‘No,’ he said. ‘By “colleague” Miss Claibourne was referring to other interests we have in common.’
‘Oh?’ Then, with a bland look that didn’t entirely hide a touch of pique, he drew his own conclusion as to what that might be. ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay, Mr Gifford. Maybe we can arrange some excursions for you while Miss Claibourne is working,’ he added. ‘Saraminda is a lovely country. Wonderfully peaceful,’ he stressed.
‘Peace and love. I’m all for it,’ he said.
The flash of annoyance that had crossed Flora’s face at the man’s unspoken assumption that ‘colleague’ in this instance meant ‘lover’—and his implicit response—was the first unconsidered reaction he’d got from her. He didn’t give her a chance to clarify the situation.
‘But I’ll give the excursions a miss, thanks all the same. I’ll be sticking close to Flora.’ A man would hardly call his ‘colleague’ Miss Claibourne, now, would he? ‘Whatever she does.’
Dr Myan said nothing, but his silence was eloquent. Did he fancy her himself? Bram wondered as he turned away and ushered Flora in the direction of a long black car with official numberplates, leaving him to follow in their wake with the porter.
It seemed unlikely. She was six inches taller and didn’t dress to turn heads. Maybe it was her mind he admired. Or maybe he’d expected her undivided attention and was peeved that she wasn’t quite as single-mindedly interested in his affairs as he’d hoped.
If that was the case, the ride in from the airport should have reassured him. She spent the journey bombarding the man with questions about the items that had been found—keen to know when she could go up into the mountains to visit the site where they had been excavated, eager to take photographs for the article she was writing.
‘You wish to see the tomb?’ he enquired. ‘But why? There’s nothing there.’
‘Even so, I think I should see it.’
‘It’s a difficult journey, Miss Claibourne. Hard even for a man,’ he said, which Bram thought was probably a mistake. ‘A long walk up into the mountains. Besides, it isn’t necessary,’ he reiterated. ‘The treasure is all at the museum.’
‘But you asked if I wanted to see it,’ she reminded him. ‘And I do need to look at the excavations, perhaps link decoration of the tomb with the designs of the jewellery.’
‘I’m sorry.’ His expression was that of deep regret. ‘It is not possible.’
‘Not possible?’ she asked. ‘Why?’
Maybe Saramindan women didn’t ask questions. Dr Myan clearly assumed his word would be sufficient. He wasn’t prepared to offer explanations and for a moment floundered. ‘The tremor…there was more damage than we first thought. We cannot take the risk,’ he said, like a man clutching at passing straws.
‘Are you taking steps to stabilise the structure?’ Bram asked.
‘Plans are being made. Engineers are being consulted,’ he said carefully, as if weighing every word before uttering it. Flora glared at him for giving Tipi Myan a chance to evade her persistent questions. ‘And we will restore everything so that visitors will see it as it should be seen. When it’s safe. We are already making plans to build a lodge nearby for visitors, in traditional style, so that when they have seen the tomb they will be able to enjoy the ambience of a tropical forest in complete comfort.’
‘If the climb up there doesn’t kill them,’ Flora muttered.
‘You’re going for the eco-tourist market?’ Bram asked.
‘We have many beautiful flowers, butterflies—’
Flora had had enough. ‘That is very interesting, Dr Myan, but I must have photographs of the tomb for my article,’ she persisted.
Bram reached out and took her hand to distract her. She turned to him with a frown. He said nothing, but she got the message just the same. She wasn’t going to get anywhere by pestering Dr Myan. She retrieved her hand without fuss and let the subject drop.
‘Ah, we have arrived.’ And, having delivered them safely to a new luxury resort complex, the man excused himself with almost indecent haste, claiming an urgent appointment. ‘I will return after the holiday. Rest, enjoy yourselves. This is a charming resort.’
‘Holiday? What holiday?’
‘It is a religious feast day tomorrow.’
‘Holiday,’ she repeated with disgust, when he’d gone. ‘I’ve flown halfway round the world to see a tomb that is apparently out of bounds and now I’m told to sit and twiddle my thumbs while everything stops for a holiday. What on earth am I going to do tomorrow?’ she demanded.
Bram could think of a dozen things. However, since she was clearly outraged at having travelled so far to the see all the riches of Saraminda only to be kept waiting, he thought it wiser not to suggest sun-bathing or sightseeing as an alternative.
Instead he dealt with the formalities at Reception before they were led through the gardens to a traditional bungalow set in a garden that ran down to the beach.
Built of local timber and beautifully thatched, with a wide veranda facing the sea to catch the breeze, the single-storey, self-contained cottage offered the perfect image of a tropical holiday paradise.
He hadn’t realised an academic author warranted such red carpet treatment. Of course it was just possible that the tourist authority wanted Flora Claibourne to see what was on offer, hoping she’d go home and tell her equally wealthy friends.
They were, he thought, doomed to disappointment. Beyond a request that the air conditioner be turned off, Flora appeared as oblivious to her surroundings as she was to her appearance. She was far more interested in the photographs that Tipi Myan had left with her—none of them of the tomb—than in the simple luxury of their accommodation.
Of course it was always possible that Claibourne & Farraday had booked the accommodation when they’d organised his ticket. Maybe that was why they had one of the larger bungalows with two bedrooms, since the Minister of Antiquities had quite obviously not been expecting him. Hadn’t been particularly pleased to see him. Maybe Dr Myan thought he’d distract the lady from her work.
He needn’t have worried. Bram thought he’d never seen anyone so focused.
‘Breakfast, Flora?’ he prompted, when she didn’t seem to hear the hotel porter’s question.
She frowned at him, irritated by the interruption or perhaps by the use of her name. ‘What?’ Then, registering his question, ‘Oh, no.’ She found a smile for the young man waiting anxiously to please her. ‘Just some tea. Thank you,’ she said, before returning to the photographs.
It had been the interruption, then. Pity. For a minute there he’d thought he’d got her attention. Apparently that was reserved for hammered gold. Very old hammered gold.
He picked up one of the large glossy prints, a photograph of a small, exquisitely chased cup. ‘Is this what all the fuss is about?’
‘It’s
