by Anne Perry
She smiled at him. She was not fond of religious extremists and never had been. “I think pilgrimage is an internal journey, more than a matter of where you are geographically,” she replied, taking one of the cashews. “And if you offend others, or claim ownership of something highly disputed, by right of inheritance or force of arms, I believe you have defeated any spiritual purpose you might originally have had.”
There was a minute’s silence, then considered agreement, which perhaps was in part just out of good manners.
As they pursued the subject of the volatile situation in the Holy Land, Vespasia was keen to listen more than she spoke. She began to appreciate more of the passions behind the current turmoil. She was aware of the fading power of the Ottoman Empire ruled by Turkey, the Arabic-speaking world, Egypt and the ancient cultures of Persia, and the vast hinterland stretching all the way to the borders of Russia and India. They were far larger and more complex than she, as a Western European, had realized, and older than England’s mere two thousand years. What interested her were the problems right here, and what might concern the people around her.
“Are they afraid of a change of rule?” she asked. “What would that mean for them?”
“I think to many it is the threat of slow collapse,” their host replied. “Like everyone else, they dislike the unknown. And unfortunately when an old power fears that it is about to be overthrown, it becomes more restrictive, overbearing, seeks to collect even higher taxes. To say nothing of the religious turmoil caused by one city being the heart and core of three great faiths.” He went on to describe a few incidents so that they might better understand.
It was past midnight when Vespasia and Narraway left the Baileys’ house, and they were grateful to have a servant escort them the mile or so back to the hotel. It was an agreeable walk, sufficient to get a breath of night air after sitting so long in a warm room, but not so much as to be tiring. However, without the servant accompanying them, they might well have missed a turning and become lost, maybe have been robbed. It was a distance Vespasia would not have walked alone at this hour, even in London.
They thanked him when they reached the hotel and went inside with a feeling of relief. At the top of the stairs they passed what they knew to be the old man’s room. It was approaching one o’clock in the morning, and yet when Vespasia glanced at the door, she noticed it was not quite closed.
“Do you think he means it to be like that?” she asked with a moment of anxiety. “Anyone might go in.”
Narraway looked at it, and then bent forward. Without touching the handle, he nudged it gently with the back of his hand. It swung wider, soundlessly.
Vespasia heard his very softly indrawn breath.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He turned and grasped her arm. “No!”
“What is it?” she whispered again, wondering why his fingers dug into her. Did he really imagine she would intrude into the old man’s privacy?
“Wait,” he ordered. He let go of her and, placing himself between her and the room, pushed the door open farther and stepped forward, blocking her view.
She was mildly irritated. Surely he knew she had some sense of propriety?
Then she heard him give a little sigh and move back toward her. In the light from the passageway she was alarmed at the shock that was in his eyes.
“What is it, Victor?”
“He’s dead,” he said very quietly. “No! You can’t go in there.” He barred the doorway with his body. “His throat has been cut and his room ransacked. From the mess it looks as if his assailant was searching for something.” The anger drained out of his voice. “You should go to our room. I’ll go down and inform the hall porter. It is very obviously murder. He will have to call the police, whatever force deals with such things.” He reached into his pocket and passed her the key. “Lock the door as soon as you are inside,” he added.
“No, thank you,” she declined. “I have no reason to suppose that the lock on our door is any better than the lock on his. And we might be supposed to have more that is worth stealing than he did.” Even as she said the words, she expected his contradiction. She was clinging on for a few moments longer to what she wished to be true.
Narraway did not argue. The anger and sorrow left his face and there was only gentleness there. “My dear, his throat was cut. I don’t think this was simply a hotel room robbery. Whatever his murderers were looking for, it was not jewelry or money. The whole room has been torn apart. And if they wished to keep him silent while they stole, why go to such extremes? For what? The money an old man carries when he takes a train journey of a mere six hours?”
“What do you think he had?” she asked. She found herself fighting tears for an old man who had seemed nothing but wise and gentle, an explorer who loved the beauty of the world.
“I don’t know.” He stopped to ponder the question. “Knowledge, I should imagine, but of what, I don’t know. Some uprising, perhaps, or even an archaeological find. This land has one of the richest pasts on earth. And the most controversial. That seems the most likely reason for silencing him.”
“Victor, what have we stumbled into?”
“I’ve no idea. If it’s political, it’s very ugly. But the Middle East is not my area of expertise.” He pulled the door closed behind him, but the catch was broken and it did not fasten.
“Political? If it is religious then it is a great deal uglier! How can one murder and ransack the room of an old man, in the name of any god?” Vespasia asked.
“Men have burned others alive, and broken the bodies of women on the wheel, in the name of Christ. What is it you think they couldn’t do?” His voice caught in his throat with the emotion of it. “Come.” He took her arm again. “We must go and tell the poor man on the desk in the lobby that he has a murder on his hands.”
She gave him back the key, and they walked together down the way they had come, finding the porter at the bottom of the stairs.
“Is something wrong, sir?” the man said politely.
Narraway did not hesitate. He spoke quietly. “On our way to our room we passed the bedroom of the elderly man with whom we dined last night. His door was open. I’m afraid he has been robbed and appears to have been killed. I’m sorry, but it is extremely unpleasant and you will need to see that no one else enters the room before the authorities arrive.”
The man suddenly turned pale. Vespasia was alarmed that he might pass out and be of no use to the situation at all.
“Pull yourself together,” she said quite gently. “You are in charge and must take control. Find a messenger and send him straightaway to whatever authority is in charge of dealing with crimes. You had better write a note explaining the urgency of the matter. And put someone to stand guard at the poor man’s door. You want this tragedy to be dealt with as quietly and discreetly as possible.”
The man was shaken to the core. “I’m only the night porter!” he protested. “I can’t—”
“You are the man in charge,” Narraway said briskly. “I will remain here at the desk while you go and waken at least two of your staff, preferably three. Quickly!”
The man obeyed with alacrity.
Half an hour later it was all accomplished. The dreadful bedroom was temporarily locked and sealed. The night porter had found some reserve of courage and had taken control of the situation regarding the guests. The police had been sent for and arrived, led by a very dark-faced, rather handsome man who spoke Arabic, English, and French with ease.
After looking at the bedroom, and the body, he returned and asked Vespasia if she was well enough to be questioned.
“Certainly,” she replied with a touch of asperity. “I am grieved. He seemed a particularly wise and gentle man, but I had not known him before yesterday evening. I am not incapacitated.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, and vanished. “Thank you, Mrs. Narraway,” he said quietly. “I am obliged to you.”
She did not correct him.<
br />
Narraway did. “Lady Narraway,” he said softly.
The policeman’s eyebrows rose.
“I am Lord Narraway,” Narraway continued. “I was head of Special Branch in England. Now I sit in the House of Lords, and consult occasionally on certain matters to do with treason, civil unrest, and so on. We did not mention it earlier because we are on holiday, and it was irrelevant.”
The policeman thought for a moment before replying. His face was as bland as he could make it. His difficulty was clear.
Narraway gave a slight smile. “We have passports, naturally. I would consider you less than competent if you did not wish to see them.”
The man relaxed. “Thank you, sir.” He glanced in the direction of the tragic room with its blood-soaked corpse. “Have you any idea what happened, sir?”
“No,” Narraway admitted. “We spent this evening with a Mr. and Mrs. Bailey in their home. We had dinner and an excellent historical and philosophical conversation. The evening before, we dined here with this gentleman, but I regret now that I did not even ask his name. I know only that he intended to travel to Jerusalem and expressed some urgency about being there before Christmas Day.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. In fact he was very discreet about it altogether.”
“Whoever killed him looks to have searched the room thoroughly and violently. Did he mention that he was carrying anything of value enough to cause such a thing?”
A half memory flickered through Vespasia’s mind, but before she could clarify it, Narraway answered.
“Nothing. He appeared to travel abstemiously…I mean with little…”
The policeman made a small bleak gesture with his hand. “I know the word, sir.” He shrugged. “There is nothing to suggest he was a rich man. He carried only necessities for travel, cleanliness, and prayer, as far as we can see.”
“Perhaps whoever killed him succeeded in finding whatever it was, and took it?” Narraway suggested.
The man looked doubtful. “Perhaps…”
Narraway moved a step closer to Vespasia and touched her arm lightly. “Then if we can be of no further help, we will retire. We plan to leave on the two-o’clock train for Jerusalem. I hope that does not hamper your investigation?” It was as close as he intended to come to asking permission to leave.
“I have no reason to detain you,” the policeman agreed. “My man here will follow you upstairs and perhaps you will be good enough to show him your passports? So I may say I was diligent, you understand?”
“Of course,” Narraway agreed.
“I regret that your stay in our country has been marred by such an unpleasant event.” He glanced at Vespasia for only the second time. “My lady…” He cleared his throat. “I imagine you have no observation you can add?” It was an acknowledgment of her presence, a courtesy rather than a question.
Vespasia was slightly stung by his assumption; then she dismissed it as childish, a rather emotional reaction because she was deeply grieved.
“Actually I have,” she answered, meeting his eyes, “although I am not sure if it is of any use to you. He appeared at dinner to be a little nervous. Three times at least, I observed someone watching him from beyond doorways. It was very quick, and in the shadows, but he seemed disturbed by it.”
Narraway looked at her with surprise.
The policeman frowned. “And you did not mention this to your husband?” There was disapproval in his voice.
She met his eye without a flicker. “Had I known it was more than a mere nuisance, I would have, but as it was, we had other things to discuss at the time.” As she said it, she realized that she was certain that it was a lie. She was not a nervous woman. She had traveled all over Europe, facing discomfort and even danger with equanimity. She had never fainted in her life, and she had spoken as an equal to half the princes, prelates, and political leaders in the world. Yet she knew both danger and evil, and the watcher in the shadows beyond the doorway troubled her.
“Of course, my lady.” The policeman bowed. “I did not mean to be discourteous. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
He did not believe her. She had half expected it. She smiled at him, not envying his task, and accepted Narraway’s arm to leave and go up to their room.
As soon as the door was closed and Narraway had wedged a chair against it for good measure, he turned to her.
“Why did you not tell me that someone was watching the old man?” His voice was quite soft, but it demanded an answer.
“Because it was only a shadow, and he was already aware of it,” she answered. “There was nothing to say, and our thoughts were, by then, elsewhere.”
A very faint color warmed his cheeks, and she wondered if it embarrassed him.
“Perhaps I should have,” she said meekly. “But it didn’t seem to matter. Would it have made a difference?”
He shook his head minutely. “I doubt it. Poor man.” He turned away and took his jacket off, ready to hang it up, then felt something in his pocket. He took it out slowly. It was the thinnest possible piece of parchment, irregularly shaped, as if it had been torn from a larger piece. He opened it carefully. There was a far smaller piece of ordinary paper inside it.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He raised his head from staring at it and his expression was one of total puzzlement. “I haven’t seen it before.”
“But it was in your pocket.”
He looked back at the papers. The smaller piece had writing on it, in English. He read it aloud. “ ‘The Watcher draws near, and I am afraid I will not be able to deliver this myself. I entrust it to you, for the sake of all mankind. Take it to the House of Bread on the Via Dolorosa. It must be there by Christmas Eve. May the hand of God protect you.’ ”
There was no signature.
They stared at each other for several moments.
Vespasia’s mind raced through possibilities. Had he suspected his death? Or only fear it as a matter of precaution? What could possibly be for the sake of all mankind? Was that an exaggeration, to make them more likely to pick up his cause? Or did he believe it? She was loath to think him deceptive. Could she really be so mistaken in her judgment of him? Why was it so urgent? To do with some political uprising? Regardless, to play the coward now would be to deny everything she had lived for all her long and adventure-filled years. In her youth she had stood with musket in hand at the barricades of revolution in Rome. In her maturity, she had fought in politics and in espionage with words. She had given considerable money to causes she believed in and risked her reputation to support them.
“Vespasia—” Narraway began.
“We must do it,” she cut across him. “And to be purely practical, my dear, if you try to go alone, how long do you think it will be before someone has the idea to hold me hostage against your returning this piece of parchment to them? If it is really so important, they would be stupid not to.”
Narraway had never wasted time in pointless argument, and he did not do so now. He spread the parchment out and looked at it closely. It was covered in writing he could not read. He was not even sure what language it was. The letters were uneven, as if written under the stress of great emotion, and it was signed at the end with a single name.
He turned to Vespasia, puzzled.
She studied it also, then looked at him curiously, wondering if he was as inexplicably moved by it as she was. The edge was nearly straight above where the writing began, as if this was the end of a longer piece. She had no idea what it said, and yet the passion in it seemed to cling to the parchment even after centuries. “We must take it,” she said quietly. “He gave it to you, expecting his own death. It is a trust we must honor.”
He refolded the parchment, following exactly the folds that had been in it before. Then he put it in the small, satin pocket in the lining of his jacket.
“We had better pack early and leave the hotel. We must be sure to catch our train. We ha
ve only one day if we are to make the deadline,” he said. “And get some sleep now.” He looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “It’s twenty minutes to three. We’ll have perhaps four or five hours’ rest.” He looked grave, still worried.
She was a little older than he, a fact she wished to ignore, if possible even forget. She knew precisely what was in his mind.
“If you ask me if I am all right,” she warned him, “I shall not forgive you easily. I am sure you do not wish that!” She smiled, because it was not really out of anger that she spoke, but the self-consciousness of a very beautiful woman who was nevertheless aware that time was leaving its mark on her. Her face would always be beautiful: the sweep of her brow, the high cheekbones, the curve of her jaw and neck, the way she held her head. But she had lived long and passionately, and it was written in her countenance.
She walked like a queen, but not quite so quickly. The fierce energy of her mind was not diminished, but now and then her body let her down.
He was smiling back at her. He had no intention of repeating past slips of the tongue. He was vulnerable too, in entirely different ways, but he understood the pain, even if for him it was different.
“I think we should be at the station by one o’clock,” he answered, as if all other matters had been settled, as indeed they had.
Vespasia did not sleep well. Her dreams were haunted by the gentle face of the old man who had been so violently murdered not forty feet away, and under the same roof. He must have known that the Watcher was coming for him when they had said good night after that lovely dinner over which they had discussed so much. That was the last opportunity he had had to slip the paper into Narraway’s pocket. And yet he had parted from them with such grace, as if they would meet again soon, and nothing terrible would happen.
