Free The Khamsin Curse by Anna Lord

not
extraordinary for Mrs Baxter to have met the colonel. She may even
have organized his employment since she handled most if not all of
Mr Lee’s affairs.
    If she had stopped for a coffee
at the maqha, as he and the Countess had done earlier, and where
several foreign women were doing likewise, then it was not unusual
that she may have bumped into the colonel who happened to also stop
by for some shisha.
    But something wasn’t right. He
couldn’t put his finger on it. But something about the scene seemed
wrong. Though, if he admitted it, it might simply have been that he
was annoyed Sherlock’s nemesis was ingratiating himself into the
attractive widow’s good-books – offering her a cigarette, buying
her a coffee, organizing an ashtray!
    By the time he reached the
wharf he had cooled down, which was just as well, for Mr Lee and
two men were standing at the foot of the gangway. Mr Lee was
red-faced, blustering on about something, pointing angrily at the
newly painted name of the paddle-steamer.
    A tall man in naval uniform who
might have been the ship’s captain but who was in fact the newly
appointed Arab steward, Azrafel, was translating for the benefit of
an Egyptian holding a paintbrush, though not much translating was
required.
    Sekhmet was missing a H.
    Ordinarily, he would have seen
the funny side of it but the incident seemed to add to the minor
irritations of the day. He was almost ready to direct the driver to
continue to the barge which would ferry him across the river to the
west bank, whereby he could return to the hotel, when he spotted
Miss Lee, Miss Clooney and Mr Gideon Longshanks on the upper deck.
The handsome major was wasting no time pressing his considerable
charm on the young ladies.
    They gave him a friendly wave
and it cheered the doctor no end to join them in a refreshing Pimms
under the striped canopy.
    The ladies were amused by the
misspelling. The painter offered to work through the night to fix
the error and even Mr Lee lightened up. He gave the doctor a tour
of the paddle-steamer but he didn’t know whose cabin was whose,
apart from his own. Mrs Baxter took care of all that. She had been
with him just over twelve months and he didn’t know what he ever
did without her. This trip to Egypt would have been impossible to
organize without her expertise.
    The boat was a hive of
activity. Foodstuffs were being loaded and finishing touches were
being put to the luxurious furnishings. The Arab steward seemed to
be juggling several balls at the same time.
    “Azrafel is a great addition to
the crew,” pronounced the cattle king, “another good suggestion of
Mrs Baxter’s. What’s this? I said to put these boxes in the hold.
They’re the caftans and costumes for the surprise party. I don’t
want my daughter to see them.”
    Azrafel snapped his fingers and
a couple of porters jumped to it.
    Dr Watson managed to grab a
moment alone with Mr Longshanks on the aft deck when Miss Hypatia
Lee decided to check that Mrs Baxter had given her the largest
cabin as instructed, and Miss Clooney trailed after her to see what
her cabin looked like, not that she intended to make a fuss
whatever the size or state of it. Poor relations took what they
were offered. Her bedroom was on the lower deck.
    “When I was in the bazaar I
spotted Colonel Sebastian Moran on two occasions,” the doctor said
in a lower tone. “The first time he was loitering by the Bab
al-Ghuri gate and I could have sworn he pushed a woman in a burqa
down the steps. The second time he was having some shisha in a
coffee shop and Mrs Baxter was seated at a table right next to him.
They were conversing comfortably, almost like old friends.”
    “Hmm,” murmured the other, not
sure what to make of it, stroking his new blond beard. His money
was on the German archaeologist. He had it from a reliable source
that the German had purchased two train tickets – presumably the
second ticket was for his niece. An attractive female accomplice
was