Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

  I seized the opportunity. “Talking of visitors, you must have had a fascinating mix of people coming to see the site.”

  “Oh, yes, plenty. But most of them come just for the day.”

  “Did you ever meet Miss Bell?”

  Cynthia Jones blinked at the mention of her name. “Gertrude? Yes, of course. We were great friends.” Tears came into her eyes and she steadied herself against the wall. “Such a sad loss.”

  “I’m sorry I brought up her name,” I said. “If you’d rather not talk about her, I understand. It’s just that she sounded like such a fascinating, unusual woman.”

  “I never met anyone like her and doubt I ever will again,” she said. “Of course, she wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. She couldn’t bear empty-headed women; she simply loathed the type of woman who used her husband’s position to do nothing more than take tea or read novels or gossip. She had a desire to really live; it was quite frightening sometimes, almost as if she knew that she didn’t have long in this world.”

  “Yes, I had read about her illness in the newspapers,” I said, feigning ignorance of what I knew of the manner in which she had died.

  “Oh, that business about passing away in her sleep was just a piece of nonsense.”

  “You mean that . . . that she took her own life?”

  “Suicide?” she said. “I don’t believe Gertrude would ever have done that. She had too much left to live for.”

  “If not suicide . . . then what?”

  Miss Jones paused, walked over to the window, and stared out into the courtyard before turning back to me. “I’m not sure I should say anything.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  She looked nervously around her, as if there were people—invisible to us—who might be listening to our conversation.

  “Miss Jones—”

  “Please, call me Cynthia.”

  “Cynthia . . . if you feel you want to say something in confidence to me, then please unburden yourself. It’s clear that something is worrying you.”

  “You must promise that you won’t say anything,” she said, making sure the bedroom door was closed. “This must be strictly between us.”

  “Yes, of course. I promise.”

  Cynthia bit her lip, took hold of my hand, and led me towards the bed. “It’s funny we’ve only just met, but it’s as if I’ve known you for years,” she said, smiling, as we sat down. “I feel I could tell you anything.”

  “That’s good,” I said, not entirely comfortable in my role as Miss Jones’s newfound confidante. “Please feel free to tell me anything you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she said, a troubled look in her eyes. She took a deep breath and clasped my hand. “I always thought it was odd the way that Gertrude died. I can understand, of course, the way her death was hushed up. That’s entirely natural, as the family didn’t want any scandal. But what I never understood was that the doctor found some pills by her bed; sedatives, I think they were. I don’t know. To me it seemed a little contrived, almost as if it were staged.” She looked at me for encouragement.

  “Yes, I understand. Go on.”

  “When I heard the news, I was terribly upset. It was such a big loss. I realized how much I would miss her. I used to go to Baghdad to stay with her in her house. She would come down here to visit and argue over the finds. We had so much to talk about: our families back in England, our love of travel, of history, of the old Mesopotamia and the new Iraq. And I think I was one of the few women whom she could tolerate.”

  “But what of her death, Cynthia?”

  “That’s just what I was coming to. You see, a few months before she died, I was in Baghdad, ready to return to Britain. The heat was already too much for me then. I don’t know how Gertrude could stand the summers out here. Anyway, while I was there we were talking about the season at Ur. I noticed that she had turned pale and had started to tremble. I made her sit down and tell me what was bothering her.”

  Miss Jones lowered her voice to a whisper. “She told me that she was afraid that she might be killed. And if she were to die, she was sure that her murderer was one of the team. Here on this dig. I couldn’t believe it when she told me. I thought she must be talking nonsense, but she was adamant. There was someone here who wanted her dead.”

  “Why did she think that?”

  “She said she had received some threatening letters, together with a drawing, I’m not sure of what, which made her fear for her life.”

  “Did she give you a name?”

  She looked around her as if she were half expecting to see someone standing in the corner of the room.

  “Take another deep breath,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Cynthia—did she give you a name?”

  She nodded, her eyes haunted by the memories and secrets of the past.

  “Who was it? Who did Miss Bell believe might murder her?”

  “You promise not to say anything? I could get into a great deal of trouble. I don’t want to lose my position here.”

  “Yes, I’ve already given you my word.”

  “Very well. It was—”

  5

  “Tom! Can someone please bring Tom to me?” The voice sounded high-pitched and strained and was coming from a room nearby. It had interrupted Miss Jones just as she was about to give me a name.

  “Oh, that’s her now,” said Cynthia, jumping up with a look of terror in her eyes. “Mrs. Woolley. I must go to her.”

  “What do you mean? Was it Mrs. Woolley that Miss Bell was afraid of?”

  “She must have woken up,” she said, turning away from me. “I have to see to her.”

  I accompanied Cynthia Jones out of the room, following her like a shadow until we stood outside Katharine Woolley’s bedroom.

  “Oh, where is that damned cat?” asked Cynthia, turning to an Arab boy to whom she asked something in Arabic, presumably the same question.

  “This headache is simply killing me,” said Mrs. Woolley from inside the room. “The least someone can do is to bring me Tom. Len! Where are you?”

  “Could you just stay there while I go and try and fetch the cat?” Cynthia asked me. “Hopefully he’ll still be in his basket.” She tapped on the door. “Katharine, it’s Cynthia. I’ll go and find him. I won’t be a minute.”

  “Do please hurry up,” Mrs. Woolley said from behind the door. “You know he’s the only thing that can bring me comfort when I’m feeling like this. And don’t scare him like you did last time. You know what happened then—you got a nasty bite.”

  A moment or so later the door opened to reveal a pale-faced Katharine Woolley, dressed in a white nightgown. Before I could say anything she took one look at me—her dark eyes seemed tortured, haunted somehow—and then closed the door. Through the partition I could hear the sound of strange mutterings, snatches of conversation she appeared to be having with herself. Perhaps the woman really was as unstable as people had suggested.

  “Mrs. Woolley,” I said, gently knocking on the door. “There’s no need to distress yourself. If you let me in I can help. It’s Mrs. Christie. I think you are expecting me.”

  There was no response. “I believe you suffer from terrible headaches. I might be able to provide you with some relief. I was a nurse during the war, you see. I came across a number of cases such as yours.” Still no answer. “Mrs. Woolley? Can you hear me?”

  The door opened again and Katharine Woolley gestured for me to step inside. The shutters on the windows had been closed and the room was cool and dark. In contrast to the stark interior of my room, Mrs. Woolley’s quarters seemed feminine, tastefully decorated, and quite beautiful. In addition to the bed, the room was furnished with an old-fashioned desk made from dark wood, its surface covered with sheets of paper. There was a wardrobe with clothes spilling out, a table with a gramophone, and a messy dressing table complete with various pots of lotion and jars of cosmetics. The walls had been decorated with a number of exquisitely worked sketches, some in pencil, some in charcoal
, many of which hung at awkward angles as if they had been disturbed.

  “Yes, all my own work,” she said as she caught me looking at the drawings.

  “They are very good,” I said. “Not that I know much about art.”

  “You have your own métier,” she said. “Sorry, it’s so rude of me not to properly welcome you here. It’s these beastly headaches; they are driving me insane.” Katharine raised her hand to her temples and sat back down on the bed. “You must excuse me.”

  “I completely understand,” I said. “And I’d rather not have a special welcome. But I must say I am very excited to be here.”

  “You’ve met Len at least?”

  “Mr. Woolley? Oh, yes,” I said. “He was full of enthusiasm for your work here. I can’t wait to see more of the dig and, of course, the ziggurat. He said he would show me that later, when he’s returned.”

  “And who else have you met? Father Burrows, I expect.”

  “Yes. He seems an interesting character.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” she said. As she smiled to herself she winced. “Oh, dear, it seems to be getting worse. I thought a nap would help, but I’m afraid it’s only made the pain more intense.” Her long, bony fingers gripped the sides of her head, and her mouth formed itself into an unpleasant grimace. In that moment she looked nothing like the photograph I had seen of her; features which I knew to be elegant and refined had been transformed into something careworn, even a little ugly. “Did you say you knew of a way to relieve the pain?” she asked as she reached out to grip a bedsheet. “Anything you could do, I’d be most grateful.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “And where’s that girl got to? Why isn’t she back with Tom yet?”

  “Don’t think about that for the moment,” I said. “If you can take some deep breaths. Would you mind if I placed my hands on your neck and shoulders?”

  “No, please do,” she said, closing her eyes.

  “Could I wash my hands first? They are still a little dusty from the journey.”

  “Of course. There’s a bowl of water over there,” she said, pointing towards the dressing table. “I’d show you, but I can feel my vision blurring.”

  I walked over to the dressing table, briefly stopping by the writing desk as I did so. I cast a quick look towards Mrs. Woolley to check she wasn’t watching me before I examined the sheets of paper that I had noticed on her desk.

  “It’s a work in progress, nothing more,” said Mrs. Woolley from the bed. “Don’t be embarrassed. I know I would probably have done the same.”

  As I poured some water into a bowl I could feel myself blushing in the dark.

  “It’s just a silly story I’m working on,” she continued. “Notes towards a novel. I’d love to talk to you about the craft of writing at some point.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m the right person.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” she said. “But we’ve got plenty of time for that.”

  “Now, when did the headaches start?” I asked after drying my hands and returning to the bed.

  “A few years ago,” she replied. “But they seem to be getting worse.”

  “Do you have any other symptoms? Tiredness? Nervousness?”

  “Yes, both of those,” she said. “Sometimes I feel as though I’m going quite mad. I think the headaches make me say certain things . . . And I see people doing such odd . . .”

  Her voice died away as I laid my hands on her head, drew her dark hair back from her face, and began to massage her temples and then the muscles in her shoulders. I could feel the stubborn knots of tension under her skin resisting the pressure exerted by my fingers and so pressed harder and deeper into the tissue.

  “Does that hurt?” I asked.

  “Yes, but please continue. I think I can just bear it.”

  After working on her neck and shoulders, I placed my hands over her eyes and started to gently manipulate the muscles around the sockets. Mrs. Woolley fell silent, and as I worked and the tension started to melt away from her, I took the opportunity to study her in more detail. Her face was perfectly proportioned and refined, with high cheekbones and a clearly defined jawline. I estimated her to be more or less the same age as I was, in her late thirties, or forty at the very most. She had a kind of dark, almost exotic beauty that struck me as quite unusual, not the sort one normally found among the English. Had she some foreign blood in her? Could she have some Jewish ancestry?

  “Does that feel better,” I said as I ended the procedure by gently stroking the skin on her temples.

  “That feels marvelous,” she said, opening her eyes. “Whatever you did, it’s cleared the headache completely.”

  “I’m pleased it worked.” I moved around to stand in front of Mrs. Woolley.

  “Len tries to help—he really does—as do some of the others, but his touch is nothing like yours.” She smiled. “Now, what do you say to a cup of tea? It’s the least I can do after welcoming you in such a rude and beastly manner.”

  “That would be very nice indeed,” I said.

  Mrs. Woolley walked to the door and clapped her hands. A moment later the boy I knew as Sahid appeared and was issued with the appropriate orders. As she moved to open the shutters I noticed a dark sparkle had returned to her eyes.

  “I’m sure the last thing you expected to do when you arrived was give a massage to a strange creature like me.”

  So Katharine Woolley had a sense of humor; yet murderers, I had to remind myself, could be as capable as the next man—or woman—of making self-deprecating comments. “I was a little surprised, I must admit, Mrs. Woolley,” I said, “but it was clear you were in some pain.”

  “Please call me Katharine,” she said. “Pull that chair up and come and sit down. You must be exhausted after your journey.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, taking hold of a wicker chair and drawing it a little nearer towards the bed. “I’m grateful that you’ve allowed me to visit. I know that you’ve got more than your fair share of visitors at the moment.”

  “You mean those ghastly Americans? Oh, please don’t look shocked. You’ll see what I mean later. The man, this millionaire and his wife and daughter—don’t get me started on that thing—are only here because of the depth of their pockets. Len needs them to provide the necessary funds for the continuation of the dig. It takes everything in my power to keep me from telling them what I really think of them.”

  I was rather at a loss to know how I should reply, and so I said nothing. There was a knock at the door and the boy appeared with the tea, which he set down on a low table between us.

  “You, on the other hand, are in a different category altogether,” Katharine said, dismissing the boy with a wave of the hand. “When I heard that there was a prospect of you coming to visit here, I could not believe it. You must realize, Mrs. Christie—”

  “Agatha, please,” I interrupted.

  “You must realize—Agatha—that what you have achieved is something quite out of the ordinary. I’m talking about The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, of course.”

  Despite my initial reluctance, we continued to talk about that book and the subject of detective novels in general before it was my turn to ask her a few questions. I told her that I had been lured to the Near East not only by the fascinating series of articles I had read about Ur but also by the enigmatic figure of Miss Gertrude Bell. On mention of the name, Katharine lowered her head so I could not see the expression in her eyes.

  “Did you know her?”

  “It was impossible not to know Gertrude,” she replied.

  “Such a tragic end,” I said, deliberately vaguely in the hope of provoking a response. “But her achievements were so varied. I suppose one must remember her for the part she played in helping make this country, her dealings with the king, and, of course, her role as head of antiquities. She must have been a great deal of help.”

  “Help? No, rather the opposite, if you must know.”

&nbs
p; “In what way?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say that Gertrude and I didn’t always see eye to eye.”

  “You weren’t friends?”

  “No, we were decidedly not friends. That’s not to say I was not sad when I heard of her death.” She said the words without any trace of emotion, almost as if she were saying them by rote.

  “I’ve heard that she took her own life. Is that what you think happened?”

  “I suppose it must have been the case. I didn’t realize she had so many tragedies in her life. I think she’d lost a man she was close to and, of course, there was the death of her brother a few months before and then various illnesses—pleurisy, bronchitis. I think she was very weak at the end. I believe she’d found it difficult to sleep. Perhaps she took too many pills without realizing it.”

  “You don’t believe she could have been murdered?”

  “Murdered?” Katharine’s voice jumped at the word. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  I decided I would keep the existence of the threatening letters to myself; neither did I say anything about the drawing. “I don’t know,” I replied. “There are just a few details about her death that don’t quite add up.”

  “Such as?”

  I hesitated a moment before I began to tell her something of what I had learnt. “Did you know, for instance, of the relationship between Miss Bell and Mr. Miller, who I believe works as the photographer here at Ur? It seems unlikely for her to have committed suicide if she had someone like Mr. Miller in her life.”

  “Whatever he saw in her I just don’t understand,” she hissed before she could stop herself.

  So that relationship had been a source of rancor, after all. Had Mrs. Woolley formed some kind of attachment with the handsome Mr. Miller, too? Was it jealousy—that age-old motive for murder—that lay behind all of this?

  “Do you know how old she was?” she continued. “She was nearly sixty! She was old enough to be his mother, if not his grandmother. It was almost indecent. And the way she treated poor Harry was completely unacceptable. Oh, I can’t think about it any more; I feel that headache returning.” Her hands flew up to her temples once more and she began to pace the room like a cat confined in a space against its will. She suddenly stopped and looked at me with suspicion. “And how do you know about that? About what happened between Gertrude and Harry?”