Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

‘Slaves?’

‘I do not think so. For they spoke of a consignment and where it could be stored. The slaver said that the temple was a good place because it was big and had many rooms, in some of which, deep inside, things could be stowed and no one would find them. People were afraid of the temple and did not like to go in. The white man said that it sounded ideal, and the slaver said that he would show him a place. Then they both went off deeper into the temple and Soraya said we should go now that there was the chance. Particularly as Leila was sure she had been seen.’

‘So you went and did not see the place they had gone to?’

‘No, but later I went back on my own, when there was no one there. I did not like going; I was afraid I would lose my way and never get out. Still, I went.’

‘And did you find the place?’

‘Yes, I am almost sure. It was in a room at the back of the temple. It was off another one so well concealed that unless you knew it was there and where to look, you would not find it. But I had a torch with me and saw marks in the sand where they had been, and I followed the marks. And when I got there I knew it was the place because I found an old box and in it I found a shell.’

‘A trocchee shell?’

‘No, no. A gun shell. A bullet. One they use in rifles.’

‘That is very interesting. Could you show it to me?’

‘I have it at home.’

‘I would like to see it. And perhaps the place where it was left.’

When they came out again into the sunlight Owen’s eye was caught by a flash from one of the nitre tanks. For a moment he thought there must be some water in it, but then he realized it must be from the tar. Odd, he thought, that the connection between the temple and warfare should be so long-standing and still continuing.

Now that he had emerged victorious, Ismail, the head of the Pasha’s household, was prepared to be conciliatory. He sent a servant with them to show them off the estate. They went by a different route from the one they had come by.

‘It is quicker,’ said the servant.

The path led through a field of berseem, food stuff for the animals of the household, and then through thin acacia shrub. Through the scrub they occasionally caught a glimpse of the Nile. Then they turned away and headed inland. A road forked off, and on it a dead donkey was lying, buzzing with flies.

‘It is to attract the jackals,’ said the servant. ‘For the master to shoot.’

‘The master? He is here, then?’

‘The young master.’

‘Ah, the son.’

‘The son, yes. He stays with his mother.’

‘And he shoots jackals?’

‘What else is there for him to do?’

The servant stopped when they got to the fork. ‘Keep on this way,’ he said, ‘and it will take you back to Denderah.’

‘And the other path?’

‘Leads you to the other house.’

‘Where the Pasha’s lady lives?’

‘That is so, yes.’

The servant turned back and they continued on their way.

For only a little way. Then they stopped, and after a moment or two turned back.

‘What are we doing?’ said the clerk. ‘That is the way to Denderah!’

‘We will go somewhere else first.’

This arm of the fork was more overgrown and they had to push past scrub branches which dangled across the path.

There was the sudden crack of a rifle shot and a branch in front of them jumped suddenly. The clerk hurled himself to the ground.

Mahmoud stepped back behind a tree. ‘Stop shooting!’ he shouted. ‘There are people here!’

There was no reply. And then a man pushed out of the bushes ahead of them. ‘Frightfully sorry!’ he said, speaking in English, not in Arabic. He came forward, one hand held up before him apologetically.

He was an Egyptian, however, not English, a man in his mid-twenties. His hair was already beginning to recede, leaving the top front of his head bald and shiny, and there seemed something odd about him.

He was immaculately dressed in a newly laundered white shirt and newly pressed trousers. ‘Frightfully sorry!’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t know you were there. We don’t get many visitors. And, anyway,’ he said in a puzzled voice, ‘I don’t know how I came to miss it! I don’t usually. I think I may have caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye and been distracted. Yes, that would be it! I don’t see how I could have missed it otherwise. I saw it quite clearly. A big fat one perched on a bough. An easy shot. Frightfully sorry! I hope you’re all right?’

‘No damage done,’ said Mahmoud.

‘Oh, good!’ He looked down at the clerk still lying on the ground. ‘And what about you?’

The clerk rose sheepishly.

‘You look all right. Not a scratch, as far as I can see. But, I say, you must come back into the house! Have a drink or something.’

He went up to the door, which had remained closed, and hammered on it. ‘Yussef! Osman! Wake up!’

The door opened slowly.

‘Come on, Yussef, it’s only me. Except that I’ve brought some visitors. This is …?’

‘Mahmoud el Zaki. The Parquet.’

‘Mr el Zaki. Nearly shot him. And this is his man. Take him into the kitchen and give him some water. Cold water, that’s the thing! On a hot day like this. Especially if you’ve been shot at.’

The clerk, a little hesitantly, followed behind.

‘Don’t worry, you’re all right now. No shooting inside the house, that’s the rule. She’s very strict about it. No shooting inside the house! Mother!’ he called. ‘We have visitors. Come and meet Mr el Zaki!’

He led Mahmoud into what was obviously a reception room, the exact replica of one you would find in a rich man’s house in Cairo, with a marble floor which sloped slightly down to a little indoor pool in which a fountain was playing. At one end of this room was a traditional dais, spread with leather cushions. He sat, or rather lay, on the dais and indicated that Mahmoud should lie beside him.

Then he jumped up to greet an elderly lady who had come into the room.

‘This is my mother. You must meet my mother!’

She came forward. She was dressed in the conventional burka but her veil was pushed aside. She had sharp, intelligent eyes.

‘This is Mr el Zaki, Mother. He has come to visit us.’

‘I heard shots,’ she said.

‘That was me. I nearly shot Mr el Zaki.’

‘It was as well that you didn’t.’

‘He came by the back path, you see, and I was not expecting him.’

‘Even so, you should be more careful.’

‘Sorry, Mother! I saw a great fat pigeon-’

‘Where is the gun now? Have you put it away properly?’

‘Left it at the door.’

‘Unloaded?’

‘Yes, Mother. Unloaded. I made sure.’

She nodded. ‘Good.’ Then she turned to Mahmoud. ‘And what brings you here, Mr el Zaki?’

‘I am from the Parquet.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘The Parquet! This is an honour. It is not often that Cairo remembers us.’

‘I am investigating a case.’

‘Down here? I thought the Parquet never stepped out of Cairo!’

‘We do occasionally. When the case is important.’

‘So this one must be.’

‘Yes, it is. It concerns something sent to your husband.’

‘A bomb, I hope?’

‘Not quite, no. But equally shocking. A bride box.’

‘Are you insane?’

‘No. It was sent from Denderah. By people from this estate.’

‘Now I know you are insane! A bride box? To my husband? I would have thought he’d had enough of marriage. And should it be going to him anyway? I would have thought it would be sent to her. Whoever she is.’

‘The thing is, you see, the bride box was not empty.’