The Serpent and the Scorpion by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

feet and summoned all her self-control. “I’ve heard enough threats for one day,” she said with an imperious glare. “If you don’t mind, Chief Inspector Harrison, I think it’s time that I end our little chat, enlightening though it has been, and return to my hotel.”
    Harrison had his Egyptian associate escort Ursula downstairs and arrange for a carriage to return her to Mena House. As it pulled up at the hotel, Ursula saw Hugh Carmichael walking quickly along the path that led to the gardens. She opened her mouth to call out, but something about his demeanor and the fury of his stride made her stop. She hesitated for a moment before climbing out of the carriage. Peering round, she spied Peter Vilensky standing by the hotel entrance, watching as Hugh retreated down the path. He straightened his jacket, smoothed back his dark brown hair, and then signaled for his motorcar to be brought round. Ursula turned back and sank down in her seat. There were getting to be too many secrets in this place.
     
The next day, Ursula returned to Mena House after a morning spent on the Giza plateau. She needed time away from people and had found a degree of solace walking among the ruins of the great pyramids—although she could hardly say she was ever really alone. No matter where she wandered, there were always the familiar outstretched hands and the call for baksheesh. Then there were the vendors of so-called antiquities and fossils, supposedly from the sands near Zawiyet el-Aryan. Each and every one Ursula dismissed with a wave of her hand, clutching her trusty Baedeker guide in the other.
    As Ursula entered the Mena House gardens and made her way along the magnolia-lined path, she looked up to see Peter Vilensky approaching. His skin looked pallid in the harsh sunlight, a bleak contrast to his dark, neatly trimmed beard, black mourning suit, and wide-brimmed hat. According to Jewish custom, Peter Vilensky had been in near seclusion, refusing all social engagements until his initial seven days of sitting shivah were over. Ursula hesitated for a moment, knowing that their paths would cross and wondering whether she should broach the subject that had been on her mind.
    Peter Vilensky saw Ursula and waited as she drew near, regarding her with guarded dark eyes.
    “Miss Marlow,” he said tersely.
    “Mr. Vilensky, it is good to see you.”
    Peter Vilensky eyed her suspiciously, and Ursula felt her face flush. Nevertheless, she plowed ahead.
    “I was speaking with Mr. Whittaker, and he told me that Chief Inspector Harrison was helping with the investigation. That must be a great relief to you—he is a fine, capable detective. You see, I have dealt with him before—” If she had expected this would draw him out, she was mistaken.
    “Really,” was all Vilensky replied.
    There was an awkward pause, but Ursula was determined to continue.
    “I know this must sound terribly impertinent,” she began with feigned embarrassment. “But I was just wondering, have all of Katya’s belongings been packed up and sent away?” She fiddled with the edge of one of her cotton gloves.
    “Why do you ask?” Vilensky demanded.
    “It’s nothing really, only Katya and I exchanged some books, and I wanted to make sure I returned hers, and also—I hope this doesn’t sound too rude—but I’d like to retrieve my books as well. There are some lovely books of poetry that were a gift to me. . . .” Ursula’s voice trailed off awkwardly.
    Peter Vilensky scowled, his face even harsher than before.
    “All our books are being packed into the trunks. . . . Some of Katya’s may still be out, but I haven’t the time to arrange for anyone to go through them. I hardly think Katya’s maid, who cannot speak or read English, would be able to—”
    “Oh, I’d be quite happy to sort through them myself,” Ursula interrupted. “With your approval, of course.”
    Peter Vilensky’s face did not alter.
    “It really would be no bother at all,”