Chapter 14 #2
The couple seated with Peter listened open-mouthed as he spoke, and Hattie wondered what act of derring-do he was currently enthralling them with. It was clearly thirsty work, because Peter ordered another drink and necked it back almost as soon as it arrived.
‘Hattie, we’re going to take a look at the stalls,’ Sylvie said, scraping back her chair. ‘Ezra says there are souvenirs I may like.’
Hattie nodded. Removing her hat, she found her hair unpleasantly clammy. Taking the fan from her bag, she flicked it on, closed her eyes and gratefully let the device waft air across her face. Then, aiming it carefully, she began to dry her sticky hair.
‘All on your own?’
A voice startled Hattie, and, turning, she opened her eyes to see Sam heading towards her, holding a small cup of coffee. ‘May I join you?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ Hattie quickly stopped the fan and attempted to tame her now fluffy hair.
Sam sat down and smiled at Hattie. ‘I see you have a Tilley,’ he said, nodding towards the white hat resting on her knee. ‘Very wise.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘They’re famously reliable. Tough in every environment. Did you know,’ Sam said, ‘that an elephant once ate a Tilley and, a week later, defecated it completely intact?’
‘Fascinating,’ Hattie said evenly and imagined with horror, her pure white hat passing through the bowels of an elephant. ‘Are there many elephants around here?’
Sam shook his head and laughed. ‘Are you enjoying your holiday?’ he asked.
‘Yes, despite the heat, it’s going well so far.’
‘I like your pearls.’
Hattie’s fingers flew to her neck. ‘Thank you, I’m rather fond of them.’
‘Family heirloom?’
‘Er, no, nothing like that.’
Hattie wasn’t going to tell Sam that she was following in Agatha’s footsteps. He might think her rather strange. She decided to deflect the conversation. ‘So, tell me how one becomes a knowledgeable Egyptologist with, I note, a very British accent.’
Sam took a sip of his coffee, then set the cup down carefully, as though arranging his thoughts. Leaning back in his chair, he said, ‘My mother was British and my father Egyptian. I was educated in England, then took an undergraduate degree in archaeology and Egyptology, followed by my master’s.’
‘Wow, that’s quite an education.’ Hattie was impressed.
‘Yes, and I joined archaeological research projects in Egypt, which continued for many years.’
‘And your family?’ Hattie asked, already suspecting the answer.
‘I met my wife at university. We moved in the same academic circles, and she went on to teach. She is far cleverer than I,’ Sam added with a fond smile.
And no doubt sexy, slim, and beautiful, Hattie thought.
‘But I eventually moved from excavation-focused work and into guiding. With the increase in riverboat tourism, there was a demand, and the rewards are excellent.’ He stared at Hattie with a slightly seductive grin.
‘Well, I’m pleased that the rewards are so good for you, and you clearly enjoy your job.’ She glanced towards the museum and rose from her chair. ‘Perhaps we should get a wriggle on, as the crocodiles await?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Sam stood, his gaze checking out his party. ‘I’m sure everyone is refreshed and ready.’
As he turned away and gathered the group, Hattie tugged her Tilley firmly on her head and slung her bag on her shoulder. ‘Married,’ she murmured, as she set off. ‘Just as I suspected.’
The crocodile museum turned out to be more interesting than Hattie had expected as she wandered through its dimly lit rooms. Intrigued, she studied dozens of crocodiles, some fully grown and others disturbingly small, which lay mummified and illuminated in glass cases.
Some displays included eggs and foetuses and Hattie recoiled when she read that even unborn crocodiles were treated as offerings to the gods.
Standing beside Hattie, Sylvie was enthralled. She raised her camera, snapping multiple images. ‘Errol will love seeing these,’ she whispered.
Ezra glanced at Hattie across the display case and smiled, as Hattie rolled her eyes. Both silently acknowledged that back in Larksville, surrounded by the clatter of a busy diner, dead crocodiles would be the last thing on Errol’s mind.
‘What do you think of your bracelet?’ Hattie asked Ezra as they stared at a wooden sarcophagus. ‘Your mum was very excited about it.’
Ezra held up his wrist. ‘Yeah, it’s cool in a way. I like the cartouche. Do you think it will protect me?’
‘Well, I’ve heard it said that to place a person’s name in a cartouche is to protect it, during and after life.’
‘I guess that’s good to know.’ Ezra turned his wrist, and the gold hieroglyphs caught the light.
Hattie thought of the scarab he’d picked up earlier and asked, ‘Why are you concerned about being protected?’
Ezra looked around until he was sure that his mom wasn’t listening.
‘It’s kind of spooky in these tombs, don’t you think? I feel like there is always a curse lingering.’ He paused. ‘Like we’re looking at things that should be left alone.’
Hattie thought that Ezra was probably watching too many horror films and wanted to reassure him. ‘There’s nothing like that.’
‘But if you break a curse, it leaves you exposed.’
‘Seriously, Ezra, there’s nothing to worry about,’ Hattie insisted.
‘Well, Gerald fell over in the Valley of the Kings,’ Ezra persisted.
‘That was an accident, and he’s not hurt.’
Ezra shrugged. ‘I guess it would be good if these ancient gods were to throw a little bit of luck around too, seeing as we’ve all come so far to see them.’
‘Do you need luck, Ezra?’
‘Gee, I don’t know.’ He shrugged, dismissively.
Reaching for his headphones, Ezra made a move to the door, and Hattie knew that she’d learn nothing more about the lad that afternoon.
Sam had a group gathered around him and, pointing his sign at an upright stone slab, he explained that it was a funeral stele, placed in tombs to name the dead and ensure that they were remembered in the afterlife.
Suddenly, just as Sylvie was about to take a photograph, a hand lunged from nowhere. Then, with a brutal shove, sent her reeling backward.
‘Hey!’ she called out, shock flashing across her face as she stumbled. The camera flew from her grip and shattered against the stone floor. ‘What the hell . . .’
Guests leapt out of the way as Peter, his jaw clenched, skin ashen and eyes bulging, ran at full speed. Not looking back to check on Sylvie, he fled the museum.
Ezra ran to help his mom and his eyes caught Hattie’s.
‘See,’ he said, ‘I told you. Now it’s the curse of the crocodile tomb!’