The Desert Castle

by Isobel Chace

  ‘I was beginning to think I’d have to fetch a step-ladder,’ he mocked her.

  She laughed with him. ‘You cast aspersions on my lack of inches at your peril,’ she warned him. ‘I’m very sensitive about it.’

  ‘Why?’ he said, genuinely surprised. ‘Everything about you is in perfect proportion, so why should you care? If anything it adds to your charms.’

  Her mouth fell open in astonishment ‘Don’t be silly!’ she rebuked him.

  ‘But it’s true,’ he declared. ‘That fragile daintiness was the first thing I noticed about you. I think most men would find it attractive—but I suspect you know that very well!’

  ‘There’s nothing in the least fragile about me!’ she retorted, as angry as she was embarrassed. ‘I’ve always been as tough as they come!’

  He raised his eyebrows and she knew that he was laughing at her and that made her crosser than ever. ‘Miss Shirley, you’ve got to be kidding!’

  ‘And don’t call me Miss Shirley!’ she snapped. ‘At least, not like that! I know you don’t like me—’

  ‘Who’s being silly now?’ he taunted her. ‘Come on inside, Marion. I have something rather special to show you!’

  She saw that Lucasta had gone ahead, running over the rough ground, intent on being the first to see where her uncle had chosen to live. Marion followed more slowly, stepping through the heavily studded door into the dim interior with a feeling that she was going forth to meet her destiny and that the dye had been cast long, long before that it was here, that something momentous was going to happen to her.

  ‘Through here,’ Gregory urged her, breaking the spell of fearful anticipation she had woven around herself. ‘These used to be the rooms where the Emirs and their courtiers relaxed in the evenings. There! What do you think of that?’

  Marion looked about her with total belief. The walls were covered with the most stunning frescoes she had ever seen. Here was a young girl, beautiful in her nakedness, emerging from her bath; there was a hunting scene, with a hawk about to swoop on its frightened prey; and on the third wall a feast was in progress, the men elaborately robed, the women scarcely clad at all as they danced before their masters.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  She put her hands up to her face. ‘Oh, Gregory!’ she breathed. ‘They’re gorgeous! How I wish my father could have seen them!’

  CHAPTER III

  ‘Can you do it?’

  It was the second time he had asked her, but still Marion hesitated. ‘I thought it was contrary to the Moslem religion to depict living creatures?’ she said aloud.

  ‘That came later than when these were executed,’ he answered impatiently. ‘It was forbidden because it was thought to be imitating the work of the Creator. In Moghul India, though, it was encouraged for the very same reason. What about it, Marion? Can you do anything to preserve them? They need quite a bit of restoration work done on them too. Can you do it?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘I can clean them. I can’t promise to do more than that.’ She peered anxiously at a piece of the wall in front of her.

  ‘You ought to get an expert—’

  ‘I have. I got you.’

  ‘I’ve done similar work with my father,’ she encouraged herself, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘But I’ve never been responsible—I’d never forgive myself if I did anything to harm them!’

  Gregory came and stood beside her. ‘I didn’t pick you blind,’ he said. ‘I made a few enquiries about you before I’d ever seen you—’

  ‘From my mother, I suppose?’

  He nodded. ‘And from some of your father’s colleagues. The results were pretty favourable or you wouldn’t be standing here now.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You mean you believe I can do it?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  He seemed incredibly tall. Of course he didn’t believe in giants, he was one himself!

  ‘But what about Lucasta?’ she asked him.

  ‘Give her something to do,’ he advised. ‘I’ll see what I can do about finding her some other playmates to amuse her while she’s here. Perhaps Denise will oblige—’ He broke off as the sound of female laughter rang through the castle. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t know she was coming over today, but perhaps it’s just as well. You had to get to know each other sooner or later.’

  Hurrying, high-heeled footsteps came running towards them and a second later a tall, blonde-haired girl stood in the doorway.

  ‘Are you surprised to see me, cherie?’ she asked in prettily accented English. She pouted her full lips like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘I know you said not before next weekend, but I was lonely without you. I wanted to see for myself this art woman you are bringing here. Is this she? But you are playing some game with me! I do not believe that this one is interested only in stupid pictures!’

  ‘Believe what you like,’ Gregory replied, sounding amused. ‘Did you come alone?’

  ‘No, I brought the English engineer with me to meet your niece, Lucasta.’ She put her hand on Gregory’s arm, spreading possessive fingers along his sleeve. ‘You need not look like that, with the disapproving mouth! Surely you would prefer he takes an interest in Lucasta— than he does so in me?’

  Gregory didn’t bother to answer her. ‘The art woman, as you call her, is called Marion Shirley, Marion, this is Denise Dam. She lives in Beirut, but since Papa presented her with her own aeroplane the world has become her oyster.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he give me my own plane?’ the French girl smiled up at him. ‘He approves of you, darling, but he likes me to come and see you.’

  ‘But not alone,’ he reminded her, the caustic note in his voice betraying the fact that they had argued about that before.

  ‘He is old-fashioned,’ Denise admitted. ‘He likes you, darling, but he would like you much better when I have your ring safely on my finger.’

  Another potential fiancee, Marion noted. Somehow she felt much less sorry for Denise than she had for the rejected Judith in London.

  ‘You wouldn’t care for me as a husband,’ Gregory said easily. ‘The forbidden fruit has far greater attractions—for us both.’

  Denise was pleased by the idea and looked it. ‘Hush, you will shock Miss Shirley. I am sure she would never chase after a man as I do after you!’ She turned to Marion, her eyes as hard as pebbles. ‘Would you fly hundreds of miles to spend a single hour with Gregory?’

  ‘Hundreds? No.’ Marion made a play of considering the matter further. ‘I might fly from Beirut.’

  ‘To see me, or to see my frescoes?’ Gregory asked lazily.

  Her laughter surfaced and burst like a bubble between them. ‘What do you think?’

  The corners of his mouth kicked up into a wintry smile. ‘I think I could be tempted to try and change your mind if you look at me like that!’

  Denise’s fingers tightened on his arm. ‘You are not to flirt with the art woman when I am here, Gregory,’ She admonished him. ‘It makes me very jealous!’

  He laughed down at her. ‘You don’t know what the word means,’ he told her. ‘That comes of having every man in the Middle East plotting to get his share of your company.’

  Denise pouted. ‘You make me sound like a fille de joie, and I’m not! Me, I am very respectable!’

  ‘Your father sees to that!’ he agreed drily. ‘Come, we’d better join the others and see what my niece and your engineer are getting up to.’

  Even if there had been no frescoes, Marion would have been delighted to see castle. The room Gregory had chosen to make his sitting-room was large with a vaulted roof supported by some pleasing arches, all of them decorated with inscriptions in the Arabic script. Later, Gregory was to tell her that they were later than the walls they decorated and were in the style known as Floriated Kufic, which probably originated in Egypt towards the end of the eighth century. A number of rugs lay higgledy-piggledy on the polished tiles that formed the floor, a
nd some very English easy chairs complete with William Morris patterned covers stood here and there round the room. Marion wondered where they could have come from. Was it possible that he had had them shipped out from England himself?

  Lucasta, looking smug and well pleased with herself, preened herself and sat a little closer to the young man who was talking to her, making Sure that his attention remained on her and did not drift away to anyone else—Denise Dain in particular. Marion was amused to notice that Lucasta was sufficiently like her uncle to be quite sure of herself where the opposite sex was concerned. She doubted if it would ever occur to either of than that to some people they might prove to be less than wholly desirable.

  She shook the young man’s hand without him even looking at her and found out that his name was Gaston Brieve and that he was helping to build a bridge somewhere in the Lebanon.

  ‘I come down here quite a bit with Denise,’ he proffered shyly. ‘But I don’t have to rely on her transport. I can come down by car in a few hours most weekends, that is, if Mr. Randall doesn’t mind?’

  Lucasta fluttered her eyelashes and said her uncle would be charmed to see him any time he chose to visit them. Marion began to worry that Lucasta wasn’t going to prove to be quite a handful and she wondered exactly what he duties as chaperon were going to entail. She turned impulsively towards Gregory, only to find that he was watching her closely, his mouth as disapproving as she had ever seen it. What she had been about to say to him went completely out of her mind. ‘Can you read those inscriptions?’ she asked instead.

  ‘No,’ he answered her. ‘They are more or less indecipherable, but it doesn’t present the problem one would suppose. Koranic inscriptions are not there to be read but to create an awareness of the divine presence.’

  ‘How strange,’ she murmured.

  He stood up, his eyes still holding hers. ‘Would you like to see your room? We’ll be having lunch soon and expect you’d like to tidy up first. Lucasta seems to have found her own way around.’

  Marion rose too. ‘She’s very much at home,’ she agreed.

  Gregory’s glance mocked her. ‘Gaston won’t do her any harm,’ he said.

  ‘I hope not. She’s very young.’

  ‘And you don’t approve of her holding hands with a comparative stranger?’ he finished for her. ‘Isn’t that a little prudish?’

  Marion wished he didn’t have the effect of making her feel like a cat whose fur he was stroking the wrong way. He gave her an agitated feeling that distressed her, and she didn’t like him any better because of it.

  ‘I feel responsible for her. It’s why I’m here after all.’

  ‘Partly,’ he acknowledged. His eyes swept over her and came back to her face. ‘Lucasta can look after herself, my dear—probably better than you can.’

  He led the way down a long corridor and threw open the door of a room at the far end. ‘Lucasta is in the other wing with me,’ he told her. ‘I thought you might like to get away from us every now and then. Nobody will disturb you here.’

  She had to admit it was a very pleasant room. It was simply furnished with an iron bedstead and a plywood cupboard for her clothes, but its walls too had once been decorated with frescoes, though they had not survived nearly as well as the others she had seen. These were smoke-blackened and had been scribbled on by passing visitors with disastrous results.

  ‘Who would have had a fire in here?’ she demanded, running her finger-tips over the black soot.

  ‘The Bedu. A man and his two wives were in residence here when I came. I moved them into one of the outbuildings and provide them with proper heating and food. In return, the two women take it in turns to cook for me.’

  Marion tried to keep the shock his words had given her to herself. ‘Do they speak English?’ she managed to ask.

  ‘The man manages a few words—mostly Glubb Pasha, whom he says he knew well. He claims he got his gun from him and is never to be seen without it. He has a rather bloodthirsty appearance, but he’s never shot anyone yet, to my knowledge. If you’re afraid of him, stay out of his way, because if he guesses that you’re nervous of him his feelings will be hurt. He has a very high opinion of the British.’

  Marion was willing to bet with herself that no one within a hundred miles was as dangerous as the man beside her, and then she caught herself wondering why she thought so and was rather glad that he, couldn’t read her thoughts. She went over to the window and found to her surprise that it didn’t look out over the desert, but over a small, enclosed garden that was bright with flowers and running water.

  ‘I shall need quite a few supplies before I can start cleaning the frescoes,’ she said, suddenly afraid that he might follow her and box her in against the window. ‘You should have told me in Amman and I could have given you a list of what I’ll need.’

  ‘I can get Denise to fly them down from Beirut.’

  She raised an eyebrow, looking down at her hands.

  ‘Doesn’t she mind being your messenger boy?’

  He chuckled. ‘Messenger girl, please! She hasn’t raised any objections so far. We understand one another very well, I believe, and she likes to give pleasure—’

  ‘I’m sure she does!’ Marion agreed warmly.

  ‘There are worse ambitions,’ he said, his eyes very lazy beneath his dark brows. He stretched out a hand and she winced away from him, her skin smarting with nervous anticipation of his touch. He pushed open the window with a malicious little smile and pointed through it to the flame tree that graced the far corner of the garden. ‘What are yours, Miss Shirley?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

  He bent his head. ‘Then why condemn those who do?’

  She opened her eyes wide. ‘I don’t. Your morals are your own affair!’

  His eyes glinted. ‘Remember that, Marion Shirley, and we’ll get along very well.’ He stepped away from her. ‘Fear and ignorance lie behind most instant condemnations. It makes one wonder what I could have done to frighten you. Perhaps when we know one another better you’ll tell me?’

  Not if she could help it! Marion threw back her head to show him that she didn’t care what he said, but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. She supposed it was a kind of cowardice, but she would have done anything at that moment to get rid of him, out of her room as quickly as possible.

  ‘Mr. Randall, would you mind if I experimented with the frescoes in here first?’ she said loudly.

  ‘It was Gregory when I showed you the other frescoes,’ he reminded her. He looked about the room, his legs slightly apart and his hands on his hips. ‘This room was part of the women’s quarters, which makes the subject matter of many of the frescoes rather—startling, shall we say? I hope they won’t shock you.’

  She forgot her anger with him and laughed. ‘I have seen the naked female form before, Mr. Randall,’ she said demurely.

  He gave her an appreciative smile. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he mocked her. ‘Will you bring the list of what you need to the lunch table? It’s still winter, and the weather is rather unsettled. I’d rather Denise got away well before dark.’

  She nodded. She could hardly wait for him to shut the door behind him, before flinging herself on to the bed. She was seldom tired, and she refused to admit that she was tired now, but the strain of having Gregory Randall in the same room with her had told on her nerves and had left her feeling as flat as a pancake. The less she saw of him while she was here the better, she thought. She would concentrate on those glorious frescoes and spend all the rest of her time with Lucasta. It sounded a very satisfactory programme and she hugged herself with glee. Imagine it, the wonder of it, to make those pictures come to life again, to restore their colours to their original singing hues, and to piece together the parts that were missing with the same delicate touch that her father had taught her so painstakingly in Greece.

  She looked about the room, trying to make the shadowy figures on the wall come alive Only some of them were women, she di
scovered. The rest, in various stages of fright, seemed to be trying to rush across a narrow bridge which was held by devils equally intent on throwing them off, down into the abyss on either side. Could this be someone’s idea of the Entrance of Paradise? It seemed likely, for, in another place, massed soldiers were advancing, their war wounds very much in evidence, apparently certain of their place in heaven. So the women were the ever-virgin houris who would add to their delights throughout eternity, Marion decided, and was annoyed to discover that Gregory Randall had been right. The frankness of the pictures had shocked her after all, not for what they revealed, but more because of the attitude of mind they implied. It was not her idea of paradise to spend her eternity beneath the soles of her husband’s feet, if she were lucky enough to be there at all. Yet had the Christians of the time given their women a better deal? Not if the evidence of St Anthony, cowering away from the evils of womankind in the desert, could be believed.

  After a while she sat on the edge of the bed and wrote out her list of requirements. She hoped Denise would be able to get the things she wanted and that she wouldn’t have to send home to her mother for some of them. Water seemed to be in plentiful supply, and it would probably be possible to buy a soda-less soap, but she was less certain about the chemicals. Aceticum anhydricane, barium hydroxide and pyriduium all were essential for what she wanted to do She wrote them down, and then wrote them down again in capital letters in case Denise couldn’t read her writing.

  Then, even though she knew they were probably all waiting to start lunch, she took a last look at the faded frescoes, arguing with herself exactly how she was going to tackle their restoration. First she thought she would begin in one place and then in another, and then she noticed the small, shy-looking houri in the corner of the room who had something familiar about her, though quite what it was Marion couldn’t decide. She would begin with her, she decided, because she felt an immediate sympathy with her. She knew just how she felt with all those soldiers marching into heaven. She, too, would have hidden in a corner under the circumstances and hope to be overlooked. That was how she felt when Gregory Randall stood over her, looking down at her with that superior air of his, his mouth a tight line of disapproval. Not that Gregory would want her, but the poor little houri couldn’t have been as certain of escaping the horrible fate in store for her.