‘Oh, really?’ That was a bit of a turn up!
‘Indeed, effendi and I was ordered to donate them to his illustrious and innocent wives, who have suffered indignity upon their family reputation.’
‘Ah,’ Not such good news then. ‘But surely he’ll just swipe the dollars from them?’
‘The owner of this esteemed hotel has made the order. The guilty one will not dare defy our master.’
‘Yes, but Jamal, they were my dollars!’
He looked up with nut brown eyes in a mournful face. ‘Would you deny the ladies their due, effendi.’
‘No, of course not,’ I gave it up and asked a question that had been rather tickling my imagination. ‘Anyway, what exactly do bathing ladies do?’
‘Ah, it is a most delightful and beneficial process.’ He smiled. ‘First, they ensure a sheet is wrapped entirely around the personage and draped about the bath, to build steam. This leaves the head free and then they wash the hair, effendi, and massage the scalp.’ He ended with a solemn nod of the head.
‘Is that it?’
‘Indeed, it is a most noble tradition.’
Must say, it didn’t really live up to expectation. ‘Right, so I assume the bath-draw boy has been sacked?’
‘He has not, effendi, but he will suffer punishment for his acts.’
‘Not jail, surely?’
‘No. This foolish man is the third cousin of the wife of the nephew of the owner of Hotel Al Shami, effendi. His is to be no longer the bath-draw boy. Now, he is boot-boy.’
‘Oh.’ I wondered momentarily if there was any lower he could go, then thought I’d better ask some proper questions. ‘When he was the guard on Ladies Row, did he really see the man who tried to murder Josephine Belvoir? The first time, I mean.’
‘He swore he did, effendi. He said the man wore the wrong shoes.’
‘What?’
‘The shoes were too large. They were not his shoes.’
‘Really? I think you’d better bring him back up here so I can question him properly.’
‘He is being asked questions at this moment, effendi. By the high lady and your friend.’
I laughed. ‘Ah, well that will be punishment enough.’
A smile broke his plump features and he crossed to my bedside table to return with a slim cedar-wood box. ‘I believe there is a gift awaiting your attention, effendi.’
I raised my brows and the lid of the box and laughed. It was a toothbrush lying in thinly sliced wood shavings. I picked it up, it too was carved from cedar, I could smell it. The bristles were made from peeled twiglets set into the wood with resin. It was a work of art, if a rather unusual one.
‘There is more, effendi,’ Jamal said. ‘On the other side.’
I turned the toothbrush over. Someone had carefully carved a tiny ship with a billowing sail and cresting horse’s head into the handle.
‘Who sent this, Jamal?’ I asked, checking the box for a message or tag.
‘The Sheik, effendi. It is a mark of honour.’ He bowed as he said this.
‘And who is this Sheik?’ I asked, although I already knew.
‘The owner of this establishment, effendi.’
Qarsan, I thought and smiled wryly. ‘And what else does he own in Damascus?’
‘Many things, effendi, he is everywhere. And he knows everything.’
Chapter 23
Fogg came bounding in and greeted me ecstatically; I must say I was very pleased to see my little dog again. Greggs followed at a stately pace, clutching a large brown envelope.
‘Good day, sir,’ he uttered. ‘We are returned.’
‘Yes, Greggs. So I can see.’
He was exceptionally well turned-out. Butlering togs pressed and starched, hair carefully brushed and I’d swear he was wearing face cream. I hoped this movie making wasn’t going to his head.
‘How went it?’ I asked.
‘Delilah of the Desert is in the can, sir,’ he proclaimed.
‘What?’
‘It is a movie term, sir. It means the film is complete and ready for production.’
‘Well, you could have just said so.’
He stifled a sigh as though I were being difficult.
‘I have photographs, sir. I thought you might like to see them.’ He opened the envelope and withdrew a number of large glossy photos. ‘Mr Bruce, the camera man, insists upon taking portraits of the stars of each movie.’
I regarded the first image. ‘Fogg is wearing a ribbon on top of his head.’
‘Indeed, sir, and Mr Bruce has made a notation on the base.’ He pointed to the type-written text which read, “Delilah of the Desert. Damascus.”
He showed me another photograph. It was of him, seated with his back straight, chins raised, a smile on his face and hair neatly combed over. It was well done, the lighting had been set to smooth away his more wrinkled features – he looked rather suave, actually, and had signed the base of the photo with a flourish.
‘I thought you said Bruce only photographed the stars in the movies?’
‘Ah, but I am in the movie, sir. At the very end, when the young Prince has returned to his father and the shepherd boy becomes his best friend, a telegram arrives. It informs the Sheik that Delilah’s family have sent their trusty butler from England to bring her home to the Countess’s castle.’
‘Really?’ I replied dryly. ‘And you were the ‘trusty butler’.’
‘Indeed, sir. I was filmed with Mr Fogg in my arms and a carpetbag at my feet.’
‘Greggs,’ I was about to make a retort but noticed he was beaming, so changed my tone. ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself.’
‘Thank you, sir, it was rather a commendable experience,’ he fidgeted with the envelope. ‘And I have been invited out this evening by Mr Bruce.’
‘Have you?’
‘You did say I should treat this trip as a holiday, sir.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly done that, Greggs’
He coughed discreetly. ‘May I remind you that you are holding my fees…’
‘Ah, yes, just a minute.’ I nipped back to the bathroom where I’d left the soggy dollars in the sink. They’d been in my pocket when I’d tumbled into the filthy water.
‘Here.’ I handed them over.
He looked unimpressed. ‘Sir?’
‘You can count them while I get dressed.’
I left him to it, while I donned proper tweeds with a shirt and waistcoat.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked, as I peered into the wardrobe in search of a tie.
‘There was talk of a club, sir, with dancing ladies. Mr Bruce is certain he knows the whereabouts.’
‘Umm,’ I mumbled as I picked out a natty green and brown specimen.
He gave a discreet cough. ‘I believe your dark red tie was packed, sir. It would be more appropriate.’
‘But this is my favourite, Greggs.’
‘It may be suitable for a winter’s day in England, sir. But we are in Damascus.’
‘Yes, I do know that, Greggs.’
His taste in attire tended toward the avant-garde and he was always trying to update my wardrobe. He rifled through the various whatnots.
‘Here it is, sir.’ He held it up.
‘Oh, very well, Greggs!’ I slipped it around my neck. ‘Is Vincent going to the club with you?’
‘It was his intention, and he did speak very highly of it, but alas, Mrs Vincent overheard the conversation.’
‘She’s confined him to base, has she?’ I grinned.
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Well, keep your eyes peeled in the city, old chap. There are dangers in the dark.’
‘Would that be the snakes, scorpions and crocodiles you mentioned this morning?’ He raised his brows.
�
��Something like that, Greggs.’
‘Somewhat exaggerated, I thought, sir,’ he uttered and went off clutching his envelope.
I looked down at my little dog who returned my gaze, eyes bright, ears cocked, head slightly to one side.
‘Come on, Foggy.’ I picked him up, gave him a much needed hug and headed for the rooftop.
We arrived to the sound of a single voice, singing out the call to evening prayer, the mournful tone rippled across the sun-soaked stones to die in the desert. A bird warbled a trill of notes as if in echo and a bell tolled from a distant tower. It felt eternal, a city of a hundred thousand yesterdays and tomorrow was just another dawn, treading the path of time.
I sank into a chair and gazed at the horizon. Fogg jumped onto my lap and we watched the sun sink in florid glory. My mind revolved around death, or rather murder, and why it was that Josephine had to die.
Qarsan was part of the mystery. I smiled at the thought of the gift he’d sent me – a toothbrush – it was a nice touch and proved he really did know everything down to the detail. So how much of this was by his design? All of it I would say, or almost all, anyway.
He must have been highly amused by our efforts to discover the house of Hanno, after all, he’d orchestrated the whole thing. He’d enticed the allies with the lure of oil and set them against each other. Then he’d sat back while they offered their most precious treasures in exchange for a prize almost beyond price. And, finally, today he’d revealed that none of them had actually won it.
Soon, reality would dawn among the western powers that they would have to negotiate with all the diverse tribes in Arabia. I had no doubt Qarsan would be in the centre of it all, acting as chief mediator – the spider in the web. An ingenious plan and he’d played it like a master.
But, I mused, he’d fallen in love with Josephine; there was a twist of fate he’d never expected, perhaps never even experienced before. What had come of this unlikely love story? Had she fallen for him? Unlikely given her past history; I was certain she knew the power he wielded and decided to make use of him. So did he arrange her death in revenge? No, he had made it plain he wanted her killer found. Was she an obstacle in someone else’s way? That was more likely, given what was at stake. Or perhaps the reason really did lay in the past?
I watched a small bird flit across the rooftop opposite. The fat man must have retired because his day bed was empty. My thoughts drifted toward Persi, and Langton and I shook them away, preferring to consider the complexities of murder to the mysteries of tender emotions.
‘Heathcliff, there you are!’ Persi broke into my musings.
‘Greetings’ I bounded to my feet and kissed her cheek. By the delectable fragrance I’d say she’d bathed in rose water and dabbed on a very classy perfume.
‘Erm, not Heathcliff, old stick… I mean dearest. Well, you can call me whatever you…, it’s just… I’m not keen.’ I coughed to cease my babbling and tried again. ‘You look nice. The dress is… is,’ I ran out of words because she looked absolutely sparkling. She’d let her blonde hair fall loose and it rippled in waves around her shoulders. There were traces of pink on her lips and she wore a long silk frock in pale green, shimmering in the half light, with a sort of wrap around her shoulders made of gauzy translucent stuff which was floaty and… ‘What?’
She laughed. ‘I said, ‘isn’t it beautiful up here’?’
‘Yes, yes. It’s a garden of sorts. There are plants in pots, flowers, palms and… and that sort of thing…’ I trailed away. I wanted to kiss her properly, but the thorny subject of Langton was still waiting to be excised.
‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I used to come up here before Colonel Fontaine placed me under lock and key.’ She smiled. ‘I’m so relieved it’s over.’
‘Apart from the matter of murder,’ I said, then wished I hadn’t as the smile faded from her lips.
‘Persi.’ I gazed at her. ‘I… I… Can I get you anything? A gin and tonic or…’
‘Jamal told me you were here and offered to bring a tray up.’ She said just as our loyal servant arrived, puffing with exertion and carrying a clinking tray.
We were duly served with tall glasses, a jug full of iced G and T and a couple of dishes of nuts and dates. He busied himself lighting lamps about the place before returning to the courtyard, or wherever he went.
The moon showed full in the deep-blue sky glittering with stars; an enchanted evening charged with the breath of romance.
We clinked glasses.
‘To Hanno.’
‘And his map.’ I smiled.
‘It was utterly extraordinary,’ she told me, warmth returning to her tone. ‘The images on the murals provide more information about Phoenician life than anything we have discovered so far. And the map extended right around the coast into Africa.’
‘You’ll be telling me they discovered America next,’ I teased.
That made her laugh. ‘Who knows! The world is more complex and extraordinary than we’ll ever comprehend.’
‘And the oil? Do you think there will be much of it?’
‘I really have no idea. It’s of no interest to me outside the use they made of it in antiquity.’ Her face fell sombre.
I didn’t want to dampen the mood again. I watched her expression and suddenly realised that, more than anything, I wanted to get to know her. All the little things; what she liked and read and thought about and… well everything.
‘Persi, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course, darling.’
‘What’s your favourite book?’
That caused her to smile. ‘I thought you were going to ask about the murder.’
‘Oh. Did you do it?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who did it?’
‘No.’
‘Right. So, what’s your favourite book?’
She thought about it. ‘I’d say Pride and Prejudice, but… Can I have two?’
‘Erm…yes.’ I poured another drink for each of us.
‘King Solomon’s Mines!’
‘Ha!’ I exclaimed. ‘That would be mine too.’
‘Really? What’s your other favourite?’
‘Ah,’ I realised I’d painted myself into a corner. ‘You won’t laugh will you?’
‘Probably,’ she replied, her eyes dancing with delight. ‘You have to tell me now.’
‘It’s…’ I paused. ‘The Wind in the Willows.’
She did laugh and so did I. It was intoxicating, I reached for her hand and she wove her fingers through mine.
‘I like Treasure Island too,’ I added.
‘That’s three,’ she said. ‘Mystery and adventure!’
‘Apart from Mr Toad.’ I sipped my drink. ‘It’s history and adventure in your case, isn’t it?’
She nodded and leaned closer to me. ‘You’re a hunter, aren’t you?’
I regarded her. ‘So are you.’
‘I suppose so,’ she became thoughtful. ‘I watched you and Swift while we were at Braeburn Castle.’
‘Uum?’
‘He’s the trained tracker, isn’t he? The professional detective, following clues and uncovering evidence. Rather as I do, really. But, you’re just…’ She let the sentence hang.
‘What?’
‘Chaos! You disorientate your quarry by disrupting all their careful plans and then you begin to unravel them. You operate on instinct.’
‘Is that another way of saying I blunder about brainlessly?’
She laughed again. ‘No, my darling. I’m saying you have a knack for it, even if it is rather erratic.’
‘Persi… I…’ I put my drink down and turned to her.
‘Heathcliff, wait,’ the laughter died on her lips. ‘I came to tell you something. I’m leaving tomorrow, darling.’
That threw me.
‘Why?’
‘Because I must. Fontaine’s playing games, he’s already manipulated me, making me believe Charles was dying and then arresting me. I won’t stay here and be dragged back into everything.’
‘But…’ I sighed, not wanting to spoil the moment by explaining that she wouldn’t be able to simply walk away from a charge of murder. I switched tack. ‘Persi, how did you come to be here in the first place?’
She pushed hair away from her face with long fingers. ’I was due back in Byblos. Do you remember I told you I’d been working there before I met you in Scotland?’
I nodded. I hadn’t taken much notice at the time, not having known where Byblos was.
‘I had intended returning there, but then… then I met you and had second thoughts.’ She paused to bite her lip. ‘Out of the blue, I had a telegram from Charles telling me he had to go to Damascus. He said he wanted to stop by in Byblos, to see me.’ She picked up her glass and held it. ‘Of course, he didn’t know I wasn’t there at the time, actually I was surprised he knew I’d been there at all. Anyway, the telegram had been redirected to me at my parent’s home in Sussex.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ I asked.
She let loose a long sigh. ‘We haven’t seen each other or spoken since the end of the war. Actually it was Christmas of 1918. That was when he wrote to me about what he had done. He was in a terrible mess. Beatrice had been declared dead and he’d become mixed up with Josephine. He admitted he had betrayed me and asked if he should do the decent thing and cry off.’ She glanced from her glass to me. ‘It broke my heart. I couldn’t bear to speak to him, or see him, so I never gave him an answer.’
I remained silent, letting her recover from the tumult of emotions I could see crossing her face.
‘And so when he contacted me again, I didn’t know what to do. I had a ticket for Byblos already paid for and if it weren’t for meeting you, I wouldn’t have hesitated to use it. But…’ She gave me a tight smile. ‘I really didn’t know what my feelings were. I thought I should hear Charles out and I knew my colleagues were hoping I’d rejoin them – we were always shorthanded.’ She sighed. ‘So I went to Byblos.’
I gave her hand a squeeze. Foggy must have noticed her anguish and jumped up to give her a lick. She stroked his fur absentmindedly.
Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox Page 19
