Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox

by Karen Baugh Menuhin

  I could see anxiety in the lad’s eyes below a tousled fringe. His father hadn’t returned from the war and his mother had been taken by the epidemic of Spanish flu that had followed. His Aunt, my cook, had taken him in and this house was the only refuge he knew.

  ‘It’s all perfectly civilised, Tommy. We’re just going to ask the French why they have locked a man in jail and try to persuade them to release him.’ Even I didn’t think that sounded convincing, so I tried to add a confident tone. ‘And Inspector Swift knows all about policing and detecting.’

  ‘I thought he’d given up bein’ a policeman.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re all foreigners in Damascus, so they won’t know the inspector isn’t an inspector anymore.’

  That didn’t seem to reassure him.

  ‘There must be some British people there, sir? Do you think there might be?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure there’s an ambassador and Swift said something about people making a moving picture. Americans I think. So, if there are Americans making movies and British ambassadors, you can be certain there will be no danger whatsoever.’

  ‘Making moving pictures, sir! Really? Truly?’ All concern evaporated and he jumped into the chair vacated by Swift. ‘Gosh, that’s smashing, sir. It’s… it’s… stupendous.’ His eyes brightened in eagerness. ‘They might ask you to be in it. You’re dead tall and Auntie says you’re handsome when you bother to tidy yourself up. You can change your name to something dashing, like that Rudolf Valentino. I saw him on the Pathé news at the moving picture house, it was all about the new film, he was a Sheik in the desert and…’

  ‘Tommy, will you go and help Cook, now,’ I told him because he’d sit there all evening chattering away if I let him.

  ‘But, sir. They had big curved swords, and knives. There were exotic dancers too.’ He was swinging his legs as he talked.

  ‘Dancers?’

  ‘Wearing just a few flimsies, they were, sir.’

  Flimsies! No wonder these films were so popular.

  ‘You’re too young for dancers, Tommy. Now go and help Cook.’

  He didn’t move. ‘But, but… Can you get an autograph, sir? Of a Star in the moving pictures. Please, sir. No-one else round here has ever met a movie star. Not never.’

  ‘Tommy…’ I warned, then softened. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  He slipped off the chair, gave me a big grin and went off with a lighter step, leaving the door open to let a winter draught whistle through. I closed it again and poured myself a snifter before settling back in my favourite chair to contemplate the strange story and wonder how on earth we were going to persuade Greggs to come.

  He refused point-blank, of course.

  ‘But it will be like a holiday, Greggs. With sun, and sand and…’

  Dinner was over and we were in my dressing room where he was folding socks into my carpetbag. ‘I am not in need of a holiday, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Well, what about Miss Carruthers? She could be in peril. There are foreigners, and probably snakes and scorpions, and who knows what.’

  ‘I thought you said it would be like a holiday, sir.’

  ‘Yes, right, erm…’ I attempted a different tactic. ‘Look, we can’t just leave her to it, can we? Anything could happen and Damascus is a long way away. Hundreds of miles, actually.’

  He paused, mid-fold. ‘If you recollect, sir, you promised that once the war was over we would never go abroad again. And that promise has already been broken.’

  ‘You can hardly count Scotland as abroad, Greggs,’ I told him, although that didn’t cut any ice either. ‘Look, she’s all alone, or pretty much anyway. We have to go and help.’

  He wasn’t ready to concede. ‘This precipitousness seems quite out of character for the Inspector, sir, and he has only recently married.’ He finished with the socks and moved on to shirts, which were already neatly folded and placed on shelves in the wardrobe by someone or other.

  ‘I know, but it’s softened him, Greggs.’

  ‘From my observation, sir, Chief Inspector Swift retains his policeman’s carapace.’

  ‘Yes, but beneath the scratchy exterior lies a chap with an excess of gallantry.’

  ‘In which he is not alone,’ he added dryly as he shook mothballs out of my linen suit.

  ‘Greggs!’ I protested, for all the good it did. ‘Look, it’s up to you, but… it’s Miss Carruthers, you see, I’m… well, I’m rather fond of her.’

  ‘But Damascus, sir… it’s… it’s…’

  I could tell he was weakening. ‘And someone has to take care of Fogg. We need you, old chap.’

  He fidgeted around, picking up ties and whatnots, then he stopped and puffed out his chest. ‘Very well, sir, for Mr Fogg and Miss Carruthers.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I clapped my hands and turned to survey the room. ‘Right, what are we taking with us?’

  We packed Fogg’s blanket, but had to leave his basket, Greggs argued against taking my tweed suit and woollens and vetoed my small hand pistol, insisting that it was bound to be confiscated or stolen. Swift backed him up despite my entirely rational and logical arguments – I went to bed in a bit of a huff.

  The next morning we gathered our bags, left the house and travelled to London under icy grey skies. Sleet had begun to fall as we arrived at Croydon airfield and we had to hold onto our hats as we boarded an old DeHavilland heading for Paris.

  We spent the next couple of days being deafened on aeroplanes, which were actually poorly disguised ex-bombers from the war. The French Government had decided to blaze a trail for the unsuspecting tourist by offering international air travel crossing continents.

  Passengers in their most elegant togs were wined and dined at spruced-up airfields as freshly painted aircraft roared outside. All semblance of glamour melted away upon boarding. Weight saving was paramount; the seats were basket chairs strapped to the floor, and there was barely a smattering of sound-proofing. We passengers sat mute, deaf and shaken to the core as we flew from Paris to Constantinople with numerous fuel stops in-between. French champagne was plied in copious amounts at every halt. I don’t think any of us drew a sober breath throughout the entire journey, which was just as well because we’d never have got back on board without it.

  ‘Greggs, this is as sophisticated as modern travel gets.’ I told him as we were herded back onto a roaring Bleriot-Spad for the final flight to Damascus.

  ‘And it’s really quite quick,’ Swift added although I think even his enthusiasm for the trip had been dented by the reality.

  Greggs remained unconvinced and went to sit at the rear in mute reproach, clutching Fogg to his chest. He had placed cotton wool in his and the little dog’s ears, then tied one scarf about his head and another around Fogg’s. I’d have been inclined to do the same if the champagne hadn’t numbed the nerves.

  We stepped into the late afternoon sunshine of Damascus in a collective daze. It was dry, dusty and hot. My linen suit, the only one I owned, looked like I’d slept in it for a week. Swift wore his usual trench coat over a light suit and what little I could see of Greggs, between his heavy black overcoat, bowler hat and scarf, was red and glowing from the heat.

  ‘Vite, vite,’ a short chap in a khaki suit and kepi shouted at us. His get-up verged on the military, complete with leather cross-strap and belt with a revolver on his hip. He was French, so I ignored him. A man draped in faded sheets with a cloth wrapped around his head held a camel at the edge of the runway. It had a large hump.

  ‘Lennox,’ Swift shouted above the noise of the aircraft engine. ‘Will you please hurry up!’

  Greggs was clutching Fogg beside me. He stared at the camel, then turned to head back towards the aeroplane on the sand-blown runway. Its propellor raced as the roaring churn of the engine, typical of the Bleriot-Spad, picked up pace.

  ‘Greggs,’ I s
houted after him.

  Just as he approached the plane, someone leaned down and yanked the steps up. The metal door shut with a clang and his shoulders sagged.

  The officious French chap came back. ‘Vite, vite.’ Having harried the other passengers into waiting cars, he waved his arms about and shouted more French at me. I looked over at Swift who was standing near the rutted road, peering into the distance.

  Greggs returned slowly to my side and we stopped to take in our surroundings. Jagged mountains broke the far horizon against a bright blue sky. Palm trees dotted the desert plain where a group of camels, ridden by men in black robes, were crossing in an unhurried manner. The men had rifles slung across their backs. Greggs hugged Fogg closer to his chest.

  ‘I’m sure they’re perfectly friendly, Greggs.’

  He sniffed in disdain. We went to join Swift with the Frenchman at our heels.

  ‘Why the rush, Swift?’ I asked.

  ‘The travel representative promised the hotel would send transport. The city is over that hill.’ Swift nodded towards a rising crest of sand and rock, shimmering under a haze of heat.

  A car drew up, it was an old white Rolls Royce, polished to gleaming with a thin layer of sand clinging to its surface. Sunlight glinted off the silver lady on the radiator, a comforting reminder of home, although in a damn peculiar setting.

  The driver jumped out and opened the doors with a bow. He was terribly smart, wearing a uniform of maroon turban and matching jacket over black trousers tucked into half-boots.

  ‘Al Shami, at your service,’ he said with a wide grin on his plump Arab face.

  ‘Erm, thank you, Shami, old chap,’ I said, handing him my carpet bag.

  ‘Not Shami, effendi. That is hotel. It is ‘Hotel Al Shami’. I am Jamal,’ he was a cheerful fellow with wrinkles etched around nut-brown eyes.

  ‘We need to get in,’ Swift said. ‘It will be dark soon and they’ll close the gates.’

  I climbed in the back with Swift. Greggs went in the front and sat stiffly staring out of the windscreen. Fogg looked forlorn. He still had the scarf wrapped around his head and cotton wool in his ears.

  ‘Which gates?’ I asked.

  ‘The city gates,’ Swift said. ‘They close them at dusk.’

  ‘Why?’ I suspected I could guess the answer.

  ‘Because there are enemies everywhere and it’s safer that way.’

  Chapter 3

  The journey was stately and slow. No-one spoke as we gazed about in something close to awe. The buildings were mostly sandstone, some with colourful tiled facades, others sported ornate wooden fretwork and shutters. Tall and narrow, the jumble of houses and shops threw dark shadows across roads lit by the late afternoon sunshine.

  Jamal, in the driver’s seat, nosed the Rolls into increasingly crowded streets. Locals with olive faces and hooded eyes watched from beneath black turbans, red fezzes or white scarves held with corded rope around their heads. Snaggle-toothed merchants thrust woven baskets toward the car from stone-laid pavements. Hustling traders held up intricately patterned rugs, shouting out their prices and the bargains to be had. Shopkeepers stood in hopeful anticipation below gleaming brassware, strung over narrow store-fronts. A rich display of scent, sound and colour met us at every corner.

  My senses were reeling by the time we drove through a huge entrance on a broad street within the old town. Jamal slowed the car to a stop.

  ‘We arrive, effendis,’ he shouted with enthusiasm. ‘This is our much magnificent hotel. You are most warmly welcomed.’

  More staff appeared, the doors were opened, gloved hands were offered to help us from the car and carry our bags. I clambered out and found myself surrounded by a group of smiling attendants, uniformed in the same smart maroon and black Jamal wore.

  We were escorted into a large internal courtyard of extraordinary beauty. I stopped in my tracks, surprised by the tinkling fountain in the centre of a spacious open-air enclosure, surrounded by high walls. I looked up at tiers of open walkways, protected by exquisitely carved balustrades, overgrown with lush greenery and colourful flowers. Above the walls I could see the cloudless blue sky. I stood transfixed.

  A man in a red fez and pristine butlering outfit greeted us with a bow. ‘Welcome. I am Hamid, at your humble service. May I offer tea or coffee, most honoured effendis?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Coffee for all of us, thank you,’ Swift told him as he turned to me. ‘Lennox, will you stop staring and try to concentrate.’

  ‘I thought we were staying in a tent.’

  ‘But they’ll think we’re tourists,’ he hissed.

  ‘We are!’

  Three tiny cups were produced on a gleaming brass tray and placed on the marble-topped reception counter.

  We drank the coffee, which was sweetly bitter and very strong. It snapped me awake and cured my hangover in an instant. It even enticed Greggs to relent. He removed the scarf from around Fogg’s head and unplugged his ears. Then he did the same for himself.

  ‘See Greggs, it isn’t at all like France,’ I told him.

  ‘Except for the officious bureaucracy, the police and the military,’ Swift said, which almost caused Greggs to replace the scarf.

  ‘May I gather your passports, please, effendis?’ Hamid bowed again, his fez nodding. He had placed himself at the reception desk and awaited us with a large register open in front of him. ‘And Jamal will escort you to your suites. He is factotum and we offer him to you as your personal guide and taker of care,’ he added with an elegant wave of his hand.

  Jamal grinned. ‘I am yours, effendis. I speak English most excellent.’

  Each of us passed over our papers and signed the book before following Jamal up a marble staircase. Everywhere was carved, tiled or painted in rich hues with delicate designs. As we climbed the stairs a vivid green lizard ran across a step in front of me and scrambled onto the thick trunk of a vine woven through the ornate spindles.

  We tried to maintain the air of sophisticated travellers but the veneer cracked as soon as we were shown our suites. Greggs’ jaw dropped in incredulity.

  ‘For me?’ He almost gasped as he stared around the magnificent room.

  ‘Well, there you are, old chap,’ I said as Jamal pointed out the fret-work shutters, huge wardrobes and adjoining bathroom. ‘Told you abroad wasn’t so bad, didn’t I.’

  He nodded dumbly and finally let me take Fogg from his arms.

  ‘Would you like to take a bath, sir? I will have it drawn for you. Very quick,’ Jamal offered.

  Greggs nodded again, round-eyed and warming to the idea.

  ‘And bathing lady?’ Jamal added. ‘For perfect gentleman’s washing, effendi.’

  ‘What?’ We all said at once.

  ‘Bathing…’

  ‘No,’ I cut him off. ‘No bathing lady.’

  Greggs let out a strangled sigh.

  ‘Greggs!’ I eyed him from a very short distance.

  ‘As you say, sir.’ Disappointment flitted across his face.

  ‘Good, because I’ll tell Cook if you do,’ I warned him, knowing that once home, Cook would tell the whole household and anyone else who would listen.

  Jamal rang a brass handbell on a low table set before two satin sofas beyond the silk-hung bed.

  ‘I am bath-draw boy, effendis,’ a middle-aged fellow with a large, hairy mole between thick, dark brows announced. He wore the same uniform and turban that Jamal sported, although this chap was a good deal shorter, stouter and bandier of legs. He hovered in the doorway, holding a stack of pristine white towels until Jamal waved him toward the bathroom.

  ‘Come, come, effendis.’ Jamal requested Swift and I to follow him and we were each shown to our own extraordinary rooms.

  Mine was lofty and light and quite frankly I’d never seen anything like it. My eyes wide
ned as I viewed its silken opulence. It was huge! I walked to the window, past the massive bed and collection of sofas, and looked down onto the bustling street below. The rooms spanned the depth of the hotel and went from the courtyard walkway all the way through to the hotel exterior.

  Jamal had been trying to display the dressing room and wardrobes, but I’d been too absorbed by all the luxury to listen. He opened another door and revealed a huge bathroom with a tiled shower, the comforts of which I’d never properly experienced. We’d had a holed bucket hanging from a tree during the war, but that hardly counted. Jamal escorted Swift to his quarters and I shut the door and headed off for some much-needed ablutions.

  I emerged shortly after to discover my linen suit had been refreshed and ironed, my carpetbag unpacked and all my kit stowed away. I must say, the Al Shami was a miracle of plumbing and pressing! Actually, the whole place was considerably better kitted out than some of the grandest country houses I’d ever stayed in.

  Clean and suitably togged, I set off to explore. I called Fogg, who had already been fed succulent scraps, and we trotted downstairs. The courtyard was almost deserted, apart from men with long tapers, busily lighting numerous oil lamps hanging about the place. I strolled through the entrance archway to reach the teeming streets of Damascus, where babbling chatter, sun-bright colour and the promise of exotic delights beckoned.

  Jamal caught me as I stood in the gateway wondering which way to go. ‘Effendi, I come with you.’

  ‘No need, old chap. Just taking Mr Fogg for a walk.’

  ‘You will be lost in crowd, effendi,’ he pleaded. ‘Better to bring guide, if you please.’

  He struck me as an older version of Tommy Jenkins with his mixture of enthusiasm and anxiety. I looked down at his plumply earnest features.

  I sighed, it seemed the delights would have to wait. ‘Oh, very well.’

  He gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘There is garden. Mr Fogg will like very much. Come, come.’