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His sister’s cup stilled above her saucer as she considered the question. Frowning in recollection, she said, “I didn’t speak with him personally. I suffered a fever during the first days of my recovery and don’t recall many visitors, but the Reverend Mother said they summoned him when I first arrived. I imagine he must have come that day or the next.”
Rhys’s heart squeezed in his chest as the pieces slid into place. He recalled Sir Rupert’s interest in Fiona’s pendant. His men had even searched Old Cairo after Fiona’s disappearance. He’d offered apologies for their lack of success but, if Fiona’s timing was correct, he already knew she was at St. George’s. Sir Rupert’s connections afforded him power and consequence, and the Collector was a man of some influence with the Egyptian authorities. The certainty that Sir Rupert and the Collector were the same man slammed into Rhys with force. And Helen was intent on securing the consul-general’s assistance.
“Fiona,” he said as sweat beaded his brow. “I must go.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Now? But…” She gazed at him, confused, then her face cleared. “This has something to do with your missing key, does it not?”
“Yes.”
“You must go then.”
He nodded and retrieved his bag, feeling for the weight of his knife and the pistol within.
“And Rhys,” Fiona said. “I’ve not returned only to be separated from you again. Please be careful.”
——
Rhys strode tothe Tyndales’ suite, heart in his throat, and rapped quickly on the door. It was opened much sooner than he expected by the professor himself, hat in hand, prepared to go out.
“Mr. Evelyn,” Tyndale said, a frown tugging at the space between his brows.
Rhys sucked in a heavy breath at the concern on the older man’s face. “Helen—Miss Corbyn—have you seen her?”
“My niece informs me Miss Corbyn and my wife have gone to call on Sir Rupert Daventry. Lydia says they’ve been gone for some time, though, and I was just on my way there to see them home.” Rhys’s pulse thudded in his ears. It was as he feared then. “Why? Do you think something’s happened?”
“I think our consul-general is not who he seems.” Rhys explained then what he’d learned from Fiona and his belief that Sir Rupert was the man known as the Collector. “I’ll go for Miss Corbyn and Mrs. Tyndale. I suggest you remain here in case they return.”
Tyndale scowled. “I may be older, but I’ll not sit on my hands while the ladies in my charge are in danger. And I’ll not let you talk me out of going.”
While Rhys’s mind protested Tyndale’s company, he couldn’t deny the fierce concern on the man’s face. He thought it might mirror his own. He relented with a short nod then stepped back from the door as Tyndale came through. “Let us go then.”
They retrieved mounts from the hotel’s stables, and the bustling noise of Cairo soon yielded to a hushed tree-lined avenue in the Ezbekiya district. Twilight cast heavy shadows across the face of Sir Rupert’s grand villa behind its tall fence.
When Tyndale would have ridden to the gate straightaway, Rhys stayed him with a soft word, motioning to where two guards watched the street from behind the fence. While Rhys supposed they were meant to be vigilant, they seemed especially alert and tense with hands held fast to the hilts of their swords. Surprise was the only advantage they’d have in this encounter.
They tied their mounts in the shadows of a nearby stable before creeping closer. As they waited and watched, two more men joined the guards from the villa’s interior.
“At least four guards,” Rhys whispered.
“And well-armed,” Tyndale agreed.
One of the newly arrived guards spoke to the others, and Rhys and Tyndale strained to hear. The guard’s voice carried on the still air, and Rhys’s blood grew cold to hear him say, “The problem has been addressed.” There was little doubt as to what—or who—the problem was.
He and Tyndale studied the villa’s perimeter from their vantage point. The back appeared to have the advantage of a thick row of trees shielding the villa from its neighbors. It would afford them the secrecy they needed.
“If there’s a back gate,” Tyndale said, “it’s a fair bet it’s locked.” The older man eyed the height of the iron fence as if he might attempt to scale it, and Rhys silently applauded his optimism.
“I can get us through a locked gate,” Rhys assured him.
Moving from shadow to shadow, they picked their way toward the rear of the large property. More than once they stopped, breath held as Sir Rupert’s guards passed before them on their rounds. Suddenly, a loud crack sounded behind Rhys and he turned. Tyndale had stepped on a twig, and the sound echoed in the still night. They both waited motionless, and when no guards came to investigate, Rhys finally released a slow, heavy breath.
They continued around a corner to find a tall and imposing gate some twenty feet ahead, centered in the back fence and secured, as expected, with a heavy iron lock. Rhys’s jaw tightened in grim satisfaction, but before they could reach the gate, a shadow emerged from the trees next to them.
The figure paused, and the light of the rising moon caught a sickle-shaped scar on the man’s cheek. Akeem. And judging by the man’s furtive movements and dark clothing, he hadn’t come to lend his services to Sir Rupert. He was lurking about, much as they were.
“Akeem Effendi?” Tyndale said in surprise, and Rhys’s brows climbed at the honorific.Effendi?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
