Adderwood glared at him over the paper, then cast his gaze down again and began to read aloud:
Miss Lexham’s Oriental Ordeal by John Beardsley
The following DRAMATIC NARRATIVE Comprises a Full and TRUE Account of Events Having Lately Befallen a LADY OF THE ARISTOCRACY, as Narrated by Her to this Correspondent.
Adderwood looked up from the paper. “A dramatic narrative?” he said. “Strange way to go about it.”
“Everyone knows that Beardsley fancies himself a writer,” said Marchmont. “As I recall, he once wrote an account of a fire in the form of a Greek epic, in dactylic hexameter.”
Adderwood returned to the paper, and in suitably dramatic tone, continued to read:
Cairo, Egypt
Christmas Eve 1817
She couldn’t decide whether getting her head cut off was the worst that could happen.
It was a definite possibility, though.
The sun had already set and the nearly full moon continued to climb in the sky. At nightfall, the gates to the quarter of el-Esbekiya, where Europeans resided, were locked, as were all the other gates of the city’s districts.
In Cairo only the police, criminals, demons, and ghosts traveled the streets after dark. Respectable people did not go out, and respectable households did not open their doors.
She knew all this. She continued her mad race to the gate all the same. Turning back was out of the question.
She came to a halt and stared at the closed gate, her mind busily sorting out alternatives.
There weren’t any.
In minutes the police or the district watchmen would come, and she’d be taken up. Whatever happened after that would not be good. Return to the household she’d escaped was only one possible doom. She might be given to soldiers for their amusement or flogged or stoned or perhaps all three. Or, if they had more important things to do, they’d simply cut off her head.
She beat on the gate.
A face appeared at the grated opening. “Go away,” the gatekeeper told her.
“Have mercy,” she said. “I carry an important message for the English effendi.” She raised one hand a little, to let him see the ruby necklace dripping from her fingers. “May God reward your kindness for aiding me.”
And in case God doesn’t get around to it straightaway, here’s some valuable jewelry.
Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would break out of her chest. She needed all her will-power to keep her hand from trembling as she dangled the rubies before him. They glimmered in the moonlight, easy to identify. In this part of the world no clouds obscured the moon and stars, whose glow was like an eerie form of daylight.
She couldn’t remember when last she’d stood in the open, under the moon and stars.
The eyes behind the grate went from the rubies to her veiled countenance. Her cloak’s quality would tell him she was not a common prostitute or a beggar. It would not tell him much else. The rubies must do the talking for her. If they weren’t persuasive enough, she had other jewels. She’d come from a wealthy household, where even slaves were richly adorned. She’d taken all her portable treasures. She’d earned them.
“Who is it you wish to see, daughter?” The gatekeeper’s voice gentled, his mood softened, no doubt, by the sparkling gems in her hand.
Baksheesh oiled all transactions in the Ottoman Empire. If that hadn’t been the case, she could never have got this far.
“The Englishman,” she said.
“Which one?”
She wished she could say “Mr. Salt,” because he was the British consul-general. Unfortunately, she knew—as did everyone else in Egypt—that he was traveling up the Nile with an English nobleman’s party.
How many parties of Englishmen had she heard about during her captivity? She wasn’t sure who they were. The local women who supplied the harem’s gossip had difficulty with European names. All such foreigners were Franks to them, the unpronounceable names unimportant. One must question diligently to ascertain which visitors were English.
She wanted to scream, Help me! This is my one chance. But she had learned to contain herself, to preserve calm while whirlwinds of emotion swirled about her. It was an important survival skill in this world.
