Whispers in the Sand (12 page)

That night, dressed in her coolest muslin, Louisa lingered at the saloon table after Augusta had retired to her cabin. Sir John raised an eyebrow. “We sail as soon as the wind gets up a little. The
reis
tells me that should be with the dusk. The wind comes in off the desert then.” He reached for the silver box of cheroots and offered it to her. Louisa took one. She had never smoked before coming to Egypt. To know how shocked her mother-in-law would be to see her was enough reason. The scandalised lift of Lady Forrester’s eyebrow had been a second. With a silent chuckle, she leant forward and allowed Sir John to light it for her.

“Can I ask you to translate something for me?” She reached into her pocket for the paper which had been wrapped around the little bottle.

Sir John took it. Leaning back, he inhaled deeply on his own smoke and rested it on a small copper ashtray. “Let me see. This is Arabic, but written a long time ago, judging by the paper.”

He glanced at her for a moment. “Where did you say you found this?”

She smiled. “I didn’t. One of the servants found it in the souk with a souvenir he bought for me.”

“I see.” He frowned. Laying it down on the table, he smoothed out the creases and peered at it in silence for several moments. Watching him, Louisa could feel her first casual interest tightening into nervous apprehension. He was frowning now, a finger tracing the curling letters over the page. At last he looked up.

“I think this must be a practical joke. A piece of nonsense to frighten and amuse the credulous.”

“Frighten?” Louisa’s eyes were riveted to the paper. “Please, will you read it to me?”

He was breathing heavily through his nose. “I needn’t read it exactly. Indeed it is difficult to decipher all of it. Sufficient to say that it seems to be a warning. The item it accompanies—” he looked up at her, his blue eyes shrewd—“you have that item?”

“A little scent bottle, yes.”

“Well, it is cursed in some way. It belonged once to a high priest who served the pharaoh. An evil spirit tried to steal it. Both fight for it still, apparently.” His face relaxed into a smile. “A wonderful story for the gullible visitor from abroad. You will be able to show it to people when you go back to London and watch their faces pale over the dinner table as you recount your visit to Egypt.”

“You don’t think it’s serious, then?” She tapped ash from her cheroot onto the little copper dish.

“Serious?” He roared with laughter. “My dear Louisa, I hardly think so! But if you see a high priest on the boat, or indeed any evil djinn, please tell me. I should very much like to meet them.”

He moved his chair closer to hers as he laid the paper down on the table between them. “There are real antiquities to be bought if you have the contacts. I could arrange for some to be brought to the boat when we return to Luxor. There is no need for you to send servants to the bazaar.”

“But I didn’t—” She bit off the words before she could finish the sentence, realising suddenly that it would not be wise to tell Sir John that the bottle had been a present from her dragoman.

He leant closer to her. “I have been looking at some of your watercolours.” He nodded towards the corner of the cabin where she had left a folio of sketches. “They are very good.”

It was extremely hot in the cabin. She could feel the heat from his body so close beside her; smell his sweat. She edged away from him. “That is kind of you to say so. And yes, I should like it if it were possible to have some antiques brought to the boat. I have, as you know, very little spending money, but if I saw something I liked I could at least sketch it.”

He let out a roar of laughter. “First rate! Good idea! I shall look forward to seeing you do that.” His hand came down on top of hers, suddenly, as she rested it on the table, and he gave it a squeeze. “First rate,” he repeated.

Louisa pulled her hand away, her anxiety not to offend him fighting with her desire to stand up and put as much distance as possible between them.

A sound in the doorway made them both turn. Jane Treece stood there, her eyes on the table, where, a moment before, their hands had lain together on the piece of paper with its Arabic script.

“Lady Forrester wondered whether Mrs. Shelley would like me to help her get ready for bed.” The voice was a monotone. Cold. The woman’s eyes strayed to the ashtray where Louisa’s cheroot lay, a thin wisp of smoke rising up towards the cabin lamp hanging from the ceiling beams.

Thank you.” With some relief Louisa stood up. “Forgive me, it has been a tiring day.” She moved away from the table, her black skirts rustling slightly. She could feel Sir John’s eyes on her, and her face grew hot again.

“Your note, my dear.” He picked up the piece of paper and held it out to her. “You had better keep it safe. Your grandchildren will no doubt enjoy the story.”

Anna stopped reading for a moment. Beneath her, she could feel the steady movement of the boat as it forged its way south. In the diary, Louisa too was making her way over exactly the same stretch of river, heading towards Esna and Edfu. With her scent bottle. A scent bottle with a curse, haunted by evil djinn. In spite of the heat of the cabin, Anna shivered.

She lay looking up at the shadows on the ceiling thrown by the small bedside light, the diary propped open on her chest. What had happened to that piece of paper with its story, she wondered.

Her eyes wandered over towards the little dressing table, where she had left her bag. It was dark there; she could just see the outline of the mirror, the glass faintly echoing the light the lamp threw onto the ceiling. She stared at it sleepily, and then suddenly she frowned. Deep in the mirror, had she seen something move? She caught her breath as a shaft of panic shot through her. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She gripped the quilt tightly to her chest, then she closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. This was nonsense. She was dreaming, frightened by a fairy story. She pushed herself up against the pillows and groped for the switch to the main cabin light as the diary slid to the floor with a crash. In the harsh clarity the overhead lights threw on the scene, she could see clearly that there was nothing there. The key was still in the cabin door. No one could have come into the room. Her bag was lying untouched where she had left it—or was it? Still trembling with shock, she forced herself to push her feet out from under the sheet and, standing up, she went over to the dressing table. Her bag lay open, the scent bottle in full view on top of her sunglasses. Cautiously she touched her scarf. It had been wrapped round the bottle in the bottom of the bag, she was sure of it. Now the scarf lay across the dressing table, a swathe of fine scarlet silk against the dark-stained wood. She stared at it with a frown. Across the silk lay a scattering of some kind of brown papery stuff. Curious, she reached out to touch it and rubbed some of it between her fingers. Then she swept it to the floor. Under the scarf lay the hairbrush she had used before she climbed into bed, the hairbrush she had taken from her bag last thing before she rezipped it and put it on the shelf. She was sure of that, too. She had closed it and put it away.

She glanced round. There was nowhere for anyone to hide in the room; nowhere. She threw open the shower room door and rattled back the curtain, still damp from her shower only a couple of hours or so earlier. She looked under the bed, she shook the door handle. It was firmly locked. But already she knew there was no one there. How could there be?

With another shiver, she made her way over to the bed and bent down to pick up the diary. It had fallen open when it hit the floor, cracking the spine lengthways. Forgetting the scarf, she ran her finger sadly over the leather. What a shame. It had lasted so long undamaged, and now it had been broken. It was as she was preparing to climb back into bed that she noticed that an envelope lay on the floor where the diary had fallen. She bent to pick it up and saw that the strip of sticky brown paper with which it had been stuck in the back of the diary had torn away. The thick woven paper told her at once it must be contemporary with the diary, and turning it over, she saw a crest embossed on the flap. It depicted a tree with a coronet. She smiled. Forrester? Had it been, she wondered, part of the stationery they used on the boat? Forgetting her fright in her curiosity, she opened it. Folded inside was a flimsy piece of paper. Already she had guessed it was Louisa’s Arabic message.

If you see a high priest on the boat, or indeed any evil djinn, please tell me…

The words from Louisa’s entry echoed for a moment in her head.

A high priest who served the pharaoh…an evil spirit…both fight for it still…

Anna found that her hands were shaking. Taking a deep breath, she put the paper back in the envelope and, opening the drawer in the bedside table, slotted it into her slim leather writing case.

Climbing back into bed and pulling her feet up under her, she drew the covers up to her chin. The cabin was cold. A stream of sharp, night-scented river air came in from the open window.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, and resting her chin on her forearm, she shut her eyes.

She sat there for a long time, her eyes straying every now and then to the bag still lying on the dressing table. At last she could bear it no longer. Climbing to her feet again, she pulled the little bottle from the bag. Holding it in her hand, she stared at it for a long time, then reaching down her suitcase from the top of the cupboard, she rewrapped the bottle in her scarf; put it in the suitcase, tucking it into an elasticated side pocket where it would be safe; closed the lid; turned the key, and hefted the case back into place. Helping herself to a glass of water from the plastic bottle on the table she stood for several minutes sipping the cold water, staring out at the blackness of the night as it drifted by, then snapping off the main cabin light, she climbed back into bed.

Louisa was not sure what had awakened her. She lay looking at the ceiling in the darkness, feeling her heart thumping against her ribs. She held her breath. There was someone in her cabin. She could sense them standing near her.

“Who’s there?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it seemed to echo round the boat. “Who is it?” Sitting up, she reached with a shaking hand for her matches and lit her candle. The cabin was empty. Staring into the flickering shadows, she held her breath again, listening. Her cabin door was shut. There was no sound from the sleeping boat. They had moored as night fell, against a shallow flight of marble steps, where palms and eucalyptus trees grew down to the edge of the river. Water lapped against the steps, and in the distance, against the fading twilight, she had seen the outline of a minaret.

A sharp crack followed by a rattling sound made her catch her breath. The noise had come from the table in front of the window. It sounded as though something had fallen to the floor. She stared at the spot, straining her eyes in the candlelight, then, knowing she would not rest until she had looked more closely, she reluctantly climbed out of bed. She stood for a moment in her long, white nightgown, the candle in her hand, staring at the floor. One of her tubes of paint had fallen from the table. She picked it up and stared at it. The slight movement of the boat as it lay against its mooring must have dislodged it and allowed it to roll from the table. Her eyes strayed to Hassan’s scent bottle. She hadn’t seen him to speak to since he had given it to her that afternoon. While she dined with the Forresters, he had been sitting on the foredeck with the
reis
, smoking a companionable hooker, both men deep in conversation.

She had tucked the piece of paper with its Arabic warning into an envelope and slipped the envelope into the back of her diary. Joke or not, the message made her feel uncomfortable.

The little bottle was standing on the table with her painting things. She frowned. She had surely tucked it into her dressing case? She remembered distinctly doing so before dinner. Perhaps Jane Treece had moved it when she tidied away Louisa’s muslin gown and, not recognising it, had assumed it was part of her painting equipment. She reached out to pick it up and at the last moment hesitated, almost afraid to touch it. What if it were true? Supposing it was three or four thousand years old? Supposing it had been the property of a temple priest in the days of one of the ancient pharaohs?