Copyright © 2020 by Karen Baugh Menuhin
Published by Little Dog Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Front cover:
Artefact/Alamy Stock Photo Street-scene Damascus Bauernfeind Gustav
First paperback and ebook edition March 2020
ISBN: 979-8-6183975-4-4
For
Sam and Wendy,
Charlie, Joshua and Isabella-Rose.
Chapter 1
December 1921
‘I said, ‘your girlfriend’s fiancé is in jail. He’s been accused of attempted murder and she’s asked for help’.’ Swift eyed me from beneath a rain-drenched fedora.
‘Swift,’ I began again, as he stood on my doorstep in the dark, letting the freezing wind and rain blow into my home. ‘Will you come inside and tell me what the devil you are talking about?’
He marched into the hallway, wearing a tightly belted trench coat and proper trousers rather than the kilt he’d recently taken to sporting, and placed his rain-spattered suitcase down on the worn mat by the boot room.
‘I left a message with Greggs to tell you I was coming.’ He tugged off his sodden coat and hat and handed them to me as if I were the butler. I tossed them over the stair post to drip onto the stone-flagged floor and followed him into my library.
I imagine the warmth drew him to the room as Swift had never visited The Manor at Ashton Steeple before. My little golden spaniel, Mr Fogg, had enthusiastically welcomed the ex-Chief Inspector when he’d knocked on my door, but quickly returned to his cozy basket by the hearth.
‘I haven’t seen Greggs,’ I said, rather piqued by the absence of my butler. ‘And what do you mean by ‘fiancé’?’
‘Give me a minute, would you,’ he headed for a wing chair beside the blazing fire and sat down to rub his hands together in front of the flames. The cold had sharpened his face, accentuating his angular features below damp dark hair. Swift and I had first met when he’d accused me of murder. He’d have had my neck in a noose if I hadn’t taken a hand at detecting and uncovered the culprit myself. Since then, through circumstance and adventure, we’d formed something approaching a friendship.
I dropped into the chair opposite. ‘Right, so tell me. I’d really like to hear why Persi Carruthers has a fiancé, because I was under the impression that she and I had an understanding.’
‘Well, it obviously wasn’t the same understanding, was it!’ he replied, then moderated his tone when he saw my expression. ‘Look, Lennox, I’m sorry, but I’ve come all the way from the Highlands for this. The man’s called Charles Langton and he’s actually her ex-fiancé. Florence and I received a letter from Persi, she was distraught and begged me for help. She sent a couple of telegrams too.’
That was another bolt out of the blue. ‘Well, where is she?’
‘Damascus.’
‘Damascus! You mean the place in the Bible?’
‘Yes, Lennox.’ He frowned. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you.’
‘Melrose Court. Went to see my uncle, he’s become rather decrepit poor chap, and… never mind that, Swift. Who is this damn fiancé?’
‘Ex-fiancé. I already told you, Charles Langton. He’s being held in a Syrian jail and she needs help to get him out. The country was at war and now the French have moved in. Nobody will help and the jail is appalling. She thinks he won’t last much longer.’
‘But…’ I stuttered to a halt, trying to take it all in. I hadn’t seen Persephone Carruthers since we met at Braeburn Castle, the clan home of Swift’s wife. He had managed to unearth an ancient skeleton and a secret curse and then there were a couple of murders. I had become close to the archaeologist, Persephone, or Persi for short, during the investigations.
‘The French have policemen, and they’re supposed to be our allies.’ I said. ‘Why on earth would they allow Persi’s ex-fiancé to rot in a foreign jail?’
‘Because the lady he is accused of trying to murder is French,’ Swift replied.
‘But, surely the British authorities are helping?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a spy.’
‘Really?’ That raised my brows. ‘Who for?’
His dark eyes regarded me steadily. ‘The British, and from what I understand that is part of the problem.’
Well, that was as clear as mud, I thought, although I wasn’t entirely listening because my mind kept returning to the word ‘fiancé’. Why hadn’t Persi mentioned his existence? Surely it was the sort of information girlfriends were supposed to disclose? Admittedly I hadn’t really had much time to get to know her whilst tracking down a murderer, but a fiancé, or even an ex-fiancé, was a fairly significant fact. And, why hadn’t she contacted me rather than Swift? Did she think I’d refuse? I confess I had always found the fair sex to be a bit of a mystery and it occurred to me that perhaps I hadn’t asked the right questions.
My butler entered at a stately pace.
‘Greggs!’ I exclaimed. ‘Where have you been?’
‘At our local theatre, sir.’ He took on the po-faced look he acquired whenever he was on the defensive. ‘We are rehearsing a production of Mr Dickens.’
‘Ah, The Pickwick Papers – I rather like that. Dickens wrote some jolly amusing stuff.’
‘Actually, it is a Christmas Carol, sir. I am playing the lead role, Mr Scrooge.’
‘Hum, well don’t take the part to heart, Greggs,’ I said, because he was apt to be close in the pocket. ‘Anyway, you were supposed to be back before I was and I’ve been home for a couple of hours now.’
‘I was, sir. I have been upstairs unpacking your trunk and re-ordering your rooms. They were in disarray.’ He stood upright in his butlering uniform, paunch straining a starched shirt under black waistcoat, drooping chins supported by a white dickie over a stiff collar.
‘Right... erm.’ I switched tack as he may have had a point about the mess in my rooms. ‘Inspector Swift says he left a message?’
‘He did, sir.’ He paused to fumble in the pockets of his tailcoat before pulling out a folded note. ‘Chief Inspector Swift telephoned and asked you to accompany him to release a pie from a mattress. I’m afraid it didn’t make sense, sir.’
His deafness was getting worse, which was probably why he hadn’t heard Swift at the front door and I’d had to answer it myself. ‘A ‘spy from Damascus’, Greggs,’ I told him. ‘Not a pie from a mattress.’
‘A spy, sir?’ he repeated. ‘From… from that place in the Bible?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘I think a hot toddy is required, Greggs. The Inspector is damp and cold. And a snack wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I don’t think he’d taken much in beyond ‘spy’ and ‘Damascus’.
‘Cheese and crackers, a few slices of pork pie, some apple and Cook’s best pickle?’ I suggested as he remained immobile. ‘Please, Greggs?’
‘Um…Certainly, sir.’ He went off in a bit of a daze.
Fogg had looked up at the mention of crackers and watched me with bright spanie
l eyes. I reached down to stroke the golden fur on his head and assured him he wouldn’t be forgotten. Mr Tubbs, our rotund black kitten, had been asleep next to him in the basket but now woke up and contemplated the ex-Inspector. The little cat went over and jumped up onto his lap with a determined air. Swift made a fuss of him, rubbing his sooty black ears and letting him settle to purr himself to sleep.
‘Swift,’ I returned to the peculiar news. ‘What exactly are you proposing?’
‘That we go to Damascus,’ he replied, as though it were merely a trip to the metropolis, ‘to try to find a way to have Persi’s fiancé released from jail.’
‘Ex-fiancé,’ I corrected him
‘Yes, yes.’
I didn’t get the impression he was entirely irrational, in fact, he looked quite serious about the whole enterprise.
‘Where on earth is Damascus?’ I said at last.
‘Here.’ He extracted a small, leather-bound book from inside his tweed jacket. It was a miniature map of the world which he unfolded from its complicated pleats. A great deal of the map was pinkish-red, indicating those parts which belonged to the British Empire. He balanced it on his knee and pointed to an area which was coloured creamy-yellow and named ‘Syria’. It was next to Mesopotamia and the much larger country of Arabia, and all of them were placed on the far side of the Mediterranean.
‘Didn’t you do geography at school?’ he asked, as if I were some sort of duffer.
‘Yes, when I wasn’t playing cricket, or rugby or tennis, or some such.’ I ran a finger between my home, here in the deepest Cotswolds, and those very distant lands beyond the Lebanon. ‘It’s miles away, Swift. Hundreds of miles by the looks of it, how do you propose getting there?’
‘Aeroplane,’ he replied. ‘We can fly to Paris and then Constantinople, and from there to Damascus. I’ve studied it.’ He sounded rather proud of himself.
I didn’t share his enthusiasm; I’d been a pilot during the war and was all too familiar with the discomforts of modern aircraft. ‘Do you have any idea how long it could take?’
He turned defensive. ‘Couple of days, more or less. We have to get a move on, the man could be dead before we arrive.’
‘Well, there’s no point in going in that case.’
‘Lennox!’
Greggs arrived with a large tray of steaming hot toddies and served out the goodies.
I inhaled the scent of hot whisky, honey and lemon from my tumbler.
‘What about Florence?’ I asked, knowing her to have recently fallen in the family way.
‘She is blooming, thank you,’ he softened at the mention of his young wife. ‘And insists we go and help.’ He eyed me appraisingly over his drink. ‘Look, if you don’t want to come, I do understand.’
I didn’t reply and he watched me as my mind churned over.
‘Just tell me what happened?’ I said at last. ‘To the lady, I mean. The French one who Charles Langton was supposed to kill.’
That rattled him. ‘What do you mean ‘supposed to’?’
‘Well, if he’s a spy, perhaps he was supposed to kill her!’
‘Assassination, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
He frowned.
‘Do you know what you’re getting us into, Swift?’
He ate a slice of apple before responding. ‘Does it make any difference?’
It was my turn to hesitate. I tried to imagine Damascus, a place I’d only seen in picture books. Images of dusty deserts, camels, sun-drenched streets, clamorous souks and dark back-alleys filled my mind.
‘What did Persi write in her letter to you?’
‘The woman, Josephine Belvoir, was reading in her hotel room, someone stuck a gun through the doorway and pulled the trigger. They missed. The bullet hit the wall behind her.’
‘She saw him?’ I cut in.
‘No, just the gun and gloves. And his shoes,’ he replied. ‘Apparently she spotted his brogues. When the gendarmes questioned the hotel staff, one of the servants said he saw Charles Langton run away down the stairs.’
‘This servant saw his face?’
‘No, the figure ran past him before he had the chance, although it was enough to convince the French Chief of Police.’
‘What was Langton’s response?’
‘That it was utter nonsense and he was at the souk at the time.’ He picked up a cracker laden with cheese and pickle. ‘But when the Gendarmes questioned the stallholders, they all denied seeing him.’
‘Hum.’ I mused over the details. ‘Did he have any reason to murder this Josephine Belvoir?’
‘Possibly. She had been the cause of his split with Persi.’
That made my eyes open. ‘Good Lord! And Persi still wants him released from jail?’
‘Yes, she thinks this woman is lying and it’s some sort of scheme to kill him off.’
‘Are the jails really that bad?’
‘Notoriously so.’
‘Oh.’ I digested the news. ‘Then why does Josephine Belvoir want to be rid of him?’
‘I don’t know, but Persi said they’d known each other during the war. I assume that’s when their affair took place. Perhaps it turned sour.’ He gave a light shrug.
‘Right.’ I nodded although it wasn’t terribly enlightening.
He continued. ’And before you ask, I don’t know why Langton is in Damascus. But Josephine Belvoir is an actress, she’s with a group of Americans making a moving picture. She’s the leading lady.’
‘Really? Why the devil are they making a movie in Damascus?’
‘Arabia is all the rage, according to my wife. Something to do with a film called ‘The Sheik’. It’s a romance in the desert or some such nonsense and it’s sparked a trend. Apparently, they’re all jumping on the bandwagon.’ He put his empty tumbler back on the tray and carefully picked Mr Tubbs off his lap to place him next to Foggy in the basket. ‘I need to change, Lennox, my clothes are still damp and I’m weary to the bone.’
‘Right, umm, yes.’ I crossed to my desk and rang the bell.
‘Sir!’ Tommy Jenkins, my boot boy came bouncing in. ‘Are you that ex-policeman what found the skeleton, sir? Is it still haunting your castle? What’s it like to live in a castle? Did you hang a lot of murderers when you was a detective?’
‘Tommy,’ I interrupted to stop his barrage of questions.
He looked up at me, a scruffy urchin with freckles, untidy hair and an overactive imagination. ‘But, sir…’
‘I don’t mind, Lennox,’ Swift said, his voice warming. ‘But one question at a time, young man.’
‘Tommy, show Inspector Swift to the front guest room, would you?’
‘Aye, sir, it’s up ‘ere.’ He skipped off without waiting.
Swift went to follow, but then stopped and turned on the threshold. ’Lennox?’
‘What?’
‘Damascus? Are you coming or not?’
I thought again of the beguiling Persi Carruthers; intelligent, beautiful, intrepid and in trouble. Even if she wasn’t in danger herself, turbulence was swirling around her and that could very easily lead to threat.
‘Of course I’m coming, Swift.’
Chapter 2
Tommy came back in and frowned up at Swift. ‘Sir?’
‘Sorry, right behind you, lad.’
‘Will you tell me about the curse, sir?’ Tommy chattered with excitement as he led Swift from the room. ‘And the treasure, and…’
Their voices echoed from the hall and stairs until I closed the door against the draught. I returned to my chair and mulled Swift’s news over in my mind. He was a methodical man, but his story raised more questions than answers. If this ex-fiancé was a spy, what was he spying on in Damascus? And why was Persi there? Was she spying with him? No, she was far more interested in old bones from antiquity,
I couldn’t imagine her as a spy.
Aimless musings didn’t help, so I decided I’d better bone up on some history, or geography, or what have you. The light of flames from the fire glimmered along my books, lined haphazardly on polished shelves set against oak panelling. I paused to gaze at the leather-bound volumes in age-darkened reds, browns, and greens, gold lettering stamped onto their spines. It was an eclectic mix, added to at the whim of the Lennox line over generations and was sure to hold something about the history of Damascus.
Tubbs jumped onto my lap as I was leafing through the Bible. The kitten had been abandoned before he was weaned and it seemed to have stunted his growth. He had stubby legs, a bottle-brush tail and a rotund body that closely resembled a fluffy cannonball. I rubbed his ears as he curled up next to the good book on my lap and settled to sleep. We would have to leave him at home, I mused, although I knew Foggy would miss him. Actually I would too, but we couldn’t risk such a small cat in an unknown land and, besides, he’d be company for Tommy while we were away.
Greggs returned to collect the tray.
‘Dinner will be served in one hour, sir.’
‘Yes, excellent. Need to pack, Greggs.’
‘Pack, sir?’
‘For the desert.’ I looked at him, he had frozen to the spot.
‘You mean… you mean, you’re going to that place, sir?’
You’d think I’d announced we were going to the moon. ‘Yes, Greggs, Damascus.’
‘I… I don’t think that’s wise, sir. It’s foreign, very foreign. With a lot of foreigners. It will probably be worse than France, sir.’ His old face filled with consternation.
‘Damsel in distress, Greggs,’ I reminded him. ‘Duty calls and all that. Going by aeroplane, so there’s no room for the trunk. Carpetbag only and um… a linen suit, I suppose.’
He dithered, opened and closed his mouth, then went off muttering to himself.
Tommy Jenkins bounced back into the library.
‘‘E told me all about the dungeons and the walled-up skeleton with the gold crown and everything!’ His excited enthusiasm suddenly faded. ‘Sir, the Inspector says you’re going off to that foreign place. It’s a long way away and it might be like the war again, you could get shot and not come back home.’
Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox Page 1
