Read Online The Illusion of Murder by Carol McCleary - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol McCleary
Ads: Link
angry mob might drag me from the carriage, but the murder of John Cleveland and the deadly rage of the Mahdi has cast a long shadow in my mind, feeding doubts, confusion, and fears that I can’t share with my companions or anyone else on board because I don’t know whom to trust.
I regret I accepted the invitation but struggle to grin and bear it—with clenched teeth—as I sit in a carriage fit for a king en route to a feast given by a Bedouin sheikh at the ruins of a great city of antiquity.
Von Reich is pleased with our transportation. “The sheikh sent his own carriage for me. It would not have embarrassed a pharaoh.”
The gilt carriage has ornate carvings of snakes curling up around the poles, black tongues of the reptiles hissing toward the sky as if they are challenging the gods. Fish with vibrant colors of green, yellow, and turquoise that appear ready to leap off the poles are mingled between the snakes; sitting on top of each pole are white doves of peace each holding a bright lime-green leaf in its beak.
A silk canopy made of the most soothing sea-blue turquoise protects us from the sun. Aquamarine, azure, and violet overstuffed pillows with gold tassels are laid out on the seats for us to sit on.
Two fierce-looking Bedouins armed with rifles and swords on camels ride as our escort. So much for the white doves of peace …
From their conversation earlier on the beach road as we waited for the conveyance, it’s obvious my companions are pretending that nothing happened yesterday in the marketplace. Rather than the shocking events and the possibility that we will be attacked by another mob, they chat about the lack of good service and food aboard the ship, the poverty of Egypt, the unusual scenery … anything except that the blood of men had been spilled on the dirt of the marketplace before our eyes.
The pretense leaves me tense and unsettled, with questions and no closure and a sense of distrust, especially of Lord Warton. I have no doubt he’s the instigator of the game. He gives me solemn looks, communicating to others that I am an hysterical female who was so traumatized by the murder—and execution—that bringing up the subject would cause an imbalance in my delicate feminine constitution.
I’ve handled crooked politicians, convicted murderers, burly street toughs, and tough editors who would make mincemeat out of the pompous British lord. I have worked undercover as a madwoman in an asylum to expose the abuse of the mentally ill, walked mean streets as a prostitute to investigate how their male customers treat them, taken employment as a maid to show the abuse of servants, even danced in a chorus line and received shooting lessons from Annie Oakley … all without upsetting my female disposition.
I feel like asking the haughty gentleman exactly what he has done, besides trying to show Moroccans how to grow wheat, a task his employee would be far more qualified to perform. Or I could remind him that yesterday he had proved himself unable to handle the deadly encounter with the assassin when he froze in fear and confusion as a man with a dagger came at us.
Our carriage is rumbling over Port Said potholes when the British peer catches me by surprise by mentioning yesterday’s incident.
“What did the man in the marketplace give you yesterday?”
“Excuse me?”
“Someone told the police he passed something to you.”
“What is he supposed to have passed to me?”
“That is the question, young lady, what did he give you?”
“If someone believes they saw me being passed something, let them tell me to my face. I don’t intend to answer to an anonymous accusation.”
Lady Warton pats her husband’s arm as his cheeks color from what he no doubt considers my impertinence. “Let’s talk about more pleasant things, dear.”
I had avoided an outright denial just in case someone actually did see the man slip the scarab in my pocket. I’d like nothing better than to take the key
I regret I accepted the invitation but struggle to grin and bear it—with clenched teeth—as I sit in a carriage fit for a king en route to a feast given by a Bedouin sheikh at the ruins of a great city of antiquity.
Von Reich is pleased with our transportation. “The sheikh sent his own carriage for me. It would not have embarrassed a pharaoh.”
The gilt carriage has ornate carvings of snakes curling up around the poles, black tongues of the reptiles hissing toward the sky as if they are challenging the gods. Fish with vibrant colors of green, yellow, and turquoise that appear ready to leap off the poles are mingled between the snakes; sitting on top of each pole are white doves of peace each holding a bright lime-green leaf in its beak.
A silk canopy made of the most soothing sea-blue turquoise protects us from the sun. Aquamarine, azure, and violet overstuffed pillows with gold tassels are laid out on the seats for us to sit on.
Two fierce-looking Bedouins armed with rifles and swords on camels ride as our escort. So much for the white doves of peace …
From their conversation earlier on the beach road as we waited for the conveyance, it’s obvious my companions are pretending that nothing happened yesterday in the marketplace. Rather than the shocking events and the possibility that we will be attacked by another mob, they chat about the lack of good service and food aboard the ship, the poverty of Egypt, the unusual scenery … anything except that the blood of men had been spilled on the dirt of the marketplace before our eyes.
The pretense leaves me tense and unsettled, with questions and no closure and a sense of distrust, especially of Lord Warton. I have no doubt he’s the instigator of the game. He gives me solemn looks, communicating to others that I am an hysterical female who was so traumatized by the murder—and execution—that bringing up the subject would cause an imbalance in my delicate feminine constitution.
I’ve handled crooked politicians, convicted murderers, burly street toughs, and tough editors who would make mincemeat out of the pompous British lord. I have worked undercover as a madwoman in an asylum to expose the abuse of the mentally ill, walked mean streets as a prostitute to investigate how their male customers treat them, taken employment as a maid to show the abuse of servants, even danced in a chorus line and received shooting lessons from Annie Oakley … all without upsetting my female disposition.
I feel like asking the haughty gentleman exactly what he has done, besides trying to show Moroccans how to grow wheat, a task his employee would be far more qualified to perform. Or I could remind him that yesterday he had proved himself unable to handle the deadly encounter with the assassin when he froze in fear and confusion as a man with a dagger came at us.
Our carriage is rumbling over Port Said potholes when the British peer catches me by surprise by mentioning yesterday’s incident.
“What did the man in the marketplace give you yesterday?”
“Excuse me?”
“Someone told the police he passed something to you.”
“What is he supposed to have passed to me?”
“That is the question, young lady, what did he give you?”
“If someone believes they saw me being passed something, let them tell me to my face. I don’t intend to answer to an anonymous accusation.”
Lady Warton pats her husband’s arm as his cheeks color from what he no doubt considers my impertinence. “Let’s talk about more pleasant things, dear.”
I had avoided an outright denial just in case someone actually did see the man slip the scarab in my pocket. I’d like nothing better than to take the key
Similar Books
