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
