The Bride Box by Michael Pearce Page A

back of the temple. It was off another one so well concealed that unless you knew it was there and where to look, you would not find it. But I had a torch with me and saw marks in the sand where they had been, and I followed the marks. And when I got there I knew it was the place because I found an old box and in it I found a shell.’
    â€˜A trocchee shell?’
    â€˜No, no. A gun shell. A bullet. One they use in rifles.’
    â€˜That is very interesting. Could you show it to me?’
    â€˜I have it at home.’
    â€˜I would like to see it. And perhaps the place where it was left.’
    When they came out again into the sunlight Owen’s eye was caught by a flash from one of the nitre tanks. For a moment he thought there must be some water in it, but then he realized it must be from the tar. Odd, he thought, that the connection between the temple and warfare should be so long-standing and still continuing.
    Now that he had emerged victorious, Ismail, the head of the Pasha’s household, was prepared to be conciliatory. He sent a servant with them to show them off the estate. They went by a different route from the one they had come by.
    â€˜It is quicker,’ said the servant.
    The path led through a field of berseem, food stuff for the animals of the household, and then through thin acacia shrub. Through the scrub they occasionally caught a glimpse of the Nile. Then they turned away and headed inland. A road forked off, and on it a dead donkey was lying, buzzing with flies.
    â€˜It is to attract the jackals,’ said the servant. ‘For the master to shoot.’
    â€˜The master? He is here, then?’
    â€˜The young master.’
    â€˜Ah, the son.’
    â€˜The son, yes. He stays with his mother.’
    â€˜And he shoots jackals?’
    â€˜What else is there for him to do?’
    The servant stopped when they got to the fork. ‘Keep on this way,’ he said, ‘and it will take you back to Denderah.’
    â€˜And the other path?’
    â€˜Leads you to the other house.’
    â€˜Where the Pasha’s lady lives?’
    â€˜That is so, yes.’
    The servant turned back and they continued on their way.
    For only a little way. Then they stopped, and after a moment or two turned back.
    â€˜What are we doing?’ said the clerk. ‘That is the way to Denderah!’
    â€˜We will go somewhere else first.’
    This arm of the fork was more overgrown and they had to push past scrub branches which dangled across the path.
    There was the sudden crack of a rifle shot and a branch in front of them jumped suddenly. The clerk hurled himself to the ground.
    Mahmoud stepped back behind a tree. ‘Stop shooting!’ he shouted. ‘There are people here!’
    There was no reply. And then a man pushed out of the bushes ahead of them. ‘Frightfully sorry!’ he said, speaking in English, not in Arabic. He came forward, one hand held up before him apologetically.
    He was an Egyptian, however, not English, a man in his mid-twenties. His hair was already beginning to recede, leaving the top front of his head bald and shiny, and there seemed something odd about him.
    He was immaculately dressed in a newly laundered white shirt and newly pressed trousers. ‘Frightfully sorry!’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t know you were there. We don’t get many visitors. And, anyway,’ he said in a puzzled voice, ‘I don’t know how I came to miss it! I don’t usually. I think I may have caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye and been distracted. Yes, that would be it! I don’t see how I could have missed it otherwise. I saw it quite clearly. A big fat one perched on a bough. An easy shot. Frightfully sorry! I hope you’re all right?’
    â€˜No damage done,’ said Mahmoud.
    â€˜Oh, good!’ He looked down at the clerk still lying on the ground. ‘And what about you?’
    The clerk