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

by Karen Baugh Menuhin

  ‘You realise I’d be committing treason if I gave you a copy.’

  ‘Germany is not allowed to make any overseas explorations. Nothing will come of it, Major, but it will persuade them of my good intention and my loyalty to my country.’

  ‘Hum,’ I wasn’t prepared to make any commitments. ‘I thought you said it was stifling, or words to that effect. And that’s why you were in Hollywood rather than Hohenburg.’

  ‘But, it is still my home and I miss it. And my family.’ He paused. ‘Maybe I can help bring change – I would like to try.’

  ‘I don’t actually have a copy, old chap.’

  ‘But you can find one?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll consider it. But there’s something I’d like in exchange.’

  ‘What?’

  I told him, he laughed, agreed and left.

  Greggs returned to tell me he was going to supervise Jamal and the Rolls Royce, then he went off again.

  Persi came in last of all, just as I finished tucking my notebook and the photographs into my carpet bag.

  ‘Hello.’ She raised her eyes to mine.

  ‘Hello, old stick.’ I tried a smile.

  ‘Lennox, I…’

  I wanted to pull her into my arms but she kept her distance. ‘You can call me Heathcliff if you like.’

  She laughed. ‘Then you’ll really hate me.’

  ‘I’ll never hate you, Persi.’

  ‘Darling,’ she began again. ‘I’m going back to Byblos.’

  ‘With Langton?’

  ‘No, although I do need to make sure he returns to England. I think Lady Maitland will help him once she’s released. But, Darling…’

  ‘Persi,’ I stepped closer, took a deep breath and said, ‘Persi, I love you.’

  Her eyes shot up. ‘I love you too,’ she said.

  I moved to draw her into my arms, but she held up her hand to stop me. ‘But…I need some time, Lennox.’

  I stifled a sigh. ‘Why? What is stopping us both getting on the aeroplane now? You don’t need to work, Persi. I have enough for us both.’ Actually, that may have been an exaggeration, but it was said in the hope of being true.

  ‘It’s not about my work, darling. It’s about being sure.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Charles and I had been inseparable before the war. We promised no-one else would ever come between us – that we’d be together forever, if we survived. And then… he betrayed me.’ She paused, holding back tears. ‘So I fled. I buried myself in my work and I thought I had got over him. But, you see, I don’t know if I have and that’s why… that’s why…’ Tears began to run down her cheeks and I held out my arms as she crushed her face against my chest.

  I tugged a handkerchief out of my pocket to put into her hand and she sobbed into it then blew her nose. I decided to let her keep it.

  ‘You could think about it in England, my love. You don’t have to stay out here,’ I tried to persuade her.

  She attempted a teary smile. ‘It’s for the best, darling, really it is. I will write.’ She dropped her arms from mine.

  ‘Persi, as soon as you have made a decision I will come to you. Just send word. Do you promise me?’

  She nodded, her blonde hair catching the sunlight streaming in from the windows. ‘Yes, I promise.’

  I pulled her toward me to gaze down into her eyes. I wanted to absorb every detail of her face, before I pulled her into my arms and kissed her.

  Chapter 28

  Dust and sand swirled up from the runway. I was holding my carpet bag in one hand and Greggs’ suitcase in the other. He was clutching Foggy and they both had cotton wool stuffed in their ears and scarves tied around their heads. I had told him it was pointless, but he refused to listen.

  The Bleriot-Spad started up with a spluttering roar and the propeller sent more sand whirling into the air. Swift was fidgeting to be allowed aboard but they hadn’t even wheeled up the steps yet.

  Dreadnaught was behind me, he had far too much luggage. I’ve no idea how he thought they’d let him take it, but then he was a movie star and a German Baron, so perhaps they would. He had a copy of Hanno’s map in his pocket – it wasn’t an exact copy. Actually, I’d drawn out a map of the Persian gulf, put a couple of random crosses on the west coast and given it to him. He seemed quite happy with it.

  Just as a group of airport staff began pushing the steps toward the rumbling aeroplane, everyone turned to look in the opposite direction. I frowned, and shifted slowly around. A group of men on camels had approached. There were five of them, four dressed in robes of black and the chap in front entirely in flowing white. They stopped a few yards away.

  Jamal had been standing beside the Rolls in which he’d transported us, but at the faintest nod from the man in white, he ran over to the group. The man leaned from his camel to pass a small package down to him and give him a curt instruction. Jamal nodded, bowed, then turned to trot in our direction, his hand holding his turban in place against the growing power of the propeller’s blast.

  ‘Effendi, a gift from the Sheik himself.’ He shouted to me as he held out a small cedar wood box, delicately carved and etched.

  I took it, lifted up the box and gave a deep bow in the direction of the sheik.

  Qarsan nodded and then nudged his camel to turn about and they went off, back to the desert, or wherever they’d come from.

  ‘Was that him?’ Swift came over.

  ‘Yes.’ I had dropped my bags to take the gift.

  Greggs came over to stare in mute silence – actually, he might have said something but it was lost amongst the scarves and muffler.

  ‘What is it?’ Dreadnaught joined us.

  I opened the lid. A gold ring caught the light and glinted in the sun dropping low in the amber-hued dusk. It was a signet ring, set with a black stone which had been delicately engraved with a ship, a single billowing sail and a cresting horse’s head on the bow. I slipped it on, it was a perfect fit.

  ‘Phoenician,’ Swift remarked.

  I nodded.

  ‘So, are you now an ancient mariner?’ Dreadnaught laughed.

  We looked at him. ‘Very amusing,’ I muttered.

  Epilogue

  Tommy thought the blazon on the ring was marvellous and insisted on making a drawing of it to show to all his school friends.

  My library had been polished and spruced in my absence and I sat in comfort, with my feet up in front of a blazing fire and a hot toddy at my side. It had taken almost a week to recover from the appalling flight and the malady that had developed as soon as I stepped off the damn plane.

  Swift had caught it too, but struggled on to Braeburn where Florence would be anxiously waiting.

  Tommy was rattling on. ‘Now that you ain’t dying, sir, can you tell me all about Damascus, and the camels and your adventures? And the movie-making!’

  ‘I wasn’t dying Tommy. I had flu and possibly pneumonia.’ I coughed. ‘And bronchitis.’

  ‘Auntie said you only had a bad cold.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ I coughed again and reached for my toddy. ‘Just because I managed to fight it off, doesn’t mean it wasn’t serious.’

  ‘Did you bring any autographs, sir? Of the stars?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Possibly. They were in my carpet bag. You had better ask Greggs where they are.’

  ‘He put a big thick envelope up on the shelf, sir.’ Tommy pointed, then jumped onto a stool to reach. ‘It’s here.’ He handed them to me and stood at the side of my chair, almost hopping with excitement.

  I pulled out the contents and leafed through them. ‘Here,’ I held one up.

  The boy’s face fell. ‘That’s Mr Gregg’s, sir.’

  ‘Yes, he’s in a short movie. It’s called Delilah of the Desert.’ I held up another one of Foggy in his top knot.

  ‘That’s Mr Fogg, sir. He loo
ks like a girl.’ He didn’t sound terribly impressed.

  ‘Right,’ I passed him a different photo.

  ‘Who’s that, sir?’

  ‘Harry Bing, he’s second lead. Well, he was, I’m not sure if he’s still treading the boards, or whatever it is they do.’

  ‘Oh,’ his face fell. ‘I don’t think he’s really a star, ‘cause I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Hum,’ I showed him the next one out. ‘How about this?’

  The boy gasped. ‘Oh, sir. It’s Josephine Belvoir. She’s famous! Did you get her autograph?’

  ‘Erm, no. Bad news I’m afraid, she… erm, well, she had an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Yes, dead. But it’s a jolly good photograph.’ I gave it to him, she wore an elegant chiffon gown with a diamond necklace and looked stunning.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He stared at it dubiously. ‘Do you think it matters if she’s dead?’

  ‘No, in fact, it might even make it more impressive, because there won’t be any more!’ I said with encouragement.

  ‘Yes, it’s jolly super, sir!’ He broke into a big smile.

  ‘Here,’ I said, ‘I saved the best for last. He autographed it especially for you.’

  Scrawled across a corner was written – ‘To Tommy Jenkins, with best wishes, Dick Dreadnaught.’

  ‘Oh, sir! Dick Dreadnaught! He’s a huge star. I saw him in a movie last summer, The Lost Sailor of Nanking. He was ever so good.’ He bounced on the spot with glee.

  ‘I’m pleased you like it Tommy, although he’s actually given up movies. Gone back to Germany, apparently.’ With a map, I thought to myself, which held as little value as the signed photograph he’d exchanged it for.

  ‘So he’s not a movie star any more, neither? That’s terrific that is, now nobody will have anything like it’ He sounded positively gleeful. ‘These are going be the best collection of autographs ever, sir!’ He bounded off toward the kitchen clutching the photographs.

  ‘Tell Greggs that tea and cakes wouldn’t go amiss,’ I called after him but I don’t know if he heard. He came back twenty minutes later. I was reading by the fire, ‘The Hound of The Baskervilles’ a marvellous book, full of adventure and some excellent tips for sleuthing.

  ‘There’s a letter come, sir.’ He announced, then jumped into the chair opposite.

  ‘Oh,’ I closed my book. I’d been hoping for news from foreign shores. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It is here, sir.’ Greggs arrived with a laden tray and a pale blue envelope propped on a tea cup. Foggy came in with him, straight from the garden. He was covered in snow and paused to shake it off over my legs before he climbed into his basket. I lifted Tubbs off my lap to place him next to the little dog and they both snuggled up together.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Ah, one moment, sir.’ Greggs poured tea for me and served a hot buttered scone on a plate. It was fresh out of the oven and jolly good. Tommy snaffled one too and Tubbs gave up his spot by the fire to jump onto the table and await a saucer of cream, which had become a new habit when tea was served.

  Greggs straightened his back, pulled out a pair of pince-nez he’d recently acquired and placed them on the end of his nose. He peered at the letter, bringing it closer to his face, then moved it away. ‘It is from Inspector Swift, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’ My hopes wilted. ‘Very good. Read it out, would you?’

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘Home and all are well. Florence is blooming, she has been supervising the rebuilding works with Donald MacDonald. I had a bit of a cold but it soon passed. My old friend at Scotland Yard has sent word – Bing and Miss Genevieve are in Hollywood, so is Vincent. He plans to continue making movies. The death of Mrs Vincent has been announced, it is said she suffered sudden heart failure.’ Greggs paused and looked at me with raised brows.

  ‘Well, it’s true Greggs, they just failed to explain the actual cause of her heart failing.’ Such as a bullet, I thought, but didn’t say because we didn’t want Tommy to hear.

  Greggs recommenced reading. ‘Lady Maitland has returned to the Foreign Office, Langton flew back with her and is believed to be taking a sabbatical. Baron Grunberg has resumed residence in his ancestral home and has been offered a post with Royal Dutch Shell, an oil exploration company.’

  That raised my brows as images of Dutch chaps digging fruitlessly in the sand sprang to mind. I shook them off to listen, but there wasn’t actually much more in the way of news, Swift went on about the castle and preparations for the baby and Christmas and whatnot. We heard him out and then I asked Greggs to place the missive on my desk.

  ‘You haven’t seen any more letters, have you old chap?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. But may I remind you that you are leaving for Melrose Court tomorrow for Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, I haven’t forgotten, Greggs. I’ve been ill, not comatose.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’

  I finished my tea feeling a bit disconsolate, so I took a bite of hot scone and jam.

  ‘I showed Auntie the photographs you gave me, sir,’ Tommy piped up. ‘She said that dead movie actress was in the papers.’ He stared at the photograph of Josephine he’d brought back in with him. ‘What’s the name of the movie, sir? I’m goin’ to go and watch it when it’s on at the pictures.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you, Tommy?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s called ‘Death in Damascus’.’

  Author’s Notes

  Please don’t read this until you’ve finished the book!

  The film, ‘The Sheik’, did indeed hit the screens in 1921 and was a roaring success. It broke box office records and started a new fashion for exotic romance. The film was made in the deserts of California starring Rudolph Valentino and Agnes Ayres.

  The world in 1921 was a very different place to today and far more complex than I have portrayed. The hunt for oil was fully underway in various parts of the globe. Oil had been discovered in Basra (which was then in Mesopotamia before it came under Iraqi control), but the general belief among the Western nations was that there was nothing worthwhile in the Arabian peninsula. This was despite rumours of oil seeps near Qatif on the south-west coast of the Persian Gulf.

  It is true that men were sent out to search, but they rarely returned, and never with any news of discovery. One man changed that. In 1922 Emir Ibn Saud, the Arabian leader who eventually quelled the warring factions to found and rule Saudi Arabia, agreed to meet New Zealander, Major Frank Holmes. Holmes was an experienced mining engineer who had seen extensive action in the war and served with distinction. He was absolutely convinced there was oil in the region and he persuaded Ibn Saud to sign a concession to allow Holmes to begin his search. It took ten years to strike oil and by then American, British, Persian, French and Dutch oil companies had taken over the concessions. Holmes never struck it rich, but he was greatly respected by the Arabian leaders and they named him Abu Naft, or the ‘Father of Oil’.

  I’m afraid there was no Phoenician map to help them. The Phoenicians were an ancient maritime trading race who spanned hundreds of years before finally falling to the Romans. Our alphabet is said to have originated from the Phoenician’s, and the Bible was so called because papyrus used by ancient scribes came from the Phoenician port of Gebal, which the Greeks knew as Byblos. And I suspect most folk know ‘Phoenician’ comes from the Greek word for the mollusc ‘Phoinikes’ used to provide the highly prized purple dye – the Royal Purple – which the Phoenicians produced and exported around the mediterranean world.

  They did indeed use oil or ‘asphaltum’ to line their ships, it was also used as mortar and for just about anything that required waterproofing. Their ships are depicted with a single sail, two rowing oars and bows with cresting horse’s heads.

  The medallion i
s a figment of my imagination, as are the ruins below Damascus, although the Romans certainly rebuilt a great deal of the city.

  An account of the trading methods of the Phoenicians is to be found in a text by the Greek historian Herodotus of Halicarnassus 480–425 BC.

  “The Carthaginians (Phoenicians) tell us that they trade with a race of men who live in a part of Libya beyond the Pillars of Heracles. On reaching this country, they unload their goods, arrange them tidily along the beach, and then, returning to their boats, raise a smoke. Seeing the smoke, the natives come down to the beach, place on the ground a certain quantity of gold in exchange for the goods, and go off again to a distance. The Carthaginians then come ashore and take a look at the gold; and if they think it presents a fair price for their wares, they collect it and go away; if, on the other hand, it seems too little, they go back aboard and wait, and the natives come and add to the gold until they are satisfied. There is perfect honesty on both sides; the Carthaginians never touch the gold until it equals in value what they have offered for sale, and the natives never touch the goods until the gold has been taken away. Herodotus, Histories 4.196; tr. Aubrey de Selincourt.”

  Hanno the Navigator travelled all the way to the wilds of Africa and encountered Gorillas. Here’s a brief account of his affairs by the Greek historian Arrian of Nicomedia c 92 AD–175 AD.

  “Moreover, Hanno the Libyan started out from Carthage and passed the Pillars of Heracles and sailed into the outer Ocean, with Libya on his port side, and he sailed on towards the east, five-and-thirty days all told. But when at last he turned southward, he fell in with every sort of difficulty, want of water, blazing heat, and fiery streams running into the sea.” — Arrian of Nicomedia.

  And one by the Roman Encyclopedist Pliny the Elder written c 23 AD–79 AD.

  “When the power of Carthage flourished, Hanno sailed round from Cádiz to the extremity of Arabia, and published a memoir of his voyage, as did Himilco when he was despatched at the same date to explore the outer coasts of Europe.”