An Echo of Scandal

by Laura Madeleine

  Langham seemed to be everywhere, during those first hours; smoking on the veranda with gentlemen, winding up the gramophone, allowing ladies to exclaim and touch his curled hair and try to win the hibiscus from his lapel. Everyone wanted to be near him. I, on the other hand – who could have been his twin – was invisible behind my tray. The apron and serving jacket relegated me to a piece of furniture, beneath notice. Only those who had been at Langham’s party the night of my arrival glanced my way, some – men and women both – with curiosity.

  By the time the clock struck eleven, the party was in full, wild swing. Hilde was pale under her powder, her smile painted on. Langham too had started to sweat in the hot night – unusual for him.

  I knew why. ‘Colonel Mayer’ had asked to meet Langham at the far end of the port at one o’clock. Of course, we all knew who would truly be waiting there. Whenever I thought about it, I felt sick.

  ‘What will you do to Cabrera?’ I had whispered earlier, in the safety of the study. ‘Will you kill him?’

  Langham had turned away.

  ‘It’s better you don’t know.’

  ‘I have to know.’ I moved until I could look into his eyes. ‘Cabrera is the only one who can connect me to the Señor’s murder. He could hold that over me, for years. He could use it to blackmail me again …’

  Langham put his hand against my cheek. ‘He won’t do anything, after tonight.’

  Hearing that cold promise, I shivered. I wanted Cabrera silenced. I wanted him gone. Langham would do that for me.

  When it was nearing midnight, he sought me out, under the pretence of giving orders. ‘The mahjoun,’ he muttered. ‘Go and get more, for god’s sake. They’re far too sober yet. This is like trying to drown fish.’

  It was true. Tangerines, for the most part, could hold their liquor. They were no match for the mahjoun though, which they gobbled like candy, their lips powdered with white. I exchanged a look with Bouzid, who was circling like a shark, keeping every glass filled to the brim. Slowly, the party began to grow more riotous. I saw one woman pour a bottle of champagne over a man’s head, while two others sprawled unconscious on the cushions of the veranda. Still more were at drunken business with each other in the shadows, trying to stifle gasps and moans. Finally, there was a great splash and a chorus of laughter as one man went careering into the pool.

  Half past midnight. It was time. I raced back to the kitchen, my heart hammering, my mouth dry with nerves. After a minute, Langham appeared, locking the kitchen door behind him.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked, retrieving my suit jacket from its hanger behind the door.

  I nodded, trying to be fast, my fingers slipping on the gilded buttons of the server’s jacket. He helped me to pull it from my shoulders, and within moments, we had swapped. He now wore the apron and the serving uniform. I was the one resplendent in white flannel. Last, he took out his pocket watch, and hooked it into my own waistcoat.

  ‘Remember, keep your head down, and don’t let anyone get too close,’ he said. ‘They have to believe I’m you, Ale, if I’m to have an alibi.’

  I nodded again, unable to speak, and caught him by the arms.

  ‘An hour and a half, by the Hotel Continental,’ he said rapidly. ‘Then we’ll be away from here. At two o’clock. You hear me?’

  We kissed, once, and too soon he was turning, picking up the tray of mahjoun, his head lowered.

  ‘Arthur!’ My cry stopped him by the door, and he looked back. His posture had already changed, his expression, his whole demeanour. It was as if I was looking at a stranger.

  Then he was gone, slipping through the shadows towards the back gate where Bouzid would be waiting. I grabbed the boater hat from the kitchen table and made for the lounge, keeping to the shadows.

  For forty-five, dreadful minutes I flitted through the rooms, lingered beneath tree branches and in doorways, careful to be seen only in glimpses by the guests who stumbled across the veranda and down the paths.

  When the clock in the lounge struck quarter past one, I almost sobbed with relief and made for the stairs, half running in case anyone should try to stop me. Finally, I reached the safety of the roof terrace with its locked door, and sagged against it, breathing hard, trying to stay calm. This was the part I didn’t like. Everyone at the party had to see me; they had to swear that Langham had been present all night, especially between one o’clock and half past.

  Was a murder happening even now? I thought feverishly, peering out across at the city. Was Cabrera dead, lying crumpled in some alleyway, or face down with a bullet in his back? How had Langham done it?

  I knelt down behind the parapet, wiping sweat from my upper lip, and checked the pocket watch. Twenty past one. I took the box of matches from my pocket, snapping three before I finally managed to light one and touch it to the waiting fuse. Then, I backed away to the farthest corner, watching it burn down, knowing that from this point on, there would be no return.

  The firework exploded into the night, red and gold and white. I stepped to the edge of the roof terrace and threw my arms wide, knowing my figure would be illuminated, in its distinctive white suit. Below in the gardens, people began to cheer and aah, pointing up at me and clapping, yelling, Arthur darling, don’t fall off!

  Done, I ducked back down. I had to hurry.

  At the bottom of the stairs from the terrace, I ran straight into Hilde.

  ‘People are coming up,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Quick.’

  She hustled me into Langham’s room and locked the door behind her, just as voices echoed in the corridor.

  ‘Langham,’ a man bellowed, hammering on the door, ‘come out and settle a bet!’

  ‘I think he’s busy,’ a woman’s voice slurred, ‘or didn’t you notice the bus boy was missing?’

  There were sniggers and Hilde threw a look at me. They were too close to the truth. Suddenly, she was kicking off her shoes, pulling the dress over her head. ‘Hold this,’ she hissed. I threw off the hat, ruffled my hair and turned my back to the door just as she opened it, wearing only her slip.

  The sniggers ceased.

  ‘If you’ll excuse us,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Mr Langham and I are enjoying a private conversation. We’ll re-join you in a moment.’

  She slammed the door and locked it. We didn’t move, listening to the laughter on the other side.

  ‘They’re at it again,’ the woman crowed, as they stumbled away back down the hall. ‘Who’d have thought! So much for the cook!’

  Hilde was dressing rapidly. ‘It’s nearly quarter to two,’ I told her, my pulse racing. ‘I have to get to the Continental. Hilde, what if he—’

  ‘Don’t.’ She looked at me, her face set. ‘For god’s sake, don’t talk about it any more.’

  She went ahead of me to make sure the way was clear. Before the front doors, we stopped, only for someone to yell my – Langham’s – name. We had only seconds. Hilde leaned in and kissed me on the mouth.

  ‘Go,’ she whispered, tears in her voice. ‘Just go.’

  I turned and fled. Behind me, I heard Hilde’s voice, falsely bright. ‘Oh, don’t try and stop him. He has some mad idea about taking out the yacht. I certainly can’t dissuade him …’

  Ten to two. I slipped through the gates of Dar Portuna, the scent of jasmine catching at my jacket like the hand of a lover. In the dark, dusty street, I swiped tears from my face.

  Don’t think, I told myself savagely. Hacer de tripas corazón.

  I reached the Hotel Continental in record time, with minutes to spare. I had almost run through the dark streets and was breathing hard, my chest constricted by the brassiere. The wound on the back of my head had started to throb again, tiredness and anxiety making me sick. Would Langham arrive with blood on his hands, staining his fine, white sleeves? With Cabrera dead, would I finally be free from my past?

  The illuminated sign of the Hotel Continental cast pools of red and green light on to the street. I edged into it, for comfort, glancing at t
he pocket watch. Three minutes to two.

  From the terrace above, I could hear the sound of gentle conversation, smell wafts of tobacco. I wished I was one of those guests; tipsy and oblivious to everything except the warm darkness and the ship lights that twinkled on the strait. When a figure in white stepped to the edge of the terrace, I almost cried out, but it was only a waiter in a neat serving jacket, clearing one of the tables. He saw me, though, and seemed to hesitate. Then he was gone.

  It didn’t make my nerves any better. I had made up my mind to walk to the other side of the dark street, to listen for footsteps when a door creaked open in the lower part of the hotel terrace, and the waiter emerged.

  ‘Monsieur Langham?’ he called. The green and red glow didn’t make it easy to see. ‘Are you there? It is Monsieur Langham, isn’t it?’

  My skin prickled. Was this part of the plan he hadn’t told me?

  ‘Yes,’ I said, keeping my voice low, doing my best impersonation of Langham’s familiar, clipped accent.

  The waiter came forwards. I tipped my hat even lower, pretending to look at the watch.

  ‘Here it is, monsieur. As you asked.’

  He was holding something out towards me. For a moment, I almost told him he was mistaken, until I realized what it was. It was Langham’s writing case, personalized, stamped with those two, golden letters.

  Slowly, I took it. When did he leave it here? I wanted to cry. What did he ask? Why was he here at all? But I couldn’t, the waiter would think I was mad, asking those questions about myself.

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered.

  ‘De rien, monsieur.’ He lingered, hoping for a tip. When I didn’t move, he gave up and disappeared back into the building.

  What was going on? Maybe Langham had been early, I thought rapidly; maybe he’d left our bags here, so as not to be suspicious. I flipped the latch of the writing case, thinking he might have left some note for me inside.

  But before I could open it, I heard scuffling, the sound of feet trying to walk quietly on the gritty stones. Two o’clock exactly. My heart leapt as I latched the case and stuck it beneath my arm, moving quickly to the corner.

  ‘I’m here,’ I called softly. ‘Is it—?’

  Light flared, blinding me. I threw up my arms, the case thudding to the dirt. Suddenly, I was surrounded, voices were shouting, hands were swarming out of nowhere to grip my arms and shoulders, shoving me face first to the ground. I screamed in panic but my mouth was full of dust, and I choked. Someone was pulling at my jacket. That sent me crazed, and I lashed out, clawing, kicking, thrashing at anyone within reach. It didn’t stop them. One man – I could smell it was a man – kicked me, before leaning all his weight on to my back, ripping Langham’s watch from my waistcoat, scrabbling through my pockets.

  Thieves, I thought wildly. I tried to yell for them to take what they wanted and leave me alone, but my voice wouldn’t work, all I could do was wheeze with pain and fear.

  But a pair of shoes were stepping into the light, and they didn’t look like they belonged to a thief. They were good shoes of black leather, below black suit trousers. I struggled, craning my neck until I could look up. A man was holding my passport in his hand, shining a torch down on to it. They had pulled it from my pocket, which I didn’t understand, because I had put my passport in the suitcase, hadn’t I?

  Then, through streaming eyes, I saw: it wasn’t my passport at all.

  Every knot of bravery I had tied around my heart unravelled when I realized what was happening.

  ‘It’s him,’ the man with the torch called in English, before looking down at me. ‘Arthur Langham, I am arresting you in the name of Her Majesty’s Service for the crime of treason against your country …’

  Tangier

  July 1978

  Sam fell silent, staring down at the letter.

  ‘He betrayed Ale.’ Zahrah’s voice was soft, calling them both back to the present. ‘After everything they had been through, he did that, knowing the danger.’

  ‘Maybe that’s not what happened.’ Sam swallowed. ‘Maybe there was some kind of mix-up, or Langham was double-crossed himself before he could get there, or—’

  Abruptly, his mind went back to the strange, brief letter he’d found in the writing case. He squeezed his eyes closed.

  ‘Why are you defending him?’ Zahrah demanded. ‘Can’t you see he planned it? Ale was a decoy not an alibi—’

  Silently, Sam stood up and went to his own pile of papers. There, sitting on top was the pencil scrawled note.

  A,

  I am sorry.

  One day, I hope you’ll understand.

  ‘He must have left this in the writing case for Ale to find,’ he said, handing it over to Zahrah. ‘He must have dumped the suitcase at the Continental, and hidden the note and the key in the writing case just in case Ale got away. But Ale never saw it. And I never mentioned it either …’ He trailed off. ‘Langham died that night,’ he forced himself to say. ‘His body washed up two days later, on one of the beaches.’

  Zahrah shook her head. ‘Maybe whatever happened with Cabrera went bad. Maybe there was a fight. Or—’

  ‘Maybe he ended it himself.’ Sam looked down at the letter.

  Silence stretched between them.

  ‘What about Ale?’ he asked suddenly. ‘What happened after the arrest, back in nineteen twenty-eight? Do you know?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Zahrah leafed through the pages that had been addressed to Sam, detailing what had happened, the night of the party. ‘Wait, it carries on, look.’

  ‘Thank god.’ He leaned in to see, close enough that Zahrah’s shoulder brushed against his. She smelled of the kitchen, warm oil and faint spices.

  But before he read a word, there were footsteps in the corridor, raised voices and the door was shoved open, without so much as a knock. Madame Sarah’s sister stood there.

  ‘You see!’ she said, pointing to Zahrah.

  Sam jumped up from the bed. ‘It’s not like—’ he started, holding up his hands.

  ‘This is no good.’ The woman was incensed. ‘My sister will not stand for this in her house.’

  ‘We were just reading.’ Zahrah sounded indignant.

  The woman made a derisive sound, eyeing Zahrah’s cropped hair, her bare legs and sandalled feet beneath the djellaba, before rounding on Sam. ‘You want to stay? Then she leaves. And you pay what you owe. Now.’

  Madame Sarah came hurrying on to the landing, her face bright red. ‘I am sorry, Mr Hackett,’ she said, ‘but …’

  He looked away. This was her house after all; she shouldn’t be the one apologizing. Zahrah stood up from the bed, staring at Madame Sarah’s sister with obvious dislike.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. None of this was Zahrah’s fault. Or Madame Sarah’s. He met his landlady’s eyes. ‘It’s OK. I know I’ve been a terrible lodger. You deserve better.’ He gathered up the few remaining coins on the bedside table. ‘I can’t pay in advance for another week anyway. Here, this is all I have.’ He straightened up, looking around at his few scattered possessions. ‘I’ll be gone as soon as I’ve packed and tidied up. I don’t think it’ll take me very long.’

  Zahrah stood behind him, holding the papers.

  ‘Can my friend wait with me?’ he asked. ‘Then we’ll go.’

  ‘Yes,’ Madame Sarah said, interrupting her sister’s refusal. She hesitated, before holding something out to him. It was the writing case. ‘This is yours.’

  He smiled as he took it, and she gave him a small smile in return. Then she was taking her sister’s arm and steering her towards the stairs, ignoring her furious whispers.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Sam muttered, once they were gone. ‘Do you mind waiting? I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  He began to stride around the room, grabbing odds and ends. A creased paperback, a useless sock, his other shirt, left on the floor. He dragged his duffel bag out and b
egan to shove things in haphazardly.

  ‘Was that the truth?’ Zahrah asked, watching him. ‘About the money?’

  He nodded, face burning to the tips of his ears. ‘I gave everything I had to the police as a bribe. Didn’t work.’

  ‘Then what are you going to do?’

  ‘Honestly?’ He stuffed a t-shirt into the bag. ‘I have no idea. My parents said they would pay for a one-way ticket home. I guess it’s time for me to telephone them.’

  ‘But you said you had no money, so how can you telephone?’

  Was that a hint of mockery in her voice? He carried on packing, not looking at her.

  ‘I’ll ask my friend Abdelhamid,’ he said quickly. ‘I sold him my typewriter. He might be able to get me a phone call. Or maybe I could sell back …’ He stopped, looking down at the writing case. The police must have seized it when Ale was arrested, he realized. They must have filed it away as evidence, left it forgotten on a shelf for thirty years, until the building was emptied, until Mouad bought it and took it back to the shop, where it had sat, waiting for him.

  He held it out. ‘You should have this,’ he told Zahrah. ‘It was never really mine.’

  She took it, and slowly opened the lid. The smell of the past was released into the room once more, drowning them, taking them back.

  She lifted the thick envelope that Alejandro had addressed to her – the one Sam presumed contained the will – and placed it gently inside. He wanted to ask what else Ale had written on all those pages, but they were Zahrah’s after all, and she didn’t seem inclined to tell him. She closed the case with a snap.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, standing up decisively. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Go where? I told you—’

  She cut him off with an impatient noise. ‘Sam Hackett, there is an entire house standing empty, just a few minutes away. You can stay with me.’

  ‘What about the police?’ The threat had been enough to drive Ale away. ‘What if they come to raid the place?’