Seven Dials

by Anne Perry

  There was no point in being abusive; Trenchard would only consider him even more of a fool.

  “If possible,” he agreed.

  Trenchard saw his hesitation, minute as it had been, and it was reflected in his expression.

  “We need to know the truth,” Pitt continued quickly. “Why would she kill Lovat? Why did she come to London in the first place? Was she seeking Ryerson or did she meet him by chance?” He realized as he said it how unlikely it was that a beautiful Egyptian woman merely happened to fall in love with the government minister in charge of cotton exports. And yet history was littered with unlikely meetings that had altered its course irrevocably.

  “Yes …” Trenchard said, pursing his lips. “Of course. Puts a different complexion on it. Why is she supposed to have shot this Lovat?” His eyes widened very slightly. “Who is he, anyway?”

  “A junior diplomat of no apparent importance,” Pitt replied. He decided to say nothing yet about the possibility of blackmail. “And even if he were pestering her,” he went on, “Ryerson is sufficiently in love with her that he is doing all he can to protect her from a charge of murder, even at the expense of his own reputation. She had no cause to fear that a past lover would turn his affections away from her.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Trenchard said softly. “It seems there is something beyond the obvious, and the possibilities are numerous. Your visit here is well advised. I admit, I wondered why Narraway did not simply request someone at the consulate to look into it, but now I see that a detective is required. The answer may be complex, and it may be that there are those who would wish it to remain unknown.” He smiled, a charming, candid gesture. “Are you familiar with Egypt, Mr. Pitt?”

  Pitt saw behind Trenchard’s easy manner a glimpse of the passion he had shown before when he spoke of the beauty and antiquity of Egypt, and the brilliance of the culture that had crossed its path, particularly here, where the Nile met the Mediterranean—in a sense, where Africa met Europe.

  “Assume I know nothing,” Pitt said with humility. “The little I have learned can be disregarded.”

  Trenchard nodded, a flash of approval in his face. “The recorded history of the country goes back not far short of five thousand years before Christ.” His words were momentous, and for all his casual tone, there was awe in his expression. “But for your purposes you can disregard all of it, even the Napoleonic conquest and brief French occupation nearly a century ago. No doubt you are aware of Lord Nelson’s victory at Aboukir, usually known, I believe, as the Battle of the Nile? Yes, I assumed so.” There was an indefinable edge to his voice, an emotion impossible to name. “Egypt is nominally part of the Ottoman Empire, and therefore owes allegiance to the Sultan of Turkey,” he continued. “But in fact for the last fifteen years it has been part of ours, although it would be extremely unwise to make any remark to that effect.” He shrugged elegantly. “Or to the fact that we bombarded Alexandria ten years ago, on Mr. Gladstone’s orders.”

  Pitt flinched, but Trenchard took no more than slight notice, just a flicker in his eyes.

  “The khedive is the sultan’s vassal,” he continued. “There is an Egyptian prime minister, a parliament, an Egyptian army and an Egyptian flag. The finances are probably of no interest to you except regarding cotton, which is the single exported crop here, and bought entirely by Britain, a fact of no little importance.”

  “Yes,” Pitt said grimly. “I was aware of that. And I think finances might be at the heart of the issue. But,” he added hastily, “I do not require a lecture on them at present. What about police?”

  Trenchard moved a little in his seat.

  “I would forget the entire subject of law and courts, if I were you,” Trenchard said dryly. “Egyptian jurisdiction over foreigners belongs to a whole series of courts, one for each consulate, and the circumlocutory machinations of any of them, let alone all, would confound even Theseus, trailing a thread behind him.” He spread his elegant hands wide. “In effect the British run Egypt, but we do it discreetly. There are hundreds of us, and we all answer to the consul-general, Lord Cromer, who is usually referred to simply as ’the lord.’ And I presume you know what they say about him?”

  “I have no idea,” Pitt confessed.

  Trenchard raised his eyebrows very slightly, a smile on his lips. “‘It is no good having right on your side if Lord Cromer is against you,’” he quoted. “Better, I think, in this situation, if he never hears of you.”

  “I shall certainly work to that end,” Pitt promised. “But I need to know about this woman, who she was before she came to England, and if she is really as impulsive and …”

  “Stupid,” Trenchard filled in for him, his eyes wide. “Yes, I can see the necessity. We’ll start among the Copts. I’ll give you a map and mark the most likely areas. I would assume that she comes from a family with a certain amount of money, since she obviously speaks English and has the means to travel.”

  “Thank you.” Pitt stood up, finding himself stiff and making an effort to stifle a yawn. It was still extraordinarily warm, his clothes were sticking to his skin, and he was far more tired than he had expected. “Where do I catch the tram for San Stefano?”

  “You have piasters?”

  “Yes … thank you.”

  Trenchard rose to his feet also. “Then if you turn right and walk about a hundred yards you will find the stop on your left, immediately across the street. But I would suggest at this time of evening, while you are unfamiliar with the city, that you take a horse carriage. It should not be more than eight or nine piasters, and worth it when you have a case to carry. Good luck, Pitt.” He held out his hand. “If I can be of assistance, please call me. If I know anything that might help I shall send a note to you at San Stefano.”

  Pitt shook his hand, thanked him again, and accepted his advice to take a carriage.

  The journey was not long but the heat had not abated in the crowded streets, and once again Pitt was thoroughly bitten by mosquitoes. By the time he arrived at the hotel he was exhausted, and itching everywhere.

  However, the hotel was indeed excellent and offered him a room at twenty-five piasters a night, as Trenchard had said. He was offered excellent and abundant food, but he accepted only fresh bread and fruit, and when he had eaten it he went up to his room. As soon as the door was closed he took off his shoes, walked over to the window and stared out at a brilliant black sky dotted with stars. He could smell the heat and the salt wind blowing in off the sea. He breathed in deeply and let it go in a long, aching sigh. The city was beautiful, uplifting, exciting, and so very far from home. He could hear the sound of the sea, occasional laughter, and a constant background noise like that of crickets in summer grass. It reminded him of childhood summers in the country, but he was too tired to enjoy it. He wished more than he could control and be master of that Charlotte were here, so he could say to her “Look,” or bid her listen to the faraway voices speaking an utterly different language, or share with her the alien, spicy odors of the night.

  He turned back to the unfamiliar room, took his clothes off and washed the dust from himself, then opened the soft drapes of the mosquito nets around the bed. He climbed in, carefully closing them again, and went to sleep almost immediately. He woke once in the darkness and for several moments could not think where he was. He missed the movement of the ship. He was oddly dizzy without it. Then realization flooded back to him, and he turned over and sank into oblivion again until late morning.

  HE USED THE FIRST TWO DAYS to learn all he could of the city. He began by purchasing suitable clothes for temperatures in the seventies at night and the eighties during the day. He made use of the excellent public transport system of trams, all newly painted, and trains, British built and oddly familiar even in the dazzling sunlight, against which he felt he was permanently squinting. Sometimes he walked the streets listening to the voices, watching the faces, noting the extraordinary mixture of languages and races. As well as Egyptians there were Greeks, Arm
enians, Jews, Levantines, Arabs, occasionally French, and everywhere English. He saw soldiers in tropical uniform, expatriates seeming much at ease, as if this was now home to them, the heat, the noise, the market haggling, the blistering brightness of everything. There were pale-faced tourists, tired and excited, determined to see everything. He overheard them chattering about moving on to Cairo, and then taking one of many steamers going up the Nile to Karnak and beyond.

  One elderly vicar, his white mustache gleaming against his mahogany skin, spoke enthusiastically about his recent trip. He described sitting at breakfast staring across the timeless Nile as if it had been eternity itself, his Egyptian Gazette open in front of him, his Dundee marmalade on his fresh toast, and the burial pyramids of the pharaohs on the skyline across the sands.

  “Perfectly splendid!” he said in a voice that might have been ringing across a gentleman’s club in London.

  It reminded Pitt sharply of the urgency of his mission, and forced him to begin asking for the Coptic family of Zakhari. Absorbing the millennia of the pharaohs; the centuries of Greece and Rome; the romance of Cleopatra; the coming of the Arabs, the Turks and Mamelukes; the conquest of Napoleon and then Nelson; would all have to wait. It was now the British who ruled, whatever the caliph in Istanbul pretended, and it was the ships of the world that sailed through the Suez Canal to India and the East beyond. It was to English cotton mills in the smoke and darkening winter of Manchester, Burnley, Salford and Blackburn that the harvest of Egypt was sold. And it was from the factories of England that the finished goods were brought back, through Suez and beyond.

  There was poverty in these hot streets with the dung and the flies. There was hunger and disease. He saw beggars sitting in the partial shade of sunbaked walls, moving with the shadows, asking for alms, for the love of God. Sometimes their bodies seemed whole, some even at a glance were crippled or pitted with sores, others were blind or maimed. Some faces were scarred by the pox, or disfigured with leprosy, and he found it hard not to look away.

  A few times he was spat at, and once he was caught on the elbow by a stone hurled from behind, though when he turned there was no one there.

  But there was poverty in England as well, cold and wet, gutters running over, and the diseases of a different climate, the hacking coughs of tuberculosis, and there, as here, the agony of cholera and typhoid. He could not weigh one against the other.

  He went back to the main suburb where the Christian Copts lived. Sitting in a small restaurant over a cup of coffee so thick and sweet he could not drink it, he began to ask questions. He used the excuse (which was the truth) that Ayesha was in trouble in London and he was seeking her family, or any friend or relative who might be able to help her. At the very least they should know of her predicament.

  It took him nearly two more days before he learned anything beyond rumor and surmise. Finally he agreed to meet with a man whose sister had been a friend of Ayesha’s, and by arrangement, Pitt had ordered dinner at the Casino San Stefano.

  Pitt was waiting at the table when an Egyptian man of about thirty-five stopped at the entrance of the dining room. The man was dressed in the traditional robes of the country, but the cloth was rich and the colors those of the warm earth. He gazed about for a moment or two, and then, apparently identifying Pitt among the other European guests, he made his way between the tables and bowed, introducing himself formally. “Good evening, Effendi. My name is Makarios Yacoub, and you are Mr. Pitt, I think, yes?”

  Pitt rose to his feet and inclined his head in a slight bow. “How do you do. Yes, I am Thomas Pitt. Thank you very much for coming.” He gestured to the other chair, inviting Yacoub to be seated. “May I offer you dinner? The food is excellent, but I daresay you know that.”

  “Are you yourself dining?” Yacoub enquired, accepting the seat.

  Pitt had already learned in his few days there to be indirect in his speech. Haste gained nothing but contempt. “It would be pleasant,” he replied.

  “Then by all means.” Yacoub nodded. “That is most gracious of you.”

  Pitt made a few remarks about his interest in the city, commenting on the beauty of some of the parts he had seen, especially the causeway between the old lighthouse and the city.

  “I felt as if, were I to close my eyes, then open them suddenly, I might see the Pharos as it was when it was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world,” he said, then felt self-conscious for voicing aloud such a fancy.

  But then he saw instantly that Yacoub understood. His face softened with a warmth and he relaxed a little in his seat. He was an Alexandrian and he loved to hear his city praised.

  “The causeway is called the Heptastadion,” he explained. “Built by Dinocrates. To the east is where the old harbor of the Middle Ages was. But there are so many other things you must see. If it is the past that interests you, there is the tomb of Alexander the Great. Some say it is beneath the Mosque of Nabi Daniel, others in the necropolis nearby.” He smiled apologetically. “Forgive me if I say too much. I wish to share my city with everyone who looks at it with the eye of friendship. You must walk along the Mahmudiya Canal to the Antoniadis Gardens, where there is history in every handful of the earth. The poet Callinachus lived there, and taught his students, and in 640 A.D. Pompilius prevented the king of Syria from capturing the city.” He shrugged a little. “And there is a Roman tomb,” he finished with a smile, as the waiter presented himself.

  “Are you familiar with our food?” Yacoub enquired.

  “Very little,” Pitt admitted, willing to allow him to help, both for practicality and courtesy.

  “Then I suggest Mulukhiz,” Yacoub replied. “It is a green soup, a great delicacy. You will enjoy it. And then Hamam Mahshi; that is stuffed pigeon.” He looked at Pitt questioningly.

  “That would be excellent, thank you,” Pitt agreed.

  Pitt asked him further questions about the city until the food was served. They were halfway through the soup, which was indeed delicious, when Yacoub at last raised the subject for which they were met.

  “You said that Miss Zakhari was in a certain degree of difficulty,” he said, laying his spoon down for a moment and looking more closely at Pitt. His voice was light, as if they were still discussing the city, but there was an intensity in his eyes.

  Pitt was aware that there was an excellent telephone service in the city, more reliable at times than that in London, and it was more than possible that Yacoub already knew of her arrest, and the charges. He must not be caught in a misrepresentation, let alone an outright falsehood.

  “I am afraid it is serious,” he conceded. “I am not sure whether she will have had the opportunity to inform her family, or perhaps she has not wished to cause them concern. However, if she were my daughter, or sister, I should prefer to know all the details as completely as possible, so that I might know how to help.”

  If Yacoub knew anything he kept it from his face. “Of course,” he murmured. “Naturally.” But he did not betray any surprise that Ayesha Zakhari should be in difficulty or danger. Pitt would have expected surprise, even alarm, and there was none. Was that because Yacoub had already been told of her predicament through the news, or was it something not unexpected from his knowledge of Ayesha herself? Pitt remembered Narraway’s warning with a sense of coldness, even here in the stifling dining room with its odors of food, and the breeze from the water drifting in through the open doors. The young man opposite him was charming, so easy of manner he could forget that his interests might be very different from Pitt’s, or from the British government’s.

  “You are acquainted with her family?” Pitt said aloud.

  Yacoub lifted his shoulders slightly, an elegant gesture that could have meant a number of things. “Her mother died many years ago, her father only three or four,” he answered.

  Pitt was surprised that he should feel a sense of pity. “Is there no one else? Brothers? A sister?”

  “No one,” Yacoub replied. “She was an only child. Per
haps that is why her father took such care that she should be educated. She was his dearest companion. She speaks French, Greek, and Italian, as well as English, of course. And Arabic is her native tongue. But it was philosophy in which she excelled, the history of thought and of ideas.” He was watching Pitt, and noted his surprise. “You look at a beautiful woman and think she seeks only to please,” he remarked.

  Pitt opened his mouth to deny it, and realized it was true, and Yacoub knew it. He felt himself blush, and said nothing.

  “She did not care much about pleasing,” Yacoub went on, a faint smile in his eyes more than on his lips, and he resumed eating, breaking the bread in his fingers. “Perhaps she did not need to.”

  “Did her father not wish to see her married well?” Pitt knew it was a somewhat impertinent question, but he needed far more information than this, and if she had no family alive then a friend was all there was to ask.

  Yacoub looked back at him. “Perhaps. But Ayesha was willful, and Mr. Zakhari was too fond of her to push her against her wish.” He took several more spoonfuls of his green soup before deciding to continue. “She had sufficient means not to need to marry, and she cared nothing for convention.”

  “Or love?” Pitt risked asking.

  Again, Yacoub gave the delicate gesture which could have meant almost anything. “I think she loved many times, but how deeply I have no idea.”

  Was that a euphemism? Pitt was floundering in a culture far different from his own. He still had little idea of what kind of woman Ayesha Zakhari was, except that she was unlike any other he knew. He wished profoundly that he could have asked Charlotte. She might have been able to cut through the words and grasp reality.

  “What sort of people did she love?” he asked.

  Yacoub finished his green soup and the waiter removed the plates and returned with the pigeon.

  Yacoub looked not at Pitt but at some point in the distance. “I knew only one personally,” he answered. Then, raising his eyes suddenly to Pitt’s, he demanded, “How does this help her, that you should know about Ramses Ghali? He is not in England. He can have nothing to do with her present troubles.”