Mr. Impossible Page 8

  “Don’t faint,” he said.

  “I. Never. Faint.” Four heaving, irate syllables.

  “The way seems clear as far as the portcullis,” he said. “Beyond that is the first passage. I doubt anyone would lurk there, so near the entrance.”

  She directed her churning mind to practical rather than hysterical thoughts. “Twenty-two feet seven inches to the portcullis,” she said. “The portcullis section itself is six feet eleven inches.” But while her rational mind calculated the remaining distance, the other, darker part of her being was engulfed in physical awareness: the size and strength of his hands holding her steady…his nearness, a breath away in the small space…the musky scent of Male, mingled with faint traces of smoke and soap.

  The thin shirt under her jacket clung damply to her skin. She was swimming in heat and confusion, and she longed, desperately, to be anywhere else, safe and clean, with her brother.

  She was aware as well of a darker longing, one she’d rather not examine too closely. The two feelings tangled, and she understood only that she was weary and confused and desperately unhappy. She bowed her head and leaned toward the man who wasn’t her brother or even her brother’s trusted friend, until her turban touched his chest.

  He grasped her shoulders. “No fainting,” he said. “No weeping, either.”

  Her head shot up. “I was not weeping,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “Were you finding me irresistible? Sorry.” He tried to draw her back.

  Daphne pulled his hands from her shoulders and retreated as far as she could in the small space. “You are impossible,” she said.

  “If you were not fainting or weeping or making an advance, what were you doing, then?” he said.

  “Succumbing to despair,” she said. It was true enough, if not the whole truth. “But it was momentary. I am fully recovered. Shall we proceed, and ought I do so with my knife drawn?”

  “You’d better keep it where it is for the moment,” he said. “Otherwise you might stab me to death accidentally.”

  “If I stab you to death,” she said, “it will not be accidental.”

  AS IT HAPPENED, neither Mrs. Pembroke nor anyone else attempted murder or mayhem on the way out. Rupert emerged with her into the sunlight unscathed.

  Then followed a chain of events with which he was more than familiar. A large body of men closed about them and, despite Mrs. Pembroke’s furious protests in what seemed to be five different languages, arrested them.

  GHAZI, WHO STOOD among the onlookers, found it amusing that Chephren’s pyramid, which had not housed a corpse in thousands of years, now held two.

  The police found the two guides, their throats slit, on the stones piled alongside the ladder. That was all they found. They could not discover who had screamed. No one in the vicinity had heard or seen anything.

  This was because everyone had been gathered about and listening raptly to a Cairene’s tale of the evil genie who lived on his neighbor’s roof and played cruel tricks on passersby.

  The Cairene was one of Ghazi’s men.

  Ghazi had sent another to the district police with a tale of a mad Englishman — the one who’d tried to kill a soldier the other day — bent on evildoing at Chephren’s pyramid. Ghazi’s associate had gone well-supplied with money, to encourage the police to act quickly.

  Ghazi had had to improvise, and swiftly, because matters had not proceeded as planned.

  Two of his men had hidden in Chephren’s pyramid just before dawn. They’d been awaiting the Englishman, in order to help him have an accident.

  No one was expecting the woman.

  Luckily, Ghazi had not sent stupid men into the pyramid. They knew the Englishwoman was very important to Lord Noxley — the man they knew as the Golden Devil. The men knew they must not harm her. They also realized — as stupid men would not — that it was unwise to harm the Englishman while she was about. She would make a fuss — much as she did at present — and force the English consul general to make a fuss, too. This would annoy Muhammad Ali. When the pasha was annoyed, people’s heads and necks went separate ways. Sometimes there was torture first. Occasionally, a disemboweling.

  Consequently, Ghazi’s men had reassessed the situation and killed the guides instead. No one would make a fuss about a couple of dead Egyptian peasants. But word of the incident would quickly travel, and other Egyptians would decide it was healthier to stay away from the English lady and her concerns.

  This, Ghazi decided, was more than satisfactory. She would have no one to turn to but his master.

  Meanwhile, Ghazi would look for another opportunity to get the man called Carsington out of his master’s way.

  MEANWHILE, IN BULAQ, Cairo’s port, Miles Archdale’s servant Akmed was applying for work on one of the finer Nile boats. Nearly as well known as the pasha’s barge, the Memnon belonged to a foreigner who had lived in Egypt for several years.

  The captain studied Akmed’s bruised face for a long time. “A fighter?” he said at last.

  “I had trouble with some soldiers,” Akmed said. It was true enough, though not the cause of his injuries. The soldiers had been ready to give him trouble — though the tall Englishman who’d so bravely intervened got the worst of it. The English had been very good to Akmed. He wished he could repay them in some way. But for now all he could do was run away.

  Yesterday, when the false policemen came, he’d recognized one of the voices. It belonged to one of the men who’d taken his master captive the day before. That was when Akmed remembered they’d looked for a papyrus among his master’s belongings and had been furious when they couldn’t find it. They’d beaten Akmed and left him for dead because he would not tell them where it was. They would have done the same had he told them. They wanted him dead. He was the only witness to the kidnapping. As soon as they discovered they hadn’t killed him, they’d be after him — and any who tried to protect him would suffer.

  He had to leave Cairo.

  But he had no money and dare not seek help from his family or friends.

  And so he’d come to Bulaq, to look for work on a boat, one that would take him far away from Cairo as quickly as possible.

  This one promised to suit his purposes.

  “We need fighters,” the captain said. “Some brigands have taken an Englishman hostage. We go to hunt for him. My master, the owner of this boat, commands us to be ready to sail by daybreak tomorrow. It is dangerous work, and needs men of courage as well as skill.”

  Akmed’s heart beat with joy. Silently he thanked his Maker for this chance to help his master. He told the captain he spoke English and a little French, and had waited upon English travelers before and knew their customs. He knew how to shave them, dress them, cook and sew for them.

  “Regrettably, I have no letters of reference,” Akmed said. “The soldiers destroyed all my belongings.”

  The captain smiled. “Anyone can forge a letter,” he said. “My master judges by performance. Do well, and you’ll be well. Do badly, and it will go badly with you.”

  And in this way, all unwitting, Akmed became an employee of the Golden Devil.

  THE POLICE ESCORTED Rupert and Mrs. Pembroke to a guardhouse in Cairo, and it was late the following afternoon before Mr. Beechey was able to arrange for their release. By this time, Mrs. Pembroke was in a murderous rage, and Rupert had to take her firmly by the arm as they left the guardhouse, to prevent her doing an injury to one or several members of the police force.

  They had immediately disarmed Rupert but had not even searched her. Having quickly perceived that his so-called Maltese translator was a she, not a he, they foolishly assumed she was harmless. They kept her separated from her alleged accomplice for reasons of propriety rather than any fear of the two “suspects” combining forces.

  To make sure the police continued in ignorance, Rupert hustled her away from the place and whistled for transportation. Two donkey drivers with their beasts came running. Rupert picked her up and planted her
on one donkey and swiftly mounted the other. She glared at him but gave the drivers the direction, and off they went, the men running ahead, the donkeys trotting behind through the crowded streets.

  Her servants who, amazingly, had not run away when the police arrived at the pyramids, had returned to Cairo when their mistress was arrested. When she came home, they bustled into action. Fresh coffee and a large tray of un-English food appeared within a quarter hour of her arrival.

  The mistress glowered at it, then yanked off her turban and threw it on the floor.

  “I have let myself be made fool of!” she cried. “If I had listened to Lord Noxley, this never would have happened. But no, I had to go to Giza on a wild-goose chase with a man who is a known troublemaker. Had anyone seen fit to inform me of the number of times you’ve been arrested, I should have left you to rot in the dungeon! I might have found Miles by now, instead of wasting an entire day and more!”

  Her hair tumbled about her shoulders. It was thick and wavy and gleamed like red gems where the light caught it. Ruby and garnet. And her eyes were like…No, they were not like emeralds. This was a different green.

  Rupert dropped onto the divan and considered the various items in the small dishes. “You gave me to believe that Noxious wanted you to sit quietly at home while he went about Cairo interrogating his friends. You seemed unhappy about this method.”

  “That is not the point! The point is…” She trailed off and looked about the room. Her gaze settled upon the wooden Egyptians staring back mutely from the shelf.

  “I should have gone mad, sitting at home, waiting,” she said tautly.

  “Instead, you went to Giza and came back with a clearer picture of your enemy,” Rupert said.

  The green gaze shifted to him. “I did?”

  “Of course you did,” Rupert said. “You’re a trifle overset at the moment, else you’d realize how much you discovered.”

  She came up to the divan. Her remarkable face wore a guarded expression. “Such as?”

  “Even I collected a few clues,” he said. He held up his thumb. “First, we are not dealing with common miscreants but an organization.” His index finger went up. “Second, the man in charge is clever: kidnapping, papyrus theft, and today’s events — all neatly arranged. Recollect that it was two ordinary Egyptians who were killed at Giza. We were not harmed, except in our pride. Our man knows how far he can go.”

  “Egyptian life is held very cheap,” she murmured, nodding.

  Rupert continued to keep count with his fingers. “Third, he knows how to manipulate the police. Interesting, isn’t it, how they were on the spot as we came out, how they arrested us first, then went looking for the bodies.”

  “Bribed,” she said.

  She began to pace, innocently unaware of the enticing way the thin trousers slid against her legs, the way they concealed then revealed the turn of ankle and calf and thigh, the way the fabric shifted with the sway of her hips.

  He watched, not at all innocent or unaware. “Fourth.” He paused briefly. “It grieves me to admit it, but Noxious was right about one thing: French or not, our villain has an impressive network of spies.”

  “How else would he have had time to arrange events at Giza?” she muttered, still pacing. “There cannot be many men in Cairo who meet these criteria. It must be someone who has lived here for some time. He is well connected to the local underworld. He probably moves freely in the European community. He may be a member of the pasha’s court. Anyone close to Muhammad Ali has influence, power.”

  “How many people qualify?” Rupert said.

  “I’ve no idea,” she said. “Egypt attracts opportunists. People who would be considered disreputable in their native countries can achieve a degree of respectability here.”

  She stopped abruptly, glanced at him, then away again.

  After a moment she came back to the divan and sank onto it with her usual quick grace. She sat much nearer to him than she’d previously done, not quite an arm’s length away.

  She poured coffee, her gaze abstracted. Two cups. Apparently, he was forgiven. For the moment.

  Rupert took his cup and drank happily. There was nothing like Turkish coffee. Or Turkish trousers on an attractive Englishwoman. He wished the jacket were equally revealing. He imagined her draped in gauzy silks, her intriguing body stretched out upon the divan while he with hands and mouth ascertained her precise dimensions.

  He looked up to find her gazing steadily at him.

  It was unsettling. For a moment he believed she could see straight through into his brain. Not that there was much to see. Still, he doubted she’d feel more amiably toward him if, for instance, she could discern how vast an amount of mental space his fantasies of seduction occupied, compared to the cramped corner devoted to the problem of murdered guides and corrupt police.

  “Before we go any further, I must say something,” she said. “I have a temper.”

  “I noticed,” he said. “It’s quite exciting. I don’t know what you were saying to the police at the guardhouse, but you didn’t seem to be trying to win them over.”

  “You guessed correctly,” she said. “I was pointing out how illogical it was for us to kill our guides and leave ourselves in utter darkness.”

  “Is that what you were telling them?” he said. “It sounded a great deal more complicated.”

  Her color rose. “I may have commented unfavorably on their intelligence and added one or two unflattering references to their parentage.”

  “That is exciting,” he said. “It’s a wonder they didn’t behead us on the spot.”

  “I was not thinking clearly,” she said. “I have never been arrested before. It was infuriating. The thickheadedness of the police was beyond anything I have ever before encountered, or even imagined.”

  “Yet somehow these thickheads penetrated your masterful disguise,” he said.

  She looked down at herself. Her eyes widened. She put her hand up to her head. “Good grief,” she said. “I’d completely forgotten.” She rose hastily. “I am not at all presentable.”

  Her idea of “presentable” was buttoned up, pinned up, and covered up, all in black. Rupert vastly preferred the disheveled and temperamental version — especially the tumbled hair, which begged his fingers to tangle in it.

  “It’s only me,” he said, helping himself to a date. “I don’t mind if you’re a bit of a mess.” He threw her a look of innocent inquiry. “Or were you were wishing to make yourself more attractive to me?”

  She sat back down. “I was explaining about my temper — and perhaps I ought to mention your genius for setting it off.” She shut her eyes, and after a moment opened them again.

  Rupert wondered if she was counting to ten. People often did that when conversing with him.

  “I wish to apologize,” she said.

  “That isn’t nec —”

  “It is necessary,” she cut in. “I should have been wretched if you hadn’t taken me to Giza. And we did learn something, as you said.”

  He didn’t want or need an apology. He didn’t mind her temper in the least. Liked it, actually. Still, it was sporting of her to apologize.

  She’d displayed the same pluck in Giza. Since she did seem to have a morbid aversion to being shut up in dark places, she must have been sick with fear. Yet she’d gritted her teeth and kept on, emerging in fine fettle for battling the police.

  Even a night’s incarceration had not shaken her.

  Meanwhile he, who’d abundant experience with jails, had not spent the most comfortable night. He’d told himself the police wouldn’t harm her. They’d restrained themselves during her tirades, hadn’t they? All the same, he’d spent the night sharply alert, listening for any indication that she was in distress.

  He banished the puzzling recollection. She was a handful. He’d seen that from the start. Not a restful sort of female. She even obliged him to think from time to time.

  He did so now, eager to put the apology behind t
hem.

  “Obviously, our villain is trying to delay and mislead you,” he said. “That tells us your brother is unharmed and probably not far away.”

  She nodded, but her green gaze was abstracted, shifting from side to side.

  Rupert returned to eating while he watched her think.

  After a few minutes’ hard cogitation, she said, “All our clues point to a clever, powerful, and dangerous person. Surely someone in Cairo would know who the most likely suspects are. Lord Noxley…” She shook her head. “No, we need to talk to someone who’s made his home here, someone who knows everybody and everything.”

  She looked up at him, then past him at the row of inscrutable wooden figures on the shelf. “Good grief. The merchant.”

  Rupert looked that way, too.

  “We bought most of those figures from the same man who sold Miles the papyrus,” she said. “That’s where we should have started, with Vanni Anaz. Who told him the story of the lost pharaoh’s tomb? How many people did he tell? How many showed an interest in the papyrus?”

  “Excellent point.” Rupert swallowed the last of his coffee and rose. “Begin at the beginning. And we’d better do it sooner rather than later — before our villain guesses our next move.”

  “Now?” she said. Her hand went to her head, and she looked down at herself in dismay.

  He picked up the turban she’d flung down. “I’ll help you,” he said.

  Chapter 6

  DAPHNE’S MIND WASN’T AT ITS SHARPEST. SHE’D lain awake last night straining to hear what was happening elsewhere in the guardhouse and berating herself for losing her temper with the police. If they beat or tortured Mr. Carsington, it would be her fault.

  Her beastly, unwomanly temper. Five years of Virgil’s gentle reproofs had not helped subdue it. On the contrary, the reproofs only made her angrier.

  Mr. Carsington did not mind her temper at all. Exciting, he called it — though she might have got them both killed.

  She looked up at him as he wrestled with her hair and the turban.