The Serpent and the Scorpion by Clare Langley-Hawthorne Page A

coroner would have wanted to wait to examine the body further.”
    Whittaker coughed. “Oh, that wouldn’t have been the done thing at all—besides, it was clear what happened. No need to upset Vilensky further. Although I must say the chap from Scotland Yard was most put out when I told him on the telephone that the body was long gone.”
    Ursula shivered involuntarily. The way Whittaker described Katya Vilensky dispassionately as “the body” chilled her.
    “I’d heard that Scotland Yard was now involved,” Ursula said. “Bit unusual, isn’t it? I thought this was a local political matter. Shouldn’t this chap of yours have contacted me by now, to discuss what happened that day in the bazaar?”
    Ambrose Whittaker sniffed disdainfully. “The chief inspector is conducting some discreet inquiries in an unofficial capacity. No doubt he will speak to you when he is good and ready. I wasn’t aware that anyone else knew he was here yet. How did you find out?”
    “Oh, you know, I have my sources,” Ursula replied airily, but she noted the change in Ambrose Whittaker’s behavior. He was wary of her now.
    “Goodness gracious me!” Millicent Lawrence interrupted their conversation with a shriek. “That man must be absolutely mad!”
    Hugh Carmichael, piloting his plane, executed a dramatic dip before slowly descending for a near-perfect landing on a stretch of sandbank west beyond the step pyramid. The young local mechanic who always followed him rode across the sand on a white Arabian colt. Ursula bit her lip. Hugh’s recklessness had begun to worry her greatly. She had heard that since his wife’s death two years ago, Hugh had taken up all sorts of dangerous pastimes—racing experimental motor cars, flying planes, even alpine climbing—to the point where he had frittered away a great deal of his fortune on such pursuits. Katya and his copilots’ deaths seemed to have brought out the very worst in him, and Ursula wondered whether Hugh cared now whether he lived or died.
    “Shall we go see Mr. Carmichael?” Ambrose Whittaker gestured with his hand. “After all, that is why you are here, is it not, Miss Marlow?”
    Ursula bit her tongue and restrained herself before replying, with a disingenuous smile, “How clever you are! I was indeed planning to meet Mr. Carmichael here. He’s promised me a flying lesson before I return to England.”
    “Oh, my,” Millicent Lawrence said faintly.
    “Of course he did,” Whittaker answered smoothly. “And I would hate to see you disappointed. Will you be attending tonight’s celebrations at the club?”
    Ursula returned another smile. “Of course. Will the chief inspector, what’s his name, be there?”
    “Chief Inspector Harrison will indeed be there,” Whittaker replied as smoothly as before. His eyes watched for her reaction closely.
    Ursula’s mouth went dry.
    “But of course,” she murmured.
    “Miss Marlow is well acquainted with the chief inspector.” Ambrose Whittaker turned to a bemused Millicent Lawrence. The missionary ladies exchanged glances once more. “He investigated the murder of her father a year or so ago,” Whittaker explained.
    “I’m hardly likely to forget that, now am I?” Ursula responded, mustering all her self-control to ensure her tone remained even. “And if you will excuse me, I must go and see about that flying lesson. Good day, Mr. Whittaker.” Ursula gave him a perfunctory nod. “Good day, Mrs. Lawrence”—she turned to the twin missionary sisters—“Miss Norton, Miss Stanley.”
    Ursula hitched her narrow skirt up and, with a kick of her flat-heeled suede shoes, stomped off across the desert.
     
Hugh was bending over, inspecting the plane’s diagonal wire bracing and bamboo skid tail, when he heard Ursula approach. The mechanic, ignoring Ursula, knelt down to check the landing gear that appeared, to Ursula at least, to consist of little more than a pair of bicycle wheels connected by a wooden beam.
    “Have you