Seven Dials - Anne Perry [65]
But it was dark already, and he had nowhere to spend the night, and the immediacy of that need should override interest. He went up the steps of the building and inside. A young Egyptian in an earth-colored robe addressed him in perfect English and asked in what way he could assist. Pitt replied that he sought advice, and repeated the name Narraway had given him.
Five minutes later he stood in Trenchard’s office, the oil lamps giving a soft, muted glow to a room of antique and startlingly simple beauty. On one wall a painting of sunset over the Nile was haunting in its loveliness. On a small table a piece of Greek sculpture sat next to a rolled-up papyrus and a gold ornament that could have come from the sarcophagus of a pharaoh.
“You like them?” Trenchard asked with a smile, snapping Pitt’s attention back to the present.
“Yes,” Pitt said apologetically. “I’m sorry.” He must be too tired, too overwhelmed by new sensation to be thinking properly.
“Not at all,” Trenchard assured him. “You could never love the mystery and the splendor of Egypt more than I do. Especially Alexandria! Here the corners of the world are folded together with a vitality you will find nowhere else. Rome, Greece, Byzantium, and Egypt!” He said their names as if the words themselves captured an impressionable magic.
He was a man of instant charm and perfect diction, as if he read poetry aloud for his pleasure. He was of average height, but looked taller because he was slender, and he moved with unusual grace as he came around his desk to shake Pitt’s hand. His face was patrician, with a rather large aquiline nose, and his fair brown hair waved a trifle extravagantly. Pitt had the impression of a gentleman, perhaps posted here to suit the convenience of his family rather than from any innate skill. He was no doubt well educated in the classics, possibly even with a dilettante interest in Egyptology, but he had the air of one who takes his pleasures seriously and his work with relative lightness.
“What can we do for you?” he asked warmly. “Jackson said you asked for me by name?” It was a question that politely required an explanation.
“Mr. Victor Narraway suggested you might be able to give me some advice,” Pitt replied.
Trenchard’s eyes flashed with understanding. “Indeed,” he acknowledged. “Do sit down. You have just arrived in Egypt?”
“Off the steamer docked an hour ago,” Pitt acknowledged, accepting the seat gratefully. He had not walked very far, but he had been standing on deck for a long time, too eager and too interested to wait below in his cabin.
“Have you somewhere to stay?” Trenchard asked, but his expression assumed the negative. “I would suggest Casino San Stefano. It’s a very good hotel—a hundred rooms, so you’ll have no trouble getting one. They are all twenty-five piasters a day, and the food is excellent. If you don’t care for Egyptian, they serve French as well. Rather more important than that, you can get there by carriage down the Strada Rossa, or perhaps less expensive and more discreet is an excellent tramway, twenty-four trams a day, and both the Schatz and the Racos end at the San Stefano terminus.”
“Thank you,” Pitt said sincerely. It was a good beginning, but he was overwhelmed by his ignorance and the feeling of being in a city in which even the smell of the air was foreign to him. He had never felt so fumblingly blind, or so alone. Everything familiar was a thousand miles away.
Trenchard was watching him, waiting for him to continue. He could have enquired for a hotel from anyone. He must explain at least something of his purpose here. He began with what was public knowledge,