The Serpent and the Scorpion by Clare Langley-Hawthorne Page A

Was the British government concerned over Katya’s influence in funding nationalist extremists? Neither of these possibilities seemed plausible, and they hardly explained Chief Inspector Harrison’s interest in the matter. If the government had countenanced Katya’s death, they’d hardly send someone in to investigate it further. And what was Katya’s interest in Hartuv or the Bregenz ?
     
The soiree Ambrose Whittaker referred to was a charity ball to raise money for a new dispensary for poor women and children hosted by the khedive Abbas Helmy II at the El-Salamlek Palace overlooking Montazah Bay. Ursula, wearing a deep green Poiret dress, felt conspicuous as an unaccompanied female. At least here there were continentals and members of Egypt’s most notable families, unlike at the exclusively English domain of the Khedival Sporting Club in Cairo. Ursula was speaking with a Belgian archaeologist when she was drawn into a debate with a wealthy Greek merchant on the recent war in Libya. Just as the two men began discussing the use of aerial bombardment, Ursula caught sight of three other women arriving. As soon as she recognized them, Ursula extricated herself from the discussion, grabbed a glass of wine, and retreated to the terrace that overlooked Montazah Bay and the busy port of Alexandria.
    “Sorry, sweetheart,” Hugh Carmichael said as he appeared from behind one of the potted palms. “Seems like we both had the same escape plan in mind!”
    “With the likes of Millicent Lawrence, Violet Norton, and Emerence Stanley, can you blame me?” Ursula replied.
    “I thought I saw them in there—surrounding the punch bowl like coyotes at a water hole,” Hugh said.
    “Those three are worse than Macbeth’s witches. If I have to spend one more moment listening to their moralizing and condemnation, I think I will throw up.”
    “Well, so long as you throw up inside, I won’t object.” Hugh replied.
    They both stood for a moment, enjoying one of the few moments of levity they’d shared in recent weeks.
    Ursula watched as the sun began to set, casting an orange glow across the long, dark sea edge.
    “Is it my imagination, or does it seem unusually busy for this time of evening?” she asked. “I thought most of the steamers would have left by now.” She pointed to the row of steamer funnels.
    “I guess it’s not every day that a lowly shipping clerk blows his brains out in the customs office,” Hugh replied. “Whittaker tells me that passengers have been held up for hours.”
    “What happened?” Ursula asked hoarsely.
    “No one’s sure. But the poor man’s dead—that’s one thing for certain. Whittaker said the man was apparently in financial trouble.”
    “Whittaker said?” Ursula asked sharply.
    “Yes,” Hugh answered with a sideways glance. “You should know by now that Whittaker is always one step ahead of the rest of us.”
    Ursula made no reply, but there was a bitter taste in her mouth. “Are you feeling all right?” Hugh asked.
    Ursula steadied herself. “Yes . . . I think, I think I’ll just go inside for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
    “Feeling unwell, Miss Marlow?” Ambrose Whittaker called out through the open French doors. Ursula couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.
    “Miss Marlow is fine,” Hugh replied evenly, his eyes fixed on hers. “No need to concern yourself.”
    As soon as Whittaker’s back was turned, Hugh’s demeanor changed. He looked at Ursula with apprehension and said, “Let me take you back to your hotel.”
    “Thank you,” Ursula replied, still dazed. “I think that would be for the best.”
    As she turned, a young servant, little more than a boy, approached. He was dressed in a white robe and holding a telegram in his slender dark hands.
    “Miss Marlow?” he said, and Ursula nodded blankly. Seeing her expression, Hugh gave the messenger a couple of piasters and took the telegram. “Do you want me to open it?” he asked gently. Ursula