Hattie did not answer the question directly, but instead shook her head. “I have just come from their solicitor’s office and he has already quizzed me on that subject at length, I’m afraid.”
Crestfallen, the gentleman emanated another huge sigh and shifted his over-large frame in the small café chair. “It is a true mystery,” he noted sadly. “Such wonderful people.”
Witnessing his severe disappointment, Hattie was struck by a thought. “Do you report to Muhammad Ali—is it he who holds authority over the site?”
“Indeed,” he nodded, spreading his hands. “Although it is a delicate business, at present. There are vying concerns…” His voice trailed off.
Hattie nodded in turn and was forced to reconsider her half-formed theory—it would seem that if her parents were killed for double-dealing with the British behind Ali’s back, his minister would probably not be chasing her down in the street, obviously distraught and eager to unearth the particulars. Perhaps her theory was not a valid one, then.
“An unsettling situation,” the minister mused as he sadly studied his hands. “Most unfortunate.”
Hattie noted that Berry offered no contribution, and it occurred to her he rarely did—choosing always to listen, instead. In the absence of any guidance from his corner, she decided to test her other theories. “Did any artifacts go missing along with my parents?”
Shocked, Hafez assured her, “Your parents would never steal the artifacts, Miss Blackhouse—unthinkable.”
“You misunderstand,” Hattie quickly corrected him. “I wondered if perhaps theft was the object and my parents were casualties of a random crime.”
Straightening up, it appeared the minister was affronted by the implied insult. “The site is very secure—more secure than most. I have my best men standing guard—the Blackhouses deserved no less—and there have been no reports of attempted theft.”
“I understand,” offered Bing to soothe him, “that the princess’s tomb has a dearth of artifacts to begin with.”
The minister turned in his chair and regarded Bing for the first time. “That is true,” he admitted, showing some surprise that she would be aware. “And as it does not appear the tomb has been raided, perhaps the princess’s gender and age would explain the lack of riches.”
“Although I do believe there were several Isisian pieces of exquisite workmanship.” Bing apparently felt a need to mitigate the perceived slight against the anonymous princess.
“Indeed, fair lady; I have heard the same from those on site.” Recognizing a fellow enthusiast, the minister smiled upon Bing, and then saddened again. “But by all reports the Blackhouses have vanished without a trace and the status of the tomb is in limbo. I am nearly beside myself”—he turned to Hattie in apology—“which is why I must press you, Miss Blackhouse; if you have any information—even if it seems of little importance, I must ask that you share it with me.”
Hattie knit her brow in puzzlement—not only from the startling discovery that anyone would describe Bing as a “fair lady,” but also from the complete absence of any information surrounding her parents’ disappearance. “It does seem very strange that no one has come forward—they were very recognizable people, after all. Surely someone must know something.”
The minister leaned forward. “Perhaps you can be of influence, Miss Blackhouse.”
This was what Berry had intimated—she could make a personal appeal for information as the bereft daughter. “Yes—I will help in any way I can.”
The party sat in silence for a moment, Hafez drumming his fingers on the table, deep in thought. “Your ring,” observed Bing. “Is it a sacred scarab?”
“Yes.” He took it off and handed it over for her inspection. “A cat’s eye sapphire, recovered from the statue of Osiris in Abu Simbel.”
Bing examined it reverently and Hattie decided her conversation with Berry could wait; Bing had found an unexpected admirer. Feigning interest, she listened with half an ear as the two discussed the artifacts found in the main temple at Abu Simbel, many years ago. Across the narrow street she noted the man in the turban from the day before, leaning in a doorway and smoking, watching her. Hattie turned to Berry and indicated the man with a tilt of her head. “Have you an acquaintanceship with that gentleman?”
Light brown eyes met hers. “Which gentleman is that, mademoiselle?”
Hattie turned but discovered that the turbaned man had disappeared. “Ah—he has left. Perhaps his name is not Berry, also.”