Death of an Effendi

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1999

Copyright © Michael Pearce 1999

Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008259341

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2013 ISBN: 9780007400485 Version: 2017-09-05

‘This series continues to be the most delightful in current detective fiction’

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‘Pearce… takes apart ancient history and reassembles it with beguiling wit and colour’

JOHN COLEMAN, Sunday Times

‘Irresistible fun’

Time Out

‘The Mamur Zapt’s sly, irreverent humour continues to refresh the parts others seldom reach’

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‘Of course, it’s very quiet there,’ said Owen.

‘Just what we want!’

‘And picturesque. Flamingoes, pelicans, that sort of thing.’

‘Excellent!’

‘No crocodiles there now,’ said McPhee.

‘Crocodiles!’

Owen sometimes wished that McPhee would keep his mouth shut.

‘There used to be,’ said McPhee. ‘In fact, the lake was famous for them. They were kept almost as pets. The priests used to pamper them, prepare special feasts for them—’

‘Crocodiles!’ said the man from the Khedive’s office uneasily. ‘I don’t think His Highness will be happy about that!’

‘There aren’t any now,’ said Owen, perspiring. They had been going round and round in the meeting all morning trying to hit on a place and just when they’d got one, that bloody fool of a Deputy Commandant—

‘The whole area was sacred to the crocodile god once,’ said McPhee happily. ‘That’s why they named the town after it. Crocodilopolis.’

‘It sounds a most unsuitable place to me,’ said the official. ‘I’m sure His Highness wouldn’t want to stay—’

‘He couldn’t,’ Owen almost shouted, ‘even if he wanted to! It’s all under the sand!’

‘Uncomfortable, too? No, really—’

‘It was under the sand three thousand years ago!’

‘Oh, come, Owen,’ McPhee objected mildly. ‘Two thousand.’

‘Two thousand. In the past, anyway. There are no crocodiles there now.’

‘How do you know?’ objected the man from the Khedive’s office. ‘I thought all the lake was fed by the Bahr-el-Yussuf flowing westward from the Nile. Couldn’t crocodiles swim along it?’

‘There aren’t any crocodiles in the Nile either,’ said Owen. ‘Not these days. Not since the dam was built at Aswan. There couldn’t be.’

‘Or suppose they’d just stayed there? In the lake, I mean. Stayed there and bred?’

‘Someone would have seen them.’

‘Has anyone seen them?’

‘Well, Strabo reports—’ began McPhee.

‘Strabo? Is he one of your men?’

McPhee looked at him, astonished. ‘Strabo died two thousand years ago,’ he said.

‘Surely you have more up-to-date information?’ said the official.

‘I have,’ said Owen wearily. ‘The spot we are proposing is on the shore of Lake Karun. Where there is a luxury hotel. And good shooting and fishing. And no crocodile has been seen in a thousand years.’

‘You are sure about the shooting? The Consul was very specific on that point.’

‘Yes.’

The official eyed the clock. It was getting close to siesta time.

‘I suppose we could settle, then,’ he said reluctantly. ‘If you are sure about the crocodiles.’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Very well, then. It’s just that we wouldn’t want an unfortunate mishap. His Highness was very insistent about that. There is to be no unfortunate incident, he said.’

The party left Cairo early in the morning by train and arrived at Wasta just over an hour later. At Wasta they changed to a branch line which took them to Medinet-el-Fayoum. At Medinet they took the light railway to Abchaway, where an assortment of carriages was waiting for them.