Then another explanation occurred to me and a cold chill froze the sweat on my heated body. I had read a mystery novel once – one of Agatha Christie’s, I think – in which the abandoned fiancée, intent on revenge, follows her faithless lover and his new bride on their honeymoon – a Nile cruise, by another of those strange coincidences. Schmidt had undoubtedly read that book or seen the film, he loved thrillers. The chilly sweat congealed as I remembered what Schmidt had said. Something about letting evil enter my heart?

John must know that story too. If he had dared imply to Schmidt that I had pursued him and Mary out of jealousy I would not only kill him, I would dismember him and strew pieces of his admirable anatomy all over the boat. Mary could try putting him back together, like Isis with Osiris.

Schmidt would fall for it, too. If he couldn’t be James Bond, he would settle for Hercule Poirot. Maybe . . .

The fact that for a few seconds I actually considered encouraging Schmidt to believe that fantasy as the lesser of two evils should be sufficient indication of how dangerous the little imp was.

‘There you are.’

I glared wildly at the tall blond individual who had taken my arm. It was Perry. Peering into my face, he went on, ‘You look a bit done up, Vicky. The climate can be difficult if you aren’t used to it.’

I looked around. I had reached the top of the path where a ledge stretched along the cliff face. The tombs opened onto it. Several of our group were standing around fanning themselves with their hats. From a nearby tomb, whose metal gate stood open, came the sound of a voice lecturing. One of the local guides, I assumed.

‘You don’t want to join the tourist types,’ Perry said condescendingly. ‘Let me give you a private, personal tour.’

The robed and turbaned custodian of the keys flapped towards us and unlocked another gate. I let Perry lead me inside. There is some excuse for me, I think, if I wondered whether he had an ulterior motive for wanting to get me alone.

If he did, he had no opportunity to act upon it. Schmidt was hot on my trail. I started to introduce them, but Schmidt interrupted me. ‘I know this gentleman. Have I not told you, Vicky, that I never forget a face? It was at a symposium on Egyptian art, five years ago, in Rome. He spoke on Amarna portraiture. Grüss Gott, Dr Foggington-Smythe. You may remember me – Schmidt is my name – ’

‘I remember you very well, Herr Direktor,’ Perry said coldly. ‘You took up the entire question period disagreeing with every point I had made.’

Schmidt chuckled. ‘Yes, it was a very friendly professional discussion. I look forward to continuing it.’