The Shape of Sand (31 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: The Shape of Sand
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“I shouldn't think so,” said Millie, “Beatrice never thought of anyone but herself, did she?”
 
Half an hour later, Harriet knew she'd wrung from Millie as much as she was prepared to divulge. Before she left, however, she had to know about Hallam. “She told me she's been here since she left Charnley.”
“Yes. My maid at the time had just left me and I hadn't found another. I knew Clara would be looking for another position. She wasn't keen to come and live in London, but she agreed to give me her services until I found someone else. As it happens, she decided to stay. She's been with me getting on for forty years.”
What could account for this surprising change of heart on both sides? According to Beatrice's journal, Millie had endured the sour Hallam's ministrations with ill grace after Millie's own maid had departed in Cairo, leaving her high and dry.
“She's a dismal old thing but we've always managed to rub
along,” Millie said, reading her thoughts, “in fact, I doubt I should manage at all without her if ever she were to leave. Though of course, she never would.” Her tight smile bordered on the secretive, but for a moment there, her face had looked quite bleak at the prospect.
“Come again, Harriet. It's been a long time since I saw anyone from the old days.”
“I will.” Impulsively, Harriet bent and kissed her. “I'm sorry we lost touch. It's been a pleasure to meet you again.” This was true, for Millie, despite age, arthritis and loneliness, had lost none of her vivacity, the sparkle that had been so appealing in her younger days.
Hallam was there at the door the instant she opened it, too quickly for her to have been far away. Closing it firmly behind Harriet, she walked with her down the hall to the front door. There she paused in the act of opening it. “I heard about them - finding your mother,” she began stiffly. She hesitated, then plunged her hand into her pocket. “Here, take this!”
Harriet reached out to take the manila envelope but the old woman kept it clutched tightly in her knotted hand, reluctant to let it go. “What is it?”
“Only some old papers she asked me to take care of before she – before she – disappeared.”
Harriet was nonplussed. “I don't think I understand.”
What was the woman implying? That Beatrice had had some prescience of her death? It was more likely that she had been afraid of prying eyes seeing what she'd written, and Hallam's next words seemed to confirm this.
“You know what she was like. Secretive.”
Clara Hallam was no longer the lady's maid, having to watch her words and her attitudes. After a distance of forty years, bringing altered relationships, the need for pretence had gone and she was able to speak the plain truth without fear or favour – yet the criticism was unconsciously softened by a sigh, and Harriet knew that she was lying. Given that strange, twisted relationship she suspected had existed between them, it was scarcely credible that Beatrice would have entrusted Hallam with an envelope containing private papers, even supposing she'd had any unlikely premonitions of her coming
death. If the point of it was secrecy, she would surely have been aware of the possibility that the woman might open it?
“They're pages from her journal, aren't they?”
Harriet had once or twice come across her mother in her bedroom, reading or writing in that mysterious little grey suede book, and at such times it had immediately been slipped into a drawer. Hallam, however, would certainly have known of its existence and although it was furnished with a lock, would have known where the key was hidden – as it undoubtedly would have been. Harriet was convinced that it was Hallam herself who had cut those pages out, and kept them for reasons of her own – but why? Out of misplaced loyalty to her mistress, because they had contained something damaging to Beatrice?
Had Harriet so far misjudged her?
After a moment, Hallam nodded. “Yes, that's what they are.”
“Why didn't you hand them over before?”
“That doesn't matter. They weren't important, as it turned out — but they might be now.”
She saw that the woman's eyes, like Millie's, had been drawn to the golden ankh on its chain around Harriet's neck, and that she was staring at it, fascinated.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked suddenly, moving to stand too closely for comfort near Harriet. She was not, after all, as unchanged as Harriet had thought. On the contrary, at such close quarters she showed every year of her age in her face, every bitter thought that had dragged it into its harsh lines. “I do, and so should you. Mark my words, you should! They come back to haunt you, when you least expect it. You shouldn't have interfered. But you always were a meddlesome creature!”
“That's rubbish!” Taken aback as she was by the spite, Harriet still noted that Hallam had probably overheard most of her conversation with Millie. Interfere? What had she done that anyone could class as interference? Nothing more than insist that the past events she'd resurrected from Beatrice's journals had some significance, and she was certain this wasn' t something she might later come to regret. Wasn't she?
She realised the envelope was at last being thrust into her hands, and only when it was safely stowed in her bag did the maid snatch up her coat that was lying across a chair, almost throwing it at her. “Go now.” Her voice was shaking. “And don't come back, bothering
her.
She can't tell you anything – and never forget, she was a good friend to your mother, despite everything.”
Harriet left, closing the door very quietly behind her.
The restaurant where they had arranged to meet Iskander was a narrow building halfway down a shadowy street situated somewhere in the dun-coloured confusion of the old city, crammed with the sort of shops that might have come straight out of
The Arabian Nights.
Flaring torches and single electric light bulbs dangling from a flex were the only illumination for the dark interiors of booths piled with splendours like Aladdin's cave. Trading was still being carried on as they made their way to the rendezvous, the whole ceaseless bustling life of the city continuing undiminished by the arrival of darkness.
Iskander was late. “Not to worry, he'll be here” commented Tom, unfazed and clearly not expecting anything else, accustomed to the masterly sense of inactivity and supreme indifference to the clock that was masked by the noise and commotion in which Egyptians existed. Why hurry? Life here was but a footstep in the sands of time. A man who makes haste is a man who has no faith in the eternity of Allah.
Nina herself wasn't unduly impatient for Iskander to arrive. She was quite happy to watch the passing scene while sitting comfortably in a rattan chair in the restaurant window, in front of the velvet curtains behind which the serious business of eating was going on. On a window-seat nearby, a middle-aged Egyptian couple, smartly dressed, she with her plump fingers loaded with diamonds, he with gold, sat blissfully sharing a narghile. As they smoked, the gurgle of the water through the glass pipes provided a gentle accompaniment to the Arab music wailing from within the dim interior of the restaurant. She and Tom sipped scented, syrupy, violet-coloured drinks from tiny glasses, brought to them by the proprietor himself, who had welcomed Tom back like one of the lost sheep of the house of Israel.
At last he arrived. Valery Akhmet Iskander. Despite the
photograph taken at the birthday party, when he'd been wearing western dress, Nina had formed in her head a picture of a dark figure in a traditional white galabeya. But here he was, snappily dressed for the occasion in a sand-coloured suit, a dazzling white shirt and a red tie. She knew him to be of mixed race but here, in the flesh, it seemed to her as though the Russian in him had grown predominant as he'd grown older. His hair was no longer dark but grizzled. He was lighter-skinned than she had imagined he would be, stockily built and inclined to a paunch. His smile stretching from ear to ear, he threw his arms around Tom and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he stood back, regarding him intently. Gently, he put up a hand and touched the scar on his face. “A badge of courage, my dear young friend,” he said softly. “I am so very sorry.”
“Inshallah, Valery. Malish.” Nina suspected Tom's tongue was firmly in his cheek.
The will of Allah. It doesn't matter.
Well, maybe it didn't, to Allah.
With an ambiguous wave of his hand and his brilliant smile, Iskander accepted, or brushed aside, this fatalism. “It does my heart good to hear you call me by my name again. No one calls me that any more – Professor, yes. Or just Iskander. The young are too egalitarian, eh? These Nationalists. And this, I take it, is Miss Nina? Enchanté, m'selle.”
Her hand was taken in his warm, plump clasp and raised to his lips. Dark spectacles obscured the full impact of those famous light eyes, until he took them off and gave her a very shrewd look. She thought, yes, for all his cordiality, this was a man capable of harbouring deep resentments.
“Come, let's eat, and then you must tell me all that has happened to you since we last met, Tom.”
“When we have time – it's not me we came here to talk about.”
“Patience, patience! I have known this young man since he was born, Miss Nina, and he was impatient in the cradle. I knew his lovely mother. His father is one of my oldest, closest friends who taught me all I know.”
Did he know that Marcus was Tom's father? Almost certainly. He must have been aware of the situation between Rose Jessamy and Marcus when they arrived in Cairo. And it had
been he, after all, who had introduced Rose to the man she was eventually to marry.
All affability and charm, he led the way to reserved seats at a small table in the dim, pulsating interior of the restaurant and ordered a meal whose component parts, apart from some tender lamb kebabs, were unfamiliar to Nina, but the total sum of which was light and delicious. Tom advised her on the choice of falafel, tamaiya patties, seared aubergine and hummus. Iskander pressed her to a glass of mint tea. The serving of the meal was conducted in a leisurely manner that suggested tomorrow was another day, but while waiting for the food to be brought to the table, there were diversions in the form of a dervish dancer, who was rewarded with uproarious applause, as was the emotional Egyptian woman singer who replaced her. Everyone was enjoying themselves immensely. The heat grew and the noise level intensified. It was impossible to talk. “Come home with me,” Iskander said abruptly, as soon as they had finished eating. “We can talk better there.”
They emerged into the heavy dark night, daytime heat held by the buildings, and from somewhere, Iskander summoned a cab. Hooting and nudging its way through the dense traffic, it eventually deposited them outside a tall narrow building near the arch of the old Fatimid Gate, in a thronged street smelling strongly of spices, filled with dark little shops, and stalls selling but one commodity each – garlic, or oranges, or tomatoes - where trade was still vociferously being carried on under the flare of naphtha lights. Watched closely by three swarthy men in striped galabeyas, smoking under the shelter of an awning, they followed where Iskander led, into the dark interior of a shop, where the chief merchandise seemed to be pots, pans and baskets of every kind, through a door in the back and thence up some narrow stairs which led into his quarters above. “Welcome to my home,” he said, quietly but not without pride, seeing Nina's eyes widen at the sight of the room which, though narrow, ran back to front of the whole building, making its size considerable. “I'm lucky, am I not, to live in such great comfort here?”
He fussed around, insisting on providing refreshments, though they had just eaten a full meal. It was not until they
were settled on low divans with tiny cups of sweet, thick coffee poured from a planished copper pot with a long, curved spout, and small, sticky sweetmeats in filigree silver dishes were placed in front of them that Iskander indicated he was prepared to hear what they had come to say.
“Sorry to have sprung it on you, but we haven't much time before we go back to England,” said Tom.
“Always in such a hurry, Tom! All this way, and now you must rush back. Do try one of these, Miss Nina, they are delicious. No?” He chose for himself a tiny pastry, covered in honey and almonds, and popped it into his mouth.
“I wish we didn't have to go back so quickly, I'd have liked Nina to see something of Cairo, but there's no time. We're here unofficially, as it is.”
Iskander smiled understandingly at this. That was something he recognised, pulling strings, greasing palms, bargaining. Then his smile faded. “So, to this sad business. You wish me to help. How can I do this? But stay a moment — I think you may find this difficult to believe, but I must repeat it, for it is the absolute truth. When I left Charnley that morning, I knew nothing of the events that had happened there. I went straight to London and took ship for Egypt as soon as I could. In too much of a hurry perhaps, but I had my reasons. I had no idea that Beatrice had disappeared, until I heard it from her son when he came here.” His face set in melancholy lines. “And now she has been found. Such a tragedy.”
He listened with a grave, then incredulous face to the explanations of where and how Beatrice's body had been discovered. “Bayah-tree-chay. How beautiful she was. A perfect English rose. And her deportment! Not even the women of Nubia, trained from childhood to carry loads upon their heads, could have been more graceful!” He heaved a deep sigh and chose another pastry. “And so – the mystery of her disappearance is now solved — leaving an even greater mystery, eh? I have no doubt the police suspect me.”
“The man in charge doesn't appear to think so.”
“Nevertheless …”
A small silence ensued. Tom fingered his scar. Uncertain as to how to proceed – or perhaps unwilling. An hour or two
earlier, after his call to Iskander, he had surprised Nina by saying, “I fear she's going to be disappointed.”
“Who is?”
“Harriet. She's so adamant that Iskander must be involved.”
“And you don't want to admit it, if he is?”
“Iskander's my father's friend – and mine. I just don't want to believe he had anything to do with the damned affair.”
Nina had realised, of course, that he'd wanted to come here, not to establish Iskander's guilt, but his innocence. And now that the subject of the Nile trip and the reasons why the party had split up in Luxor had to be broached, she could see Tom was hesitant to begin. Well, she was the one, after all, who had read Beatrice's journal in full, whereas Tom had only had time to read it in parts; the rest of what he knew was only what she had been able to tell him. She was duty-bound to help him out.
The large room was cool, and smelled faintly of spices and jasmine. Iskander was evidently a man of taste, and not short of money. Against white walls and a marble floor were dark antiques and ancient rugs, sitting in pools of light cast by hanging lamps of wrought iron and jewel-coloured glass. The sofas on which they sat bore huge cushions of damask and silk in glowing colours. A whole wall was devoted to books. Mushrabiyeh-work tables carved in lacy trellis bore many more. There was again that light, gritty dust over everything, as if the desert sand encroached even this far into the city. Dust that filtered everywhere, impossible to keep out.
Into the silence the noises of the street intruded, just as Nina was about to speak voices were raised in shouts. The unmistakable roaring groan of a camel was unexpectedly heard among the hooting of motor horns and a policeman's whistle. Iskander showed no surprise or irritation, but rose and pulled the shutters across the two tiny trellised balconies which overlooked the street, and the room was enclosed in its own quietness again.
The small interlude had given Nina time to decide how to begin. She explained about the journal which Beatrice had written, and which Harriet had discovered, and found Iskander responding quite willingly to the prompting.
“Ah, yes, that journal!” He smiled reminiscently. “I remember how she would write in it, each day, on the dahabeah, how she would recall what we had seen and ask me to explain the intricacies and contradictions of this land.”
“She did seem to find your country very strange and hard to understand.”
“But she was in thrall to it, as many other people have been. It has held – and still does hold – a strange fascination, and no-one can tell who this may fall upon.”
“I think she was a little frightened of how it made her feel. One experience in particular seems to have affected her very strangely. Do you recall an incident in the temple at Luxor?”
He shrugged and spread his hands, which could have meant yes or no, and watched her as she went on to recount what Beatrice had written about the episode, aware even as she did that this was perhaps open to interpretation. “Whatever it was, I think it affected her so much because she had just, before starting out on the trip, lost an unborn child.”
The light eyes stared at her piercingly. His face was expressionless, but she thought he hadn't known this before. The room had become close since shutting the windows and he rose to switch on an electric ceiling fan. The paddles whirred lazily, stirring the warm air but not bringing in much coolness. The silence went on, during which he absently demolished a couple more of the delicacies in the silver dish and drank some more coffee.
Finally, he said, “I will tell you the story as best I can.”
 
“The English party were staying at the Luxor Hotel — now the Winter Palace. There had been an incident in the temple earlier that day, which was troubling me very much – or rather, my dear lady's reaction to it was. It was fortunate that she had recovered so quickly from the injury to her head, but I could not make out what it was that had made her so afraid that she had turned to flee and thus not taken enough care.” He paused. In the effort to find the right words to convey his meaning, the hitherto easy flow of his English was becoming stilted. “She was taken back to the hotel to lie down and recover, and the visit to the temple was abandoned by the rest
of the party. Later, in the cool of the evening, I walked up to the hotel from where the dahabeah was moored, to find out how she was. As I entered the gardens of the hotel, I saw a pale glimmer ahead of me in the darkness – and there she was, walking towards me, dressed in a loose white gown. I was overjoyed to find she had recovered and I hurried to meet her, hoping to speak with her and find out what had caused her to become so distressed that she had fled the temple and walked blindly into the stone lintel. When I drew level with her, I could see that she seemed to be weeping bitterly, and hadn't been aware of my approach. It distressed me very much to see her in such condition and I stepped up to her and reached out to take her hand, hoping to comfort her in a way she had always found soothing. To my astonishment, she half-screamed and drew back, crying, ‘Don't touch me! Haven't you done enough already?' Her sobs increased and she turned about and ran back the way she had come, straight into the arms of Major Randolph. ‘Don't let him touch me! Keep him away from me!' She was quite hysterical. And then I saw that she was holding together the bodice of her gown, as if it had been torn open …”

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