“And did Keeling work in intelligence, too?”
“As a matter of fact he did—during the war, in Cairo. But at the time of his death he was director-general of the survey of Egypt and president of the Cotton Research Board.”
“A good cover for espionage if ever I heard one. Do you know if he had any dealings with Miss Bell? Had they a history I should know about?”
“Not as far as we know. But the very nature of these things means that a great deal of what occurred during the war remains a secret.”
“But doesn’t it seem odd to you that Keeling and Miss Bell, both of whom worked in Cairo in intelligence during the war, went on to die as supposed suicides?” I asked. “What if someone wanted them dead and made the murders look like suicides?”
“It’s a possibility, of course. But we’ve never thought about connecting the two cases because—”
“Because the suggestion is that your own government, or an agency acting on its behalf, may have something to do with their deaths?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite in those terms,” Davison said dismissively.
“I’d rather know the whole truth, if you have access to it,” I said.
“Yes, of course, but I promise on this occasion there is nothing else I can tell you. I’ll put out some feelers, see what I can come up with, but at the moment there really is nothing to link their deaths.”
“That’s not quite true,” I said, taking up the photographs of the archaeologist and his wife. “There is something that links them together: the Woolleys.” I tried to picture a sequence of possible events, the scenes flashing through my mind like a series of imagined tableaux. “Why would a man kill himself six months after getting married? That doesn’t seem right to me, as he would surely still be in the first flush of romance. Of course, he may have realized that he had made a terrible mistake, or he could have faced the prospect of ruin. Perhaps he had saddled himself with debt or embroiled himself in an impending scandal in his personal life. Those need to be ruled out. With suicide, there are so many factors one needs to take into account, but there’s something about that case that strikes me as odd. And then, seven years later, Miss Gertrude Bell, at the peak of her achievements, takes her own life by an overdose of barbiturates. That too doesn’t ring true. These letters written by her to her father just before her death—there is something very queer about them. Why weren’t they sent? How did they end up in that seed tin? Why have they just turned up now?”
Davison was looking at me with a mix of admiration and bafflement. “I’m at a loss to know what to say,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have any answers.”
“The ‘suicide’ of Colonel Keeling, Katharine Woolley’s first husband, in 1919,” I continued. “The ‘suicide’ of Miss Bell in 1926, whom we know had dealings with Leonard Woolley and who described Katharine as dangerous. Then the recent discovery of these letters—letters written by Gertrude Bell in which she directs us to Ur to look for her killer. Could the murderer be either Leonard or Katharine Woolley?”
“But what could be their motive?”
“Something that is hidden out of sight, at least for the moment,” I said. “It could be connected with their intelligence work. We know that Colonel Keeling, Miss Bell, and Leonard Woolley all served in secret operations during the war. Perhaps that’s something you can look into.”
Davison nodded and scribbled in his notebook. Although we were sitting in the shade of the terrace, the breeze had dropped and the heat was becoming unbearable. I shifted in my seat and took another sip of my soda water, which was now lukewarm. “Of course, there is another possibility.”
“There is?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, pausing for a moment. “The Woolleys, the husband and the wife, could have been responsible for both murders.”
“What do you mean? As if they had some kind of pact?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “People have done stranger things for love—or some warped version of it.” I thought back to the case in Tenerife and the mess Davison had got himself into over his feelings for a young man, whose partly mummified body had been found in a cave. And I thought of my former husband, Archie, and the scandal surrounding my disappearance for ten days at the end of 1926.
“Yes, indeed, but best not to dwell on that,” said Davison as he noticed the cloud of melancholy that had started to steal over me. “So, what do you think? If I stay here in Baghdad, are you happy to travel down to Ur? See what you can dig up? As I said, I’m certain you’re the perfect person for this.”
As Davison continued to talk—about what an extraordinary job I had done in Tenerife, how I had brilliantly applied my skills as a novelist to the business of solving crimes—I thought of my old life as a conventional wife and mother. Archie’s affair with Miss Neele, followed by the nasty rash of newspaper headlines that followed my disappearance, the ridiculous rumors that Archie was somehow responsible, the allegations that I had staged the whole thing as some cheap publicity stunt, had taken their inevitable toll. And then there was the interview I had been persuaded to give to the Daily Mail earlier in the year which was designed, in that dreadful phrase, to “put the record straight.” Little did anyone know how much I had drawn on my skills as a novelist during that meeting.
I often wondered, when I woke in the middle of the night and was unable to get back to sleep, whether I could have saved my marriage. If I had been more attentive to Archie . . . if I had been a better wife . . . if I had never taken up writing and had simply devoted myself to him and his concerns, and laughed at the inane jokes of his golfing friends and never had a complicated thought in my head. Would that have made any difference? Of course, it was all too late now. The divorce had gone through. We were no longer man and wife. But if I was no longer a wife, who was I? A mother, of course: yes, always. An author? After that awful period of writer’s block following my mother’s death, I had produced a couple of books of which I was not proud. But I hoped I was back on track now. After all, I had no option: writing was the way I earned my living. But what else?
“Agatha . . . are you all right?” It was Davison. “Did you hear what I was saying?”
“Sorry, it’s this heat,” I said, feeling a little dizzy. “I’m not sure Baghdad entirely agrees with me.”
“Yes, you do look a little pale. I say, why don’t I walk you back to your room?”
“That would be very kind, thank you,” I said as Davison took my arm. “I really do think it’s best if I lie down.”
But I had no intention of taking a rest.
2
After Davison had safely seen me into my room—and arranged to meet me for breakfast at the hotel the following day in order to say goodbye—I took a quick bath and changed into a silk blouse. I walked out onto the balcony and watched the sunset turn the Tigris red. In the distance I could hear the call to prayer echo around the ancient city.
I had been in Baghdad for only a day, and everything about it seemed so exotic, so wonderfully oriental. Even though I had traveled the world, or a good deal of it, during my 1922 tour with Archie, I had never visited anywhere like this. I was desperate to explore on my own and so, armed with my guidebook, I ventured downstairs, through the cool of the lobby with its marble floor, and out into the street.
The contrast between the hotel and the world outside could not have been greater, and for a moment I had to steady myself by a palm tree as I took it all in. The main thoroughfare, Rashid Street, which ran along parallel to the Tigris, was full of a pulsating mass of people, all touting goods for sale: a cacophony of voices proclaimed fish squirming in barrels; partridges squashed together in undersized cages; pots and pans of every description; goods made from reeds (brushes, baskets, mats, even shoes); cheese and yogurt from the milk of buffaloes; spices of every description, most of which I had never seen or even heard of; tables piled high with strange vegetables and odd-looking fruits; tailored clothes for the discerning Arab gentleman; cheap-looking garments clear
ly more suited to the servant classes; items of jewelry that shimmered with delicate mother-of-pearl and startling lapis lazuli; a stall that sold a range of oddly shaped musical instruments that I wasn’t sure could be blown, plucked, or rattled; and tools for the land and garden, some of which looked like they could inflict a nasty head injury.
As I walked, my sense of smell was assaulted by aromas sweet and foul, and at times I had to take my handkerchief from my handbag to cover my mouth and nose. I had been warned about this before leaving England. It had been one in a litany of objections raised by my family and some friends when they heard that I intended to travel to Baghdad. Sewers in the streets, pestilence and the threat of disease, the danger from the natives, the unstable political situation, the awful climate, the insects, the length of the journey—all had been used in an effort to dissuade me from traveling to the Near East.
Of course, I could tell no one about the real reason for my visit: my work for Davison and the Secret Intelligence Service. My sister, Madge, and Carlo, my secretary and friend, had all been in favor of me taking a holiday—after all, my daughter Rosalind was away at boarding school in Bexhill—and had approved when I had popped into Cook’s, the travel agents, and booked a passage to the West Indies. Then, just a few days before I was due to leave, I received a message from Davison. The letters surrounding the mysterious death of Gertrude Bell had come to light and he needed someone to investigate further. Although I was initially reluctant, as soon as he mentioned passage on the Orient Express, and then the chance of visiting Ur, famous for the exquisite treasures that I had seen featured in the press, I told him that I would cancel my holiday. The West Indies could wait.
“You’re going where?” screeched my sister when I told her of my change of plan.
“To Baghdad, via Damascus, traveling on the Orient Express as far as Stamboul and then the Express.”
“You must be out of your mind,” Madge continued, before launching into a tirade of a dozen reasons why such a journey was not only unwise but dangerous. “You must be unhinged, Agatha. Please tell me you’re not having another one of your queer episodes.”
“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” I said. “You know what the doctors told me.”
“I know, but I’m just worried for you, that’s all,” she said. “What if anything were to happen to you out there? What about Rosalind? Don’t you think you owe it to her not to do anything foolhardy? Of course, James and I would look after her,” she said, referring to her husband, “but even so, it would be beastly for her to lose you after all that’s happened. And what’s wrong with the West Indies? They would be so much more restful.” She paused. “And why have you gone and altered your plans? I just don’t understand what’s behind all of this.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be extremely safe,” I said. I had already prepared a story to explain why I had changed my mind. I told her—and Carlo—of how I had met a naval officer and his wife at a dinner party and how they had enthused about the delights of Baghdad. It was perfectly civilized, they had said; in fact, Mesopotamia was the birthplace of civilization, the area where the cuneiform script had been invented, the oldest form of writing in the world. That had seemed to silence Madge, and she retreated in a sulk.
“All by yourself?” said my faithful secretary Carlo, when I told her of the trip. “But you don’t know anyone there, or anything about it.”
“You’re right, but it’s about time I did something a little more exciting,” I replied. “After all, Rosalind is happy at school. You can go and take that trip to stay with your sister. I’ll only be away for a matter of weeks. I’ll be back for Christmas.”
As I gazed up at the turquoise and gold dome of the Haydar Khana Mosque and heard snatches of Arabic all around me—a language I could not understand—the thought of an English Christmas seemed like an impossibility.
I continued wandering along Rashid Street until I came to the Souk al-Safafeer, full of men hammering copper into pitches and pots, but did not stay long as the deafening noise was bringing on a headache. The dizziness I had first felt on the terrace of the hotel had also returned. I felt breathless and in desperate need of a glass of water. I made my way out of the first exit I saw, into a side street, but instead of walking in the direction of Rashid, I must have taken a wrong turning, because I found myself in a darkened alleyway that ran between the backs of run-down houses. I looked around. There was no one to ask for directions to the main street. I tried to take a deep breath to calm myself, but I could feel my heart beating, a fast rhythm that only made me more afraid. The stench from a nearby trough was overwhelming, and I tasted bile in my mouth. In that instant, even though I could see no one, I was sure that I felt someone’s eyes on me.
As I walked down the alley, back towards what I thought was the direction of the copper souk, a door in one of the houses opened and a figure appeared. He was a boy on the verge of manhood. He exclaimed something in a guttural language I could not understand, but within a matter of seconds it was clear what he wanted as his long, bony figures started jabbing at my handbag. I told myself that it would be unlikely he would grab my bag; I knew there were extremely severe penalties for even minor crimes. I felt a sweaty hand encircle my wrist, soon followed by a sharp pull on the bag.
“No, I’m sorry, I’m not going to give it you,” I said loudly, in the grandest voice I could muster.
The boy replied with an obscene-sounding flow of invective.
“I’m not carrying any money and there is nothing of value inside,” I said, relieved that I had left my poisons safely locked up inside one of my cases in my hotel room. It was clear that he couldn’t understand a word of English, but I persisted. “The handbag only contains items of sentimental value,” I added, pleading with my eyes. “Photographs of my daughter, back in England. My dog, Peter.”
The boy was standing close enough now for me to feel his breath on my skin and see the light line of down across his upper lip. It was obvious he was not yet old enough to shave. But there was something in his eyes—fear, hesitancy, kindness, even—that told me he didn’t like what he was doing.
“Your parents wouldn’t be very proud of you, would they?” I said. “What would your mother think?” Perhaps he did understand something of this, as his eyes widened at the mention of the word mother. But instead of loosening his grip as I had hoped, his hands tightened around my bag.
“Help!” I shouted. “I’m being attacked. Help!”
Even before the words were out, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. The boy let go of my bag and ran down the alley, turned a corner, and disappeared. I fell back against the wall and clutched my handbag to my chest.
“Are you hurt?” The voice was that of an American.
I turned to see a tall, slim man dressed in a light linen suit. He was about my age and impossibly handsome, with dark, slicked-back hair, and a mustache.
“That swine didn’t hit you, did he?” he said, looking for any signs of injury.
“No, I’m all right, just a little shaken,” I said.
“You’ve got to be careful around here in the evenings. There are some unpleasant types walking the streets.” He paused. “What are you doing back here?”
“I was wandering around the copper souk and took an exit into an alleyway, and the next thing I knew, I was lost,” I said, knowing that I sounded rather foolish.
“Well, there’s no need to worry now,” he said kindly. “You’re safe, and that’s all that matters.” He looked down the alley. “I’ve half a mind to go after that kid. Show him what it means to feel scared.” He took another look at me and decided against it. “Let’s get you back to your hotel—you are staying in a hotel?”
“Oh, yes, the Carlton,” I said.
“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself,” he said, and we started to walk down the alley. “My name is Harry Miller.”
“Miller?” I said. “Why, that’s my maiden name. My father was Frederick Alvah Miller from
New York. You’re not part of the same family?”
“No, we’re from Philadelphia,” he replied as we stepped into the copper souk. “And your married name?”
“Mrs. Agatha Christie,” I said, my words getting lost amid a thousand hammer blows.
“Sorry, this damnable noise! I can’t hear a thing. Follow me.”
He led me out through a maze of stalls, tiny compartments filled with a variety of pots and pans and metal-beating equipment, staffed by men who looked exactly alike to me.
“How do you know your way around?” I asked.
“I’ve been coming here on and off for a while,” he said when we reached the relative quiet of Rashid Street. “Now, first things first. I wouldn’t advise it—knowing it wouldn’t get you very far—but I must ask: Do you want to report the incident to the police?”
“Oh, no, the boy didn’t take anything, and it was silly of me to wander off like that.”
“Well, what do you say we go and have a drink? It will help steady your nerves.”
I thought his approach rather forward. “I’d much sooner just return to my hotel, the Carlton, if you don’t mind, Mr. Miller.”
“Very well, but let me at least walk you back, Mrs. . . . ? I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Mrs. Agatha Christie.”
“Well, how do you do, Mrs. Christie,” he said with an amused glint in his dark eyes.
“I’m feeling much better now. I must thank you for rescuing me back there. I really don’t know what would have happened if you had not come along.”
“Yes, it could have turned nasty,” said Mr. Miller. “And what brings you to the ‘God-given’ city?”
“I’m here on holiday,” I said as we continued to walk in the direction of the hotel. “I wanted to see something of the world, something out of the ordinary.”
Death in a Desert Land Page 2
