The Serpent and the Scorpion by Clare Langley-Hawthorne Page A

Ursula continued brightly, noting how he was clenching and unclenching his hands.
    “I suppose that will be . . . yes . . . all right,” Vilensky said. “Just arrange it with the hotel staff, and they can also deal with Katya’s maid. I have more important things to concern myself with than some trifling books lent to my wife.” He said the word wife with bitterness.
    “I’ll arrange it for this afternoon then, thank you,” Ursula replied.
    Vilensky’s curt nod was both an acquiescence and a dismissal.
     
Ursula was escorted to the Vilenskys’ suite by the hotel manager, Baron de Radowkasky, who held the keys aloft with disdain. With the end of the Egyptian “season,” he was busy making arrangements for a Cook & Sons tour group that was departing for Alexandria the following morning, and was unimpressed by the interruption to his day.
    “Please tell Mr. Vilensky how very grateful I am for this opportunity. I won’t be more than a few minutes, I assure you, and then I will return the keys immediately.”
    The hotel manager bowed. “Mr. Vilensky has graciously made his late wife’s maid available to assist you, should you require it. He told me all of the books are in the bedroom.”
    “Thank you. I’m sure I will be able to manage.”
    The hotel manager waved her into the room and left with another bow. Katya’s maid, a timorous girl of eighteen, stood meekly beside one of the divans that graced the suite’s living room.
    “Nadia,” Ursula said kindly, “I’m sure you must have a lot of packing to finish. Please don’t worry about assisting me. It will take me no time at all to find the books I need.”
    Nadia, with a blank face that suggested she had only understood part of what Ursula was saying, scurried off and soon left the suite with a pile of laundry in her arms.
    Ursula walked into the bedroom, which was a replica of her own. The curtains were open, and a slight breeze filtered in through the filigree latticework surrounding the open window, filling the room with the scent of jasmine from the garden below. Above the bed was a lavish mural with inlaid mother-of-pearl.
    On the bed, Katya’s clothes had been folded and stacked, ready to be packed, with great care and obvious tenderness. Ursula ran her fingers across the blue shawl she had seen Katya wear many mornings. The sensation was like running her hands across a shallow pond, the silk was so soft and cool. Ursula walked over to the bureau, which was piled high with books and magazines. On the chair there was also a series of portfolios, photographs, and large bound books. Buried amid the stack of books by the bed were the books she had loaned Katya—Rupert Brooke’s Poems , which had been published the previous year, a volume of Selected Poems by Matthew Arnold that Lord Wrotham had given her for Christmas, and a translation of Baudelaire’s poetry.
    Ursula carefully placed the books Katya had lent her on top of those piled high on the chair. Katya had been excited to introduce Ursula to a recent translation of Pushkin’s poetry as well as a novel by Tolstoy translated into English by Constance Garrett.
    Ursula scanned the room, wondering if she could find anything to suggest an explanation for Katya’s unease in the days before her death. Everything, however, apart from her books and clothes, had been removed. Reluctant to leave, Ursula picked up her books and slowly made her way past the closed double doors that led into Peter Vilensky’s adjoining suite.
    Once upstairs in her own suite, she threw the books onto her bed and sat down heavily in the rattan armchair beneath the window.
    “Oh, Miss—I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.” Julia was sitting on the bed, mending one of Ursula’s shirts. She spoke while still holding the pins in her mouth. “Would you like me to help you change for afternoon tea?” At teatime, the terraces of Mena House were always crowded with guests and tourists.
    “No, that’s all right,”