ALISSA JONES and the Temple of Hathor
Alissa Jones would never forget the day her Uncle Glyn bowled up to Miss Frobisher’s School for Young Ladies, strode through the double-fronted entrance and boomed to all and sundry, ‘Where is my niece? Dash it all, I’m taking her out of this godforsaken place right now!’
At the sound of his voice, Alissa snatched the book off her head she’d been trying – in vain – to balance, gathered up her skirts and dashed out of the room to find him, ignoring Miss Frobisher’s cry that ‘Young ladies never run and certainly not with their petticoats on show!’
She’d discovered Uncle Glyn standing in the lobby twirling his lion-headed cane and smoking one of his fragrant Turkish cigars.
‘Uncle! I thought from your last letter that you wouldn’t be returning from Africa for quite some time.’
Her uncle was a dedicated traveller – so much so that he was more often abroad than at home in England.
‘I failed to bag even one lion on the trip,’ he sighed. ‘So I cut my losses and decided to return home earlier than planned. Now let me look at you. Hmm…’
He assessed her through a haze of blue cigar smoke before declaring, ‘I got here just in time, by the looks of it! You’re as pale as milk, not a bit of colour in those cheeks. Let us
