Scorpion Sunset

by Catrin Collier

  ‘A divorce can take years.’

  ‘I know, but I have other means of persuading the authorities that Rebeka is my indispensable nursing assistant.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A godfather who’s a general and a father who’s the King’s surgeon.’

  ‘That should help your case. I’m bloody frozen. Are my lungs disinfected enough for you now?’

  ‘You have my permission to go back inside. Just one thing: when and where do you intend to propose?’ ‘

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can hide and watch.’

  ‘That is exactly why I won’t tell you.’

  Count D’Souza’s Residence and Portuguese Consulate, India

  March 1917

  Maud was last to finish breakfast. Sister Luke had excused herself almost as soon as Maud had entered the dining room and left for upstairs. Maud presumed to pack, although she couldn’t imagine quite what the sister was packing as she, like Maud, had brought very little beyond a change of clothes and a Bible with her. To Maud’s disappointment if the count had breakfasted he’d eaten early, because there was no place set for him at the table.

  She finished her coffee, blotted her lips on a napkin, and went into the hall. Before she reached the stairs a footmen handed her a letter on a silver tray. She turned it over twice before realising that John had written her address on the outside of one of her own letters. She tore it open in the hope he’d written a reply to her in the margins. It couldn’t be a long message but everyone knew prisoners of war were kept in appalling conditions where necessities were in short supply and presumably luxuries like notepaper unobtainable.

  She saw that John had written something in the corner on the page, but his writing was cramped and she had to move closer the window to read it.

  Dear Maud, our marriage is over. I will instigate divorce proceedings as soon as I can. John

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Smith.’

  ‘Good morning, Count D’Souza.’ She forced a smile and pushed the letter into the pocket of her dress.

  ‘You are pale, not bad news I hope.’

  ‘A letter from my cousin. He is a being held a prisoner of war in a Turkish camp. I have been sending him food parcels. It appears not all of them are getting through to him.’

  ‘Hardly surprising. It is common knowledge the Ottoman army is full of cut-throats and thieves. Sister Luke, good morning. Please, would you both care to accompany me into my study?’

  Maud and Sister Luke followed the count. He closed the door and offered them chairs before walking around behind his desk. He opened a drawer and removed an envelope.

  ‘I wish to thank both of you for remaining with my wife until the end, which took a great deal longer than the doctors initially envisaged. This,’ he handed Sister Luke the envelope, ‘is a donation to the convent over and above what I agreed to pay Mother Superior for both your services. Thank you for remaining for the funeral and thank you for the spiritual comfort you have given me and everyone in this house throughout this difficult time. Also for the comfort you offered the mourners yesterday.’

  Sister Luke took the envelope. ‘God bless and keep you, Count D’Souza, and God bless and keep the Countess D’Souza’s soul.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister Luke. You are packed and ready to leave?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘You must be anxious to return to the convent.’

  ‘We are needed in the infirmary, sir. I received a message from Mother Superior yesterday. Smallpox has broken out in the streets in the north of the town and the isolation wards in the convent are overflowing with the sick.’

  ‘I have summoned a carriage to convey you to the convent. A footman will accompany you and carry your bags.’

  ‘Sister Smith?’ Sister Luke looked at Maud as she rose from her chair.

  ‘I won’t be returning to the convent with you, Sister Luke.’ Maud looked down at her hands to avoid meeting Sister Luke’s gaze which given the strain between them she suspected would be full of contempt.

  ‘I’ve offered Mrs Smith the position of housekeeper on my staff, which I am delighted to say she has accepted. She will remain here,’ the count explained. ‘Thank you again for your assistance, Sister Luke.’

  Maud rose from her chair and offered Sister Luke her hand. The nun bowed but did not take it. She swept out of the room without another word. A footman reached in from the hall and closed the door the sister had left open behind her.

  The count smiled at Maud. ‘I would like you to pack my wife’s personal possessions. Secure all her jewellery in a strongbox and her clothes in mothproof trunks. Her personal maid will help you. Do you get on with her?’

  ‘Very well.’ Maud knew that the mixed-race girl was terrified of losing her place.

  ‘In which case you can tell her that she will be kept on to serve as your lady’s maid. When you’ve cleared my wife’s room, please begin on the rest of the house. Start with the cut glass, crystal, and silverware in the dining room. I received official confirmation this morning. I have been recalled to Lisbon. I leave at the end of the week.’

  Maud’s heart beat a tattoo. ‘And me, sir?’

  ‘I will need a housekeeper wherever I am posted, Mrs Smith, and I was hoping you would accompany me. I will continue to pay you the salary we negotiated yesterday as well as all your living and travel expenses. I trust that will be satisfactory?’

  ‘It will, sir.’

  ‘I have an appointment with the mayor but I will return for lunch. Will you join me?’

  ‘I will be happy to. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  ‘May I borrow some notepaper so I can write to my relatives in England to inform them that I am leaving the convent and that I will forward a new address to them as soon as I have one?’

  ‘Of course.’ He rose from his desk, squeezed her breasts, and kissed her. ‘See at lunch – and siesta,’ he added suggestively. ‘And summon the dressmaker. I would like you to see you in something more colourful and becoming than that drab nurses’ uniform.’

  As soon as he left the room, Maud opened the stationary cabinet. She ignored the house stationary and removed a dozen sheets of official Portuguese Consulate notepaper and envelopes. She placed them in a file and carried them up to her room. The door to the bedroom Sister Luke had occupied was open and the maids had already stripped the bed.

  Maud took the file into her own bedroom, placed it on the desk, and closed and locked the door. She used the pen, ink, and paper she found in a drawer, and began practising handwriting. Her own, which slanted to the right, was too distinctive so she tried to write in a clear, upright hand.

  Only when she was happy that her writing wasn’t recognisable as hers did she take the consulate paper and envelopes. She addressed one envelope to her father, another to John, and a third and fourth to Angela and Mrs Butler.

  Apart from the name, she penned the same message on all of them.

  Regret to inform you Mrs Maud Mason died of smallpox yesterday afternoon. Mrs Mason’s remains were immediately interred with those of other victims in a mass grave in the public cemetery as a necessary precautionary measure to contain the spread of the disease.

  Mrs Mason left her personal effects and all her worldly goods to the convent of St Agnes and St Clare.

  Yours sincerely,

  pp Count D’Souza

  Portuguese Consul

  on behalf of the sisters of the convent of St Agnes and St Clare.

  When she finished writing five letters she placed four in the envelopes and sealed them. She took them and half a sovereign from her purse and went downstairs in search of a footman. She handed the envelopes to the man and gave him the coin.

  ‘These letters are urgent. Please take them to the Post Office at once and ensure that the correct postage is placed on them.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘You may keep the change.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’


  ‘On your return journey call on the countess’s dressmaker and ask him to visit me here at his earliest opportunity.’

  She returned upstairs, entered the countess’s suite, and looked around. How long would it be before she succeeded in cajoling the count to house her in similar quarters? Recalling his instructions, she went to the cupboard and found the strongbox. The key was in the lock, she lifted the lid in preparation to take the countess’s jewellery.

  While stowing away the pieces in their original boxes, she amused herself by imagining her future. Should her father, John, Mrs Butler, or Angela write to the consulate, Count D’Souza would have long gone and all the new consul would be able to do was confirm the outbreak of smallpox. She doubted that the count’s replacement would contact the convent, but if he should consider it, the fifth letter she’d penned, a copy of the one she’d sent to her father, left in the consulate’s file on the convent, should deter anyone from making further enquiries.

  As for Maud Smith, she might be a housekeeper now – albeit one with her own lady’s maid – but her future beckoned as bright and glittering as the jewels she was packing. There’d have to be period of mourning of course. But the count enjoyed the private moments they shared.

  She knew, because she’d had extensive experience of similar private moments with many other men. The count was taking her to Lisbon. No one knew her there, so there’d be no risk of encountering any gossip about her past. A few more months and then, what could be more natural than that the bereaved count should turn to his beautiful young widowed housekeeper for consolation.

  Six months, a year at the outside, and wedding bells would be ringing for Maud Smith and Count D’Souza. Maud Mason née Perry was dead and buried in a common unmarked grave. She’d make sure her ghost never rose to trouble her again.

  Not while Maud Smith, soon to become Countess D’Souza, remained very much alive.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  British Relief Force, Baghdad

  13th April 1917

  ‘Take cover!’ Peter yelled as a grenade was thrown from a heavily shrouded harem window on the top floor of a private house. It landed a few feet away from the gallows his men were constructing to hang fifteen looters Perry had arrested on his march into the town.

  Most of the sappers clamped their hands over their heads and dropped to the ground but Private Hawkins dived forward, snatched the grenade, and lobbed it back into the building. Seconds later the front of the house blasted outwards and both men and street were covered inches deep in dust and debris.

  ‘Anyone hurt?’ Peter rose to his feet and dusted himself off, trying not to think about what he’d been lying in.

  ‘I think something hit me, sir.’

  Hawkins emerged from a ragged pile of splintered wood. Blood streamed through his hair and dripped down on to his face, neck, and uniform.

  ‘I saw medics enter that building half an hour ago.’ Peter pointed across the street. ‘Let’s get you seen to. Sergeant, carry on. You’re in charge.’

  ‘Sir.’ The sergeant snapped to attention then started shouting at the men. ‘Get a move on, you lazy beggars. Do you expect these looters to hang themselves …’

  Peter helped Hawkins across the street and into the building. The noise was ear-shattering. Michael and David were standing in the hall, shooting at a tide of rats that raced squealing towards them, pouring out of a narrow corridor.

  David waved at Peter. ‘Be with you in a moment,’ he shouted. ‘The orderlies are herding these beggars towards us. The entire bloody building is filthy, unsanitary, and infested.’

  When David finished emptying his gun, he reloaded and holstered it. An Arab ran through the front door shouting in German. To Peter’s surprise, David answered him in the same language after telling Michael to stop shooting.

  ‘I don’t care if every stupid rat we’ve killed is your most beloved and cherished pet. I’m the senior officer here and I’ve given the order to shoot as many rats as we can get in our gun sights. And for your information,’ David pulled at the insignia on his collar. ‘This is a British uniform. The Turks and Germans left last night. We’re in charge now and,’ David switched to English. ‘I’ve passed a death sentence on all rats in the city. No appeal, no reprieve. Singh?’

  David’s orderly emerged from a second corridor.

  ‘Is there a clean room in this place?’ David asked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Bring me a chair and a medical kit, and take them outside. These stupid bloody rats haven’t yet realised that this is an execution chamber.’ David shot at and killed another rat before walking out.

  Peter helped Hawkins who was having trouble standing, onto a marble bench in the courtyard. ‘Joined the medics?’ he asked when Michael sat beside them.

  ‘I carry a gun and don’t often get chance to use it. That rat hunt was fun.’

  Peter looked back through the door at the tiled walls and floors of the hall. ‘What was this building?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ David shrugged. ‘Arabs were burning papers in the garden when we got here but they ran off when they saw us. I think they must have disturbed a few rats’ nests and the creatures ran inside to join their chums who’d already taken up residence.’

  Singh arrived with the chair. David helped Hawkins on to it and examined his head. ‘The good news is nothing’s broken. The bad you’ll need a few stitches. Singh, I need my bag. Make sure there’s catgut and disinfectant in it.’

  ‘That’ll teach you to play ball with grenades, Hawkins.’ Peter reached for his cigarettes.

  ‘I didn’t think, sir.’

  Peter lit three cigarettes and passed one to Michael and another to Hawkins. He held up the packet to David who shook his head. ‘Your “not thinking”, Hawkins, probably saved at least a dozen of our men from injury if not death.’ Peter took his notebook from his pocket and scribbled a reminder to put Hawkins up for a medal.

  Michael read the note over Peter’s shoulder. ‘Can I have the full story?’

  ‘In return for what?’ Peter raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Jug of raki.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Excuse me, Major Knight, sir,’ a runner arrived and addressed David, ‘we’ve found a hospital.’

  ‘A nice big clean one, I hope.’

  ‘A large one, sir.’

  Something in the runner’s voice made David look up from his stitching. ‘It’s filthy?’

  ‘It’s full of patients, sir. Mainly cholera and typhoid cases. Looks like most of the staff have succumbed.’

  ‘Singh, muster the medics and orderlies from wherever they’re hiding, we’re on the move again.’ David fastened the last stitch in Hawkins’s head and eyed Peter. ‘Tell me again, why did we fight to take this forsaken, verminous, insanitary city?’

  ‘Because a politician overdosed on the Arabian Nights when he was a child and wanted to see “the golden minarets shine and glitter in the setting sun”?’ Michael suggested.

  ‘I see no golden minarets.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t looked in the right place – yet,’ Michael rose from the bench.

  ‘Can’t wait for my first night off to look for them.’ David returned his instruments to his bag.

  ‘If you find any Arabian Nights splendours, let me know, Michael.’ Peter helped Hawkins to his feet.

  ‘You’ll be the first I’ll tell,’ Michael volunteered.

  ‘As you’re the one with the least work to do, you can look for them,’ David shot two more rats before picking up his doctors’ bag and leaving.

  Turkish Prison Camp

  May 1917

  ‘It feels as though summer’s brought a taste of heaven with it. Just wandering around the garden breathing in the scents of apple and cherry blossom and feeling the warmth of the sun on my face is absolute bliss.’ John checked for protruding nails before sitting alongside Rebeka and Hasmik on a wooden bench Grace had inexpertly patched together from the branches of a t
ree that had blown over in a winter storm.

  ‘None of your patients need you?’ Rebeka asked.

  ‘Not for five minutes. If I’m fortunate maybe even ten.’

  ‘Or half an hour.’

  ‘That’s probably too much to hope for.’ He reached for her hand. Crabbe and Yana Gulbenkian were walking around the perimeter, arm in arm, heads bent, immersed in deep and earnest conversation.

  ‘They are planning their future together,’ Rebeka explained. ‘Reverend Spooner agreed to marry them as soon as the relevant permissions come through from your army.’

  ‘You do know I’ll marry you the minute my divorce comes through.’ John meshed his fingers into hers.

  ‘I know.’ She watched Hasmik run over to Bowditch and Grace. Grace had brought out the doll he was whittling for her. He’d made a reasonable job of the head and torso, but the dolls’ arms and legs were somewhat mismatched, with the left side limbs twice the size of the ones on the right.

  ‘If it doesn’t come soon enough for this little one to be born with married parents, I’ll insist on Mason being on the birth certificate.’ He laid his hand on her abdomen.

  ‘Don’t,’ she moved his hand away. ‘Not here, where everyone can see you.’

  ‘They’re going to find out soon enough. You’re nicely plump.’

  ‘Fat, you mean.’ She leaned against him. ‘I really don’t care about us not being married. I love you.’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly love me as much as I love you and we’ll both love this little one when he or she arrives.’

  ‘It’s not a “one”, it’s a boy.’

  ‘Or girl. We have to think of names. I’ll be happy with anything you chose.’

  ‘Really?’ She was surprised.

  ‘You’ll be the one doing the work so you should pick the name. We could call him or her after your father or mother. They must have been incredible parents to make you the woman you are.’

  ‘My father’s name was Erik.’

  John repeated it. ‘Erik Mason, that’s an excellent solid name. Your mother?’

  ‘Elen.’

  ‘That’s beautiful.’

  ‘So we’ve settled on names.’

  ‘Only for our first two children.’