The Illusion of Murder Read Online Free

stranglehold over other countries.”
    “Britannica rules the seas,” Lord Warton says, “and that little ditch scratched into the sand is a strategic route to India and the Far East.”
    A mounted company of Egyptian cavalrymen with British officers trot by, heading in the direction of the noise.
    “What do you think is going on?” I ask Von Reich.
    “Noise can mean a celebration or trouble. This sounds like trouble.”
    “Our troops can handle any situation,” Lord Warton says.
    I didn’t point out to him that the troops were Egyptian; only the officers were British.
    The clamor grows louder and our carriage driver pulls off the road as a large crowd of men comes up the street shouting a repeated phrase. The Arabic words mean nothing to me, but it’s the same violent tone I once heard from a mob that had gathered after strike breakers left union men dead that frightens me.
    A squad of foot soldiers led by a British sergeant double-times smartly into place near us and our male companions leave us to speak to the noncom as the crowd gets closer.
    Perhaps a hundred men are in the crowd, no women, though a number of children are prancing along. Most of the men are wearing the djellabah , a loose-fitting hooded robe that is the universal male attire unless one is working in the water or at the beach.
    It doesn’t strike me as an organized demonstration, at least not in the sense of people in a parade, but more of a crowd that was sparked into action spontaneously.
    Egyptian horse soldiers with British officers, perhaps the ones we saw earlier, are in single file on both sides of the advancing crowd, acting rather like cowboys herding cattle.
    Time to return to the ship, I think. Too inhibited to show a yellow streak, I keep it to myself as our gentlemen return with the British sergeant.
    “Sergeant O’Malley says we will be safe this close to his troops,” the British peer tells us.
    The sergeant touches the rim of his pith helmet with the tip of his finger in greeting. “Don’t worry, ladies, we won’t let the rabble get out of hand.”
    “What are they shouting about?” I ask.
    “The Father of Terror,” Von Reich says.
    “The Father of Terror?”
    “That’s correct, madam,” the sergeant says. “That’s what they call the Great Sphinx. Seems a tree told them that the sphinx was going to get up from where it’s squatting at Giza next to the pyramids to drive us demon foreigners from Egypt.”
    It occurs to me that the bike rider I saw might be a British spy on the lookout for troublemakers.
    Sergeant O’Malley busies himself lining up his men to assist in crowd control while our driver gets our carriage off to the side of the road.
    “Trees talking!” scoffs Lady Warton, sounding personally offended, as if they were talking behind her back. “What will these ignorant people imagine next?”
    She appears wedded to hats with netted veils and wears them even on the ship. I assume she has facial blemishes she doesn’t wish to share with the world or wishes to protect her skin from sun damage.
    Something about my expression causes the woman to direct her ire at me. “Young woman, I suppose you believe in talking trees.”
    I smile sweetly. “Well, I was thinking that not far from here God spoke to Moses from a burning bush and commanded him to lead his people from Egypt.”
    Von Reich doesn’t say a word but it is easy to see that his jaws are clamped tight to keep a laugh from exploding.

 
    4
    Our carriage is pulling up to the arched stone entrance to the bazaar when a man on a bike passes us.
    “Isn’t that the same man who took the spill?” I ask.
    Von Reich shakes his head. “I really can’t say.”
    “Has the same boots,” I mutter, more to myself.
    “Shall we enter the Den of Thieves, ladies?” Von Reich asks as we step down from the carriage.
    He had described the marketplace as a caravansary, a place where camel caravans stop to drop off and take on loads. I expected a sprawling