Книга - Whispers in the Sand

Whispers in the Sand
Barbara Erskine


From the bestselling author of Lady of Hay comes Whispers in the Sand, set in richly mysterious Egypt, where past and present collide.Recently divorced Anna Fox decides to cheer herself up by retracing a journey her great grandmother Louisa made in the mid-nineteenth century – a Nile cruise from Luxor to Aswan. Anna carries with her two of Louisa’s possessions: an ancient Egyptian scent bottle and an illustrated diary of the original cruise that has lain unread for over a hundred years.As she follows in Louisa’s footsteps, Anna discovers in the diary a wonderful Victorian love story – and the chilling secret of the little glass bottle. Meanwhile two men from the tour party develop an unfriendly rivalry for her attention, while showing a disturbing interest in Louisa’s mementoes. Most frightening of all, Anna finds herself the victim of a spectral presence that grows in strength and threat as the dramatic stories from three different eras intertwine in a terrifying climax.























Copyright (#ulink_d2867cd3-80e6-5970-b561-b50990f2c407)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in 2000



Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Sylvain Grandadam /Getty Images (feluccas on River Nile); Richard Jenkins Photography (woman)

Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007288649

Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007320998

Version: 2017-09-07




Dedication (#ulink_f8a051f4-0c13-5a27-9db8-028b0aabde2b)


The quotations at the head of each chapter are adapted from

The Book of the Dead edited by E A Wallis Budge




Epigraph (#ulink_cfb62db5-6739-5322-9aaf-4d56d7820429)


THE WHITE EGRETITINERARY

Note: alterations to the schedule are subject to change without prior notice

Most evenings there are film shows and talks in the lounge bar on different aspects of ancient and modern Egypt





There can be little doubt that the first vessels of glass were manufactured in Egypt under the 18th dynasty, particularly from the reign of Amenhotep II (1448–20 BC) onward. These vessels are distinguished by a peculiar technique: the shape required was first formed of clay (probably mixed with sand) fixed to a metal rod. On this core the body of the vessel was built up, usually of opaque blue glass. On this, in turn, were coiled threads of glass of contrasting colour, which were pulled alternately up and down by a comb-like instrument to form feather, zigzag or arcade patterns. These threads, usually yellow, white or green in colour, and sometimes sealing-wax red, were rolled in (marvered) flush with the surface of the vessel. The vessels so made were nearly always small, being mainly used to contain unguents and the like.

Encyclopaedia Britannica


Contents

Cover (#ub0c04efb-b358-5b6e-a141-d55a5db53391)

Title Page (#ucfc08b6c-c61b-576d-b046-96154b7640a5)

Copyright (#uf1c9ad9d-da06-57b8-b2ec-981973e0832a)

Dedication (#u276f86dc-11b1-57e4-bdf1-0895be2a36c2)

Epigraph (#ue9a6db45-d844-528b-9060-2ae8ace97c05)

Prologue (#u4c75fc73-0ba4-5a9b-af6f-aa1ceb7a1ea3)

Chapter One (#u661db099-58b2-5b18-96b3-fd79a73284f5)

Chapter Two (#u4a355b8b-b4f2-5b89-bf34-f59bb2b44603)

Chapter Three (#ua985cf1f-eded-5616-bd39-b8bfa1b6ce67)

Chapter Four (#ub028d216-94de-53ea-a165-184881f9020c)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Afterthought (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading Barbara Erskine’s Novels (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading Sleeper’s Castle (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Barbara Erskine (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)










Prologue (#ulink_eb44e536-a760-586f-9fb4-bdb1a590691e)


In the cool incense-filled heart of the temple the sun had not yet sent its lance across the marble of the floor. Anhotep, priest of Isis and of Amun, stood before the altar stone in the silence, his hands folded into the pleated linen of his sleeves. He had lit the noon offering of myrrh in its dish and watched as the wisps of scented smoke rose and coiled in the dimly lit chamber. Before him, in the golden cup, the sacred mixture of herbs and powdered gems and holy Nile water sat in the shadows waiting for the potentising ray to hit the jewelled goblet and fall across the potion. He smiled with quiet satisfaction and raised his gaze to the narrow entrance of the holy of holies. A fine beam of sunlight struck the rim of the doorframe and seemed to hover like a breath in the hot shimmer of the air. It was almost time.

‘So, my friend. It is ready at last.’ The sacred light was blocked as a figure stood in the doorway behind him; the sun’s ray bounced crooked across the floor, deflected by the polished blade of a drawn sword.

Anhotep drew breath sharply. Here in the sacred temple, in the presence of Isis herself, he had no weapon. There was nothing with which he could protect himself, no one he could call. ‘The sacrilege you plan will follow you through all eternity, Hatsek.’ His voice was strong and deep, echoing round the stone walls of the chamber. ‘Desist now, while there is time.’

‘Desist? When the moment of triumph is finally here?’ Hatsek smiled coldly. ‘You and I have worked towards this moment, brother, through a thousand lifetimes and you thought to deprive me of it now? You thought to waste the sacred source of all life on that sick boy pharaoh! Why, when the goddess herself has called for it to be given to her?’

‘No!’ Anhotep’s face had darkened. ‘The goddess has no need of it!’

‘The sacrilege is yours!’ The hiss of Hatsek’s voice reverberated round the chamber. ‘The sacred potion distilled from the very tears of the goddess must be hers, by right. She alone mended the broken body of Osiris and she alone can renew the broken body of the pharaoh!’

‘It is the pharaoh’s!’ Anhotep moved away from the altar. As his adversary stepped after him the purifying ray of sunlight sliced the darkness like a knife and struck the crystal surface of the potion turning it to brazen gold. For a moment both men stared, distracted by the surge of power released from the goblet.

‘So,’ Anhotep breathed. ‘It has succeeded. The secret of life eternal is ours.’

‘The secret of life eternal belongs to Isis.’ Hatsek raised his sword. ‘And it will remain with her, my friend!’ With a lunge he plunged the blade into Anhotep’s breast, withdrawing it with a grunt as the man fell to his knees. For a moment he paused as though regretting his hasty action, then he raised the bloody blade over the altar and in one great sweeping arc he brought it down on the goblet, hurling it and the sacred potion it contained to the floor.

‘For you, Isis, I do this deed.’ Setting the sword down on the altar he raised his hands, his voice once again echoing round the chamber. ‘None but you, oh great goddess, holds the secrets of life and those secrets shall be yours for ever!’

Behind him Anhotep, his bloodied hands clutching his chest, somehow straightened, still on his knees. His eyes already glazing over he groped, half blind, for the sword above him on the stone. Finding it he dragged himself painfully to his feet and raised it with both hands. Hatsek, his back to him, his eyes on the sun disc as it slid out of sight of the temple entrance never saw him. The point of the blade sliced between his shoulder blades and penetrated down through his lung into his heart. He was dead before his crumpled form folded at the other man’s feet.

Anhotep looked down. At the base of the altar the sacred potion lay as a cool blue-green pool on the marble, stained by the curdling blood of two men. Staring at it for a moment Anhotep looked round in despair. Then, his breath coming in small painful gasps, he staggered across to a shelf in the shadow of a pillar. There stood the chrismatory, the small, ornate glass phial in which he had carried the concentrated potion to the holy of holies. He reached for it, his hands slippery with blood and turned back to the altar. Falling painfully to his knees, sweat blinding his eyes, he managed to scoop a little of the liquid back into the tiny bottle. Fumbling with shaking fingers he pressed in the stopper as far as it would go, smearing blood over the glass. In one last stupendous effort he pulled himself up and set it down on the back of the shelf in the darkness between the pillar and the wall, then he turned and staggered out towards the light.

By the time they found him lying across the entrance to the holy place he had been dead for several hours.

As the bodies of the two priests were washed and embalmed the prayers said for their souls stipulated that they serve the Lady of Life in the next world as they had failed to serve her in this.

It was the high priest’s order that the two mummies be laid inside the holy of holies, one on each side of the altar, and that it should then be sealed for ever.




1 (#ulink_61c7f052-88b5-54bb-b23d-f6454feb06d9)


May there be nothing to resist me at my judgement; may there be no opposition to me; may there be no parting of thee from me in the presence of him that keepeth the scales.






It is thirteen hundred years before the birth of Christ. The embalming complete, the bodies of the priests are carried back into the temple in the cliff where once they served their gods and they are laid to rest in the shadows where they died. A mote of sunlight lies across the inner sanctuary for a moment, then as the last mud brick is pressed into place across the entrance, the light is extinguished and the temple that is now a tomb is instantly and totally dark. Were there ears to hear they would distinguish a few muffled sounds as the plaster is smoothed and the seals set. Then all is as silent as the grave.

The sleep of the dead is without disturbance. The oils and resins within the flesh begin their work. Putrefaction is held at bay.

The souls of the priests leave their earthly bodies and seek out the gods of judgement. There in the hall beyond the gates of the western horizon, Anubis, god of the dead, holds the scale which will decide their fate. On the one side lies the feather of Maat, goddess of truth. On the other is laid the human heart.






‘What you need, my girl, is a holiday!’

Phyllis Shelley was a small wiry woman with a strong angular face, which was accentuated by her square red-framed glasses. Her hair cropped fashionably short, she looked twenty years younger than the eighty-eight to which she reluctantly admitted.

She headed for the kitchen door with the tea tray leaving Anna to follow with the kettle and a plate of scones.

‘You’re right, of course.’ Anna smiled fondly. Pausing in the hall as her great-aunt headed out towards the terrace, she stood for a few seconds looking at herself in the speckled gilt-framed mirror, surveying her tired, thin face. Her dark hair was knotted behind her head in a coloured scarf which brought out the grey-green tones in her hazel eyes. She was slim, tall, her bones even, classically good-looking, her body still taut and attractive, but her mouth was etched with fine lines on either side now and the crow’s-feet around her eyes were deeper than they should have been for a woman in her mid-thirties. She sighed and pulled a face. She had been right to come. She needed a good strong dose of Phyllis!

Tea with her father’s one remaining aunt was one of the great joys of life. The old lady was indefatigably young at heart, strong – indomitable was the word people always used to describe her – clear thinking and she had a wonderful sense of humour. In her present state, miserable, lonely and depressed, three months after the decree absolute, Anna needed a fix of all those qualities and a few more besides. In fact, she smiled to herself as she turned to follow Phyllis out onto the terrace, there was probably nothing wrong with her at all which tea and cake and some straight talking in the Lavenham cottage wouldn’t put right.

It was a wonderful autumn day, leaves shimmering with pale gold and copper, the berries in the hedges a wild riot of scarlet and black, the air scented with wood smoke and the gentle echo of summer.

‘You look well, Phyl.’ Anna smiled across the small round table.

Phyllis greeted Anna’s remark with a snort and a raised eyebrow. ‘Considering I’m so old, you mean. Thank you, Anna! I am well, which is more than I can say for you, my dear. You look dreadful, if I may say so.’

Anna gave a rueful shrug. ‘It’s been a dreadful few months.’

‘Of course it has. But there’s no point in looking backwards.’ Phyllis became brisk. ‘What are you going to do with your life now it is at last your own?’

Anna shrugged. ‘Look for a job, I suppose.’

There was a moment’s silence as Phyllis poured out two cups of tea. She passed one over and followed it with a homemade scone and a bowl of plum jam, both courtesy of the produce stall at the local plant sale. Phyllis Shelley had no time in her busy life for cooking or knitting, as she constantly told anyone who had the temerity to come and ask for contributions of either to the church fete or similar money-raising events.

‘Life, Anna, is to be experienced. Lived,’ she said slowly, licking jam off her fingers. ‘It may not turn out the way we planned or hoped. It may not be totally enjoyable all the time, but it should be always exciting.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You do not sound to me as though you were planning something exciting.’

Anna laughed in spite of herself. ‘The excitement seems to have gone out of my life at the moment.’

If it had ever been there at all. There was a long silence. She stared down the narrow cottage garden at the stone wall. Phyllis’s cat, Jolly, was asleep there, head on paws, on its ancient lichen-crusted bricks covered in scarlet Virginia creeper. Late roses bloomed in profusion and the air was deceptively warm, sheltered by the huddled buildings on either side. Anna sighed. She could feel Phyllis’s eyes on her and she bit her lip, seeing herself suddenly through the other woman’s critical gaze. Spoilt. Lazy. Useless. Depressed. A failure.

Phyllis narrowed her eyes. She was a mind reader as well. ‘I’m not impressed with self-pity, Anna. Never have been. You’ve got to get yourself off the floor. I never liked that so and so of a husband of yours. Your father was mad to let you get involved with him in the first place. You married Felix too young. You didn’t know what you were doing. And I think you’ve had a lucky escape. You’ve still got plenty of time to make a new life. You’re young and you’ve got your health and all your own teeth!’

Anna laughed again. ‘You’re good for me, Phyl. I need someone to tell me off. The trouble is I don’t really know where to start.’

The divorce had been very civilised. There had been no unseemly squabbles; no bickering over money or possessions. Felix had given her the house in exchange for a clear conscience. He, after all, had done the lying and the leaving. And his eyes were already on another house in a smarter area, a house which would be interior-designed to order and furnished with the best to accommodate his new life and his new woman and his child.

For Anna, suddenly alone, life had become overnight an empty shell. Felix had been everything to her. Even her friends had been Felix’s friends. After all, her job had been entertaining for Felix, running his social diary, keeping the wheels of his life oiled, and doing it, so she had thought, rather well. Perhaps not. Perhaps her own inner dissatisfaction had shown in the end after all.

They had married two weeks after she graduated from university with a good degree in modern languages. He was fifteen years older. That decision to stay on until she had finished her degree had been, she now suspected, the last major decision she had made about her own life.

Felix had wanted her to quit the course the moment he asked her to marry him. ‘You don’t need all that education, sweetheart,’ he had urged. ‘What’s it for? You’ll never have to work.’

Or worry your pretty little head about anything worth thinking about … The patronising words, unsaid but implied, had echoed more and more often through Anna’s skull over the ensuing years. She kidded herself that she had no time for anything else; that what she did for Felix was a job. It was certainly full time. And the pay? Oh, the pay had been good. Very good! He had begrudged her nothing. Her duties had been clear cut and simple. In these days of feminist ambition, independence and resolve, she was to be decorative. He had put it so persuasively she had not realised what was happening. She was to be intelligent enough to make conversation with Felix’s friends but not so intelligent as to outshine him and, with some mastery, she later realised, he had made it seem enormously important and responsible that she was to organise all the areas of his life which were not already organised by his secretary. And in order to maintain that organisation uninterrupted it was made clear only after the fashionable wedding in Mayfair and the honeymoon in the Virgin Islands that there would be no children. Ever.

She had two hobbies: photography and gardening. On both he allowed her to spend as much money as she liked and even encouraged her interest when it did not conflict with her duties. Both were, after all, fashionable, good talking points and relatively harmless and she had allowed them to fill whatever gaps there were in her life. Indeed in combining them she had become so good at both that her photographs of the garden won prizes, sold, gave her the illusion that she was doing something useful with her life.

Strangely, she had put up with his occasional indiscretions, surprised herself at how little they actually upset her and suspecting but never admitting that this was because, perhaps, she did not, after all, love him quite as much as she ought to. It did not matter. No other man came along to whom she was attracted. Was she, she sometimes wondered, a bit frigid? She enjoyed sex with Felix, but did not miss it when it became less and less frequent. Nevertheless, the news that his latest girlfriend was pregnant hit her like a sledgehammer. The dam, which had held back her emotions for so long, broke and a torrent of rage and frustration, loneliness and misery, broke over her head in a tidal wave which terrified her as much as it shocked her husband. He had not planned this change in his life. He had expected to carry on as before, visiting Shirley, supporting her, and when the time came paying, no doubt through the nose, for the child, but not becoming too involved. His instant and genuine enchantment with the baby had shaken him as much as it had pleased Shirley and devastated Anna. Within days of the birth he had moved in with mother and child and Anna had consulted her solicitor.

After the uncontested divorce Felix’s friends had been strangely supportive of her, perhaps realising that something unplanned and unexpected had taken place and feeling genuinely sorry for her, but as one by one they rang to give her their condolences and then fell into embarrassed silence she realised that in fact she had very few friends of her own and her feeling of utter abandonment grew stronger. Strangely, the one piece of advice they all passed on before hanging up, was that she take a holiday.

And now here was Phyllis, saying the same thing.

‘You must start with a holiday, Anna dear. Change of scene. New people. Then you come back and sell that house. It’s been a prison for you.’

‘But, Phyl –’

‘No, Anna. Don’t argue, dear. Well, perhaps about the house, but not about the holiday. Felix used to take you to all those places where you did nothing but sit by swimming pools and watch him talk business. You need to go somewhere exciting. In fact you need to go to Egypt.’

‘Egypt?’ Anna was beginning to feel her feet were being swept from beneath her. ‘Why Egypt?’

‘Because when you were a little girl you talked about Egypt all the time. You had books about it. You drew pyramids and camels and ibises and you pestered me every time I saw you, to tell you about Louisa.’

Anna nodded. ‘It’s strange. You’re right. And I haven’t thought about her for years.’

‘Then it’s time you did. It is so easy to forget one’s childhood dreams. I sometimes think people expect to forget them. They abandon everything which would make their lives exciting. I think you should go out there and see the places Louisa saw. When they published some of her sketchbooks ten years ago I was tempted to go myself, you know. I’d helped your father select the pictures, and worked with the editor over the captions and potted history. I just wanted to see it so much. And perhaps I still will one day.’ She smiled, the twinkle back in her eye, and Anna found herself thinking that it was entirely possible that the old lady would do it.

‘She was an amazing woman, your great-great-grandmother,’ Phyllis went on. ‘Amazing, brave and very talented.’

Like you. Unlike me. Anna bit her lip and did not say it.

Frowning, she considered Phyllis’s words, aware that the old lady’s beady eyes were fixed unswervingly on her face.

‘Well?’

Anna smiled. ‘It’s very tempting.’

‘Tempting? It’s a brilliant idea!’

Anna nodded. ‘I did actually suggest once or twice to Felix that we go to Egypt, but he was never interested.’ She paused, aware of a stirring of something like excitement deep inside her. After all, why not? ‘You know, I think I might just take your advice. I haven’t exactly got a lot of pressing plans.’

Phyllis sat back in her chair. Closing her eyes she turned her face to the sun and a small smile played across her features for a moment. ‘Good. That’s settled then.’ There was a pause, then she went on, ‘This is heaven. There is no nicer time of the year than the autumn. October is my favourite month.’ Her eyes opened again and she studied Anna’s face. ‘Have you spoken to your father yet?’

Anna shook her head. ‘He hasn’t rung me since the divorce. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.’

‘For separating from Felix?’

Anna nodded. ‘He was so proud of having Felix for a son-in-law.’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice for a moment. ‘The son he never had.’

‘Silly man.’ Phyllis sighed. ‘He’s got more and more impossible since your mother died and that’s a good ten years ago now! Don’t let it upset you too much, darling. He’ll come round. You’re worth ten of any son he might have had and one day he’ll realise it, I promise you.’

Anna looked away, concentrating as hard as she could on the drift of scarlet creeper on the wall on the edge of the terrace. She was not going to cry. She should have got used by now to her father’s insensitivity and his blatant lack of interest in her, his only child. She sniffed hard and turned her attention to the York stone slabs at her feet. Old lichens, long dried to white crusts had formed circles and whorls in the stone. She realised suddenly that Phyllis had levered herself to her feet. Glancing up, she watched as her great-aunt disappeared back through the open French windows into the house, and groping for her handkerchief she mopped hurriedly at her eyes.

Phyllis was only gone two minutes. ‘I have something here which might interest you.’ She did not look at Anna as she sat down once more. She had dropped a package onto the table in front of her. ‘When I was going through Louisa’s papers and sketchbooks I despaired of ever finding anything personal. If there were letters she must have destroyed them. There was nothing. Then a few months ago I decided to have an old desk restored. The veneers had lifted badly.’ She paused. ‘The restorer found one of the drawers had a false bottom and inside he found this.’ She passed the packet over to Anna.

Anna took it. ‘What is it?’

‘Her journal.’

‘Really?’ Anna glanced down in sudden excitement. ‘But that must be incredibly valuable!’

‘I expect so. And interesting.’

‘You’ve read it?’

Phyllis shrugged. ‘I had a quick look at it, but the writing is very difficult and my eyes aren’t so good these days. I think you should read it, Anna. It’s all about her months in Egypt. And in the meantime I think you should ring your father. Life is too short for huffs and puffs. Tell him he’s being an idiot, and you can say I said so.’

The diary was on the back seat of the car when it was time to leave. The last crimson rays of the sunset were fading as Anna climbed in and reaching for the ignition looked up at her aunt. ‘Thank you for being there. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Phyllis shook her head in mock anger. ‘You would cope very well indeed as you know. Now, ring Edward tonight. Promise?’

‘I’ll think about it. I’ll promise that much.’

She did think about it. In the queue of heavy traffic making its way slowly back into London after the sun-drenched weekend she had plenty of time to reflect on Phyllis’s advice and review her situation. She was thirty-five years old, had been married for fourteen years, had never had a job of any description whatsoever and was childless. Letting in the clutch she edged the car forward a few yards as the streams of traffic converged from the motorway into the clogged London streets. Her mind glanced sideways away from that last particular memory. She couldn’t cope yet with the idea of Felix as the father of another woman’s child. She had few friends, or so it seemed at the moment, a father who despised her, and a terrifying vista of emptiness before her. On the plus side there was Phyllis, the photography, the garden and whatever Phyllis said, the house.

One of the reasons Felix had left her the house was the garden. It was large for a London property, at first glance narrow and rectangular, but by some vagary of planning back in the eighteenth century the end of the garden took a steep angular bend around the back of two other houses, whose own gardens were thus sharply curtailed, doubling its size. The garden was Anna’s passion. Felix had as far as she knew never even walked to the end of it. His interest began and ended with its uses as a place for entertaining corporate clients. Drinks. Barbecues. Sunday tea. The terrace with its jasmine and roses, its old terracotta pots of herbs – that was the extent of his interest. Beyond it, the winding paths, the high trellis-topped walls, the intricate beds with their carefully planned colours, the occasional half-hidden piece of sculpture lovingly garnered from trips to country antique shops was her domain alone.

It had stunned her when in the divorce settlement Felix had specifically mentioned the garden. He had said she deserved it after all her work. It was the nicest thing he had ever said to her about it.



‘Daddy. Can we talk?’ She had sat by the phone in her bedroom for ten minutes before picking up the receiver to dial.

There was a moment’s silence, then: ‘I can’t imagine we have much to talk about, Anna.’

She bit her lip. ‘How about the fact that I might be miserable and lonely and need you?’

‘I hardly think you need me.’ The voice the other end was cold. ‘After all, you did not need to consult me over the divorce.’

‘Consult you?’ The usual emotions of anger, incredulity, indignation and finally impotence swept over her. ‘Why should I have consulted you?’

‘It would have been courteous.’

Anna closed her eyes and began counting to ten. It had always been like this. Other parents might show affection or sympathy or even rage. Her father was worried about a lack of courtesy. She sighed audibly. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose I was too wound up about everything. It all came to a head too suddenly.’

‘It should not have come to a head at all, Anna. You and Felix could have reached some accommodation. If you had consulted me I could have talked to him –’

‘No! No, Daddy, I’m sorry, but we could not have reached some accommodation. Our marriage is over. Our decision. No one else’s. If you feel slighted in some way, then I’m sorry. It was not intentional. I kept you informed all the way, if you remember. Every day.’ Her temper was fraying.

‘I don’t expect to be kept informed, Anna. I expect to be consulted. I am your father –’

‘I am a grown woman, Daddy!’

‘You are not behaving like one, if I may say so –’

Anna slammed down the phone. Her stomach was churning, and she was almost sobbing with rage.

Standing up, she walked across to the dressing table and stood staring down at it, unseeing. It was a small Georgian writing desk, transformed for its current use by an oval toilet mirror and the scatter of cosmetics and brushes and discarded jewellery. Focusing suddenly on her reflection in the mirror she scowled furiously. He was right. She was not behaving like a grown woman. She was behaving as she was feeling, like an abandoned child.

Her hand strayed to the small scent bottle standing by the mirror and she picked it up, staring at it miserably. About three inches high, the glass was a deep opaque blue, decorated with a thick white feathered design, the stopper a lump of shaped wax, pushed flush with the top and sealed. Phyllis had given it to her when it had caught her fancy as a child and it had stayed with her ever since. ‘Take care of it, Anna,’ the old lady had said. ‘It comes from Ancient Egypt and it’s very, very old.’

Egypt.

Anna turned it round in her hand, staring at it. Felix had had it valued, of course, and the antique dealer had been very sniffy about it. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Anna, dear, but I’m afraid it probably came from a Victorian bazaar. The early visitors out there were always being conned into bringing back so-called artefacts. And this doesn’t even look Egyptian.’ He had handed it back with a slight sneer, as though even by touching it he had somehow contaminated himself and his Bond Street reputation. Recalling that moment Anna gave a weary smile. At least she no longer had to put up with Felix’s pretentious acquaintances, pretending they were so wise and acquiescing with their patronising dismissal of her too as no more than a decorative nonentity which he had picked up in a bazaar somewhere.

With a sigh she set down the bottle and stared once more into the mirror. She was tired, she was depressed and she was fed up.

Phyllis, as always, was right. She needed a holiday.



‘Have you ever been to Egypt before?’

Why hadn’t she thought of this when she asked for a window seat? Five hours of being trapped into conversation with whomever destiny had chosen to be her neighbour, and with no escape!

It was nearly four months since that glorious autumn day in Suffolk but now, at last she was on her way. Outside, the ground staff at Gatwick were completing the final checks on the loading of the plane and still spraying ice off its wings as they prepared for take off. Sleet slanted across the airport, whipping the faces of the men clustering round the plane into an angry painful colour.

Anna did not look up from her guidebook. ‘No, I haven’t.’ She tried to sound unenthusiastic without being downright rude.

‘Nor me.’ She felt him glance at her sideways, but he said no more, groping in the bag by his feet for his own reading material.

Beyond him the aisle seat was still empty as the plane began to fill and the flight attendants shoe-horned people more and more tightly into place. Anna risked a quick look to her left. Forties; sandy hair, regular features, long eye-lashes, clearly visible as he flipped through an already well-thumbed volume. She was suddenly sorry she had been so curt. But there was plenty of time to make up for it if she wanted to. All the time in the world. Beyond him an elderly man in a dog collar inserted himself into the third seat in the row. He leant forward to nod first to her and then their neighbour, then he reached for a pile of newspapers. She saw with a smile the Church Times was firmly tucked away beneath a copy of the Sun.

That morning, as she locked the front door and hefted her suitcase into the waiting London taxi her nerve had almost failed her. The quiet early-morning streets were white with thick February frost and the pre-dawn light was strangely flat and depressing. All her resolution had fled. If the cab driver had not been waiting to take her to Victoria Station to catch the train to the airport she would have turned back into the empty house, forgotten all about Egypt for ever, climbed back into bed and pulled the duvet over her head.

It was hot and stuffy on the plane and her head ached. She couldn’t move in the closely packed seats and she could feel the arm of her neighbour wedged tightly against her own. Beyond a nod and half-smile when she had looked up to reach for her tray and another when the drinks came round he had said nothing more to her, and the silence was beginning to weigh on her. She wasn’t looking for a full-blown conversation, in fact only a short time before, had dreaded it, but a casual remark to lighten the atmosphere would be a pleasant change to silence. The drum of the plane’s engines was relentless and when she closed her eyes it seemed to grow louder by the minute. She had declined headphones for the film. So had he. As far as she could see he was asleep, his book upside down on his lap, his fingers loosely linked over the cover. The first guidebook had been replaced by another and he had glanced through it swiftly before sitting back, rubbing his face wearily with his hands and seeming to subside at once into a deep sleep. Glancing out of the window she could see, far below, the tiny shadow of the plane dancing across the intense blue ripples of the sun-warmed Mediterranean. She risked a second glance at her neighbour’s face. In repose it was less attractive than when awake. The lines drew heavily downward, the mouth was set and sad, a tangible weight moulding the features. She turned her attention back to her own book, envying him his ability to sleep. Another two or three hours loomed before them and her muscles were screaming to be released from the cramped position into which they were squashed.

Reaching up to the control panel over their heads to try and find some cooler air she realised suddenly that he had opened his eyes and was watching her. He smiled and she gave a small grimace in return. It was meant to convey cautious friendship and sympathy over the tightly packed, too intimate seating. She was about to follow this with a noncommittal remark when once again he looked away and closed his eyes.

Shrugging, she delved into the bag at her feet and brought out Louisa’s diary. She had been saving it to read on the trip. Perhaps this was the moment to start.

The paper of the leatherbound notebook was thick, deckle-edged and in places foxed with pale brown spots. Carefully she turned to the first page of florid italic script and began to read.

‘February 15th, 1866: And so, the boat has reached Luxor and here I leave my companions to join the Forresters. Tomorrow morning my boxes will be transferred to the Ibis which I see already tied up nearby. The decks are empty, even of crew, and the boat looks deserted. It will be wonderful at last to have some privacy especially after the constant chatter of Isabella and Arabella with whom I have had to share a cabin all these weeks from Cairo. I am sending a packet of sketches and paintings back with them on the boat and hope to start a new series of drawings of the Valley of the Tombs as soon as possible. The British consul has promised me a dragoman, and the Forresters are said to be a kind, elderly couple who will allow me to travel with them willingly, without too much interference to my drawing. The heat of the day which at first renewed my spirits after the long voyage out here is growing stronger, but the nights are blessedly cool. I long to be able to see more of the desert. The nervous excitement of my companions so far on this adventure has prevented us from venturing any distance from our boat and I cannot wait to begin my explorations further afield.’

Anna looked up thoughtfully. She had never seen the desert. Never been to any part of Africa or the Middle East. Imagine the frustration of not being able to explore because your companions were too nervous. It had been bad enough knowing there was no time, no possibility of visiting properly the places she had travelled to with Felix. Shifting a little in her seat to try and make herself more comfortable, she turned back to the diary.






‘Louisa, dear. Sir John Forrester is here.’ Arabella bounced into the small cabin in a froth of white lace and slightly stained cambric. ‘He has come to take you across to his yacht.’

‘It’s not a yacht, Arabella. It is called a dahabeeyah.’ Louisa was packed and ready, her painting things already neatly roped on deck with her trunks and her valise. She adjusted her broad-brimmed black straw hat and reached for the small portmanteau on her bunk. ‘Are you coming to see me off?’

‘Of course!’ Arabella giggled. ‘You’re so brave, Louisa. I can’t imagine how frightening the rest of the trip is going to be.’

‘It won’t be frightening at all,’ Louisa replied tartly. ‘It will be extremely interesting.’

Her voluminous skirts gripped tightly in one hand, she climbed the companionway steps and emerged into the blinding sunlight on deck.

Sir John Forrester was a tall skeletally thin man in his late sixties. Dressed in a heavy tweed jacket, plus fours and boots he turned to greet her, his white pith helmet, his only concession to the climate, in his hand. ‘Mrs Shelley? How very nice.’ His bow was courteous, his eyes brilliant blue beneath bushy white eyebrows and shrewdly appreciative. He greeted her companions in turn then instructed the two dark-skinned Nubians with him to remove her luggage to the felucca drawn up alongside the paddle steamer.

Now the moment had come, Louisa felt a small pang of nervousness. She had shaken hands one by one with the men and women who had been her companions over the last few weeks, nodded to the crew, tipped her cabin servants and at last she was turning towards the small sailing boat which would ferry her across to the Ibis.

‘Bit of a test, my dear, getting down the ladder.’ Sir John offered her his hand. ‘Once you’re down, sit where you like. There.’ His sternly pointing finger contradicted the vagueness of his invitation.

Louisa wrapped her skirts around her tightly, holding them as high as she dared and cautiously she reached down for the ladder with a small brown boot. From below a black hand grabbed her ankle and guided it to the first rung. She bit her lip, firmly fighting the urge to kick the man who had taken such a liberty, and quickly lowered herself into the small boat with its flapping sail. She was greeted by smiles and bows from the two Egyptian crewmen as she slid towards the seat to which Sir John had directed her. He followed her down and within seconds the boat was heading across the turbid water towards the Ibis. Behind her Arabella lingered on deck, her face shaded by her pink parasol, and waved at Louisa’s departing back.

The boat towards which they were heading was one of the graceful private vessels which plied up and down the Nile, this one propelled by two great lateen sails and steered from the back by a huge tiller that extended over the main cabin roof. The elegant accommodation, she soon discovered, included cabins for herself, the Forresters and Lady Forrester’s maid, a saloon, filled with divans and a large writing table and quarters sufficient for the crew which consisted of the captain, or reis and eight men. The deck allowed room to sit and to eat outside should they wish it, and also an area for the crew, one of whom was an excellent and talented cook.

This time she was to have a cabin to herself. Staring round it Louisa felt her heart leap with delight. After the dark wood and brass fittings of the paddle steamer this cabin, tiny though it was, was beauty itself. Her narrow bed was spread with brightly coloured woven fabrics, there was a carpet on the floor, fine blue and green shawls were draped across the window and the basin and ewer were made of some beaten metal which looked like gold.

Tearing off her hat she flung it on the bed and looked round approvingly. From the deck overhead she could hear the pattering of bare feet and the creak of the masts and rigging.

Of Lady Forrester there had been no sign. ‘Indisposed, my dear. She’ll join us for dinner,’ Sir John had said vaguely as he showed Louisa to her cabin. ‘We’ll sail as soon as possible. Not far. We’ll tie up on the other side of the river so you can set off for the valley tomorrow. Hassan will be your dragoman. That is, he will act as your guide and interpreter. Good chap. Highly recommended. Very reliable. And cheap.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘And you’ll have to share Jane Treece, Lady Forrester’s maid. I’ll send her in to you directly and she can help you settle in.’

And here she was, a woman of about forty-five with hair pulled severely off her face beneath her cap, dressed, like her, in black and with skin which beneath the cruel sun had freckled and creased into a tight map of lines and blotches. ‘Good evening, Mrs Shelley.’ The woman’s voice was deep and educated. ‘Sir John has asked me to act as your maid and chaperone while you are on his boat.’

Louisa hid her despair as best she could. She had hoped to be free of such formality. It would though be helpful to have someone unpack and shake out her dresses and fold away her under-linen and petticoats and lay out her hairbrushes and combs. Her sketchbooks and her precious Winsor and Newton watercolour box, her paintbrushes, she would allow no one to touch but herself. These she put on the small table in front of the elegantly pointed cabin window with its latticed shutters.

Turning she stared at the evening gown which Jane Treece had already shaken free of its folds and laid out for her. Her vision of casting aside her corset and petticoats and the formal black which her mourning demanded and putting on the blessedly cool, softly flowing dresses made for her all those long months ago in London by her friend Janey Morris, were beginning to recede once more. ‘I had assumed we would be more casual on so small a boat,’ she said cautiously. ‘And, though it was kind of Sir John to think of it, as a widow I scarcely think I need a chaperone!’

‘Indeed.’ The word conveyed shock, scorn and such superiority that Louisa was in no doubt at all that her assumptions had been dreadfully misjudged.

‘Sir John and Lady Forrester keep every formality on the Ibis, Mrs Shelley, I assure you. When you leave the boat to go off and see the heathen temples I have no doubt it will be more difficult to maintain the niceties, and I have made it clear I am not prepared to go with you on those occasions, but while we are here Sir John’s man, Jack, and I, see to it that everything runs as well as it does at home in Belgravia.’

Louisa bit her lip to hide a wry smile. Trying to look suitably chastened she allowed the woman to help her on with her black silk gown and pin her hair up in loose ringlets and loops around her head beneath a black lace veil. At least without the weight of her customary chignon it was cooler. The assurance that Jane Treece would not be going with her to visit the Valley of the Tombs had cheered her up enormously.

The main saloon of the boat was as exotic as her own cabin, but the silver and china laid on the table for dinner was English. The food itself though was Egyptian, and delicious. Louisa ate with enjoyment as she tried to explain to the Forresters why she wanted to paint the Egyptian scenery. Augusta Forrester had emerged from her own quarters looking as elegant and cool as if she were entertaining at home in London. A small silver-haired woman in her early sixties with huge dark eyes, she had managed to retain a prettiness of feature and a charm which made her immediately attractive. Her attention span was, though, Louisa discovered quickly, very short.

‘When Mr Shelley died,’ she explained as they ate, ‘I found myself lost.’ How could she ever tell them how lost without her beloved George? She had contracted the same fever which had killed her husband and although she had recovered it had left her too weak and too listless to care for her two robust and noisy sons. They had gone to stay with George’s mother and Louisa had been persuaded finally that a few months in a hot climate would restore her to health. She and George had planned to come to Egypt one day. It was George who had regaled her with stories of the discoveries that were being made in the sands of the desert. It was George who had promised that one day they would go there and that she would paint the temples and tombs. The somewhat unconventional household they ran with its laughter and conversation and the constant flow of painters and writers and travellers had fallen apart when illness had struck. George’s mother had arrived, nursed them both, taken away the children, dismissed half the servants, substituted her own and left Louisa devastated.

Glancing from Sir John to his wife, Louisa saw that the latter was no longer listening to her, but the mention of Augusta’s nephew, Edward, brought her back from her daydreams and for a few minutes she sat, her beautiful dark eyes fixed on Louisa’s face, as her guest described how that young man, a friend of George’s, had rescued her, arranged her passage, booked the steamer from Cairo and persuaded his uncle and aunt to take her to see the excavations. Without his help she would have been destroyed.

His uncle and aunt were however not quite as unconventional as their nephew and she was finding out every minute that her dreams of conversation and laughter and the convivial travel which she and George had so often discussed were far from what the Forresters had in mind.






Anna looked up. Her neighbour appeared to be asleep. Over the back of the seat in front of her she could see the film in full swing. Most of the passengers seemed to be engrossed in the action. Surreptitiously she tried to stretch and wondered how long she could last before she had to ask him to move so she could go to the loo. She glanced back towards the rear of the plane. The queue for the lavatories did not seem to have grown any shorter. Beyond the thick glass of the window the distant ground had turned the colour of red and ochre and gold. The colours of Africa. With a tremor of excitement she stared down for a long time, before leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. She was almost there.

It was impossible to sleep.

She opened the diary again, eager to lose herself in Louisa’s adventures and blot out her own less than romantic mode of travel. Skimming down the cramped slanted writing with its faded brown ink, she flipped through the pages, glancing at the sketches which illustrated the narrative.

‘Hassan brought the mules at first light so that we could escape the worst of the heat. He loaded all my painting equipment into the panniers without a word. I was afraid he was still angry at my lack of tact and understanding of his role, but resolved not to speak of it. Instead I allowed him to help me onto my animal without uttering a word either of apology or of remonstrance at his outburst. He looked up at me once and I saw the anger in his eyes. Then he went to collect the lead rein of the pack animal and climbed onto his own. We rode all the way to the valley without speaking.’

Anna glanced up again, wearily rubbing her eyes. It did not sound as though Louisa had had a good time with Hassan. She turned on a few pages.

‘I saw him again today – just a faint figure in the heat haze. A tall man, watching me, who one minute was near me and the next minute was not there. I called out to Hassan but he was asleep and by the time he had reached my side the man had vanished into the strange shimmer thrown by the heat of the sand. The shadows where I set my easel were dark in contrast but out there, on the floor of the valley there was nowhere for him to hide. I am beginning to feel afraid. Who is he and why does he not approach me?’

That sounded exciting. Exciting and mysterious. With a small shiver Anna looked up with a start to see the flight attendant hovering with a jug of coffee. Her neighbour, ignoring the woman, was looking down at the diary on Anna’s knee with evident interest. She closed it and slipped it into her bag, reaching for the tray in front of her and letting it down onto her lap. He had already looked away. Outside, the sun was slipping nearer and nearer to the horizon.

Her neighbour appeared to have fallen asleep when she fumbled in her bag once again for the diary, and opening it at random was captivated immediately by the words which sprang from the page. ‘I begin to love this country …’






Louisa set down her pen and stared out of the window at the dark river outside. She had pulled open the lattice shutters to allow the smell of it, the warmth of the night air, the occasional breath of chill wind from the desert to enter her cabin. It all captivated her. She listened carefully. The other cabins were silent. Even the crew were asleep. Gathering up her skirts she tiptoed to the door and opened it. The steps to the deck were steep. Cautiously she climbed them and emerged into the darkness. She could see the humped forms of the sleeping men before the mast and heard suddenly a brief sleepy snore as one of them eased his head on the cushion of his arm. Another breath of cold air and she could hear the rustle of palm fronds on the bank. Above, the stars were violent sparks against the blue-black sky.

There was a slight movement behind her and she turned. Hassan’s bare feet had made no sound on the deck. ‘Mrs Shelley, you should stay in your cabin.’ His voice was no more than a whisper against the whisper of the wind in the reeds.

‘It’s too hot down there. And the night is too beautiful to miss.’ Her mouth had gone dry.

She could see his smile, his teeth white against the dark silhouette of his face. ‘The night is for lovers, Mrs Shelley.’

Her face burning, she stepped away from him, her knuckles tight on the deck rail. ‘The night is for poets and painters as well, Hassan.’

With half an ear she was listening for sounds from below deck. Her heart was beating very fast.






Her neighbour was looking at Louisa’s diary again, she could sense it. Anna sighed. He was beginning to irritate her. His glance was an invasion of her space, an intrusion. If he was not prepared to make a minimum of polite conversation he had no business being interested in her reading material! Closing the diary, she forced herself to look up and smile at the seat-back in front of her. ‘Not long now.’ She turned towards him. ‘Are you going on a cruise too?’

He was an attractive man, she realised suddenly, but even as she thought it his face closed and she saw it harden and the warmth vanished.

‘I am indeed, but I very much doubt it is the same one as you.’ His accent was difficult to place, very faint – slightly Scots perhaps, or Irish – because that was all he said. He shifted his shoulders slightly, turning away from her, and putting his head back against the seat he closed his eyes once more.

She felt a surge of anger and resentment. Well, that had certainly put her in her place. How dare he assume anything about her! Turning abruptly towards the window she stared out, astonished to find that far below them it was already dark. In the distance, she realised suddenly that she could see lights. They would soon be arriving at Luxor.

By the time she had been through passport control and retrieved her suitcase among the teeming throng of other tourists Anna was exhausted. She hung onto her case, grimly waving away the offers of help from a surge of gesticulating shouting would-be porters, and joined the queue for the bus.



The White Egret was a small boat. The brochure had shown the Victorian paddle steamer on a separate page from the other cruisers belonging to the travel company, emphasising its age, its history, and its selectness. There would be only eighteen passengers. It was a long shot she had suspected, even to try and find a place on it but she had made the effort because it was the closest she was likely to get to the kind of boat Louisa would have travelled on from Cairo to Luxor, and to her enormous delight and surprise they had written to say that there had been a cancellation and she found herself allocated one of the only two single cabins.

A hasty glance round the bus showed her that her neighbour from the plane was not there. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or sorry. She had not enjoyed his rudeness. On the other hand his would at least have been a familiar face amongst all these strangers. She made her way towards the back and sat down, her small holdall and camera bag on the seat beside her. Was she the only person there on her own? It seemed like it. Everyone else was sitting in pairs and the level of excited conversation had escalated as the door closed and the bus pulled away. She gazed out into the darkness feeling suddenly bleak and lonely and then realised with an excited sense of shock which put all thoughts of her loneliness out of her head that beyond the reflections of the bus windows she could see palm trees and a man in a white turban, perched on the rump of a tiny donkey trotting along the road in the dark.

The boat – three storeys, picked out in lights with a huge paddle wheel each side – was moored on the outskirts of the town. They were welcomed with hot towels for their hands and a drink of sweet fruit juice, then they were given their cabin keys.

Her cabin was small but adequate, her case already waiting for her in the middle of the floor. She looked round with interest. Her new domain provided her with a single bed, a bedside locker, on which stood an old-fashioned internal telephone, a dressing table and a narrow cupboard. It was scarcely luxury, but at least she did not have to share it with a stranger. Throwing her holdall, camera and shoulder bag down on the bed she closed the door behind her and went to the window. Pushing back the curtains and opening the shutters she tried to see out but the river bank beyond was dark. To her disappointment she could see nothing. Pulling the curtains shut again she turned back to the room. Half an hour, they had been told, until supper, and then in the morning they would be ferried across the River Nile and their first visit – to the Valley of the Kings, Louisa’s Valley of the Tombs – would begin. A wave of excitement swept over her.

It took no time at all to unpack, to hang up the dresses and skirts she had brought with her – there was no need of a Jane Treece to help her – and to lay out her few cosmetics on the dressing table. Amongst them she stood her little perfume bottle. It had seemed only right to bring it to the land of its origins, whether those origins had been in some lowly bazaar or in an ancient tomb.

There was time for a quick shower before dinner. Throwing off her clothes she turned and ducked into the little bathroom. She stood for five minutes beneath the tepid trickle of water, letting it wash away the weariness of the journey before forcing herself out of her reverie, and, stepping out onto the duckboard on the tiled, mosaic floor between the loo and the doll-sized basin, she reached for her towel.

Pulling it round her she stepped back into her room. The temperature in the cabin had dropped. Shivering, she stared round, puzzled. There was no air conditioning control that she could see. Perhaps there was some central system on the boat. Pulling on her green cotton shift and slinging a lightweight sweater round her shoulders she stopped in her tracks again, frowning. There was definitely something odd about the temperature in the room. She hoped she wouldn’t have to complain about it; she had expected Egypt to be hot! Shrugging, she gave one more glance round the cabin and then she headed for the door.

This was the moment that she was dreading. She had to go out and meet the other passengers. This was her first sortie into life as a single woman once again. If she had imagined the people on the cruise with her at all it was as a homogenous group of which she would be a part, not as a collection of couples where she would be the only one alone. With a deep sigh she let herself out into the broad, carpeted corridor outside and, noting with relief how warm it was, began to make her way to the main staircase of the boat. Straight ahead lay the lounge and the bar and the double doors which led out onto the deck, and down the stairs, magnificently railed in brass and decorated with palms and Victorian spittoons was the dining room towards which everyone was now heading.

She found herself seated at one of three round tables, each of which accommodated six people. Beyond the windows she could see nothing of the land or the river she had come so far to visit. The only sign of Egypt was the appearance behind the semi-circular serving counter, piled high with fruit and cheeses in the centre of the room, of a solemn procession of waiters, dark-skinned, dressed in white – two or three per table at least.

Her companions were, to her relief, immediately friendly; the silence of strangers disappeared at once as on every side people began introducing themselves to each other. Next to her on her left she found herself shaking hands with a good-looking man perhaps her own age or slightly older. He stood up as he greeted her and she saw he was no taller than herself, but his broad shoulders and stocky frame gave the impression of size. ‘Andy Watson, from London.’ He smiled, hazel eyes bright with humour beneath dark lashes and bushy brows. ‘Unattached, available, charming, with an absolute passion for all things Egyptian, as I suspect have we all, because that’s why we’re here.’

Anna found herself laughing. A little shyly she introduced herself as a divorcée also from London, recklessly meeting his eyes for a moment before she turned to greet the tall thin man with mousy hair, almost gaunt features and the palest blue eyes who sat on her right.

‘There are five of us on the cruise.’ Andy leant across her, reclaiming her attention. ‘That’s Joe Booth next to you, he’s something in the City, and beyond him is his wife Sally, and this,’ he indicated the slim, red-headed young woman on his left, ‘is Charley, who is sharing a cabin with Serena, over there.’ He nodded at a woman seated with her back to them at the next table. The sixth person at the table, the only one there apart from her who appeared to know no one on the cruise, introduced himself as Ben Forbes, a retired doctor. He and Andy were, it appeared, sharing a cabin. He was, she guessed, in his late sixties, a large, florid man with small bright observant eyes, a wild thatch of greying hair and a rumbustious laugh which within a few minutes had proved to be both infectious and a wonderful way of drawing attention to their table. The waiters unfailingly came to them first, as did their tour guide, Omar, who introduced himself as they were waiting to be served.

‘Welcome. Tomorrow we start with our tour to the Valley of the Kings. Karnac and the Temple of Luxor itself we shall visit on the last day of the cruise. Tomorrow we get up very early. We cross the river on the ferry, and then we go on a bus. The schedule will be posted each day at the top of the stairs, outside the lounge.’ A strikingly handsome young man, who, Anna discovered later, when he was not working as a tour guide, was studying history at Cairo University, he glanced round at them and smiled the most beautiful smile, his white teeth enhanced by what looked like a fortune in gold. ‘Please, if you have any problems and questions come to me at any time.’ He bowed and moved on to the next table.

Watching him, Anna saw him bow again and introduce himself to each of them in turn, then she noticed the man next to whom he was standing. Seated with his back towards her, his arm across the back of the chair as he looked up at Omar and listened to his short speech, was the man who had sat next to her on the plane; he must have been on the bus after all. He had changed into a dark-blue open-necked shirt and pale linen trousers and she saw him make some quiet remark to Omar which had the young man blushing and the others at the table laughing uproariously. So he was still being unpleasant. Obviously it was in his nature. She suppressed a quick feeling of triumph that she was after all on the same cruise as he was!

‘Seen someone you know?’ Andy was passing her the basket of warm bread rolls.

She shook her head. ‘He sat next to me on the plane, that’s all.’

‘I see.’ Andy stared over his shoulder, then he turned back to her. ‘So. It’s brave of you to travel out here on your own. What made you decide to come to Egypt after dumping hubby?’

She winced. ‘It is as you said. I have a passion for things Egyptian. Well, perhaps that’s putting it too strongly. My great-great-grandmother was a woman called Louisa Shelley. She came out here to paint in the late 1860s –’

‘The Louisa Shelley? The watercolourist?’ She had his attention completely now. ‘But she is very well known! I sold one of her sketches not six months ago.’

‘Sold?’ Anna frowned.

‘In my shop. I deal in fine art and antiques.’ He smiled at her.

Beyond him Charley leant forward and smacked him on the wrist. ‘No shop, Andy, please. You promised.’ She surveyed Anna carefully, her eyes wary. ‘Don’t encourage him!’ There was no friendly smile as she looked Anna up and down. ‘What do you do?’ She waited, eyebrows raised.

Not giving her a chance to reply Andy leapt in for her. ‘She’s here to spend her ex-husband’s fortune, darling, what do you think? And I’ll bet I can sell her some gorgeous things when we all get home, but for now we’re going to concentrate on Egyptian goodies, and first of all, Egyptian food. Did you know this boat is famous for its food?’

Anna glanced at Andy. His open cheerfulness encouraged confidences. She noticed suddenly that Charley’s hand, resting on the table beside her plate, was touching Andy’s. So, he was not as unattached as all that. She would have to be careful. ‘If you’re interested in art and antiques perhaps I should show you my Ancient Egyptian scent bottle!’ She smiled.

Andy leant back in his chair, his head cocked on one side. ‘Genuine Ancient Egyptian?’ He waited attentively.

She shrugged. ‘I have been told not. But it came from Louisa and I think she thought it was. I have her diary with me. I’ll see if she mentions where she found it. I just thought it would be fun to bring it with me. Back to the place of its origin as it were.’

‘Indeed.’ Andy watched as a Nubian waiter approached with their soup. ‘You must show it to me some time. I know a little about ancient artefacts, and I would love to see Louisa Shelley’s diary. Are there any sketches in it, by any chance?’ He had picked up his bread roll and was crumbling it between his fingers.

Anna nodded. ‘A few, tiny thumbnail ones. She did most of her sketches in the special sketchbooks she had with her.’

She was aware suddenly that at the next table her neighbour from the plane had realised she was there. He was staring at her with such close attention that she suspected he had been listening to their conversation. She gave him a small quick smile – no more than the slightest acknowledgement – and saw him nod curtly in return.

‘Your flight companion has spotted you, I see.’ Andy’s voice in her ear was amused.

‘So it seems.’ Anna wondered why the man’s neighbour, Serena, was sitting separately and not at the table with her companions. So far she had not even turned to acknowledge them. Even as she watched the woman smiled across at her neighbour and began talking animatedly to him. He turned back towards her at once, and as his head turned Anna caught sight of the not unattractive smile.

She picked up her spoon. The soup was made of vegetables, lightly seasoned and thin but tasty. It was very welcome after the packaged food on the journey. ‘He was fascinated by the diary. I was reading it on the flight and he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.’

‘Indeed.’ Andy’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Anna, you will take care of it, won’t you? I’m sure it must be extremely valuable. It would be very tempting to anyone who guessed what it was.’ His eyes on her face were concerned, sincere.

For the first time in ages Anna felt a small rush of grateful happiness. He actually seemed genuinely interested in what she was saying. ‘You are not suggesting that he would try and steal it?’

‘No, of course not. I’m sure he was just curious. A manuscript diary is not the usual airport reading that one expects to see on a plane.’ He chuckled.

Anna glanced back towards the other table again and was disconcerted to find the man in the blue shirt still watching her. There was a look of faintly sardonic amusement on his face. She looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring and without thinking she smiled nervously at the tall Nubian standing behind the serving counter. He caught her eye and in a moment was beside her. ‘More soup, madam?’

Andy chuckled. ‘Go on. You’ll have to have it now.’

She glanced up. ‘Yes. Please. That would be lovely.’ Watching her plate disappear she shrugged helplessly. ‘They are going to think that I’m really greedy.’

‘Or just hungry.’ Andy laughed again. ‘Just to make you feel better I shall have some too. You do realise that this is a four course meal,’ he went on as her brimming plate reappeared.

‘No!’

‘Yes! And I shall order some wine to accompany it.’ He raised his hand and beckoned the waiter back.

‘I love their robes,’ Anna whispered when the man had finished serving them and returned to his watchful pose by the counter. The waiters were dressed in long striped cotton shift-like garments, fastened round the waist with red cummerbunds. ‘They look fantastically glamorous.’

Andy reached for the bottle. ‘They’re called galabiyyas.’

‘What are?’

‘The robes, as you put it, that the men here wear. Enormously comfortable. Cool.’ Turning his back on the neighbouring table he leant back in his chair and beamed first at Charley, who was beginning to scowl at him, clearly resenting the attention he was paying to her, and then back at Anna. ‘No doubt we shall have to don such apparel at some time during the voyage. Even the most salubrious and posh of vessels feel bound to humiliate their passengers with a fancy dress party of some kind, I gather.’

‘I’m beginning to suspect that this is not your first trip to Egypt.’ Anna watched as he squinted at the label on the wine bottle which had appeared.

‘My first on a cruise like this.’ He slopped a little wine into his glass and raised it to his nose speculatively. ‘This may be a mistake. One should really stick to beer in Egypt unless one wants to buy French wine. Not bad, I suppose. Want some?’ He reached for her glass.

Beyond him Charley was engaged at last in a lively conversation with Ben Forbes. Her long red hair had fallen forward over her shoulder and a few strands were trailing in her soup. She didn’t seem to notice.

‘I was a bit nervous, coming on a trip like this on my own,’ Anna went on. ‘I’ll know who to ask for advice.’

‘Indeed you will.’ He winked. ‘Now, eat that soup. I can see the hors d’oeuvres waiting to come in.’

When the meal was at last finished almost all the passengers made their way up to the lounge bar and some of them, thence, through the double doors out onto the deck. As she stepped out into the darkness, Anna shivered. She had expected the earlier balmy evening air, but a sharp breeze had sprung up. Threading her way between the tables and chairs she made her way aft and leant on the rail alone. Andy and Charley had stopped inside at the bar and she could hear their laughter through the half-open door. The river was broad at this point, though she could see little in the darkness. On the bank against which they were moored the houses, built with mud brick and clustered closely together were mostly without lights and the only sound, of distant singing, came from another boat further along the bank and from the occasional slap of water against the mud.

‘So, it appears we are on the same cruise after all.’ The voice at her elbow made her jump. ‘Forgive me for doubting your good taste.’

Turning she saw the blue shirt, the sandy hair. He was leaning over the rail, not looking at her, lost in thought. He turned and held out his hand. ‘My name is Toby. Toby Hayward.’ Now that he was standing up she realised that he was much taller than she expected, his frame lanky, slightly stooped.

‘I’m Anna Fox.’ His handshake was firm but brief.

They both stared out into the darkness for several moments. ‘You know, I am finding it hard to believe I am actually here,’ Anna went on softly. ‘On the River Nile. Somewhere out there in the darkness is Tutankhamen’s tomb, and ancient Thebes and the desert and beyond that the heart of Africa.’

There was a quiet chuckle. ‘A romantic. I hope you’re not going to be disappointed.’

‘No. No, I’m not.’ Suddenly she was on the defensive. ‘It is going to be wonderful.’ Turning away from him, she made her way back between the deserted tables and ducked into the lounge.

Andy spotted her at once. ‘Anna! Come on, let me buy you a drink.’

She shook her head with a smile. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll turn in. We’ve an early start tomorrow, and I got a bit chilled out there. I never thought it would be cold in Egypt.’

‘It’s the night wind off the desert.’ Andy caught her hand between his own. ‘My goodness, yes. It’s frozen. Are you sure a stiff drink wouldn’t thaw you out?’

‘No. Thank you.’ She was conscious that the door behind her had opened and Toby had come in, leaving the deck outside deserted. Ignoring the other passengers he walked straight through the lounge and made his way out towards the cabins.

She followed him slowly, not wanting to catch him up as he headed for the staircase, but there was no sign of him as she made her way to her door and let herself in.

She paused, looking round. The cabin no longer looked bleak and impersonal. Nor was it cold. It was warm and inviting, the bedside light on, the bed turned down, the towel she had used before supper already replaced by a dry one. Her own belongings made the place look welcoming and friendly, the little perfume bottle, in place of honour on the dressing table, reflecting in the mirror, a small almost glowing patch of colour on the brown wood. Suddenly she was very happy.

The diary was waiting for her by her bed. Perhaps, before she fell asleep, she would stay awake long enough to read a little more and find out how Louisa had first experienced the Valley of the Kings, then tomorrow she would know what to expect.




2 (#ulink_de380eeb-3ef3-5f0e-956f-c1a7aed944d2)


The things which are abominated by the gods they are wickedness and falsehood. If found wanting, what future is there for those who escape the blood grimed jaws of Ammit? He who fastens the fetters on the foes of the gods; those who slaughter in the shambles; there is no escape from their grasp. May they never stab me with their knives; may I never fall helpless into their chambers of torture. Better to return to the body in the silent heat of the death chamber and wait. I am Yesterday and Today; I have the power to be born a second time.






Thoth the god of judgement sees the human hearts and frowns as the first is laid in the balance and the beam begins to tremble.

Ammit, the eater of the dead, licks her fearsome lips as she sits beside the scale. Should this heart weigh more than the feather of Maat, hers will be the reward. These men served the gods. The one was a priest of Isis and Amun. The other the priest of Isis and her sister, Sekhmet, the bloody-jawed lioness, goddess of war and anger – and, oh strange and wonderful contradiction, of healing. They should pass the test; they should go on to eternal life with the gods they served. But there is blood on their handsand there is revenge in their hearts and there is greed in their spirit for the elixir of life. If they fail the test now, they will flee the terrors of Ammit and the tortures of the damned and they will return to the chamber of death to wait. All grows dark.






Louisa was ready at dawn. Hassan was waiting on the bank with three donkeys. Food, water and her painting equipment was loaded quickly and silently into the panniers on one and Hassan helped her onto one of the others, then, keeping a firm grip on the leading rein of both, climbed onto his own. Behind him the crew of the Ibis were busy going about their chores. Of the Forresters or Jane Treece there was no sign. Louisa hid a smile of relief. They were going to manage to escape.

The Forresters had not so far proved to be the hosts she had hoped for. In fact their regime was even more restrictive than that of Isabella and Arabella. They too could see no reason to visit the antiquities, and particularly not those which involved half a day’s ride through the blazing sun. More importantly, they seemed to feel that they were responsible for Louisa’s moral welfare. Though a dragoman had been hired for her, she was not to be with him alone. Though she had come to Egypt not only for the sake of her health, but in her own mind at least, to paint the antiquities, they did not consider that it was important or even advisable for her to do so. They were in fact due to leave for a gentle sail up the Nile as soon as the steamer had arrived at Luxor with the post from England. In near despair of ever visiting the Valley of the Tombs, Louisa had had to resort to secrecy. She had found Hassan sitting in the shade of the deck awning, writing in his own small notebook. He rose to his feet the moment she had appeared, and he listened gravely to her whispered instructions. Well aware that Lady Forrester might at the last minute insist on Jane Treece accompanying her as a chaperone, Louisa had told them that she would not leave until mid-morning. To Hassan she explained privately that they must leave at dawn.

She had awoken while it was still dark, climbing into her clothes as silently as she could. Her first brief meetings with the man who was to be her dragoman – guide, escort, servant, interpreter – had gone well. He was a quiet, refined man, grave and very conscious of his responsibility. His loyalties, he made clear immediately, were to Louisa alone. Wherever she wanted to go he would take her.

‘Does he have a name?’ Louisa patted her animal’s neck as they set off.

Hassan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I hired them for the journey.’

‘He must have a name. Perhaps I should give him one. Caesar. How does that sound?’

Hassan smiled across at her as they rode swiftly away from the river bank and turned between some square mud-brick houses out of sight of the Ibis.

‘That is a good name. I shall call mine, Antony. And this our beast of burden shall be Cleopatra.’

Louisa laughed in delight. ‘Then we shall be such an intelligent party.’ He was a good-looking man, of middle height, slim, dressed in loose blue trousers and a striped robe. He had large dark eyes, fringed with long lashes. Looking across at him surreptitiously she wondered how old he was. It was hard to tell. His hair was hidden completely by his red turban. There were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and laughter creases from nose to mouth, but apart from that his skin was smooth.

‘How far must we ride to the valley, Hassan?’ In spite of herself she glanced over her shoulder.

He shrugged. ‘We will know when we get there. We have all day.’ His smile was warm and without guile.

Louisa laughed. In Egypt, she had discovered, things happened when they happened. That was the will of God. With a contented sigh she settled onto the felt saddle and concentrated instead on trying to accommodate herself to her donkey’s pace.

The track through the fields of berseem and wheat and barley was cool in the dawn light beneath the eucalyptus trees and the tall graceful date palms and she relaxed, enjoying the scented air, the greetings of the fellaheen they passed making their way out to the fields. It was all too soon that they reached the edge of the cultivated land which bordered the River Nile and struck out into the desert. In front of them rose the long red shoulder of the Theban hills, so visible, and so mysteriously close that they could be seen from the deck of the boat and yet now, shrouded in the misty distance.

They stopped briefly for a breakfast of slices of watermelon and cheese and bread before the sun was too high, then they rode on. Ahead the hills at last drew closer. Louisa stared up, fanning herself beneath the shade of her broad-brimmed hat. A kite circled overhead, a dark speck against the brilliant blue of the sky.

‘Soon there. Very soon.’ Hassan reined back his little donkey. ‘You are going to draw pictures of the mountains?’

Louisa nodded. ‘I want to see the mountains and the tombs of the pharaohs.’

‘Of course. What else?’ Hassan smiled. ‘I have brought candles and flares for us to see them.’ He gestured towards the pack animal. ‘Not far. Then you can rest.’

She nodded again. Perspiration was trickling down her back and between her breasts. Her clothes felt heavy and stifling. ‘I expected to see a lot of visitors along this road,’ she called across to him. The loneliness was beginning to unnerve her.

‘There are lots of visitors.’ He shrugged. ‘The steamer has not been here for several days. When it comes they will arrive again.’

‘I see.’ She smiled uncertainly. The barely distinguishable road was empty of other riders. There were no tracks.

‘There are no footmarks, no signs of anyone else.’ She gestured nervously.

He shook his head. ‘Last night the wind blew. Poof!’ He blew out his cheeks, gesturing with his hands. ‘The sand comes and all things disappear.’

Louisa smiled. That was a phrase for her diary. She must remember it. The sand comes and all things disappear. The epitaph of a civilisation.

The road grew steeper as they made their way into the hills and eventually they turned into the hidden valley where she could clearly make out the square doorways cut in the brilliant limestone cliffs. Drawing to a standstill Hassan slid off his donkey and came to help her dismount. As she stood staring round, listening to the moan of the strange hot wind and the cries of the circling kites he unloaded her sketchbooks and paints and a Persian rug which he spread nearby on the sand. He also produced some poles over which he draped a length of green and blue striped cloth to make her a shelter, like a Bedouin tent, to give her some privacy in the barren valley. The donkeys and he remained in the sun, seemingly oblivious to the heat.

‘I expected to see people digging. Excavating. Why is it all so empty?’ She was staring round, still overwhelmed by the desolation of the valley.

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes there are a lot. Sometimes none. The money stops.’ He raised his shoulders again eloquently. ‘They have to go away to find more. Then they return. Then you will see the wadi full of people. The local men are always here. We will see them, I expect. They dig in the night. If they find a new tomb they dig in the early morning, even in the heat of the day. They are supposed to take what they find to the authorities at Boulak, but …’ Again the shrug of the shoulders she was beginning to know so well.

Digging into the donkey’s pannier he produced two candles and a small flare. Flourishing them he bowed. ‘You would like to see inside one of the tombs now?’

She nodded. The tombs would be blessedly cool after the endless sun. She reached for a bottle of water and Hassan hastened to pour some out for her. The water was warm and brackish but she drank gratefully, then she dipped her handkerchief in the cup and wiped her face with it.

When she turned to follow Hassan towards one of the square doorways in the cliff, there was a sketchbook under her arm.

‘We will start here,’ he waved at one of the entrances. ‘It is the tomb of Rameses VI. This has been open since the days of the ancients.’

‘You have brought other people here before. You know them all as well as a local guide?’ she asked as she made to follow him.

‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘I have heard the guides from the villages a thousand times. I no longer need them.’

As they entered the passageway Louisa stared into the darkness completely blinded after the brilliant light outside. Then slowly her eyes began to acclimatise. The flickering light of Hassan’s candle barely lit the walls of the long passage in which they found themselves, but from its pale glow she could see the breathtaking riot of figures and colours stretching into the distance. Then he lit the flare and in the streaming flame and smoke she could see hieroglyphs and gods and kings covering the walls and ceiling in rich colours. Standing still on the steep sandy floor of the passage she stared round in amazement and delight. ‘I had no idea,’ she gasped. ‘No idea at all that it could be so …’ she fumbled for words, ‘… so wonderful!’

‘Nice?’ Hassan was watching her.

‘Very, very nice.’ She took a few paces forward, her shoes slipping on the steeply sloping passage. ‘Hassan, it is more wonderful than I had ever dreamt.’

The intense silence of the place was overwhelming but far from being cooler in the darkness the tomb was hot and airless as an oven. She moved across to the wall and rested a hand for a moment on the paint-covered stone. ‘It would be very hard to copy this. Even to convey this wonder. This mystery. I could never do it. My sketches will have to be so impressionistic, so inadequate.’ She shrugged helplessly.

‘Your pictures are very good.’ He raised the flare higher so the light shone a little further into the darkness.

‘How do you know? You haven’t seen any,’ she retorted over her shoulder.

‘I saw. When I was loading the donkey the wind blew open the book.’ He followed her with a grin. ‘I could not help but see. Here. Be careful. There are steps now going down a long way.’

Behind them the small square of daylight at the entrance to the passage abruptly disappeared as they began to descend a long flight of roughly excavated steps. The candlelight condensed on the multi-coloured walls, then as they reached the pillared chamber at the bottom it spread and faded again, mixing and losing itself in the vast darkness. A further series of passages led deeper and deeper into the dark, then at last they reached the burial chamber at the bottom. Louisa stopped with a gasp. Soaring overhead in the flickering shadows two huge strangely elongated figures spanned the ceiling above her head.

‘Nut. Goddess of the sky.’ Hassan was standing beside her, holding the flare high and she found herself suddenly intensely aware of his closeness to her. She glanced sideways. He was gazing up at the figures, his face a silhouette in the soft light.

He turned and caught her staring at him. She blushed. ‘May I have the flare?’

‘Of course, Sitt Louisa.’ For half a second their hands touched as her fingers closed round the wooden shaft. Then abruptly she stepped away from him. ‘Tell me about the goddess of the sky.’






Anna woke with a start to find the light in her cabin still on, the diary lying open on her chest. Daylight poured through the slatted shutters, sending bright narrow wedges of light onto the floor and up the wall. Leaping out of bed she reached across to the window and slid the shutters back. Outside, the river was a brilliant blue. A Nile cruiser was making its way upstream, whilst across the broad stretch of water she could see the palm trees on the distant bank, a strip of brilliant green fields and beyond them in the distance a line of low hazy mountains, pink and ochre in the early morning sunlight.

Dressing quickly in a blue shift she made her way out between tables and chairs in the lounge onto the deserted deck and stared round in delight. It was already hot on the afterdeck, but under the awning it was shady. She walked to the rail and leant on it, staring at the palm trees on the far side of the river. The cruiser was out of sight now, and for a moment the river was empty. It was several minutes before she could bring herself to turn her back on the view and head for the dining room and breakfast. At the door she met Serena, Charley’s cabinmate, who the night before had been sitting at the next-door table. About forty-five, slim and attractive with short dark hair and huge green eyes she gave Anna a cheerful smile. ‘See you later,’ she said by way of hello and goodbye. She held the door open for Anna, then disappeared in the direction of the cabins. In the dining room only Charley was sitting at the table they had all shared the night before.

‘Good morning.’ Anna sat down near her. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Not a wink.’ Charley scowled. She was nursing a cup of black coffee. She sighed. ‘I hate flying and I hate boats.’

Anna hid an astonished smile. She resisted the temptation to ask why in that case Charley had come on such a holiday. ‘Can I get you something from the buffet?’ Behind them the serving table was laden with cereals and fruits, cheese, cold meat and eggs.

Charley shook her head. Her long hair was caught back in a ponytail this morning and she was wearing a tee-shirt and jeans ‘Just ignore me. I’ll improve when I’ve had a couple of these.’ She gestured at the coffee.

‘Have the others had breakfast?’ Anna eyed the empty places, already cleared by the waiters.

Charley nodded. ‘All early birds.’ She gave Anna a sideways glance. ‘Andy and I are an item, we’ve been together for several months.’

Anna watched while the waiter poured her coffee then she stood up ready to go to the buffet. ‘I thought perhaps you were.’ She smiled. Charley’s comment was a clear warning shot across the bows. Yet hadn’t Andy said he was unattached? Piling up fruit and cheese and a delicate crumbling croissant onto her plate she turned back to the table. Charley had gone.



Returning to her cabin to collect her sun hat, glasses and guidebook, Anna stood for a moment staring round. She had left the diary on the bedside table. Hesitating briefly she swung her suitcase down from the top of the locker where she had stowed it and put the diary inside. Locking it, she lifted it back into place. As she was collecting a hairbrush and some sun cream from the dressing table to toss into her bag her eye was caught by the scent bottle. Should she have locked that away as well? She hesitated, glancing at her watch. They had been told to meet in the boat’s reception area at six forty-five to leave at seven a.m. She did not want to miss the bus. The decision was simple. She would take it with her. Picking up the bottle she wrapped it in one of the fine silk scarves she used to knot back her hair and tucked the small scarlet bundle into her bag. Then, turning, she let herself out of the cabin.



A small coach collected them from the river bank and drove them to the ferry in Luxor. To her surprise as she sat down alone towards the back of the coach and waited, staring eagerly out of the window, Andy came and sat down beside her, wedging his broad frame into the narrow seats with a familiarity which, she had to admit, she did not find entirely unpleasant. ‘So. How are you this morning? Excited?’

In spite of herself she glanced round for Charley. Not seeing her she nodded. ‘I’m fine. Very excited. Yes.’ She recognised all the faces now. Near her were Sally Booth and Ben Forbes. And Serena, sitting next to an elderly lady in a cerise trouser suit. Then two more couples whose names she didn’t know. And at the back of the bus on his own she saw Toby Hayward.

‘Did you bring your precious diary?’ Andy was looking at the tote bag on her knee.

She shook her head. ‘It’s locked in my suitcase.’ She grinned at him. ‘I’m sure it’s all right, Andy. There wouldn’t be anyone around who would want it. Really.’

He was still staring at her bag and she glanced down to see what interested him so much. Her scarf had worked free and the little scent bottle was lying on top of her guidebook in full view.

‘Souvenirs already?’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t let the peddlers badger you into buying anything you don’t really want. They’re awfully persuasive.’

She shook her head, feeling suddenly defensive. He had clearly not recognised it as antique. Wrapping the bottle up again she pushed it to the bottom of the bag. ‘I won’t. I’m good at saying “no”.’ She caught sight of his raised eyebrow out of the corner of her eye and chose to ignore it.

As the coach lurched up the track from the river and onto the narrow dusty road she stared out of the window at the squat, square mud-brick houses on either side. They seemed to rise to two or three storeys then they would stop, unexpectedly, as though only half finished, with yards of metal reinforcements projecting from the top, like clusters of TV aerials. Huddled together they gave the impression of shanty towns clustered around the outskirts of the city itself, all built in a uniform yellowy-grey colour but some brightly painted, with wild designs and patterns, a contrast to the sandy dust which was everywhere, and many further decorated with the rugs thrown across the sills to air. Some had nothing more than a few palms or straw mats strewn across the top, instead of roofs, and all over the place Anna saw rows of amphora-like clay pots lying on the rooftops or around the doors. She shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe I’m here, to be honest.’

He laughed. ‘You are here, believe me. So, did you read any more of the diary last night?’

Anna nodded. ‘A bit. I found the section where she went to the Valley of the Kings. There was a wonderful description of the valley. It was empty. Deserted. There was no one there with her except her dragoman, Hassan. They sat and picnicked on a Persian rug.’

Andy laughed. ‘I’m afraid it won’t be like that for us. It will be packed with tourists. I’ve heard a lot of people say there are so many crowds there that it spoils it. No atmosphere, or not much. And no dragomen!’

‘It’s such a lovely term. I should love my own dragoman!’ She clutched at the back of the seat in front of them as the bus hit a pothole and then turned sharply to the right, hooting furiously as it hurtled out onto the busy main road.

‘Perhaps I can be of service?’

She smiled at him. ‘I don’t think Charley would approve,’ she said gently. ‘Where is she, by the way?’

‘Up front somewhere. With Joe and Sally. She’s been chatting up Omar.’ The lurching of the bus threw him against her for a moment. ‘Have you got your camera?’

She nodded. ‘Photography is one of my passions. I’m not likely to forget that.’

‘Good. You’ll have to take a picture of me in front of some great pharaoh so I can brag about my trip at home.’

They climbed out of the coach to queue for the short ferry ride across the Nile and found another identical though older vehicle waiting for them on the other side. When Anna looked round for Andy as they climbed aboard, she saw that Charley was by his side. For this second part of the journey she found herself next to Serena.

‘My first visit to Egypt.’ The dark-haired woman was wearing a cool cheesecloth skirt and blouse of brilliant contrasting blues and greens.

‘Mine too.’ Anna nodded. ‘You’re a friend of Charley’s, I gather?’

Serena laughed. ‘For my sins. We’re sort of flatmates in London. Well, in fact she rents a room in my flat. It was my idea to come out to Egypt and before I knew it Charley was coming too. She knew how long I’d wanted to come out here and I suppose I was so enthusiastic and excited I sold her the idea.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘She and Andy had been going out together on and off for several months and when he heard about it he half jokingly said he’d come as well. Charley was over the moon and he realised he might have committed himself a bit more seriously than he intended so he asked the Booths and there we were, a veritable wagon train!’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. Does that sound as though I’m complaining?’

Anna shook her head. ‘I should think it’s more fun coming with friends than on your own.’

‘Perhaps.’ Serena did not sound too certain. There was a moment of silence as the driver climbed into his seat and leant forward to turn on the ignition. The bus gave a shudder and settled down into a violent but steady rattle. ‘You’re on your own?’ Serena’s enquiry was almost lost in the noise of grinding gears.

‘Newly divorced and stepping out for independence.’ Anna had a feeling that her jaunty tone had a wistful ring to it. She hoped not.

‘Good for you.’ Serena nodded. ‘My partner died four years ago. For a while it was like losing half of my own body. We had been so close there was a physical loss; part of me had died with him. But it gets better.’ She gave a big smile. ‘Sorry. That’s a bit intense for a first conversation, but at least you know there’s someone who understands if you need a chat.’

‘Thank you.’ Anna was astonished by the wave of warmth she felt for the other woman. It wasn’t the same, of course. Felix wasn’t dead. And her feelings for him – had they ever been so intense that she had felt him to be part of her? She wasn’t sure they had ever been that close.

Conversation was impossible above the noise of the engine and they turned their attention to the passing countryside. Apart from the cars and buses the landscape was, Anna realised, exactly as Louisa had described it a hundred and forty years before. And, with its intense air of timelessness, it might for all she knew have been the same fourteen hundred years before as well.

She stared out of her window at the intense green of this narrow strip of fertile fields, watered by narrow canals, and at the shade of the eucalyptus trees and palms which formed darker patches on the dusty road. She caught glimpses of water buffalo and donkeys and even camels; of men dressed in galabiyyas, boys dressed in jeans and some on bicycles, but most perched on the rumps of small trotting donkeys, whose ribs stuck out like harp strings. And there too were the fields of sugar cane and small allotment-like squares of onion and cabbages. Amongst them were scattered small, shabby papyrus and alabaster factories.

They stopped briefly to get out of the bus and photograph the Colossi of Memnon, two massive figures carved out of pink quartzite, standing alone on the bare rubbled ground, then they were back into the coach and heading once again towards the edge of the green fertile countryside. At last they were nearing the range of mountains she had seen from the boat in the early morning light. As they drew closer they changed colour. They were becoming less brown, less pink, more dazzling as the sun reflected off the dusty stone and the sand. They passed villages nestling into the cliffs with dark holes amongst the mud-brick houses which could have been modern or ancient, caves or dwellings or antiquities.

It was hard to tell, Anna realised, if something was two years old or two thousand. Here there was no green to be seen at all. The ground was everywhere a rubble of rocks and shale and scree.

The bus park in the valley dispelled all her visions of Louisa’s lonely visit to the tombs. As Andy had warned it was packed. Acres of coaches, hundreds of tourists and round them, like wasps round a jam pot, dozens and dozens of eager noisy men, dressed in colourful galabiyyas and headscarves, holding out postcards and statuettes of Bast, Tut and souvenirs galore.

‘Ignore them and follow me.’ Omar clapped his hands. ‘I will buy your tickets and photograph permits then you can explore alone or stay with me and I will take you into some of the tombs.’

Anna looked around in dismay. It was nothing like the place she had imagined. Nothing at all. For a moment she stood still, overwhelmed, then she was swept into a loosely gathered queue making its way alongside the barren cliffs, past a line of colourful booths and stalls where yet more souvenirs were being hawked. Andy and Charley, and Serena had disappeared. For a moment she wondered if she should try to find them, then she decided against it. With a smile she took her ticket from Omar and resolutely she set off to find her way around on her own.

The narrow valley absorbed the sunlight, turning it into a blinding oven. The mountains all around them were huge, ochre-coloured, awesome, rugged and uneven and deeply fissured. It was a landscape utterly untouched by time. The square entrances to the tombs were black enticing shadows scattered over the cliff faces. Some were barred with gates. Many were open.

‘You look bemused, Anna, love.’ Ben Forbes was beside her suddenly. ‘Want to venture in with me?’ His broad-brimmed hat flopped idiosyncratically to one side and the green canvas bag hanging from his left shoulder looked as though it had seen quite a few expeditions in the past. He had his guidebook already open. ‘Rameses IX. This is a particularly splendid tomb, I believe. It is as good a place as any to start.’ He led the way down a sloping ramp where they joined the queue of people wanting to go in.

‘Interesting man, Andy Watson. We were both a bit late applying for places on this holiday and as fate would have it there was only a double cabin left so we’re sharing. I don’t find him irresistible, but I can see the ladies might.’ He had taken off his glasses and was polishing them with his handkerchief.

‘Yes.’ She nodded.

‘Seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. He’s just being friendly.’

Ben nodded. ‘Probably.’ There was a moment’s silence as they shuffled forward in the queue. ‘I sat next to Charley on the bus.’

Anna glanced at him. ‘His girlfriend?’

‘According to her, yes. Forgive me poking my nose in, Anna, especially at this early stage, but I’ve been on cruises before and ours is an exceptionally small boat.’

Anna raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I being warned off?’

‘I think the lady could turn a bit nasty, if provoked.’

Sighing, Anna shrugged. ‘Isn’t it a shame when one can’t just be friends with someone of the opposite sex? I don’t want to get in anyone’s way. He was friendly. I don’t know anyone. That’s all.’

‘You know me.’ Ben gave her a warm smile, his eyes crinkling into deep folds at the corners. ‘Not so attractive, I grant you. Not so young. But infinitely less dangerous. Come on.’ He touched her elbow lightly.

They were in front of a large square entrance, the heavily barred gate standing open but overseen by watchful guards, who solemnly took their tickets, tore off one corner and returned them to each tourist. Slowly, shoulder to shoulder with people of every nationality, they shuffled down the long slope into the darkness, staring at the walls on either side of them, and at the ceiling over their heads. Every available surface area was covered from top to bottom in hieroglyphics and in pictures of pharaohs and gods – the overwhelming colours ochre and lemon yellow, green, lapis and aquamarine and black and white, stunningly preserved and covered now in plexiglass. She couldn’t take her eyes off them. So many books, so many pictures – ever since she was a child she had seen them, as everyone has, but never had she realised the overwhelming beauty and power they would present, or the sheer scale of them. To her amazement she found she could ignore the people milling round her, ignore the shouts and excited talk, the high-pitched competitive commentaries of the guides, the laughter, the irritations of people who, having come so far, to this wonderful, awesome place, proceeded to gossip and talk amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious to the beauty and history around them. The incredible silence was overwhelming. It drowned out the noise. It was all encompassing.

The further they walked into the tomb, the hotter it got. Used to British and European caves, which grow colder as you penetrate further in, Anna found it a shock. The darkness did not give respite. The silence and heat grew more and more dense.

On they moved, through three successive corridors, towards a huge pillared hall and then, at last into the burial chamber itself, with nothing but a rectangular pit to show where the sarcophagus would have been.

Ben glanced down at Anna. ‘Well, what do you think?’

She shook her head, ‘I’m speechless.’

He laughed. ‘Not an affliction which seems to affect many people down here.’ Slowly they turned and started making their way back towards the daylight. ‘What about going to see Tutankhamen’s tomb next? He’s back in there, you know, minus his treasure, of course.’ As they came out once more into the sunlight, he gestured towards one of the smaller entrances. ‘We’re lucky. I think they close his tomb every so often to give it a rest from all the visitors who come here. According to my guidebook it’s small and relatively low key compared with some of the others, because he died young and no one was expecting his death. He might even have been murdered.’

Once more they queued, once more a corner was removed from their ticket and slowly they made their way into the darkness. This tomb was indeed very different from the last one they had seen. Besides being smaller, it was simpler; there was no decoration, but there was something else. Anna stopped, allowing the people around her to pass on, unnoticed. Staring round she let her eyes become accustomed to the low level of lighting. Ben had moved on and for a moment she was alone. Then she realised what it was that was so strange. This tomb was cold.

She shivered, conscious of the goosepimples on her bare arms. ‘Ben?’ She couldn’t see him. A crowd of visitors were making their way into the inner chamber. She turned round, half expecting to find someone standing behind her. There was no one there. ‘Ben?’ Her voice was muffled in the silence.

Confused, she put her hand to her head, conscious suddenly of a group of tourists speaking Italian loudly, happily, as they filled the entrance behind her; in a moment they were all around her and she found herself being swept on in their wake.

She frowned. The tomb was no longer cold; it was as hot as the other they had visited and she could hardly breath. Suddenly panic-stricken, she pushed her way forward. She still couldn’t see Ben. She wasn’t usually claustrophobic, but the walls seemed to be closing in on her.

The people near her were anonymous black shadows, faceless in the dark. Her mouth had gone dry.

She stared round frantically and diving for the next entrance she abruptly found herself standing in the burial chamber itself, looking down at the open eyes of the young king Tutankhamen. He lay gazing up at the ceiling of his dark, hot tomb, disdaining the presence of the peasants who had come to stare at him, divested of the riches which had bolstered his royalty, but still he was awe-inspiring. How many of the people standing round him, she wondered, were as suddenly and as intensely aware as she was of the emaciated, broken body of the young king, lying inside that gilded wooden coffin? She shivered again, but this time not with cold.

‘Anna?’ Ben appeared beside her, his camera in his hand. ‘Isn’t he amazing?’

She nodded. The bag on her shoulder had grown very heavy. Why had she not taken out her own camera? She swung the soft leather holdall to the floor and was pulling open the zip when a strange wave of dizziness hit her. With a gasp, she straightened, leaving the bag to subside into the dust at her feet, spilling its contents over the ground.

‘Are you OK?’ Ben had caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. He stooped, and hastily began pushing everything back into the bag for her. She saw a flash of scarlet as the silk-wrapped scent bottle was scooped out of sight, then his arm was round her shoulders.

‘I felt weird suddenly.’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘I’m all right. I must have bent over too quickly to get my camera. Too much excitement, and too early a start, I expect.’ She forced herself to smile.

‘Perhaps that is a sign that it’s time to go and have a rest up in the fresh air.’ He took her arm, glancing over his shoulder. ‘These tombs are a bit overpowering, to my mind.’

‘There’s something down here, isn’t there?’ Anna could feel the perspiration on her back icing over. She was shivering again. ‘I thought all that business about the “curse of the mummy’s tomb” was rubbish, but there is an atmosphere. I don’t like it.’

A shout of laughter near her from a party of Germans, and the earnest mumble from a group of Japanese photographers in the treasury beyond the burial chamber, seemed to contradict her words, but it made no difference. ‘I do want to leave. I’m sorry.’

‘No problem. Come on.’

Grateful for the strength of his arm she stumbled after him, back towards the entrance corridor and the blinding sunlight outside.

Once sitting in the shade of the visitors’ resting area, she felt better. They both drank some bottled water, but she could see Ben was longing to move on. ‘Go without me, please. I will be all right soon. I shall just sit for a few minutes longer, then I’ll follow.’

He gave her a searching look. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course.’

She couldn’t see where it was that Hassan had taken Louisa and pitched her a makeshift shelter on a soft Persian rug. She desperately wanted to get away from the crowds, to find the place and to experience the silence as Louisa had done. She stood for a moment shading her eyes, looking up one of the white, dazzling paths which led away from the noisy centre of the valley. Could that have been where they went? Glancing over her shoulder she saw Ben disappearing with another queue into a tomb on the far side of the well-trodden centre of the valley. Near him she recognised one or two other people from their party. She hesitated, then, resolutely turning her back on them, she began to make her way up the empty track past a dusty fingerpost labelling yet more tombs, and, her shoes slipping on the dust and stones, she scrambled on upwards away from the crowds.

Above her the rock martins circled and swooped into holes in the cliffs but apart from that nothing moved. Almost immediately the sound of the crowds behind her diminished and disappeared. The heat and the silence were overwhelming. She stopped, staring round, scared for a moment that she might lose her bearings, but the path was clearly marked. Just empty. The colours of the rock were monochrome. Blinding. The sky the most brilliant blue she had ever seen.

Somewhere near her she heard footsteps suddenly, and the sound of scraping on the limestone. She frowned, shading her eyes as she scanned the cliff face. There was no one there. It was no more than a shifting of the sands.

But her mood had changed again and once more she began to feel uneasy. After the noise and bustle and colour of the main valley – the crowds, the shouting guides, the raised voices in a dozen different languages – this intense silence was unnerving. It was the silence of the grave.

In spite of the heat she found herself shivering again. She had the strangest feeling that she was being watched, a weird sensation that there was someone near her. She stared up at the cliff face, narrowing her eyes against the glare. There were other tombs in this direction. She had seen them on the plan. But no one seemed to be visiting them. Perhaps they were closed as the greater part of the tombs were, to protect them from the massive tourist interest. She took a few steps further up the path, rounding another corner. The cliffs were arid, silent, but for the birds. Far above she could see a dark speck against the blinding sky. Perhaps that was a kite, like the one Louisa had seen. The feeling that there was someone there at her shoulder was so intense suddenly that she swung round. Tiny eddies of dust swirled momentarily round her ankles in an undetectable breath of wind, then the air was still again.

Stubbornly she moved on. It was round here that Hassan had pitched the shelter for Louisa, she was sure of it. Here they had sat together on the rug and she had opened her sketchbook and, unscrewing her water jar, had begun one of her paintings of the rugged hillside.

‘Do I gather you too prefer to be away from crowds?’

The voice, a few feet from her, shocked her out of her reverie. She spun round. Toby Hayward was standing nearby. He swung his canvas satchel off his shoulder onto the ground and wiped his face on his forearm. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t see you until I came round the corner.’

Astonished at how relieved she was to find out the presence she had felt was that of a real person, she managed a smile. ‘I was dreaming.’

‘The right place for it.’ He stood for a moment in silence. ‘I find it hard to catch the atmosphere with the crowds down there,’ he said suddenly. ‘So many of them, and they snap endless pictures, but don’t look. Have you noticed? Their eyes are closed.’

‘The camera remembers. They are afraid they won’t,’ Anna said quietly. ‘We all do it.’ Her own camera was still in her bag.

‘I’m sure you look as well.’

The anger in his voice disturbed her. ‘I try to.’ She decided to try a different tack. Her quest, after all, was not secret. ‘I was trying to picture this place a hundred years ago, before it was commercialised.’

‘It’s always been commercialised. They probably brought guided tours here before the corpses were cold.’ Folding his arms he stared up at the cliffs. ‘Did I hear you right last night? You are a relation of Louisa Shelley?’ No apology for eavesdropping, she noticed.

‘I’m her great-great-granddaughter, yes.’

‘She was one of the few Victorians who empathised with the Egyptian soul.’ He had narrowed his eyes, still studying the rock formations above their heads.

‘How do you know that’s how she felt?’ Anna stared at him curiously.

‘From her painting. They have a set of watercolours at the Travellers’ Club.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

He nodded abruptly. ‘On the staircase. I’ve often studied them. She lingers over details. She’s not embarrassed by form or feature. And she’s never patronising. She uses a wonderful depth of colour unlike Roberts. He sees all this –’ he waved his arm at the cliffs – ‘as one tonal range. She sees the shadows, the wonderful textures.’

Anna looked at him with a new interest. ‘You talk like an artist.’

‘Artist!’ He snorted. ‘Stupid word. If you mean a painter, yes, I’m a painter.’ He was still staring up at the cliff and she took the opportunity of looking at him for a moment, surreptitiously, taking in the rugged features, the thatch of unruly greying-blond hair beneath the faded blue sun hat.

‘Louisa loved Egypt. I’m reading her diary, and it’s apparent on every page.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘I almost envy those Victorian women. They had so much to contend with and yet they persevered. They followed their dreams. They worked so hard for them –’ She broke off in mid-sentence, aware suddenly that he had turned his attention from the cliff and was watching her intently. She met his gaze and held it for a minute, but it was she who looked away first.

‘It sounds to me as though you wished you too had had to work hard for a dream,’ he said quietly.

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But I’m not the intrepid type, sadly.’ How could she be when she had remained so meekly in her marriage and at home?

‘No?’ He was still looking at her thoughtfully.

‘No.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Or not until today. Breaking away from the group and coming up here was pretty intrepid for me.’

He laughed and suddenly his face looked much younger. ‘Then we must encourage your intrepidness. Which tombs did your great-great-grandmother visit? Not young King Tut, obviously.’

‘No.’ Anna’s smile died.

Watching her, he raised an eyebrow. ‘So, what have I said now?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Something about Tutankhamen’s tomb?’

She shook her head. He was intuitive, she would grant him that. ‘I was in there. A little while ago. Something strange happened.’

‘Strange?’

She shook her head. ‘Claustrophobia, I suppose. Nothing really. Only it made me need to get away from everyone and come up here.’

‘And I spoilt your solitude. I’m sorry.’

‘No. No. I didn’t mean that.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘The trouble is, it didn’t work. The feeling, whatever it was, followed me up here.’

Again he gave her that long, disconcertingly direct look. There was no judgement in it. He wasn’t laughing at her. On the contrary he was considering her words, mulling them over, scanning her face for clues. ‘I think this whole valley could have that effect on people,’ he said at last. ‘In spite of the numbers of tourists who come here, the atmosphere is extraordinary. It is uncomfortable. Have you met Serena Canfield yet? She was sitting next to me at dinner last night. You should talk to her if you’re a sensitive. She is into Ancient Egyptian magic and stuff which might appeal to you. She has read all the books about star gates and Orion and Sirius.’

Anna raised an eyebrow. Was he being dismissive of her, gently taking the mickey or was he making the suggestion in good faith? It was hard to tell. Those steadfast eyes, the colour as clear as water, were impossible to read.

‘I might just do that,’ she said with a small touch of defiance. ‘There is room for so much that is strange and out of the ordinary in Egypt.’

He shrugged, but the angling of his head could have been a nod of agreement. ‘What I do hope is that she doesn’t go too near our revered guide, who is a devout Muslim and will not hear a word about all that stuff on his ship. He has enough trouble with the “legends” of the pharaohs. Did you notice that? He will not allow them even to be history.’

Anna shook her head, laughing. ‘I had no idea there was so much ideological conflict going on on the boat. It will make for an extraordinarily interesting trip. I have spoken to Serena. She sat next to me on the bus, but we didn’t talk about Sirius. That aspect of Egypt’s history seems to have passed me by. My interest stems from travel books, people like Lawrence Durrell, my mother’s books about archaeology, even school where we had a teacher who was passionate about pyramids.’

‘And Louisa.’

‘And Louisa.’

‘Can I see her diary one day?’ He held her gaze once more with that disconcerting directness which seemed to be his trademark.

She looked away first. ‘Of course you can.’

‘Now?’ He raised an eyebrow hopefully.

‘I’m sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t bring it with me. It’s on the boat.’

‘Of course. Silly me.’ He swung his bag back onto his shoulder. ‘OK, I think I’m heading back down to the valley to see another tomb or two before we leave. I’ll go and find Omar and plague him with some deep philosophical questions! Will you be all right on your own?’

She wasn’t sure whether the question was posed out of real concern or was a subtle way of telling her that he did not expect her to walk back with him and indeed, no sooner had he spoken than he turned and began to lope back down the path. In seconds he had disappeared behind the rocks.

The silence and the heat flowed back over her in a heavy curtain. Standing stock still she found she wanted to call him back. The loneliness in the valley was intense. Shading her eyes, she stared round for a moment scanning the cliff face then she turned and looked after him. At her feet a few pieces of shale rattled down the path. The sound emphasised the quiet. She was trying to recall the diary, the picture of the valley as Louisa had seen it, trying to visualise the rug, the shelter, the simple companionship of the man and the woman as Louisa laid out her painting things, but she couldn’t bring the picture into focus. The shadowy image of Louisa and her parasol, the click of the donkeys’ hoofs on the stone, the tap of the paintbrush against the rim of the water pot had all faded into the silence. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to run after Toby. This was ridiculous. What was there to be afraid of? The silence? The emptiness after the crowds in the valley bottom? She cast one last look over her shoulder up at the sun-baked cliffs and then she began to retrace her steps, hoping at every moment to catch sight of Toby ahead of her on the path. Twice she glanced over her shoulder again and then suddenly panic overwhelmed her. She lengthened her stride and before she knew it she was running back down towards the valley as fast as she could, slipping and sliding in her anxiety to catch up with Toby. It didn’t matter what he had said, she didn’t want to be alone in that spot for one second longer.

But the path was empty. There was no sign of him. Arriving at last in the valley bottom once more amongst the crowds and the shouting guides she made her way panting to the shaded resting place where groups of other tourists were sitting, exhausted by the intense heat which seemed to pool in the valley. Closing her eyes she took a deep breath, trying to steady the thudding of her heart under her ribs. There was no sign of Toby anywhere.

It was Andy who found her. Sitting down heavily on the bench next to her he took off his hat and fanned his face with it. ‘Hot enough for you?’

She nodded, struggling to steady her voice. ‘I thought the tombs would be cool. In the darkness.’

‘More like tandoori ovens.’ He grinned. ‘Are you enjoying yourself? You look lonely sitting here. I thought Ben was taking care of you.’

‘I don’t need taking care of, thank you!’ Her indignation was only half feigned. ‘But he was with me, yes. He’s a nice man.’

‘And so am I.’ Andy raised an eyebrow. ‘Can I escort you into another hell hole? We gather for our picnic in about an hour.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Then this afternoon it’s off to the Ramasseum and Hatchepsut’s temple. There’s no slacking on this trip!’

A shadow fell across his face. Charley was standing there looking down at him. ‘I am sure Anna doesn’t need an escort. If she needs someone to hold her hand in the dark, Omar can do it. That’s his job, after all.’ Her voice was acid.

Anna stood up hastily. ‘I don’t actually need an escort of any sort. Please, don’t worry.’ She grabbed her bag and slung it on her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you back on the bus, no doubt.’ She did not wait to see their reaction, plunging back into the sunlight to make her way across the sandy path towards the shadow of another tomb entrance.

It was only when she was standing in the queue, her guidebook in her hand that she realised Andy had followed her.

‘I’m sorry. That was embarrassing.’

‘Not at all. Charley is right. I don’t need an escort.’ She glanced behind them. ‘Where is she?’

‘Still over there in the shade.’ The queue shuffled a few steps closer to the entrance. ‘Egyptology is not her thing. She feels she has seen enough for one day.’

‘I see.’ Anna glanced at him sideways, unsure whether she should feel triumphant or sorry for the other woman. She liked Andy. His good-natured friendliness had done much to put her at her ease amongst so many strangers. Not that they seemed like strangers now. It was her first day in Egypt and yet she felt as though she had known them for a very long time.

‘Hello there.’ As though to confirm her thought Ben emerged from the entrance in front of them. His face was pink with heat, a marked contrast to the whiteness of his hair. As the sun hit him he smacked his hat back onto his head and grinned at them hugely. ‘One of the best tombs, this. Magnificent! The mind just boggles at the thought of how much work has gone into it all, and how many men it took to do it.’ His face sobered a little. ‘Charley! Are you going in too?’

Charley was suddenly beside them. Her face was tense, her eyes smouldering with anger. ‘Yes, I’m going in too. Stupid thick Charley is actually interested.’

‘Stay here!’ Andy’s hand on Anna’s wrist was like an iron clamp as she turned to move away. Startled, she frowned. ‘Andy, please –’

‘No. I asked you to visit this tomb with me. I meant it. If Charley wants to come too, then that’s up to her. She has a ticket, the same as the rest of us.’

Charley’s face was red with fury. ‘That’s right. And I’m coming in.’

‘Please do.’ Andy’s smile was, at least on the surface, as affable as ever.

When Anna glanced round for Ben, he had gone.

As they walked down into the darkness Anna spotted Omar ahead of them with some half-dozen of the other passengers from their boat who had elected to stay with him for the tour. With relief she hurried to catch up with him, aware that Andy was still at her side. Over the next twenty minutes or so as Omar talked to them about burial chambers and cartouches, The Book of the Dead and The Book of Gates, slave labour and the gods of death and retribution she slowly managed to distance herself from Andy and Charley in the darkness. By the time they had reached the inner pillared hall she had lost sight of them entirely.

It was as she was walking back, her concentration on the ceiling with its wonderful paintings that her arm was seized. ‘What do you think you are playing at? You hardly know him!’ Charley’s hiss in her ear was full of venom. ‘Why? Why are you doing it?’

Anna turned in astonishment. ‘Doing what? Look, Charley, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’m not trying to do anything, I promise.’

‘You’re encouraging him!’

‘I’m not. Andy is a kind man. He has seen that I’m on my own and he is trying to make me feel welcome. So is Ben.’ She paused for a fraction of a second. ‘And Toby. And your friend, Serena. That is all it is. They are nice people and I appreciate their kindness.’

She glanced round hoping to see Andy nearby, but there was no sign of him. A long queue of people was shuffling past them as they stood at the centre of the corridor leading from the depths of the tomb back towards the light. Someone jostled her slightly and she stepped back. ‘We’re in the way, Charley. We have to move on with the others.’

‘I’ll move on. As for you, you can get lost!’ The viciousness of Charley’s remark left her speechless. For a moment she didn’t react and Charley, hurrying swiftly ahead was soon out of sight behind a sea of slowly processing backs. Anna shivered. The attack had been so swift and unexpectedly unpleasant that she wasn’t sure what to do. She wanted to run after her, to argue, to defend herself, but at the same time some defiant corner of her mind was telling her to take no notice, to talk to Andy and, as long as she found him attractive, and she realised suddenly she did find him extremely attractive, to give Charley a run for her money. It was only a small corner of her mind though. A far larger portion was all for keeping the peace.




3 (#ulink_21e11360-c30a-57d9-8de8-0431c62d340a)


O keep not captive my soul. O keep not ward over my shade but let a way be opened for my soul and for my shade and let them see the great God in the shrine on the day of judgement …






Rejected by their gods, and fleeing retribution the two priests sleep in the darkness of the tomb. The scent of oil of cedar and myrrh and cinnamon hangs in the hot dry air. There is still no sound. Far above them the cliff is the haunt of kite and vulture. The call of the jackal rends the night sky as the stars fade and the sun disc returns from its voyage beneath the earth to rise again over the eastern desert. In the darkness time is without meaning or form.

On the shelf between the pillar and the wall the small bottle sealed with blood lies hidden. Inside, the life-giving potion, dedicated to the gods, made sacred by the sun, thickens and grows black.






Tired and dusty they returned to the boat late in the evening to be greeted by fragrant hot towels, handed out at the door to the reception area by one of the crewmen from a steaming metal platter. Next they were given fruit juice and then at last their cabin keys. Anna made her way to her cabin without glancing round to see if Andy and Charley were nearby. On the coach she had sat at the back with Joe, relieved to be excused from talking by his instant somnolence. In her cabin she threw her bag on the bed, and as exhausted as Joe had been, she kicked off her shoes and began to pull off her dress.

Abruptly she stopped. Her skin was prickling. The cabin had grown cold and for a split second she had the feeling that there was someone in there close to her; watching her.

‘This is stupid.’ She said the words out loud, staring at herself in the mirror. The cabin was a scant ten feet by eight. The tiny shower had room for barely one person. There couldn’t be anyone there. She pushed the door open with her foot and it swung back to reveal basin and shower, fresh towels ready on the rail.

She glanced up suddenly at her case on top of the cupboard. Had it been moved? She didn’t think so. With a sigh she shook her head. She was just very tired. She had imagined it. It wasn’t cold at all. On the contrary, she felt as hot and sticky as she had on the bus, after her day in the sun. Peeling off her dress she shook it to remove the creases and dust and hung it on the door, then shaking her hair free and sweeping it back off her face she stepped into the shower and turned on the blissfully cool water.

The only empty chair at her table when she arrived at dinner was between Ben and Joe. Slipping into it with a sympathetic smile at the now wakeful Joe, Anna saw Charley link her arm through Andy’s and give it a proprietorial squeeze.

‘So, how did you enjoy day one?’ Ben said quietly in her ear as he poured her a glass of wine.

‘Wonderful.’ She smiled at him and caught his wink. ‘I could get used to all this very easily.’

‘And so you shall. But today is not over yet. Did you see the noticeboard outside the dining room? Omar is going to give us a talk in the lounge after dinner, then the boat leaves at about eleven, so when we wake up in the morning we shall be well on our way up the Nile.’

There was a sudden roar of laughter from one of the other tables and Anna turned. Glancing up Toby caught her eye. With a sardonic wink he raised his glass and mouthed a toast at her, but in the general noise of conversation and laughter she couldn’t hear it. She raised her own glass back and saw Andy turn quickly to see who it was she was smiling at. He frowned. ‘So how did your visit today compare with Louisa Shelley’s?’ He leant across his plate, raising his voice so that it reached her across the table. ‘Has the valley changed a great deal?’

‘Out of all recognition in some ways.’ She glanced from him to Charley and back. ‘In others not at all. There really is a timelessness, isn’t there?’

‘As there is all over Egypt,’ Ben put in.

‘Louisa had the valley all to herself, of course. It must still be wonderful when all the tourists go and it’s empty. That’s a problem all over the world nowadays, I suppose. There are so few places left where one can get away from other people.’

‘The cry of a true misanthrope.’ Andy grinned at her.

She felt herself blushing. ‘No, I like people, but I like to be able to get away from them too, especially when it’s somewhere where atmosphere is part of the attraction. It’s the same in great cathedrals. It should be possible to get away from parties of noisy tourists and uninterested school children who are just ticking the place off their list of trophy visits, or being dragged around by desperate teachers without the slightest genuine interest.’

‘Hear, hear! Well said.’ Andy clapped solemnly. ‘A great speech.’

‘And a sensible one.’ Ben smiled at her. ‘Which I think we would all agree with deep down in our heart of hearts.’

There was a moment’s silence. At the table next door Anna noticed that Toby had turned to listen. She looked down at her soup in confusion. It was a novelty, she suddenly realised, to be listened to!

Exhausted, she went back to her cabin early. Glancing out of the window, shading her eyes against the reflections, she could see the dark river; they had not as yet moved away from the bank. With a shiver of excitement she got ready for bed, and at last reached up for her case, to retrieve the diary. She was looking forward to reading another section before she fell asleep.






‘Sitt Louisa?’ Hassan’s shadow fell across the page of her sketchbook. Louisa glanced up. Her easel, her parasol clipped to the canvas, had been set up in the bows of the dahabeeyah as it slowly sailed south. Of the others on the boat there was no sign. Succumbing after their midday meal to the heat of the afternoon they had returned to their cabins, leaving her alone on deck with her watercolours. Only the steersman at the opposite end of the boat, the tiller tucked under his arm, had kept her company up to now. She glanced up at Hassan and smiled.

‘Before we left Luxor I went to the bazaar,’ he said. ‘I have a gift for you.’

She bit her lip. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Hassan –’

‘I am pleased to do it. Please.’ He held out his hand. In it there was a small parcel. ‘I know you wanted to visit the souk yourself to buy a memento.’

Sir John and Lady Forrester on hearing of Louisa’s plan to visit Luxor again had decided almost wilfully that now was the time to sail south.

Taking the parcel from him Louisa looked at it for a moment.

‘It is very old. More than three thousand years. From the time of a king who is hardly known, Tutankhamen.’

For a moment the angle of the boat changed and the shadow of the sail fell across them. She gave an involuntary shiver.

‘Open it.’ His voice was very quiet.

Slowly she reached for the knotted string which held the paper closed. Untying it she let the string fall. The paper crackled faintly as she pulled it away. Inside was a tiny blue glass bottle. With it was a sheet of old paper, crumbling with age, covered in Arabic script. ‘It is glass. From the 18th dynasty. Very special. There is a secret place inside where is sealed a drop of the elixir of life.’ Hassan pointed to the piece of paper. ‘It is all written there. Some I cannot read but it seems to tell the story of a pharaoh who needed to live for ever and the priests of Amun who devised a special elixir which when given to him would bring him back to life. It was part of a special ceremony. The story on the paper says that in order to protect the secret recipe from evil djinn their priest hid it in this bottle. When he died the bottle was lost for thousands of years.’

‘And this is it?’ Louisa laughed with delight.

‘This is it.’ Hassan’s eyes had begun to sparkle as he watched her pleasure.

‘Then it is truly a treasure and I shall keep it always. Thank you.’ She looked up at him and for a moment their eyes met. The seconds of silence stretched out between them, then abruptly Hassan stepped back. He bowed and turned away from her.

‘Hassan –’ Louisa’s voice was husky. The name came out as a whisper and he did not hear her.

For a long time she sat still, the little bottle lying in her lap, then at last she picked it up. It was little taller than her forefinger, made of thick opaque blue glass decorated with a white, twisted design and the stopper was sealed in place with some kind of resiny wax. She held it up to the sunlight, but the glass was too thick to see through it and after a minute she gave up. Slipping it into her watercolour box, she tucked it safely into the section where the brushes and water pot lived. Later in her cabin she would put it away in the bottom secret drawer of her wooden dressing case.

Picking up her brush again, she turned back to her picture, but she found it difficult to concentrate.

Her thoughts kept returning to Hassan.






Anna laid down the diary and glanced at the slatted shutters over the window. The boat had given a slight shudder. Then she heard the steady beat of the engines. Climbing to her feet she went to the window and pushing back the shutter she opened it. Already they were moving away from the bank. She watched the strip of dark water between the boat and the shore widen slowly then the note of the engines changed and she felt the steady forward thrust of the paddle wheels. They were on their way. She stood for several minutes watching the luminous darkness, then leaving the window open she went back to her bed and sliding under the cotton quilt she picked up the diary again. So, the bottle lying there in her bag, had originally been a gift from Hassan. And what a gift! It wasn’t a scent bottle at all. It was some kind of ancient phial, a holy artefact from the time of Tutankhamen, whose tomb of course had not yet been discovered in Louisa’s day, and it contained nothing less than the elixir of life!

She shuddered. For an instant she was back in that dark inner burial chamber looking down at the mummy case of the boy king and she remembered how she had become instantly and totally aware of his body lying there before her, and how she had dropped her bag – and the bottle – virtually at his feet.

Pulling the quilt more closely under her chin she picked up the diary again, soothed by the gentle rumble of the engine deep in the heart of the boat, and she began to read on.






That night, dressed in her coolest muslin Louisa lingered at the saloon table after Augusta had retired to her cabin. Sir John raised an eyebrow. ‘We sail as soon as the wind gets up a little. The reis tells me that should be with the dusk. The wind comes in off the desert then.’ He reached for the silver box of cheroots and offered it to her. Louisa took one. She had never smoked before coming to Egypt. To know how shocked her mother-in-law would be to see her was enough reason. The scandalised lift of Lady Forrester’s eyebrow had been a second. With a silent chuckle she leant forward and allowed Sir John to light it for her.

‘Can I ask you to translate something for me?’ She reached into her pocket for the paper which had been wrapped around the little bottle.

Sir John took it. Leaning back he inhaled deeply on his own smoke and rested it on a small copper ashtray. ‘Let me see. This is Arabic, but written a long time ago, judging by the paper.’

He glanced at her for a moment. ‘Where did you say you found this?’

She smiled. ‘I didn’t. One of the servants found it in the souk with a souvenir he bought for me.’

‘I see.’ He frowned. Laying it down on the table he smoothed out the creases and peered at it in silence for several moments. Watching him, Louisa could feel her first casual interest tightening into nervous apprehension. He was frowning now, a finger tracing the curling letters over the page. At last he looked up.

‘I think this must be a practical joke. A piece of nonsense to frighten and amuse the credulous.’

‘Frighten?’ Louisa’s eyes were riveted to the paper. ‘Please, will you read it to me?’

He was breathing heavily through his nose. ‘I needn’t read it exactly. Indeed it is difficult to decipher all of it. Sufficient to say that it seems to be a warning. The item it accompanies –’ he looked up at her, his blue eyes shrewd – ‘you have that item?’

‘A little scent bottle, yes.’

‘Well, it is cursed in some way. It belonged once to a high priest who served the pharaoh. An evil spirit tried to steal it. Both fight for it still, apparently.’ His face relaxed into a smile. ‘A wonderful story for the gullible visitor from abroad. You will be able to show it to people when you go back to London and watch their faces pale over the dinner table as you recount your visit to Egypt.’

‘You don’t think it’s serious then?’ She tapped ash from her cheroot onto the little copper dish.

‘Serious?’ He roared with laughter. ‘My dear Louisa, I hardly think so! But if you see a high priest on the boat, or indeed any evil djinn, please tell me. I should very much like to meet them.’

He moved his chair closer to hers as he laid the paper down on the table between them. ‘There are real antiquities to be bought if you have the contacts. I could arrange for some to be brought to the boat when we return to Luxor. There is no need for you to send servants to the bazaar.’

‘But I didn’t –’ She bit off the words before she could finish the sentence, realising suddenly that it would not be wise to tell Sir John that the bottle had been a present from her dragoman.

He leant closer to her. ‘I have been looking at some of your watercolours.’ He nodded towards the corner of the cabin where she had left a folio of sketches. ‘They are very good.’

It was extremely hot in the cabin. She could feel the heat from his body so close beside her; smell his sweat. She edged away from him. ‘That is kind of you to say so. And yes, I should like it if it were possible to have some antiques brought to the boat. I have as you know very little spending money, but if I saw something I liked I could at least sketch it.’

He let out a roar of laughter. ‘First rate! Good idea! I shall look forward to seeing you do that.’ His hand came down on top of hers, suddenly, as she rested it on the table and he gave it a squeeze. ‘First rate,’ he repeated.

Louisa pulled her hand away, her anxiety not to offend him fighting with her desire to stand up and put as much distance as possible between them.

A sound in the doorway made them both turn. Jane Treece stood there, her eyes on the table where, a moment before, their hands had lain together on the piece of paper with its Arabic script.

‘Lady Forrester wondered whether Mrs Shelley would like me to help her get ready for bed.’ The voice was a monotone. Cold. The woman’s eyes strayed to the ashtray where Louisa’s cheroot lay, a thin wisp of smoke rising up towards the cabin lamp hanging from the ceiling beams.

‘Thank you.’ With some relief Louisa stood up. ‘Forgive me, it has been a tiring day.’ She moved away from the table, her black skirts rustling slightly. She could feel Sir John’s eyes on her and her face grew hot again.

‘Your note, my dear.’ He picked up the piece of paper and held it out to her. ‘You had better keep it safe. Your grandchildren will no doubt enjoy the story.’






Anna stopped reading for a moment. Beneath her she could feel the steady movement of the boat as it forged its way south. In the diary Louisa too was making her way over exactly the same stretch of river, heading towards Esna and Edfu. With her scent bottle. A scent bottle with a curse, haunted by evil djinn. In spite of the heat of the cabin Anna shivered.

She lay looking up at the shadows on the ceiling thrown by the small bedside light, the diary propped open on her chest. What had happened to that piece of paper with its story, she wondered.

Her eyes wandered over towards the little dressing table, where she had left her bag. It was dark there; she could just see the outline of the mirror, the glass faintly echoing the light the lamp threw onto the ceiling. She stared at it sleepily and then suddenly she frowned. Deep in the mirror had she seen something move? She caught her breath as a shaft of panic shot through her. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She gripped the quilt tightly to her chest then she closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. This was nonsense. She was dreaming, frightened by a fairy story. She pushed herself up against the pillows and groped for the switch to the main cabin light as the diary slid to the floor with a crash. In the harsh clarity the overhead lights threw on the scene she could see clearly that there was nothing there. The key was still in the cabin door. No one could have come into the room. Her bag was lying untouched where she had left it – or was it? Still trembling with shock she forced herself to push her feet out from under the sheet and, standing up, she went over to the dressing table. Her bag lay open, the scent bottle in full view on top of her sunglasses. Cautiously she touched her scarf. It had been wrapped round the bottle in the bottom of the bag, she was sure of it. Now the scarf lay across the dressing table, a swathe of fine scarlet silk against the dark-stained wood. She stared at it with a frown. Across the silk lay a scattering of some kind of brown papery stuff. Curious, she reached out to touch it and rubbed some of it between her fingers. Then she swept it to the floor. Under the scarf lay the hairbrush she had used before she climbed into bed, the hairbrush she had taken from her bag last thing before she rezipped it and put it on the shelf. She was sure of that too. She had closed it and put it away.

She glanced round. There was nowhere for anyone to hide in the room; nowhere. She threw open the shower room door and rattled back the curtain, still damp from her shower only a couple of hours or so earlier. She looked under the bed, she shook the door handle. It was firmly locked. But already she knew there was no one there. How could there be?

With another shiver she made her way over to the bed and bent down to pick up the diary. It had fallen open when it hit the floor, cracking the spine lengthways. Forgetting the scarf she ran her finger sadly over the leather. What a shame. It had lasted so long undamaged and now it had been broken. It was as she was preparing to climb back into bed that she noticed that an envelope lay on the floor where the diary had fallen. She bent to pick it up and saw that the strip of sticky brown paper with which it had been stuck in the back of the diary had torn away. The thick woven paper told her at once it must be contemporary with the diary and turning it over she saw a crest embossed on the flap. It depicted a tree with a coronet. She smiled. Forrester? Had it been she wondered part of the stationery they used on the boat? Forgetting her fright in her curiosity she opened it. Folded inside was a flimsy piece of paper. Already she had guessed it was Louisa’s Arabic message.

If you see a high priest on the boat, or indeed any evil djinn, please tell me …

The words from Louisa’s entry echoed for a moment in her head.

A high priest who served the pharaoh … an evil spirit … both fight for it still …

Anna found that her hands were shaking. Taking a deep breath, she put the paper back in the envelope and opening the drawer in the bedside table slotted it into her slim leather writing case.

Climbing back into bed and pulling her feet up under her she drew the covers up to her chin. The cabin was cold. A stream of sharp, night-scented river air came in from the open window.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and resting her chin on her forearm, she shut her eyes.

She sat there for a long time, her eyes straying every now and then to the bag still lying on the dressing table. At last she could bear it no longer. Climbing to her feet again she pulled the little bottle from the bag. Holding it in her hand she stared at it for a long time, then reaching down her suitcase from the top of the cupboard she rewrapped the bottle in her scarf, put it in the suitcase, tucking it into an elasticated side pocket where it would be safe, closed the lid, turned the key and hefted the case back into place. Helping herself to a glass of water from the plastic bottle on the table she stood for several minutes sipping the cold water, staring out at the blackness of the night as it drifted by, then snapping off the main cabin light she climbed back into bed.






Louisa was not sure what had awakened her. She lay looking at the ceiling in the darkness, feeling her heart thumping against her ribs. She held her breath. There was someone in her cabin. She could sense them standing near her.

‘Who’s there?’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper but it seemed to echo round the boat. ‘Who is it?’ Sitting up she reached with a shaking hand for her matches and lit her candle. The cabin was empty. Staring into the flickering shadows she held her breath again, listening. Her cabin door was shut. There was no sound from the sleeping boat. They had moored as night fell, against a shallow flight of marble steps, where palms and eucalyptus trees grew down to the edge of the river. Water lapped against the steps and in the distance, against the fading twilight she had seen the outline of a minaret.

A sharp crack followed by a rattling sound made her catch her breath. The noise had come from the table in front of the window. It sounded as though something had fallen to the floor. She stared at the spot, straining her eyes in the candlelight then, knowing she would not rest until she had looked more closely, she reluctantly climbed out of bed. She stood for a moment in her long white nightgown, the candle in her hand, staring at the floor. One of her tubes of paint had fallen from the table. She picked it up and stared at it. The slight movement of the boat as it lay against its mooring must have dislodged it and allowed it to roll from the table. Her eyes strayed to Hassan’s scent bottle. She hadn’t seen him to speak to since he had given it to her that afternoon. While she dined with the Forresters he had been sitting on the foredeck with the reis, smoking a companionable hooker, both men deep in conversation.

She had tucked the piece of paper with its Arabic warning into an envelope and slipped the envelope into the back of her diary. Joke or not, the message made her feel uncomfortable.

The little bottle was standing on the table with her painting things. She frowned. She had surely tucked it into her dressing case? She remembered distinctly doing so before dinner. Perhaps Jane Treece had moved it when she tidied away Louisa’s muslin gown and, not recognising it, had assumed it was part of her painting equipment. She reached out to pick it up and at the last moment hesitated, almost afraid to touch it. What if it were true? Supposing it was three or four thousand years old? Supposing it had been the property of a temple priest in the days of one of the ancient pharaohs?

Drawing in a quick deep breath she picked it up and taking it back to her bed she sat down. Leaning back against her pillows, the little bottle cradled between her palms, she lapsed into deep thought, her imagination taking her from the high priest who followed the scent bottle, to Hassan. Why should he have given her a present at all? She pictured his face, the strong bones, the large brown eyes, the evenly spaced white teeth and suddenly she found herself remembering the warm dry touch of his hand against hers as he passed her the flaring torch in the tomb in the valley. In spite of herself she shivered. What she had felt at that moment was something she had never thought to feel again, the intense pleasure she used to feel at the touch of her beloved George’s hand when he glanced at her and they exchanged secret smiles in unacknowledged recognition that later, when the children were asleep, they would keep an assignation in his room or hers. But to feel that with a comparative stranger, a man who was of a different race and one who was in her employ? She could feel herself blushing in the light of the candle. It was something too shocking, almost, to confide even to her diary.






Anna awoke to find the sunlight flooding across her bed from the open window. The boat was still moving and when she climbed to her feet and went to look out she found a breathtaking view of palms and plantations streaming steadily by. For a few moments she stood still, transfixed, then she turned and pulling off her nightshirt she headed for the shower.

Toby was just sitting down to breakfast as she arrived in the dining room. ‘Another late arrival? I believe most of the others have already finished. Please, join me.’ He pulled out a chair for her. ‘This morning we go to the temple of Edfu. I gather we will be arriving fairly soon.’ He beckoned the waiter with his coffee pot over to the table as Anna sat down. ‘You look tired. Did the Valley of the Kings prove too much of an exciting start?’

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’

‘Not sea sick, I trust!’

She laughed. ‘No, though I must admit I noticed the movement. It did feel odd.’ She reached for the cup.

‘I expect it disturbed you when we went through the lock at Esna. It must have been some time in the early hours. It certainly woke me, but not enough to make me want to go up on deck and watch.’

She shrugged. ‘Would you believe, I missed that. No, actually I was reading Louisa’s diary until late and I think it gave me nightmares. I kept waking up after that.’

‘What on earth was she describing?’

‘She was talking about a scent bottle which her dragoman bought for her in a bazaar. It had the reputation for being haunted.’

‘The scent bottle or the bazaar?’ His eyes crinkled rather pleasantly at the corners, she realised, although he kept all traces of laughter out of his voice.

‘The bottle. I know it sounds strange. A haunted scent bottle!’

‘What haunted it? A genie, presumably. They seem to favour living in bottles.’

‘She called it a djinn. Is that the same thing?’ She smiled, hoping that would show she didn’t believe it herself, that she could laugh it off as he had.

‘Indeed it is the same. How intriguing. Well, you mustn’t let such imaginings disturb your sleep again. Perhaps you’d better not read such sensational stuff at bedtime.’ He stood up, pushing back his chair. ‘What can I get you from the buffet?’

She watched as he made his way across the dining room and picked up two plates. She saw him carefully select two of the largest croissants from the basket on the counter, then he was on his way back. ‘We’ve arrived. Do you see?’ Putting down the plates he gestured towards the windows. ‘Just time to eat, then we’d better go and claim our places in a suitable calèche. We drive to the temple of Edfu in style.’



A line of four-wheeled open carriages, drawn by an array of painfully thin horses was drawn up on the quayside waiting for them, each driven by an Egyptian in a colourful galabiyya and turban. Beside each driver a long, formidable whip rested against the footrail. Every so often one was cracked loudly as the horses milled about, jostling for position. The shouting was deafening, as around the calèches and between the horses’ feet a dozen little boys shouted for baksheesh, and urged the tourists towards their own particular choice of vehicle.

As they assembled on the quayside, Anna found herself standing next to Serena and it was with some relief she saw that they were both bound for the same calèche. She became aware that she had been scanning the crowds for Andy and Charley almost without realising it, but there was no sign of either of them; with them when they were finally settled into their seats were Joe and Sally Booth. Their driver, whose name, so he informed them, was Abdullah, could have been any age between seventy and one hundred and fifty, she decided as she quailed beneath his toothless grin. His skin was especially dark, gauntly drawn into deep creases and his missing teeth rendered his smile particularly piratical. Anna settled beside Serena with a fervent prayer that they were not going to be whisked off into the desert and never seen again. They set off at a canter, passing the other vehicles and heading into the centre of town where the horses challenged lorries and cars with no fear at all. Holding frantically to the side of the carriage Anna wished she had a hand free to take out her camera. There was something deeply primitive in this mode of transport which appealed to her greatly.

The calèche lurched into a pothole and Anna fell sideways against her companion. Serena laughed. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I am so looking forward to seeing Edfu Temple. It’s very special you know. It’s not nearly as old as somewhere like Karnac which we shall see next week. It was built in the Ptolomaic period, but it is famous for its inscriptions and carvings and they were faithful still to the old Egyptian gods even in Roman times.’

Anna found herself wishing suddenly she had spent less time reading up about the scent bottle and more on Louisa’s diary entry on her visit here. As the calèche hurtled up the main street and over a crossroads she pictured Louisa and Hassan together in just such a conveyance. There was a shout from behind them. She turned in time to see another vehicle, drawn by a grey horse with hips that stood out like coat racks draw level with them. Its driver cracked his whip in the air above the horse’s head and gave a shout of triumph as Andy leant forward to wave at them. ‘Last one there pays for the beer!’ His call rang in their ears as his calèche drew ahead.

Serena laughed uncomfortably. ‘He’s like a child, isn’t he?’

Anna raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose you see a lot of him if he and Charley are together.’

Serena shrugged. ‘Not that much. Not as much as Charley would like.’ She broke off and they both watched anxiously as a woman crossed the road in front of them, a watermelon balanced on her head. Abdullah cracked his whip just behind her with a malicious grin, clearly hoping to make her jump and she turned, melon still firmly in place, to shout and swear at him without losing an iota of poise and grace. It was impressive to watch.

‘Aren’t they wonderful?’ Serena glanced at the camera which had finally appeared in Anna’s hands now that they were in the thick of the crowds and the pace was less breakneck. She watched as Anna focused and pointed it at the departing woman. ‘I wonder why we don’t carry things on our heads. I don’t know that it’s ever been a western tradition, has it?’

‘Perhaps it’s the damp. Our belongings would get wet in the rain and we’d all develop arthritic necks.’ Anna laughed. ‘It could be a sign that global warming is with us for real – when all the people at the bus stop one morning put their briefcases and bags on their heads.’

Both women laughed. They fell silent again as a small boy passed them, a trussed turkey tucked beneath his arm. The bird’s eyes were crazed. It was panting with fear. Anna raised her camera as Serena shook her head. ‘I find it hard to cope with, the cruelty. That bird. These horses …’

‘They don’t seem to actually hit them,’ Anna put in. ‘Most of the whip cracking is for our benefit. I’ve been watching. My guess is that they know jolly well it would upset the effete western tourists if they hit the horses.’

‘While we are here, perhaps not, but what happens when we’ve gone?’ Serena did not sound convinced.

‘At least they feed them.’ Bags of bright green fodder were hung from every vehicle.

They left the calèches in the shade at the back of the temple and walked the final distance, its full length, towards the entrance. Anna stared up in awe. The temple was huge, a vast squat building, rectangular behind the enormous pylon or monumental gateway, forty metres high, carved with pictures of Ptolemy defeating his enemies. They stopped in front of it, their group forming obediently around Omar, as they listened to his summary of two thousand years’ history and the temple’s place in it.

A white robed figure stood near the entrance, beside the statue of the god Horus as a huge hawk and Anna found herself watching him. A black line of shadow cut across the dazzling white cotton of his galabiyya as he leant silently against the wall with his arms folded. She had the sense that he was watching them and she felt a sudden tremor of nervousness.

‘What is it? Is something wrong?’ Serena was watching her face.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing really. I keep getting this strange feeling that there’s someone out there watching me …’

Behind them Omar took a deep breath and continued his story. Neither woman was listening.

‘Not someone very nice, judging by your reaction.’

‘No.’ Anna gave a small laugh. ‘I think Egypt is making me a bit neurotic. Perhaps we could have a drink before dinner this evening and I could tell you about it?’

About what? A nightmare? A feeling that someone had unpacked her bag in the dark of her cabin and moved her little scent bottle? A scent bottle haunted by an evil spirit. She shook her head, aware that Serena was still watching her curiously. It might sound stupid in the cold light of day, but after all, Andrew and Toby knew about the diary. Why not someone else? And someone in whom she sensed she could confide without feeling embarrassed. Wasn’t it Toby yesterday who had suggested she speak to Serena about her strange feelings in the Valley of the Kings? He had thought she might understand.

They were late back to the boat, exhausted and dusty and hot after their visit. Warm lemonade and scented washcloths were followed by lunch and then as the boat cast off and headed once more upstream, the passengers retired either to their cabins or to the sunbeds on the upper deck.

It was there that Andy found Anna a couple of hours later. He was carrying two glasses. Sitting down in the chair next to her he offered her one. ‘I hope you haven’t been to sleep without your hat.’

‘No, as you can see.’ It was hanging from the chair-back. She pulled herself upright and sipped the fresh juice he had brought her. ‘That was lovely. Thank you.’ The deck was deserted, she realised suddenly; while she had been asleep, one by one, everyone else had disappeared. ‘What time is it?’

‘No such thing as time in Egypt.’ He grinned. ‘But the sun disc is getting low in the west. Which means it will soon be time for another meal.’ He patted his stomach ruefully. ‘I suspect our excursions ashore, strenuous though they are, are not going to be sufficiently energetic to make up for all the food we eat.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Would this be a good time to let me see the diary?’

The abrupt change of subject startled her. He was, she realised, looking down at her bag, which lay on the deck beside her chair.

‘It’s in my cabin. Maybe later, Andy, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure. No hurry.’ He leant back and closed his eyes. ‘Have you shown it to anyone else?’

‘On the boat, you mean?’ She glanced at him over the rim of her tumbler. It was impossible to read his expression behind his dark glasses.

He nodded.

‘No. Toby is the only one who has seen it. On the plane.’

‘Toby Hayward?’ Andy chewed his lip for a moment. ‘I’ve been thinking, I know his name from somewhere. He’s a bit of a loner from what I gather.’

‘As I am,’ she pointed out gently. ‘At least on this cruise. He is a painter.’

She did not miss the raised eyebrow. ‘Indeed. Is he well known?’

Anna smiled. ‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps that’s why you know his name? I don’t think I’ve heard of him, but that doesn’t really mean anything.’

Andy drained his glass. ‘Tell me to mind my own business, if you want to, but I do think you should take care of that diary, Anna. Apart from being worth a lot of money it’s a piece of real history.’

‘Which is why I have left it locked up.’ She spoke perhaps more firmly than she had intended, but his tone was beginning to irritate her. There were shades of Felix in his manner. And it was patronising.

He laughed, which infuriated her even more. Putting his arms across his face he pretended to duck sideways. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. I surrender. I should have realised you are perfectly able to take care of it and of yourself. You are after all, Louisa’s great-great-granddaughter!’

A fact she reminded herself about later when she met Serena in the bar and they settled into one of the comfortable sofas in the corner of the room. Outside it was dark. They had moored alongside a stretch of river bank which was, so they understood, within walking distance of the great temple of Kom Ombo. Around them the others were assembling a few at a time. She could see Andy perched on a stool at the bar. Charley stood near him and they were engaged in a noisy conversation with Joe and the barman.

‘So, tell me about these strange feelings of yours.’ Serena leant back against the cushions, her glass in her hand. She scanned Anna’s face intently for a moment then she glanced back at the bar where a particularly loud shout of laughter erupted from the group standing around Andy.

‘It sounds a bit silly talking about it in cold blood.’ Anna shrugged. ‘But someone mentioned you were interested in sort of psychic stuff.’

Serena smiled. ‘Sort of? I suppose so. I gather this is to do with the man we saw at Edfu this morning?’

‘Not him especially. He was real. But for some reason he made me feel nervous. He was watching us, and I keep getting this feeling that I’m being watched by someone. It’s nothing specific …’ She broke off, not knowing quite how to go on.

‘Start at the beginning, Anna. I find things are much more clear that way.’ Serena was giving her her full attention now. ‘There is clearly something worrying you and that’s a shame on what should be a lovely carefree holiday.’

‘You don’t read Arabic, I suppose?’

Serena shook her head and laughed. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘I have a diary in my cabin.’

‘Belonging to Louisa Shelley, I know.’ She saw Anna’s face and laughed again. ‘My dear, it’s a small boat and there aren’t very many of us. You don’t surely expect it to stay a secret?’

‘I suppose not.’ Anna was taken aback. She was thinking suddenly of Andy’s warning. ‘Well, in this diary there is a description of how Louisa was given a little glass bottle by her dragoman as a gift. I have inherited the bottle. With it was a piece of paper, which I also have, written in Arabic, saying that the bottle, which it claims is pharaonic in date, has a sort of curse on it. The original owner, a high priest in Ancient Egypt, is following it and so is an evil spirit because a secret potion is sealed into the glass. I know it sounds ridiculous, like something out of a film, but it’s worrying me …’ Her voice trailed away in embarrassment.

‘You have this bottle with you, on the boat?’ Serena asked quietly. In the general hubbub Anna could hardly hear her.

She nodded, relieved that Serena had not laughed. ‘I brought it with me. I wish I hadn’t now. I don’t really know why except it seemed right to bring it back to Egypt. I’ve had it for years. I always assumed it was a fake. An antique dealer friend of my husband’s said it was a fake. Andy thinks it is a fake.’

‘Andy Watson?’ Serena’s voice was sharp. ‘What does he know about it? Have you shown it to him?’

‘He saw it yesterday. He says masses of fakes were sold in Victorian times to gullible tourists.’

‘He’s right of course. But you don’t strike me as being gullible, and I am sure Louisa wasn’t either, nor her dragoman, if he had any integrity at all.’ Serena paused for a moment. ‘And you are afraid of this curse?’

It wasn’t an accusation, merely a statement of fact.

Anna didn’t reply for a moment, then slowly she shrugged. ‘I’ve only known about it since last night.’ She bit her lip with an embarrassed little laugh. ‘But I suppose if I’m honest it is beginning to get to me. Even before I knew the story I had the strangest feeling there was someone watching me. I’ve been jumpy since I arrived in Egypt. Then once or twice I had the feeling that someone has been touching my things when the cabin door was locked and no one could have been there. I’ve tried to persuade myself I was dreaming or hallucinating or imagining it. I was tired after the visit yesterday and everything, but …’ Once again she tailed off into silence.

‘Let’s take things one at a time. Tell me what the note says as far as you understand it. I take it you have a translation?’ Serena’s voice remained quiet, but firm. It had an attractive deep quality which Anna found profoundly reassuring.

Serena thought for a while in silence after Anna had repeated it to her, staring down into the glass she had put down on the low table in front of them, while Anna anxiously watched her face.

‘If Louisa felt there was a spirit guarding the bottle then we must assume the bottle to be genuine, obviously,’ she said at last. ‘And if it’s the same bottle that you have brought with you then the chances are that it does have some kind of resonance about it.’

‘Resonance?’ Anna looked at her anxiously.

Serena laughed again. Anna was beginning to enjoy the deep throaty gurgle. That too was reassuring. ‘Well, my dear, as I said, let’s take this one step at a time. Presumably you know you are of sound mind. When you had this strange feeling, you weren’t asleep; at least you can be sure you weren’t asleep the first time, as you had just stepped out of the shower! You were sober. You knew where you had left your bag. You have probably had your eyes tested at some time in the not too distant past, so, why do you not believe them?’

‘That’s easy. Because if the bag was moved and the bottle unwrapped, someone must have done it. I don’t believe in ghosts. I’m not psychic. After all, nothing has ever happened to it, or me, before. Oh no,’ Anna shook her head, ‘I can’t cope with that idea, I really can’t.’

Serena watched her thoughtfully. ‘Will you show me the bottle?’

‘Of course. Come to my cabin after supper.’ Anna bit her lip. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m a bit nervous about going back in there now. I don’t know what I’m going to find!’

‘If it worries you so much, why not ask them to put the bottle in the boat’s safe with our passports and valuables?’ Serena glanced up as outside the restaurant in the depths of the boat the gong began to ring.

They stood up and began to move towards the staircase which led down to the lower deck.

Anna shrugged. ‘That’s a good idea. I might just do it.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe all this! It must be my imagination. After all, nothing ever happened before I read about it. If it’s true, why has nothing ever shown itself in London?’

Serena turned towards her. ‘Isn’t it obvious? You’ve brought it back to Egypt, my dear. It has come home.’



Unlocking the door later Anna reached in and turned on the light. The small room was empty. Beckoning Serena inside she closed the door behind them. They had lingered over supper with the others, but by an unspoken agreement had turned away from the lounge where the coffee was being served before Omar gave another talk to the assembled company. Tonight’s topic was Egyptian history since the days of the pharaohs.

It seemed crowded in the tiny cabin with two people in there. Serena sat down on the bed whilst Anna swung her suitcase down from the wardrobe. Setting it on the floor she squatted down, unlocked it and threw back the lid. ‘It’s here.’ She reached into the pocket and pulled out the small silk-wrapped bundle. Without removing the scarf she handed it to Serena.

The cabin was very quiet. All the other passengers were in the lounge watching as Omar set up a projector on the bar preparing to take them through Egypt’s more recent history. The two corridors on the boat, off which the ten cabins led, were empty. For the crew, it was their turn to eat. The river bank was dark and deserted. There was a gentle lap of water from outside the half-open window and a dry, quiet rustle from the reeds as the wind began to rise, stealing subtly in from the desert.

Very carefully Serena began to unwrap the bottle. ‘It’s smaller than I expected.’

Anna sat down beside her. ‘It’s tiny.’ She gave a nervous giggle. ‘So small, and it’s causing so much hassle.’

‘Hush.’ Serena pulled away the scarlet silk and dropped it on the bedcover. She was gazing down at the bottle lying on the palm of her hand. She stroked it with her finger. ‘It feels old. The glass is flawed. Bumpy.’ Closing her eyes she went on stroking with her fingertip, gently, scarcely touching it. ‘It’s old. Full of memories. Full of time.’ Her voice was very soft. Dreamy. ‘This is real, Anna. It’s old. Very old.’ She went on stroking. ‘There is magic in this. Power.’ There was a long silence. ‘I can see a figure with my mind’s eye. He’s tall. His eyes are piercing. They see through everything. Silver, like knife blades.’ She was still, caressing the bottle with slow, gentle movements. ‘He has so much power,’ she went on slowly, ‘but there is treachery there. He has enemies. He thinks himself invincible, but close to him there is hatred, greed. Someone, whom he thought a friend, is near him. Waiting. Drawing the darkness of secrecy around him. They serve different gods, but he has not realised it. Not yet …’ Her voice trailed away into silence. Anna held her breath, watching mesmerised as the fingertip with its neat, oval, unpolished nail stroked gently on. ‘There is blood here, Anna.’ Serena spoke again at last, her voice a whisper. ‘So much blood – and so much hate.’

‘You’re making it up.’ Anna backed a step away from her. She leant against the door. ‘You’re frightening me!’ Suddenly she was shivering uncontrollably. Was it this which had woken Louisa and frightened her in the darkness?

Slowly Serena looked up. Her eyes found Anna’s face but she wasn’t seeing it. Her pupils were huge; unfocused.

‘Serena?’ Anna whispered. ‘Serena, please!’

There was another long silence then abruptly Serena rubbed her eyes. She smiled uncertainly. ‘What did I say?’

‘Don’t you know?’ Anna didn’t move from her position near the door.

Serena looked down at the little bottle still lying in her hand. With a shiver she let it fall onto the bed. ‘It is old. Very old,’ she repeated, her voice completely flat.

‘You said.’ Anna swallowed. Her eyes were riveted to the bottle, lying on the bed. ‘But what was all that other stuff? About the blood?’

Serena’s eyes opened wide. ‘Blood?’ There was a moment’s silence then she looked away. ‘Oh shit!’ She put her hands to her face. ‘I didn’t mean that to happen. Forget it, for goodness sake. I’m sorry. Don’t believe anything I said, Anna.’ She reached out towards the bottle, changed her mind and stood up, leaving it where it was. ‘I have a tendency to be melodramatic. Take no notice. The last thing I meant to do was scare you.’

‘But you did.’

‘Did I?’ For a moment Serena stood gazing into her face as if trying to read her thoughts. Then she shrugged and looked away. ‘They must have finished the talk by now. Why don’t we go to the lounge and have a drink?’ She bent over the bed and reached out to the bottle. The hesitation was only momentary, then she picked it up and firmly rewrapped it in the silk square. She held it out to Anna. ‘I should get Omar to put it in the safe for you. I think it probably is genuine.’ Her voice was still strangely flat.

Anna took it reluctantly. She held it for a moment then she stooped and tucked it back in the suitcase. ‘Later. I will. When there’s someone at the desk.’ She opened her mouth to ask another question, then she changed her mind. Grabbing her purse she reached for the door handle. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

Drinks in hand they made their way through the lounge where the others had settled in groups round the low tables and they stepped out onto the open covered deck where the tables and chairs were deserted. Anna shivered. ‘There’s a cold wind.’

‘I don’t mind. It’s wonderful – cleansing. Such a relief after the heat of the day.’ Serena shook her head. ‘Let’s climb up onto the sundeck.’

She led the way up to the front of the boat, where Anna had been asleep earlier. All was in darkness up there as they looked down on the string of small coloured lights around the awning of the lower deck. Looking up they could see the velvety black of the sky and the intense brightness of the stars. They stood leaning on the rail looking out across the river. The night was somehow more silent for the sounds of talk and laughter wafting out of the doors below them.

Anna fixed her eyes on the wavy reflections in the dark water below them. ‘How did you do it?’ She took a sip from her glass.

Serena didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. She shrugged. ‘They call it psychometry. It’s a kind of clairvoyance, I suppose. Reading an object. I’ve always been able to do it, since I was a child. It was what first drew me to the study of psychic phenomena. In children it’s called a vivid imagination. In adults …’ she paused. ‘Eccentricity. Lunacy. Schizophrenia. Take your pick.’ There was the slightest touch of bitterness in her voice for a second, then it was gone. ‘It’s not something to be cultivated lightly, as you can imagine, but it has its uses. Sometimes.’

Anna was still gazing down at the water. ‘What did your husband think about it?’

‘Ah.’ Serena smiled ruefully. ‘Another woman, of course, goes unerringly to the crux of the problem. He vacillated between thinking me delightfully scatty and certifiably insane. But to do him credit he never tried to get me actually locked up.’ Her quiet laugh made Anna glance up at last.

Serena stood back from the rail and sat down on one of the chairs. Leaning back with a sigh she stared up at the stars. ‘We were very happy. I adored him. I kept all this stuff firmly under the hatches as much as I could while he was alive. Then, when he died,’ she paused, ‘I suppose it was rather like coming out. I found kindred spirits. I read. I talked. I wrote. I studied. Charley thinks I’m mad, but she’s not there much and frankly I don’t care what she thinks. I began to study Egyptian mysticism two years ago and I came out here to get a feel of the place in a group before coming back on my own.’

Anna turned back to the river, leaning on the rail. She too was looking up beyond the low bank and the dark silhouette of the trees. The stars were so bright. So clear. She shivered. ‘So, tell me about my bottle.’

‘I don’t remember what I said.’ Serena took a sip from her glass. She caught sight of Anna’s face in the darkness and gave a rueful smile. ‘No, honestly. I don’t. Sometimes I do, but more often than not I go into some sort of trance state. I’m sorry, Anna. But that’s how it is for me. You will have to tell me what I said.’

‘You talked about hatred and treachery and blood.’ The words hung for a moment in the silence. ‘You described a man. The priest. You said he was tall, with piercing eyes.’ She turned with a start at the sound of footsteps behind them.

‘That sounds like me. Tall. With piercing eyes!’ Andy had appeared at the top of the steps. ‘Come on, girls. What are you talking about so secretively? Serena, old thing, I can’t have you appropriating the most beautiful woman on the ship. It’s not allowed. Especially if you’re going to discuss other men.’ He gave an amiable grin.

Serena and Anna exchanged glances.

‘We’ll join you in a minute, Andy.’ Serena did not move from her chair. ‘Now, bugger off, there’s a good chap.’

Anna hid a smile. She said nothing, watching his momentary discomfiture. It was followed by a shrug. ‘OK. Don’t shoot!’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I know when mere males are not wanted. There’ll be drinks on the bar for you if you want them.’

They watched as he padded back across the deck with a nonchalant wave of the hand and disappeared down the steps out of sight.

It was a few moments before Serena spoke. ‘Andy is a scoffer. A non believer. I think it would be wiser not to mention any of this to him.’

‘I agree.’ Anna sat down on the chair next to her. She pulled her sweater round her shoulders with a shiver. ‘So, what do I do?’

‘You could throw the bottle in the Nile.’ Serena tipped back her head and poured the last dregs of her drink down her throat. ‘Then my guess is you’ll be shot of the problem.’

Anna was silent. ‘It was Hassan’s gift to Louisa,’ she said at last.

‘And what happened to them?’

Anna shrugged. ‘I haven’t read much of the diary yet, but I know she came home safely to England.’

‘It’s up to you, of course.’ Serena leant forward with a sigh, her elbows on her knees.

‘You said you were studying Egyptian mysticism,’ Anna said slowly. ‘So, perhaps there is something you could do. Could you talk to him?’ Part of her couldn’t believe she was actually asking; another part was beginning to take Serena very seriously.

‘Oh, no, that doesn’t qualify me to deal with this.’ Serena shook her head. ‘Anna dear, this is – or could be – heavy-weight. A high priest, if that is what he was, would be way out of my league. Probably out of the league of anyone alive today. Those guys practically invented magic. You’ve heard of Hermes Trismegistus? And Thoth, the god of magic?’

Anna bit her lip. ‘I don’t want to destroy the bottle.’

‘OK.’ Serena levered herself to her feet. ‘I tell you what. You read some more of that diary. See what happened to Louisa. How did she deal with it? Perhaps nothing happened to her at all. I’ll spend the night thinking about this; tomorrow we go to the great healing temple of Kom Ombo. Who knows, perhaps we’ll be able to appease the guardian of the bottle by making an offering to his gods.’



It was late when Anna let herself into her cabin. She stood for a moment, her hand still on the lightswitch, staring at the suitcase lying on the floor. Behind her the short corridor was empty. Serena had gone to her own cabin which she shared with Charley on the floor below.

Anna bit her lip. An hour’s cheerful socialising in the boat’s lounge bar talking to Ben and Joe and Sally had relaxed and distracted her. She had not forgotten that the bottle would still be here in her cabin, but had been able to put it to the back of her mind. Leaving the door open behind her she went over to the suitcase and knelt down. Opening it, she looked in. Only a small bulge in the side pocket showed where the bottle was hidden. Taking a deep breath she took it out, still carefully wrapped in its scarlet silk. Not stopping to think she left the cabin, hurried down the short corridor to the main staircase and ran down to the reception desk at the foot of the stairs on the restaurant floor. There, behind a panel in the wall was the boat’s safe where they had all lodged their passports and any other valuables they didn’t want to leave lying around in cabins or bags. The desk was empty and in darkness. Taking a quick, jerky breath, she punched the brass bell which lay on the otherwise empty polished surface. The sound resonated round the reception area, but the door behind the desk which led towards the crew’s quarters remained closed. Agitatedly she put out her hand to strike the bell again, then she changed her mind. A glance at her watch had reminded her that it was nearly midnight. It wasn’t fair to expect anyone to be on duty at this hour. Except for Omar. He had told them he was there for them at any time of day or night if there were any problems. But he had meant appendicitis or murder, not a forgotten trinket. That could wait until morning. Or could it?

Turning she hurried back towards the stairs. His cabin was on the same level as hers, at the far end of the corridor.

Outside his door she stopped. Was she really going to wake him at this hour of the night to ask him to put something in the safe? For several seconds she stood there, undecided, then turning away she walked slowly towards her open cabin door.

On the threshold she hesitated. She had only been away a few minutes but something in the cabin had changed. Her fingers tightened involuntarily around the small silk-wrapped bundle in her hand as she stood in the doorway peering in. The suitcase was still lying where she had left it, the lid thrown back, in the middle of the floor. She stared at it. It was empty but something was different. The obliquely slanting light from the bedside lamp threw a wedge-shaped black shadow across the empty case, a shadow in which something was lying. Something which hadn’t been there before. Her mouth dry, her heart beating fast, she forced herself to take a step nearer. A handful of brown crumbled fragments of what looked like peat lay in the bottom of the case. She looked down at them warily, then slowly she crouched down and reached out her hand. They were dry, papery to the touch. When she drew her fingers over them they disintegrated into fine dust. Frowning, she glanced round the room. Nothing else had changed. Nothing had been moved. She rubbed the dust between her fingers then slowly she bent to sniff her fingertips. The smell was very faint. Slightly spicy. Exotic. For some reason it turned her stomach. She dusted her hands together and slammed the suitcase shut. Swinging it back onto the cupboard she rubbed her hands several times on her towel then at last she shut the cabin door and turned the key.

She undressed and showered in nervous haste, her eyes constantly searching the corners of the room. Wrapping the small silk parcel in the polythene bag in which she had packed her film she tucked it into her cosmetics bag and zipping it up tightly she put it on the floor of the shower. Then she closed the door on it.

For several minutes she stood in the centre of her cabin, every muscle tensed, listening intently. From the half-open window she could hear a faint rustle from the reeds. In the distance for an instant she heard the thin piping call of a bird, then silence fell. Turning off the main cabin light at last she climbed slowly into bed and lay there for a moment in the light of the small bedside lamp, listening once more. Then she reached across and picked up the diary. She did not feel in the least bit sleepy now and at least she could lose herself for a while in Louisa’s story and see if she could find any references to the bottle and its fate. Leafing through the pages she found herself looking at a tiny ink sketch, captioned ‘Capital at Edfu’. It showed the ornate top of one of the columns in the courtyard she had seen only that morning.

‘The Forresters decided yet again that it was too hot to do anything other than stay in the boat, so Hassan procured donkeys so that he and I could ride towards the great temple of Edfu …’

Anna glanced up. The room was quiet. Warm. She felt safe. Settling herself a little more comfortably, she turned the page and read on.






The donkey boy who had brought them to the entrance to the temple retired to the sparse shade of a group of palm trees to wait for them while Hassan led the way across the sand. He had commandeered two other small boys to carry the paintbox and easel and sketchbook, their basket of food and the sunshade. They set up camp in the lea of one of the great walls, Louisa sitting on the Persian rug, watching as the boys set down their burden and, rewarded with a half-piastre, scurried away.

‘Come and sit by me.’ She smiled at Hassan and patted the rug. ‘I want to hear the history of this place before we explore it.’

He lowered himself on the edge of the rug, sitting cross-legged, his back straight, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. ‘I think you know more than me, Sitt Louisa, with your books and your talks with Sir John.’ He smiled gravely.

‘You know that’s not true.’ She reached for the small sketchbook and opened it. ‘Besides, I like to hear you talk while I draw.’

Every second the sun rose higher in the sky. She wanted to capture the elegance and power of this place before the shadows grew too short, to record its majesty, the beauty of the carvings which had a delicacy all their own in contrast to the solidity and sheer size of the stone they were carved from. She wanted to reproduce the strength and wonder of the statues of Horus as a falcon, remember the expression of those huge round eyes surveying the unimaginable distances beyond the walls of the temple. Unscrewing her water jar she poured some into the small pot which clipped on the edge of her paintbox and reached for a brush.

‘The temple has only recently been excavated by Monsieur Mariette. Before he came the sand was up to here.’ Hassan pointed vaguely at a spot about halfway up the columns. ‘He cleared so much away. There were houses built on the temple and close round it. They have all gone now. And he dug out all this.’ He waved towards the high walls of sand around the temple on top of which the village perched uncomfortably over the remains of the ancient town. ‘Now you can see how huge it is. How high. How magnificent. The temple was built in the time of the Ptolemies. It is dedicated to Horus, the falcon god. It is one of the greatest temples in Egypt.’ Hassan’s low voice spun the history of the building into a legend of light and darkness. The sands encroached, then receded like the waters of the Nile.

Louisa paused in her work, watching him as the pale ochres and umbers from her palette dried on the tip of her brush. His face was one minute animated, intense, the next relaxed, as the web of his narrative spun on. Dreamily she listened, lost in the visions he was conjuring for her, and it was a moment before she realised he had stopped speaking and was looking at her, a half-smile on his handsome face. ‘I have put you to sleep, Sitt Louisa.’

She smiled back, shaking her head. ‘You have entranced me with your story. I sit here in thrall, unable even to paint.’

‘Then my purpose has failed. I sought to guide your inspiration.’ The graceful shrug, the gentle self-deprecating gesture of that brown hand with its long expressive fingers did nothing to release her. She sat unmoving watching him, unable to look away. It was Hassan who broke the spell. ‘Shall I lay out the food, Sitt Louisa? Then you can sleep, if you wish, before we explore the temple.’

He rose in a single graceful movement and reached for the hamper, producing a white cloth, plates, glasses, silver cutlery. Then came the fruit, cheeses, bread and dried meats.

He no longer questioned her insistence that he eat with her, she noticed. The place settings, so neatly and formally arranged, were very close to each other on the tablecloth.

Washing her brush carefully in the little pot of water she dried it to a point and laid it down. ‘I have such an appetite, in spite of the heat.’ She laughed almost coquettishly and then stopped herself. She must not get too friendly with this man who was, after all, in her employ; a man who in the eyes of the Forresters was no more than a hired servant.

She slipped off the canvas folding stool upon which she had been sitting before her easel and sank cross-legged on the Persian rug, fluffing her skirts up round her. When she glanced up he was offering her a plate, his deep brown eyes grave as they rested for a moment on her face. There wasn’t a trace of servitude in his manner as he smiled the slow serious smile she was growing to like so much.

Taking the lump of bread he offered she put it on her plate. ‘You spoil me, Hassan.’

‘Of course.’ Again the smile.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, listening to the cheerful twittering of the sparrows which lived in the walls high above them. Another party of visitors appeared in the distance and stood staring up at the huge pylon. The woman was wearing a pale green dress in the latest fashion and Louisa reached for her sketchpad, captivated by the splash of lightness in the intensity of the courtyard. The figures disappeared slowly out of sight and she let the pad fall. ‘We look like exotic butterflies one minute, and like trussed fowl the next,’ she commented ruefully. ‘Out of place in this climate. So uncomfortable, and yet for a while, beautiful.’

‘Very beautiful.’ Hassan repeated the word quietly. Louisa looked up, startled, but he had already turned away, intent on the food. ‘Some of the ladies in Luxor wear Egyptian dress in the summer,’ he said after a moment. ‘It is cool and allows them to be more comfortable.’

‘I should like that so much,’ Louisa said eagerly. Then her face fell. ‘But I can’t see Lady Forrester tolerating me as a guest on her boat if I did anything so outrageous. I have gowns of my own which would be more comfortable than this,’ she gestured at her black skirt, ‘but sadly they are bright colours and the Forresters would not approve and so I decided I could not wear them in their presence for risk of offending them.’ Janey Morris’s gowns had, she noticed, been folded away by Jane Treece amongst her nightwear.

‘Perhaps on our visits away from the boat we could arrange somewhere for you to change so that Lady Forrester need not be made unhappy.’ This time there was a distinct twinkle in his eye. ‘I can arrange for clothes for you, Sitt Louisa, if you wish it. Think how much more comfortable it would be for you now.’ Although he barely looked at her she had the strangest feeling he could see through to every stitch she had on – the tight corset, the long drawers, the two petticoats, one of them stiffened, beneath the black skirt of her travelling dress, to say nothing of the lisle stockings, held up with garters and the sturdy boots.

‘I don’t think I can bear it a moment longer.’ She shook her head. The tight wads of her hair, her hat, suddenly everything stifled her. ‘Can we buy some things for me to wear here in the village, on the way back to the boat?’

He shook his head. ‘We need to use discretion. I shall arrange it before we reach our next destination. Have no fear, you will be comfortable soon.’

Setting one of the boys to guard their belongings they strolled a little later through the colonnaded court into the hypostyle hall and stood gazing around them at the massive pillars. ‘You feel the weight of the centuries on your head here, do you not?’ His voice was almost a whisper.

‘It is all so huge.’ Louisa stared up, awed.

‘To inspire both men and gods.’ Hassan nodded, folding his arms. ‘And the gods are still here. Do you not feel them?’ In the silence the distant cheeping and gossip of the sparrows echoed strangely. Louisa shook her head. It was the sound of English hedgerows and London streets where the birds hopped in the road to scavenge between the feet of dray horses. Out here, amidst so much grandeur they were incongruous.

‘Shall we go on?’ Hassan was watching her face as the shadows fell across it. Ahead of them the second hypostyle hall was darker still. He was walking slightly ahead of her, a tall stately figure. On this occasion he was wearing a blue turban and a simple white galabiyya, with embroidery at the neck and hem. The shadows closed over him as he moved out of sight. For a moment she stood still, expecting him to reappear, waiting for her to follow him. But he didn’t. The silence seemed to have intensified around her. Even the birds were suddenly quiet in the unremitting heat.

‘Hassan?’ She took a few steps forward. ‘Hassan? Wait for me!’

Her boots echoed on the paving slabs as she moved towards the entrance where she had seen him disappear. ‘Hassan?’ She spoke only quietly. Somehow it seemed wrong to call out loud, like shouting inside a cathedral.

It was too quiet. She couldn’t hear him. ‘Hassan?’ She reached the entrance and peered into the darkness, suddenly frightened. ‘Hassan, where are you?’

‘Sitt Louisa? What is wrong?’ His voice came from behind her. She spun round. He was standing some twenty feet away in a ray of light from an unseen doorway. ‘I am sorry. I thought you were still beside me.’

‘But I was. I saw you go in there …’ She spun round towards the dark entrance.

‘No. I said we would go and look at the room of the Nile. It is the room from where the water was brought each day for the priests’ libations.’ He came towards her, his face suddenly concerned.

‘I saw you, Hassan. I saw you go in there.’ She was pointing frantically.

‘No, lady.’ He stopped beside her. ‘I promise. I would not frighten you.’ Just for a moment he put his hand on her arm. ‘Wait. Let me look. Perhaps there is someone else here.’ He strode towards the darkened entrance to the hall of offerings and stood peering in. ‘Meen! Who is there?’ he called out sharply. He took a step further in. ‘There is no one.’ He was shading his eyes to see better. ‘But there are many chambers further in. Perhaps there are other visitors here.’

‘But I saw you. You.’ Louisa moved forward until she was standing beside him. ‘If it wasn’t you, it was someone as tall, as dark, dressed the same …’

She leant forward on the threshold of a small inner chamber within the thickness of the wall and her arm brushed his. She felt the warmth of his skin, smelt the cinnamon scent of him.

‘See, it is empty.’ His voice was close in her ear. Usually when she came close to him he moved deferentially away. In the narrow doorway he remained where he was. ‘Without a candle there is nothing to see. I shall fetch one from the hamper –’

‘No.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘No, Hassan. I can see it’s empty.’ For a moment they stayed where they were. He had turned from looking into the darkness and was gazing down at her with a look of such love and anguish that for a moment she found herself completely breathless. Then the moment had gone. ‘Hassan –’

‘I am sorry.’ He backed away from the door and bowed. ‘I am sorry, Sitt Louisa. Forgive me. There is much to see yet, and we have need of light for the inner sanctuary. Istanna shwaiyeh. Please, wait a little. And I will fetch it.’ He strode away from her, his face impassive once more, leaving her standing where she was in the doorway.

She glanced back into the darkness. Her heart was hammering under her ribs and she felt hot and strangely breathless. Turning slowly to follow him she found her fists clutched in the folds of her skirts. Firmly she unclenched them. She took a deep breath. This was nonsense. First she was having visions, imagining she saw him when he wasn’t there, then she was reacting to him as though … But her thoughts shied away even from the idea that she was attracted to him. This could not be.

He had not waited for her. She saw him stride once more into the shadows and then out into the sunlight of the great courtyard in the distance. This time he stayed clearly in sight, and now she could see too, the other group of visitors. She could see the woman in the green dress, gazing up at something their guide was pointing out to them in a frieze far above their heads. She was bored, even from so far away Louisa could see it. And she was hot and uncomfortable in her chic flounced gown with its fashionable slight train dragging in the dust behind her. She could see the dark patches of perspiration showing beneath the woman’s arms, the broad tell-tale stripe of dampness between her shoulderblades and suddenly she longed again for the loose clothing Hassan had promised or the soft cool fabric of the dresses folded beneath her nightgowns in the drawer on the boat. Wasn’t that what she had come to Egypt for? To be free. To be in charge of her own destiny. To be answerable to no one now except herself. Not to her husband’s family in London. Not to the Forresters. Not to their maid. With a sudden leap of excitement she picked up her skirts and ran after Hassan. ‘Wait for me!’ She smiled at the other woman pityingly as she whirled past and wondered with a gurgle of amusement what she thought of this vulgar, hurrying baggage who had emerged from the holy of holies in pursuit of a tall, handsome Egyptian.




4 (#ulink_0ec4ff4c-1433-5740-a5fa-4018698c996c)


Thy servant hath offered up for thee a sacrifice and the divine mighty ones tremble when they look upon the slaughtering knife …

I see and I have sight; I have my existence; I have done what hath been decreed; I hate slumber … and the god Set hath raised me up!






In the silence comes the sound of scraping, faint and far away. It is an intrusion, a sacrilege in the thick heat of the dark where no whisper of movement, no breath, no pulse sounds inside or outside the linen that wraps the bodies.

On the walls the sacred texts spin their legends into the firmament. For those two men the prayers were hasty, they were quickly copied. The net of prayers to speed them on their way, to protect their souls, to direct their spirit is written in pigment, not carved upon the rock. In the corner, hidden, powerful, commanding, written by an acolyte, one single prayer begs for their spirits, if they lie ill at ease, to reappear in the world they left so suddenly. ‘I hate slumber …’






Anna was awoken by a knocking on her cabin door. She stared up at the ceiling blankly for a moment, then squinted at her watch. It was eight-thirty.

‘Who is it? Wait a minute!’ Leaping out of bed she shook her hair out of her eyes, trying to defog her brain. ‘Serena? I’m so sorry. I should have set my alarm.’

Turning the key she pulled open the door. Andy stood there, wearing an open-necked shirt and chinos. He grinned at her. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I’d missed you at breakfast because you were an early riser.’ His gaze took in her wild unbrushed hair, her short nightshirt and the long, bare legs and his grin widened. ‘You were planning to come to Kom Ombo?’

‘Yes!’ Anna ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Oh God, yes! I’ve overslept! What time are they leaving?’

‘Ten minutes.’ He stepped away from the door. ‘I tell you what. Would you like me to fetch you some coffee from the dining room while you get dressed?’





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