frightened one servant into submission and cajoled another into idolatry.

  And he was tying her mind in knots.

  Daphne did not believe in genii. At that moment, however, she had no doubt that her trip to the Citadel dungeon had released a dangerous force.

  HER MOUTH, RUPERT noticed, was not only soft and full but mobile: forbiddingly grim at one moment and adorably bewildered in the next. He watched it change from bewildered to grim in the instant it took her to recover from their lovely collision.

  He’d seen it coming. He’d also seen no reason to prevent it. Quite the contrary.

  Her grim look did not trouble him in the least; neither did her telling him he was not to rechristen her servants.

  “How would you like it,” she demanded, “if I were to rename you Omar or Muhammad?”

  “A pet name, do you mean?” he said. “I shouldn’t object.”

  After a visible struggle to rein in her temper she said, “What you do or do not object to is not the point. He is an Egyptian boy, not English.”

  “Tom doesn’t mind,” Rupert said. “In any event, I couldn’t tell which part of the earful he gave me was his name.”

  “He was probably trying to tell you what happened,” she said. “I have no idea how you occupied yourself on the voyage to Egypt or during your stay in Alexandria. It is clear, however, that you employed not a minute of the time learning the language.”

  She turned sharply away and started back into the room she’d just exited: Cairo’s version of a salon or drawing room, with the usual unpronounceable name.

  “I thought you were to do all the brain work, and I was in charge of the physical side,” he said. “Surely you weren’t expecting me to interrogate the lad? I had the devil’s own time getting him to understand I wanted coffee.”

  They entered the large room. Wadid had left. Leena was there, though. After Tom set down the coffee service — on top of Mrs. Pembroke’s precious papers — Leena grabbed the boy by the shoulders, shook him, then hugged him, talking great guns all the while.

  Once Tom had recovered from near suffocation against Leena’s ample bosom, he launched into a very long recital.

  Several tiny cups of coffee later, Mrs. Pembroke gave Rupert the shorter English version. Apparently, persons calling themselves police had come, saying they must search the house. When Akmed heard their voices, he ran away.

  When the lady came to this point of her narration, Tom attracted Rupert’s attention. Saying, “Akmed” and something else, the boy did a comical imitation of a man limping.

  A green glare from Mrs. Pembroke brought the performance to a halt.

  Because Akmed ran away, the widow continued, all the other servants did, too. Tom, who was cautiously sneaking back into the house when Rupert entered the cooking area, had ducked into the nearest hiding place.

  Mrs. Pembroke returned her cup to the tray. “Since it’s obvious we’ll learn nothing more from the other servants, I see no reason to await their return,” she said. “The only logical course of action is to retrace my brother’s footsteps.”

  “We ought to check the guardhouses first,” Rupert said, recalling Beechey’s advice.

  “Miles is not in a guardhouse.” She rose abruptly from the divan, all impatience and rustling silk. “The men who came here were no more police than I am. And my brother is not in a brothel or an opium den, so you needn’t get your hopes up about visiting any of those establishments. We shall talk to those with whom Miles most recently associated. We shall start with his friend Lord Noxley.”

  “Garnet,” Rupert said as she picked up her hat and veil.

  She turned and looked at him, her expression wary. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Garnet. If someone asked me what color your hair was, I’d say, ‘Garnet.’ ”

  She clamped the hat onto her head. “Did you hear a single word I said?”

  “My mind wandered,” he said. “You’re on the tallish side for a woman, I think?” Something over five and a half feet, he estimated.

  “I do not see the relevance of my height or hair color,” she said.

  “That’s because you’re not a man,” he said.

  Very much not. The dress seemed designed to play down her assets rather than enhance them. She couldn’t disguise her walk, though. She walked like a queen or a goddess, chin high, back straight. But the arrogant sway of her hips bespoke a Cleopatra kind of queen, an Aphrodite kind of goddess. The walk was an invitation. The attire was a Keep Off sign. The combination was fascinating.

  “To a man, you see,” he continued, “these facts are immensely important.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “A woman’s looks are all-important. Her mental capabilities don’t signify in the least.”

  “That would depend,” he said, “on what she was thinking.”

  DAPHNE WAS THINKING it was very hard to think with Mr. Carsington in the vicinity.

  She was good at solving puzzles, usually. But the only idea she had about recent events was a ridiculous one, and no more ideas were forthcoming.

  She was not easily distracted. One must possess tremendous powers of concentration, not to mention an obstinate and tenacious character, to contend with ancient Egyptian writing.

  She might have easily ignored an earthquake or a barrage of artillery fire.

  She could not ignore him.

  She was aware of his abstracted expression while he calculated her height and decided what color her hair was.

  Now, as she sent Udail out to order the donkeys, she was aware of Mr. Carsington’s attention drifting away from her person to the table containing her materials.

  She recalled her agitated reaction when she first spied the disorder. What had she said? Had she given herself away? But no, she couldn’t have. The ruse was a hab
it by now, practically instinctive. It was Miles who had the more difficult task, pretending to be the brilliant scholar. Luckily, very few people in the world understood enough about decipherment to suspect him — and he took care not to meet those people face-to-face.

  Mr. Carsington was frowning down at the copy of the Rosetta Stone. “That papyrus,” he said. “I collect it was something out of the ordinary.”

  She, too, stared at the lithograph, wondering what he saw there. A fragment of hieroglyphic text. Below that another nearly complete section written in the script some scholars called demotic. Then the battered Greek text with its all-important final lines, announcing that all three texts were identical in content.

  “Like the Rosetta Stone?” she said. “I wish it had contained some hints in Greek. But it was all in hieroglyphs….” She looked up at him. “Are you asking whether it was valuable?”

  He nodded.

  “I daresay it was,” she said slowly, the truth dawning as she spoke it.

  She hadn’t thought of the papyrus in that way. She knew it had cost more than most, but then, it was a superior specimen. But that’s all it was to her. Perhaps Miles was right, to an extent: She was rather unworldly. It hadn’t occurred to her to lock it up, any more than it would occur to her to lock up a book.

  “I suppose one could call it valuable,” she said. “It was expensive.” She related the merchant’s tale of the mysterious pharaoh and his presumably untouched tomb.

  “I told Miles he encouraged such tall tales and probably set a bad precedent by paying so much,” she went on. “Yet it was remarkable. Written entirely in beautifully drawn hieroglyphs. Exquisite illustrations. The others I’ve seen are not works of art, and most were written in the script form. None was in such good condition. It isn’t hard to understand why Miles couldn’t resist it.”

  Mr. Carsington’s dark gaze shifted from her study materials to her face. He wore a perplexed expression. “And it didn’t occur to you why robbers might want it?” he said. “A guide to buried treasure?”

  “No, it didn’t,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine anyone could be so foolish as to believe that story.”