Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
COSTUMES OF THE NILE . . .
Many of the guests who’d chosen to attend the fancy-dress dinner were assembled in the lounge of the SS Nefatari, enjoying a cocktail, before setting off with Sue and Sam. Together they would disembark, cross the Corniche and make their way to the Winter Palace Hotel.
Hattie and Sylvie, having taken extra care to prepare, were running late, and as they stepped into the room with Ezra, Hattie initially felt as though she’d arrived onto the set of an Agatha novel.
‘I thought it was meant to be fancy dress. These folks are in evening wear,’ Sylvie whispered as she nervously moved forward to reach for a cocktail from a smiling steward.
‘I think it is,’ Hattie said as she too took in the glittering outfits. ‘But perhaps some guests have gone straight to the venue.’
Several men wore white dinner jackets with black bow ties against pleated shirts, and one man, like Hercule Poirot, Hattie noticed, had a waxed moustache and wore an elegant suit with patent leather shoes, accessorised with a cane.
The lady on his arm looked lovely in a beaded flapper dress, the fringes swaying as she moved.
Nearby, another couple were similarly attired.
The woman wore a feathered headband and elbow-length gloves, and held a cigarette holder theatrically, her backless, bias-cut gown in black silk offsetting the sparkling fake diamonds at her neck.
‘I think we’re underdressed,’ Sylvie muttered, adjusting the wrap that concealed her costume. She tightened it around her waist and tugged the hem lower.
‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ Hattie replied, though she too folded her outer layer more securely and made sure her pearls were in place. ‘But a little Dutch courage will help.’ She reached for a cocktail.
Ezra looked strikingly handsome in a long silver galabeya, falling in elegant folds to his ankles, where his toes poked out of leather sandals. Carrying his fez in one hand, he turned it absently by the tassel.
‘Oh, thank goodness, it is fancy dress!’ Sylvie said as she saw Sam and Sue come into the room. The pair looked as though they were about to set off on an archaeological dig.
Sam was dressed in khaki with a leather satchel hung across his chest. A rolled map protruded from a pocket, and a pair of binoculars dangled around his neck.
A battered, wide-brimmed hat completed his ensemble.
Sue, meanwhile, in a safari-style shirt, had tucked her linen trousers into sturdy boots and knotted a scarf at her neck.
She carried a compass and had desert dust smeared across her face.
‘Is everyone ready?’ Sue called out. ‘Most of the party have gone ahead to the hotel.’
She strode out of the lounge, and everyone fell in behind her.
‘Shall I walk with you?’ Sam asked, appearing at Hattie’s elbow, as she and Sylvie stepped into the foyer. Ahead lay the obstacle course of gangplanks and mooring ropes where several boats lined up.
Hattie looked at Sam’s battered hat and wondered if this was the one that had passed through the elephant. She winced as his fingers snaked around her waist, and with a sharp slap, she knocked them away. Enough was enough!
‘Are you always so hands-on?’ Hattie asked coolly.
‘Only with lovely women.’ He confidently grinned.
Keeping her stride, Hattie left him half a pace behind but called over her shoulder, ‘Well, despite your outfit, I’m not for excavation, and I’m tempted to make a formal complaint about your behaviour. If you want to keep your job, you’ll leave me alone and be more respectful!’
The traffic slowed as Sue strolled boldly into the road and, with authority, held up her hand to allow everyone to cross.
It was only a short walk to the hotel, where the name stood proudly in large letters above the entrance.
Beneath a wash of golden light, a tiled forecourt opened to a magnificent double staircase sweeping upwards, where a long stone balcony cast shadows across the facade.
For a moment, conversation paused, and smiles spread as they passed through the tall arched doors of the Winter Palace Hotel.
Hattie remembered reading that Agatha had stayed here while her husband, Max, worked on archaeological excavations in the region, and she found herself imagining the hotel as it was in their day.
‘It must have been the heart of elite social society,’ she said to Sylvie as they paused to study the antique colonial-style furniture, high ceilings and crystal chandeliers.
Hattie knew that Egypt had been independent at that time, at least in name, yet Britain still exerted political and military control.
Troops guarded the Suez Canal, and administrators, officers, engineers and diplomats had settled across the country with their families.
Many had spent time here in Luxor, and Hattie stared in wonder at the beautifully polished floors that had carried the footsteps of the empire.
‘Hey, Hattie,’ Sylvie called out, her voice echoing along the corridor.
She was moving slowly past a gallery of sepia photos of European royal families, men stiff with medals and famous faces from stage and screen. ‘That must be Winston Churchill,’ Sylvie said, peering closely.
They stole a glance into the 1886 restaurant, and Sylvie was wide-eyed as she took in the huge, gilded mirrors and ornate ceiling mouldings.
‘Isn’t this something?’ she breathed. ‘There’s nothing like this in Larksville.’
‘Hattie!’ The voice came from behind them.
Turning, Hattie saw a desert sheikh striding towards her. He wore a flowing white galabeya and, on his head, a keffiyeh folded neatly into a triangle, dipped low, held in place with a thick black agal.
‘It’s me, Gerald!’ he said, slightly out of breath. ‘Sorry I’m late. Anouska took forever in the bathroom, and I had to wait for her to leave.’
Hattie laughed. ‘Well, you look dashing and very becoming, I must say.’
‘And you?’ Gerald grinned, nodding towards the wrap draped around her body. ‘What are you hiding under there?’
‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ She returned his smile. ‘But we’d better get a move on; everyone has gone ahead while Sylvie and I were being distracted by history.’
They made their way to the main function room, and the moment Sylvie pushed open the door, a wall of laughter and music greeted them.
‘My gosh!’ Sylvie exclaimed. ‘This really is a fancy-dress party!’
Tutankhamuns in elasticated headdresses and plastic crooks, purchased from the boat’s gift shop, were seated beside Cleopatras sporting glossy black wigs, heavy fringes and dramatically kohl-rimmed eyes.
Desert sheikhs drifted about in improvised bed sheets, their wives’ headscarves secured with dressing-gown cords, and in one corner, a mummy, wrapped from head to toe in unravelling kitchen roll, was struggling to lower himself into a chair.
But the stars of the evening so far were a couple who’d come as a camel.
They took a triumphant lap of honour around the room, moving with a rolling gait, under heavy fake-fur fabric.
Swaying from side to side, they lurched to a halt at a table near the dance floor, and with perfect timing, both heads popped up through the hump, flushed and grinning to theatrically bow to the applauding audience.
‘Bravo!’ Gerald called out as he stood with Hattie and Sylvie, and they clapped enthusiastically.
‘Mom, over here!’ Ezra waved.
He’d chosen a large round table, draped in linen, laid for ten with silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses that caught the light.
The Poirot couple were already seated, alongside the lady in the feathered headband and her partner.
As Hattie lowered herself into a seat beside Gerald, with Sylvie settling on her other side, her breath caught.
Directly opposite sat Anouska and Peter. But instead of a hostile stare, Anouska raised a glass and smiled. It wasn’t exactly warm, but neither was it unpleasant.
Anouska looked stunning.
She wore a long, liquid-gold sheath dress suspended from the thinnest shoestring straps, the fabric skimming her figure, as though painted on. Gold shimmer had been artfully blended across her cheekbones, eyes and temples, catching the light as she turned her head.
Beside her, Peter wore a dinner suit with a cummerbund and bow tie. With his hair slicked smoothly into place, he appeared almost debonair.
‘Hey, guys, I know what you’ve come as,’ Sylvie said excitedly. ‘You’re from the film Goldfinger. And Peter is James Bond.’
‘I’m shaken not stirred.’ Peter raised a martini glass, a practised smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he played out his parody of James Bond.
Hattie resisted a giggle and had the impression that he’d rehearsed that line many times, just waiting for the perfect moment to deploy it. She watched Anouska flutter her eyelashes and stroke Peter’s arm, her lips pouting suggestively as she hung off his words.
Hattie was bemused.
Here she was, seated beside a man dressed as a sheikh, a man she felt an irresistible attraction to, while his golden-draped wife sat opposite, gazing with adoration at a fantasist. Alongside, the two couples were caricatured as though they’d strayed from the set of Death on the Nile, while Ezra, vaguely Egyptian in his galabeya, leaned back in his chair to listen to his mother, still concealing the truth that he carefully kept from her.
The situation felt staged, and as Hattie settled her napkin on her knee, she wondered how it would all unravel.
Dinner began with a delicate seafood course, followed by a tender beef fillet in a rich sauce with roasted vegetables. A Grand Marnier soufflé completed the menu, which had been accompanied throughout by complementary wines.
‘Goodness me,’ Hattie said, easing her waistband and rubbing her stomach. ‘That was quite a meal.’
Anouska, she noticed, had scarcely eaten a thing, merely nudging the food around her plate as though it would magically vanish of its own accord.