Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) (3 page)

   After I spoke with an attendant, I found my friend in the large waiting area, speaking to a flashy young man. Accustomed as I was to English voices, his Cockney accent was rather thick for me.

   When I sat beside the two, I believe the man said to Lucy, “That German count has it figured out, I say.” 

   “Oh, why is that?” asked Lucy.

   With much pointing and flailing of his arms, he replied, “They fill their airship with gas, makes it float. Floats naturally, it does; the propellers just steer it. Propellers stop, the thing still floats; that’s what that gas does, you see. These biplanes here, the propeller is what fights the gravity, force, and a lot of force. Propeller stops, down comes the biplane.”

   I took Lucy’s hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I am sure that the airplane we are flying on is every bit as safe as one of those German Zeppelins.”

   The fellow squinted at me and asked, “From America, are you?”

   The young man appeared well dressed, but there was cheapness about his bold suit; his shoes were well worn, and his fingernails were dirty. I was curious as to his business at the airport. Not really approving of his familiarity, I replied, “Yes. I am from Saint Louis, Missouri—”

   “Lucky Lindy!” retorted the man. “Do you know him?”

   “Well, of course I know
of
him.” After he had recently succeeded in flying the whole of the Atlantic Ocean, everyone knew of Charles Lindbergh.

   “But do you know him personally?” asked the man, rather insistently.

   “I do not,” I replied with a confused shrug. 

   “He’s from Saint Louis,” retorted the fellow.

  “No, I believe he is from Detroit, Michigan—” I began to correct him.

   “No, no, no. ’Tis the case, his plane would have been the Spirit of Detroit,” said the man with great confidence.

   I preferred to be polite rather than right, so I smiled and nodded my chin. “An amazing story, flying from New York to Paris in two days, just astounding.”  

  “He won $25,000 for doing it … what I’d do with that money.” The man gave a mighty sigh. “Six other men tried to fly the way, but t’weren’t so lucky.”

   Lucy’s hand stiffened. I decided to change the subject. “Where is it that you are traveling to?”

   “Hmm, oh no, you wouldn’t get me in one of those contraptions. I’m just here to pick up a friend of my employer. The chap’s been in France.” He gave a rather fake-sounding laugh and added, “Don’t ask me why.”

   I did not.

   After a moment of silence, we were asked by the fellow, “Where is it that you two ladies are going?”

   Rather fearfully, Lucy responded “Luxor, Egypt.”

  “Great Scott, that’s the other side of the world!” The man ran his hands through his oiled hair and shook his head.

   “Yes, but with a great many stops,” added Lucy, her tone still quite nervous.

   “Do you say?” our new friend asked with a gleam in his eye; he rather seemed to enjoy Lucy’s discomfort.

  There were a number of stops between South Hampton and Luxor. We would first fly to Marseilles, France, then to Rome, then to a place in southern Italy called Brindisi. From there we would fly across the sea to Athens, Greece. The following day we would be off to Alexandria, then Cairo and at last, Luxor.

   Truth be told, my decision to travel by airplane was partially inspired by Charles Lindbergh. This young man had done the incredible. I think my Xavier would have been inspired by the feat. I wasn’t so much flying for myself as I was for my dear husband.

   I will admit that, of course, there was a secondary reason for traveling by airplane. I had been banned from sailing on my preferred liner, and while Lucky Lindy’s name had graced the newspapers for his accomplishment, mine had been sullied by the same journalist as though I were some sort of crack pot who tried to sink the RMS
Olivia
. For this bad press, I doubted that the other reputable liner sailing from South Hampton would have me on board either.

   Our new friend pulled his dented pocket watch from his vest and said, “Shouldn’t be long now.” Rather obviously, he looked to Lucy’s hands and then mine. Directing his question to me, he asked, “Meeting your husband in Egypt, then, are you?”

   Lucy gave a little shudder and I a great sigh.

     “I am a widow.”

  The man made a clicking sound with his tongue as he grimaced. “Oh, you poor lady, what happened to the brave soul?”

   I was curious as to the thought process that one went through before asking this sensitive question, which is no one’s business but my own. I almost asked the fellow why he felt entitled to an answer; instead I told him, “My husband was an adventurer, you know the type. He set off to see Alaska. As he and his guide were canoeing down a stream, a great mass of salmon were surging up the stream. Upon collision, the canoe was overturned, and my poor dear husband was swept under the salmon with no chance of survival. His guide made it to the shore but was trampled by a moose before he could get away for help.” I dabbed a handkerchief at the corner of my eye and concluded, “Finding myself at restaurants and told that the special is surf and turf, I nearly go into hysterics.”

   The fellow’s jaw began to move from side to side. What could one reply to such a ridiculous story? His eyes focused somewhere in the large open waiting room, and he said, with much relief, “Ah, there’s the chap I’m supposed to fetch. Pardon, me, and ah … have a safe trip, ladies.”

   We nodded politely, and then the man bolted away calling out, “Birdy, Birdy Ralston, over here!”

   Curious, we watched the handful of travelers who had just arrived walk through the terminal. I leaned into Lucy and said cheerfully, “See, none of them look any worse for the trip.”

   Lucy gave a queer laugh and said, “How do we know what they looked like back in France?”

   A chipper lad of perhaps fifteen appeared before us and said, “My name is Peter. I’m the cabin attendant for your flight. May I escort you, ladies?” And with a well-practiced gesture, he indicated the way to the glass doors looking onto the paved runway.

Chapter Three

With some hesitation, Lucy followed me outside and toward the airplane. It was not as large as I had thought it would be. Also to my surprise, much of it was made from wood, rather than metal. In magazine photographs, unable to see color, I assumed all airplanes to be made of the silvery metal like the toy planes I had sent my nephews for their most recent birthdays.

   I suppose wooden construction made for a light craft, but well, really, wood? Our sedan and my dear husband’s roadster were built of metal, and this made them quite durable.

   I said nothing. Lucy was upset enough. Instead, with a smile on my face, we boarded the airplane. The entrance was just past the center. To the rear of the craft was storage for the cargo, primarily mail to be distributed across the British Empire, and toward the front of the vessel was the small passenger section.

   I felt a little quiver in my chest as my eyes took in the accommodations. A very narrow aisle led past eight wicker chairs to the door of the cockpit. The flimsy chairs were arranged similarly to seats on a train, with two chairs, facing each other on either side of the narrow aisle, allowing for seven passengers and the cabin boy. Each row had a window with checkered curtains that were drawn back. There were six wooden struts attached at the ceiling that slanted downward and ran the length of the cabin, connecting to the floor every six or seven feet, and this made walking about the aisle a tad bit dicey.

   Lucy and I sat in the first group of seats along the left side of the aisle so that we faced each other. The other passengers, all men, boarded as well. Talkative and jovial, they proved some distraction for Lucy. I went on studying the airplane.

   After a moment of confusion, I realized that the interior of the craft reminded me of my Great Aunt Dottie’s covered porch.
Rickety
was the first word that came to mind.

   The smell of stained wood and worn wicker was strong. A little shelf was affixed below each window, and upon them sat a narrow silver vase with fresh-cut flowers, arranged in a haphazard way. Above one window was a mounted clock; however, it wasn’t a wall clock. It was the type that should sit on a mantel or credenza.

   After the cabin boy had stuffed our baggage into the cargo hold, he sat down at the open seat catty-corner to mine. Giving me a nervous smile, he remarked, “We have very few ladies who fly all the way to Africa.”

   “Is that so?” I managed to reply, as I noticed my mouth had become quite dry.

   Lucy asked, “Have you flown to Africa a great many times?”

   The lad smiled and told us, “Seventeen times, there and back!”

   I nodded my chin, and Lucy remarked, “How adventurous.”

   “One day I will be a pilot,” the lad said rather earnestly.

   As if on cue, the pilot and his co-pilot emerged from the forward compartment of the airplane and began to greet the passengers.

   Everyone was quite jolly, despite the fact that we were soon to attempt breaking the bonds of gravity and hurtling ourselves into the air.

   With shaking hands, I pulled my little silver snuff box from my purse and took a clove from within. I had just placed the clove on my tongue when the pilot introduced himself to Lucy and me.

   Thank the Almighty, Lucy was ever so charming, as my replies to any statement put to me were no cleverer than the phrases repeated by Mother Stayton’s parakeet.

   Concluding the pleasantries, the pilot pointed toward the front of the craft and said, “Right, well now, just so you won’t be startled, the engines make a considerable amount of noise.”

   Lucy nodded her head and thanked the man for his warning. She then looked to me and asked, “Are you all right?”

   “Of course I am.” I consider myself a good Christian and became concerned with how easily I told my friend an outright lie.

   Peter pointed toward the sky and said, “It gets a little nippy up there; would either of you like a rug?”

  This term had confused me the first time I was asked by our chauffeur if I cared for a rug to be wrapped around my knees. Xavier had nodded that I did, and to my relief, a blanket was produced and tucked over my lap.

   Lucy answered for us both. “Oh, yes, please.”  

  Peter gave us two coarse wool blankets, and I fumbled with nervous hands to spread mine over my lap.

   Lucy misread my apprehension and said, “Don’t be worried about me. I think I am actually going to like flying, after all.” She pointed to the cabin boy. “Peter has been to Africa seventeen times, and as you say, he seems no worse for it.”

   The lad was just about to speak when a terrible sound nearly caused me to jump from the flimsy wicker seat. The sound grew more intense in intervals, as the second and then third engines were brought to life.

   There was a jerky motion, and then the craft began to roll forward; slowly, at first, until it pulled away from the terminal and onto a lengthy runway. 

   Lucy’s fear had dissipated; she actually smiled at me and then turned her head to look out the window. 

   I gripped the thin armrests at my sides; the contraption sped up, and the horrendous sound intensified. Turning the spicy clove over on my tongue, I thought about my first ride in Xavier’s roadster. He had driven me out to the country for a picnic. London’s grey sky had remained behind, and we found ourselves bowling over hills graced with sunshine, laughing at his recklessness.

   My amber hair whipped about as I held my bonnet in my lap to prevent it from blowing away. Taking a corner, or perhaps more than one, too sharply, a bottle of wine in the picnic basket had broken and the food was spoiled.

   We did not care; we had such a lark getting to the secluded place, a tiny patch of green that was in the middle of nowhere.

   As the airplane started to lift from the ground, my heart quivered, and I tried to think of the smile on Xavier’s face as he stole a glance at me when he should have been looking to the winding road; instead, all my mind’s eye could fixate on was the broken wine bottle.

   At last, the airplane leapt into the air. The men about us began to clap, as did Lucy. Feeling faint, I realized I had been holding my breath.

   Peter rose from his seat once the airplane leveled off. He leaned close to my ear and asked, “Are you all right?”

   I shouted back, “I think I have made a dreadful mistake. I would very much like to extract myself from this craft.”

   He gave me a jovial laugh and asked, “Do you want a parachute?”

   We landed at Marseilles, and after the other passengers had made their way off the craft, Lucy and the cabin boy helped me and my unsteady legs to the ground.

   Somewhat hysterical, I said, “If a ship sinks, I can swim”—pointing to the airplane—“but had that stopped working, I do not have wings. I cannot fly.”

   Peter looked to Lucy and said, “She’s cracked in the head. I think she needs a doctor.”

   I wasn’t so sure that this was a bad suggestion, so I remained silent. My ever-faithful Lucy replied, “She will be fine. A bit of rest before we get back on board and head off to Rome—”

  “No! Oh, no… I’m not getting back on that rickety thing,” I sputtered out in a most unbecoming manner.

    Rather than argue with me, Lucy suggested I would feel better after I had a drink of water. Peter commented, “I’m sure I can find her something stronger.”

   Once I was deposited in a chair within the terminal, I clutched the cabin boy by the wrist and said, “Fetch my baggage from the airplane.”

   He looked to Lucy, who said, “Mine as well.”

   “Oh no, Lucy, I’m so disappointed in myself.”

   My considerate friend retrieved the little silver snuff box from my purse and placed a clove in my trembling hand. Once the soothing spice had begun to calm me, very thoughtfully, Lucy remarked, “I suppose the French press referred to you as
Madame X,
so surely we won’t have trouble booking passage on board one of the Messageries Maritime steamers.”