I told him I smelled only what I took to be sewage and he admitted, with ill grace, that his own senses were these days blunted a little. ‘But I usually thank God for that.’ He further admitted that perhaps he had caught a whiff of our own little galley. He seemed anxious to keep from even the mildest disagreement and I wondered if there was a motive in this, for I knew him to be habitually and happily contentious. ‘I’m rather glad our friend Khamsa is gone, aren’t you?’
I said that I had been enjoying our conversation. I was always glad to hear another viewpoint.
‘Even when most of it is a blatant lie?’ Professor Quelch gave up trying to repress his natural aggressiveness. ‘All khamsa means is that he is one of the Inner Five of the Moslem Brotherhood.’
At this, I folded up my pad and laughed openly. ‘Really, old chap! He’s a convinced agnostic. You heard him say so.’
‘I heard him lie, certainly. Believe me, Peters; that man has sworn on the Koran and a revolver to uphold the honour of Islam against all who attack or humiliate her. It is the most influential Secret Society in the East, which abounds with such societies. They are said to be responsible for the majority of important political killings.’
I suggested this was unfounded speculation on his part. My impression of Ali Pasha Khamsa was of having shared the company of a gentleman.
‘That is indeed what is so dangerous about him, Peters, old man.’
Wolf Seaman came labouring up the staircase in his running costume and, with a faltering wave, took a last turn around our deck before leaning, with some high, indistinguishable noise, against the bar. ‘Good morning,’ he managed, after a pause.
We approached him. ‘Good morning, old chap.’ Quelch looked him over carefully. ‘Venienti occurrite morbo, eh?’
‘I lack your Latin, professor. But yes, it is so. I believe a truly fit man is never sick. You are up, both of you, unusually early.’ He paused to take another great gasp, but there was a resentful, proprietorial air to the remark as if he had not only the lease of the deck for his own personal use but also of this particular hour. Although common in Swedes I have noticed this trait chiefly in Germans, who travel these days in large numbers and always complain of the crowds. Is there in this habit some secret to the rest of their behaviour? Perhaps it is a dichotomy, perhaps a paradox? I am not sure.
The sun was above the horizon and her dramatic shadows had shrunk so that surrounding land and patient river resumed a more familiar perspective. Our director drew a brave breath and expanded himself proudly for a while.
‘We were discussing the passenger who recently departed.’ Quelch yawned. ‘I expressed an opinion which seemed to shock young Peters.’
I had not wanted to pursue the issue. ‘Surprised me,’ I said. ‘Only, after all, there is no evidence.’
‘Of what?’ enquired Seaman with a rush of expelled air.
‘That he’s involved in politics.’
‘The Moslem Brotherhood, actually,’ added Quelch, and I gave up any attempt to steer the conversation to a pleasanter and less spectacular subject.
‘I’d remind you,’ Seaman rubbed importantly at a muscle in his leg, ‘that the gentleman is a very close friend of our new “angel”, Sir Ranalf Steeton.’
‘Then,’ said Quelch, ‘Sir Ranalf must be warned. I assure you, I recognised him. A couple of days were enough to be certain who he was.’
‘Don’t be an ass.’ Seaman found him preposterous. ‘Sir Ranalf’s all right. He’s accepted by them. They trust him. That’s how we get so much co-operation.’ He was contending now with his cramps and spoke with a certain harshness.
Quelch laughed through his nose; a cold, demeaning sound. ‘Sir Ranalf is not a traitor, Mr Seaman.’
‘Of course he isn’t!’ Seaman lowered his foot to the deck and straightened his back with a sigh. ‘He’s a businessman. National Security isn’t involved.’ He had assumed the soothing tone he normally reserved for a temperamental star.
‘In all the years of our association, he has never hinted . . .’ Quelch shook a baffled head.
‘He’s not exactly one of them, Professor Quelch. But he is party to some of their secrets. I suspect Sir Ranalf Steeton to be a very brave man. I need say no more, eh?’
The clever Swede had found the perfect means of silencing an Englishman: a call upon his patriotic discretion. There was nothing of which an Englishman was prouder than in saying nothing about something about which he knew nothing. Here was a most satisfying illusion of favoured status, of power. And it was not confined to the men. During the War British women throve on it. They frequently had nothing else, but it was enough for them. I remember their efficient, confident voices. All a man had to do to finish a love affair was to murmur the words ‘Top Secret’. They were born to this service. It is no wonder the typical British mouth is thin and capable of little movement.
To their delight, men have discovered that the less they say the more attractive they are. Indeed, Mrs Cornelius used to declare that she didn’t mind blokes so long as they kept their bullshit to themselves. But in the end, she said, she had given up hoping. ‘No bullshit - complete silence.’
She joined us downstairs in the boat’s little restaurant. I had pushed back our window’s lace curtains to see some ducks squabbling in the nearby reeds and now watched while Professor Quelch instructed one of our Nubian boys as to the exact, and somewhat large, portions he required of ham, eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried potatoes, kedgeree, kippers and fried bread, all of which, he confided to me, as the boy carefully piled the food upon two plates before him, were a bit substandard if one had enjoyed the real thing in England. ‘Here, the cuisine goes through what I call a river-change. It frequently looks or even smells right, but there is a difference of taste. I suspect it is the use of oil rather than good Home-Counties butter.’
For my own part I contented myself with a small rack of dry, crumbling toast and some almost liquid marmalade.
I told Mrs Cornelius how I had risen early that morning thinking we had crossed into another dimension of the world, perhaps into the netherworld. She shook her tolerant head at me while Professor Quelch declared sardonically: ‘The world hath turned the man mad, this good man mad, as Wheldrake has it in his Martin Azuratt, the Alchemist of Leeds. Now there’s a fine play you might consider filming, Mr Seaman.’
Seaman just at that moment had filled his mouth with a buttered roll and could only grunt.
‘You’ll play the leading role, Peters. You’d be perfect in it. And Esmé - Miss Gay - could be the mayor’s beautiful daughter, a victim of unthinking male rivalry. It is a marvellously uplifting story. We must ask Sir Ranalf to consider it as an early subject for our new company.’
Seaman was not much pleased at Quelch’s assuming he was on our permanent strength, but the Swede was still struggling to speak. He began to turn red. I was reaching to bang him on the back when Esmé, in a scented billow of blue and white, entered and he swallowed suddenly. The gentlemen got to their feet. Esmé curtseyed and smiled. Her glance to me was full of shared secrets. Sitting down with her back to the window she dipped dainty fingers towards the bread basket.
‘It is so pretty out there. I saw some lovely birds.’
I asked if she had seen a pelican, but she shook her head. ‘Just a few little birds, you know. And those wonderful palms. Isn’t the weather warm? Who would think it was March?’
‘So it is!’ Mrs Cornelius was delighted. ‘It’s Wolfy’s birfday, soon. We’ll ‘ave ter ‘ave a Easter party! It might resurrect yer, yer pore barstard.’ She guffawed.
Quelch asked the day. It was, by the British calendar, March 14. We were due to arrive in Luxor in three more days. ‘That will be perfect,’ he said.