King of Kings Read online

  •••

  The following morning Penrod ate a breakfast of figs and honey with genuine pleasure, and after he had drunk two thimble-sized cups of black coffee, made in the proper Egyptian manner, he stepped out into the street and prepared to mount his horse. As he was taking the reins from his servant, a slight Arab girl spoke his name. He recognized her—Akila, Lady Agatha’s maid. Penrod had never spoken to her directly; he had noticed her flitting nervously through Agatha’s rooms, always disappearing off into the shadows whenever he was in the house, a pretty ghost. She was shaking now. Penrod thought at first she had come for money. It was likely the duke had dismissed all Agatha’s servants. She told him her name and he waited for the inevitable open palm. After a moment or two of silence he grew bored.

  “What do you want?”

  “They are torturing my lady,” the girl said in a rush. She looked up at him. Penrod could see her large brown eyes were wet with tears.

  “Don’t be foolish, child.” He began to turn away and she shot out a small hand to grab hold of his sleeve. He raised his eyebrows and she removed her hand, glancing nervously up and down the street to see if anyone had noticed her commit this immodest act of touching a man.

  “No, stop,” she hissed. “They will not give her the drug, Af-yun, and now she is sick. She is very sick. Please.”

  “You may speak in Arabic, my dear.” He continued in that language. “Her father will see no harm comes to her and my lady was too fond of the pipe.”

  Akila shook her head hard. “They have brought an English doctor, but he knows nothing of this sickness. The cousin of my good friend works in the house. My lady is sick and crying out. The doctor only tries to feed her English soups.”

  Penrod recalled Sam’s vivid description of the effects of opium withdrawal. Agatha had been smoking daily for a long time now.

  “You must go,” Akila said. “They will not listen to me. Tell them to give her the drug before want of it kills her, please, for the love of Allah who sees all and knows all.”

  Penrod hesitated. His horse, irritated at the delay, whinnied, and Penrod stroked its broad shoulder.

  “I cannot.”

  Again that little hand shot out and grabbed him, but this time, she did not let go of his sleeve.

  “You must. It is your fault. Yours. Before you brought your little English girl to the city, she had smoked perhaps once, twice. She thought it might amuse you. Then when the English child came, my lady began to smoke more, too much more. When you sent the little girl away, I thought now my lady will be happy and will stop, but it was a thousand times worse. You! You brought her to this. She cries out, like a soul in hell, and it is your fault. They will not let me see her! Strangers attend her! Wash her poor body! You must help.”

  Penrod felt his conscience stir stiffly in his chest, like an animal that has been asleep a long time.

  “I will write to the duke, her father, my child.”

  The girl let out a great sob of relief and he reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, to offer some comfort, but she turned and ran away up the road, and his fingers only touched the warm air where she had been.

  “Walk my horse,” he said to the servant and handed back the reins. “I shall be a few minutes more.” He went back into the house, stripping off his riding gauntlets, and called for paper and ink.

  •••

  When Penrod returned home in the early evening, he was not surprised to see an envelope waiting for him on the silver tray by the door. He opened it. It contained his own letter to the duke, and a note on a visiting card.

  His Grace the Duke of Kendal declines any correspondence with Major Ballantyne, it read, and was signed in an oddly neat, almost schoolboyish handwriting: Carruthers. Penrod flung it back onto the tray, then went out into the courtyard.

  Yakub was waiting for him. They greeted each other with the warmth of old friends and settled in the courtyard under the flowering jasmine to drink tea. When the leisurely unfolding of mutual inquiries as to the health of each, their families and Yakub’s trade was completed, they came to the matter at hand.

  “Who is this man, effendi?” Yakub asked, as he curled his long, gnarled fingers around his glass and lifted it to his lips, sighing with elaborate pleasure as he sipped the delicately perfumed brew.

  “The Duke of Kendal, James Woodforde,” Penrod replied. “His family is an ancient one that has long enjoyed much power politically in my country. He also made a great deal of money when coal was discovered on one of his estates in the north. Since then he has invested in gold and diamond-mining in South Africa, and is exploring the mineral wealth of North and East Africa.”

  Yakub nodded slowly. “He has taken a house on the west bank. It is a very fine house with gardens of its own. The house a king would be proud of. He keeps many servants. One or two Europeans. One who is a snake and does everything for him, this Carruthers. He has been in Cairo for some time. The other is called Doctor—a trembling leaf of a man.”

  “What manner of local servants has he hired?”

  Yakub twisted his lip and spat richly on the ground. “He has hired mercenaries and put them in the uniform of houseboys. All his daughter’s servants have been paid off. She has one woman to tend her now. An old, cruel, stupid woman I would not let tend to the most flea-bitten pig-headed curse of an ass in my yard.” He sipped his tea with great delicacy. “The lady’s maid—Akila—she waits at the gates of the house and will not leave, such is the love she has for her mistress.”

  Penrod had never thought of Agatha as someone who might inspire loyalty in her servants.

  “When does the duke mean to leave for England?”

  Yakub shrugged. “I think he does not mean to leave for some time. The house is taken for three months.” He paused, and Penrod waited for him to go on.

  It was a perfect evening now. The heavy and languorous heat of the day was gone. The scents in the garden were sweet without being cloying, and in the center of the little garden the fountain sang, low and cheerful. Yakub looked unhappy, though, his ugly but friendly face folded into creases of thought and worry.

  “What else, my old friend?”

  “I sent the boy Adnan to talk with some of the servants who work in the garden. They know nothing of Lady Agatha, but they told him to run away quick because the duke has a djinn trapped in the house who screams all day and night to be released.”

  Penrod felt his mouth go dry. “Very well. Yakub, I thank you, and I ask that you and Adnan keep away from that house and those men from now on.”

  “Whatever your wish, effendi. My only desire is to serve you.”

  Yakub was a Jaalin Arab, driven out of his own tribe after a blood feud, and with a limp from an old wound that meant neither Queen nor Khedive would take his service. He had guided Penrod through the Sudanese desert many times, and the bravery, endurance and military skill Yakub saw his master display had won a devotion from him bordering on reverence. Penrod had thought nothing of risking death by torture to help Amber escape from the harem, and without him they might never have broken free of the grip of Osman Atalan. Since that triumph, Yakub had taken his reward, bought a boarding house in the city and made a number of other shrewd investments, from coffee houses to the luxurious dhows adapted to carry tourists rather than cargo up and down the lower reaches of the Nile. Whatever his recent successes, his devotion to Penrod had never wavered. Except for a moment in that garden, Penrod saw another expression cross his face, swift as a bird’s shadow on the desert sand. It was pity.

  •••

  Penrod found Sam Adams at the Gheziera Club, of course. Penrod responded to none of the greetings offered by his fellow officers or the local dignitaries who used the club as a second office, only acknowledged the beribboned generals with whom Sam was dining with a quick nod.

  “I must speak to you. Now,” Penrod said, and he said it in such a way that Sam excused himself at once and followed Penrod out of the dining room and into a qui
et corner of the lobby.

  “Well?” he asked sharply.

  Penrod explained as quickly and concisely as he could.

  “And what exactly do you expect me to do about it?” Sam said and hunched his shoulders.

  “Whatever needs to be done!” Penrod replied. “Talk to him, and if you can’t make him see sense, send in the police.”

  Sam’s face flushed a dark red. “You hated that woman a week ago and now you want me to tell the Duke of Kendal how to care for his own daughter? And on what charge exactly would you send in the police? Keeping his daughter away from opium?”

  Penrod leaned in close to him. “Sam, you know what might happen to her if you do nothing.”

  “The process of withdrawal doesn’t kill every opium fiend.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  Sam Adams raised his voice. His words echoed across the black and white tiles of the lobby and reverberated off the marble columns. Passing men in uniform flinched and hurried past.

  “You dare tell me what’s good enough? You?”

  Penrod did not move and held Sam’s gaze. Sam’s voice dropped again.

  “Damn you. The duke dines here tonight. I shall speak to him. You get out and stay away from me, Ballantyne. I can’t stand to look at you.”

  He strode back into the dining room, leaving Penrod on his own in the chill shadows of the lobby. He took a long, slow breath. Sam would speak to the duke, Penrod was certain of that, but could the duke be persuaded to be reasonable in time to save Agatha? Penrod had no idea how long Agatha might be able to survive in her current state. Every hour was precious. If Sam could not be stirred into immediate action, Penrod had to do something himself.

  Within two hours he had changed his uniform for a filthy turban and stained galabiyya, and his riding boots for rough camel-hide sandals. Now that he could pass through the streets of the city without attracting a second glance, he made his way to the duke’s temporary palace. It did not take him long to find Akila. She was keeping vigil at the gate that led to the servants’ entrance on the north wall of the house’s elegant garden. He whistled to her softly out of the darkness and she approached warily, coming to a stop some ten feet from him and showing in the light of one of the torches that lined the walls the glimmer of a knife in her hand.

  “If you are a robber, I have nothing. If you come to mock the grief of a loyal woman, I shall cut the laugh from your belly.”

  “Peace, my child. I come neither to mock nor to steal.” Penrod stepped forward and lifted his head.

  She gasped. “You?”

  “The duke will not listen to me. Have you more news?”

  She sheathed her knife and shrank back into the shadows. “I have bribed the guards to send me word. They have taken every coin I have, and tell me only she grows weaker and continues to cry out. The old woman, who says she is looking after her, leaves her in her filth, my poor, beautiful lady.”

  Penrod followed her out of the light, then reached into the leather bag hidden in the folds of his dirty robe and brought out a small glass bottle.

  “You must get this to her. It is the drug in its liquid form. A drop or two under her tongue and the pains will leave her.”

  The girl grabbed it from him with a cry of delight, then looked up at the high walls. “But how?”

  Penrod handed her a purse; the weight of it startled her.

  “You must bribe the guards to let you in. The duke is dining at the club, so now is your best chance.”

  Akila nodded and turned to go, then hesitated. “Do you have any message for my lady, if I succeed?”

  Penrod thought of the last conversation he had had with Agatha, before they made love in the sweet smoke, before the henchmen of the duke arrived and bundled her away.

  “Tell her Penrod Ballantyne forgives her, and that he prays for her.”

  She nodded and left him in the shadows.

  •••

  Penrod waited until just before dawn. He saw the duke’s carriage arrive soon after midnight, but Akila did not come out of the side gate. Finally Penrod returned to his own house, washed and dressed carefully in his uniform, before presenting himself at Sam’s office.

  Sam arrived only minutes after he did. He did not look pleased to see Penrod, but nodded to him.

  “The duke would not listen to me,” Sam said without preamble. “He’s a cool character and no mistake. I should not want to be any child of his.” He rapped his knuckles on the edge of his polished desk. “I wish to God I’d never told you that story, and the woman is nothing but trouble, but I have to tell you, Penrod, thinking of the state she might be in robbed me of my sleep last night. It did indeed. Well, we’d better be going. I have the best doctor I know in Cairo for this sort of thing coming to join us and half a dozen of my best men downstairs, so let us go rescue the maiden.”

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  “It will mean a nasty scandal if we have to force our way in. We’ll be thrown in jail if we’re lucky, but I can’t do nothing.” He looked straight into Ballantyne’s eyes. “But do not fool yourself; I’m not doing this for you, Penrod.”

  •••

  When they reached the house, the doctor, an Egyptian in European dress, was waiting for them. He was a young man, dark-skinned and with a soft handshake. Penrod took no great notice of him and he asked no questions. Sam ordered his men to stay at the gate and approached the main entrance with Penrod and the doctor.

  Before they reached it, the great polished door was pulled open and they were greeted by a young, sandy-haired Englishman, who welcomed them with solemn politeness, introduced himself as Carruthers, and told them that the duke would receive them in his study. If Sam was disconcerted by this he didn’t show it, and so they followed Carruthers into a high, elegant chamber. It was lined with leather-bound volumes on three sides; the fourth was made of glass doors leading to a shaded porch and giving views over the gardens. The effect was an oddly pleasing combination of gentleman’s club and country house veranda.

  The duke was standing in front of the desk, which stood at an angle in one corner. The floor was scattered with Persian rugs and dotted with leather armchairs. The duke had his hands clasped behind his back, and he did not invite his visitors to sit. He looked well rested, and as elegantly arranged as the room in which he stood.

  “Good morning, Colonel Adams and . . .” His hazel eyes moved over Penrod and the doctor. “. . . friends.”

  Sam took a step forward but the duke held up his hand.

  “One moment, Colonel. You are here to continue the discussion we had regarding Lady Agatha last night, I assume. There is no point. My daughter died a little over an hour ago.”

  Penrod did not wait to hear anything more. He turned and left the room with long strides, calling Agatha’s name, the echo bouncing off the white walls. He took the stairs two at a time, then began flinging open the doors on the first floor. One or two servants, as pristine and dignified as the house, watched him with mild curiosity, but did nothing to hinder him. Finding each light and elegant chamber empty he ran further up to the second floor and recommenced his search.

  He found Agatha’s body behind the door of the second chamber, a cramped narrow room tucked under the eaves. It had bare boards, plain walls and was oppressively hot. The stench hit him like a physical force. The room had been stripped of most of its furniture, except for a narrow bed and a bucket that stood in the corner, overflowing with bodily filth. The floor was streaked with what seemed to be vomit, flecked with blood. Bars were fastened across the open window. The one spot of cleanliness was the white sheet draped over whatever lay on the single bed. As Penrod stepped through the doorway, his handkerchief over his mouth and nose, he saw a heavy chain padlocked to the bed frame. It snaked under the white linen. He lifted up the corner of the sheet where it disappeared and saw the delicate curved arch of Lady Agatha’s foot. The chain was threaded through a leather restraint attached to her ankle, and though the restraint wa
s padded, the skin around it was bruised, mottled purple, red and yellow. Her toenails were painted crimson. Penrod had a sudden vision of Agatha bending to paint them, a fashion, she said, she’d picked up from some of the most daring Parisian courtesans. In his mind’s eye she turned and looked up at him, a sad, twisted smile on her pretty face.

  Penrod went to the other end of the bed and folded down the sheet so he might look at her face. Poor Agatha, her skin gray and waxy. He touched her cheek, and the flesh felt cold and dead, inhuman already. Her lips were pulled back in a horrid grimace, and the flesh around her mouth was crusted with spittle and dried blood. Her blue eyes were still open and staring, the white sclera thickly threaded with red, and the skin around the sockets looked bruised. Her beautiful hair was lank and filthy. Penrod gently closed her eyes, his fingers shaking a little. Her monstrous father had taken the time to dress in mourning, but no one had yet come to tend to poor Agatha’s corpse. He stroked her cold cheek. He had hated her, but it was a hatred born out of passion, desire and pain, and what were those feelings but the dark elements of love? Agatha had been right, it was in her nature to say what she had said to Amber, and standing in the silence of that filthy room, Penrod realized he had been punishing Agatha for his own failings. It had been he, Penrod, who seduced the oldest Benbrook girl then called her a whore. It was he who had made love to Agatha when it suited him and ignored her when it did not. It was he who had allowed Amber, that brave, beautiful child, to believe he was a hero and he had accepted her faith and devotion as his due.