Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [50]
For once, conversation with this pleasant man, who usually knew all the gossip about Cairo’s foreign community, proved to be a waste of time. He knew no more than I—less, in fact, for he informed me that Miss Debenham’s whereabouts were unknown. Her fiancé had arrived—
“Her what?” I exclaimed.
I am sure my voice was not raised much above its normal pitch, but for some reason all conversation in the dining room happened to stop just at that moment. The elderly American lady shouted, “What is it, ma’am? What’s the matter, eh?”
“Her affianced husband,” Mr. Baehler said softly.
“I know what the word means, Mr. Baehler.” I picked up my spoon, which I had dropped onto the table in the stress of the moment. “I was not aware that Miss Debenham was engaged to be married.”
“Nor was I, until he came here looking for a room. Unfortunately, I was unable to accommodate him on such short notice. He said he had been hunting in the Sudan and, upon hearing the shocking news, had at once hastened to the lady’s side.”
“Only to find she had disappeared. He must be in great distress.”
“No doubt,” Baehler said expressionlessly.
“But that is a curious story, do you not think? First he leaves his affianced wife to disport herself alone in Cairo while he is amusing himself in the Sudan. Then he rushes to assist her—but surely not from the Sudan. It would take weeks for the news to reach an isolated camp, and for him to make the return journey.”
Baehler looked uncomfortable. “That had occurred to me, Mrs. Emerson. I can only assume the gentleman was on his way back, or had actually arrived in Cairo, when he learned of the murder.”
“Humph. I must speak to him. Where is he staying?”
“I sent him to the D’Angleterre. Whether he was successful in obtaining accommodations there, I cannot say. And now, Mrs. Emerson, if you will excuse me—”
“Miss Debenham is not a murderess, Herr Baehler. And I intend to prove it.”
Baehler, who had risen to his feet, took the hand I extended and raised it gallantly to his lips. “Mrs. Emerson, if you set out to prove the sun rises in the west, you could certainly convince me. I must return to my duties now. My respectful compliments to your distinguished husband and to Master Ramses.”
After he had left the room, I thought of several questions I had meant to ask, including the name of the man who called himself Miss Debenham’s fiancé. However, upon further consideration, I decided I had better ask Miss Debenham herself—and ascertain as well why she had deceived me. The young lady had a good deal of explaining to do if she wished to retain my good will.
I gathered up my parcels, my parasol, and my handbag. As I was leaving, the old American lady shouted, “Good day to you, ma’am. It has been a pleasure talking with you.” Realizing that she must be a trifle senile, I gave her a pleasant smile and waved my parasol.
Once outside the hotel, I bargained for a carriage and had just got in when one of the vendors accosted me. “Flowers for the lady,” he cried, thrusting a bouquet into my hands.
“I don’t want flowers,” I said in Arabic.
“They are for you, sitt,” the fellow insisted. “You are the Sitt Hakim, wife to Emerson Effendi? Yes, yes, I know you; a gentleman told me to give these to you.”
The nosegay was a charming ensemble of red rosebuds and fragrant mimosa, framed in green leaves and tied with a silk bow. The flower seller bowed and retreated without even waiting for the usual tip, so I had no choice but to keep the flowers, which I was not reluctant to do, for I have a particular fondness for roses of that shade. I decided they must have come from Mr. Baehler—a token of friendly esteem, and an apology for his somewhat abrupt departure. It was the sort of gesture a gentleman of his refined courtesy might make.
The carriage bore me swiftly to my destination, the Administration Building on the Place Bab el-Khalk. Until recently the constabulary of Cairo had been under the benevolent supervision of a British Inspector General. It was still under British supervision; only