Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

  Mr. Archer bundled the weeping woman away, but her cries continued until she had reached her room.

  “I feel so desperately sorry for her,” said Cynthia Jones. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a daughter like that.”

  “Yes, it’s awful to witness,” said Woolley.

  “Forgive me for saying, but what she says does have an element of truth,” countered McRae.

  “That’s right,” said Cecil, his face flushing. “Who’s to say we won’t all end up like . . .” The boy’s eyes filled with horror as he recalled seeing Sarah Archer’s body. “. . . end up being killed!”

  “So what do you suggest?” asked Woolley.

  All eyes turned to Lawrence McRae. “As I see it, there is only one option, and that is to search Mrs. Woolley and that shed to make sure she is not in possession of the gun.”

  “Very well,” said Woolley with barely disguised contempt. “And who would you suggest as a suitable candidate to carry out such an investigation?”

  McRae looked around the room before his eyes settled on me. “I don’t know . . . What about Mrs. Christie here?”

  There was no reason not to agree. The search would give me an opportunity to talk to Katharine—if she would let me. After all, the last time we had spoken, she had been so angry that she had dismissed me with contempt in her voice, calling me nothing but a snake, a deadly serpent that slithered through the desert sands.

  “Now, you do know what it is you are looking for?” asked Lawrence McRae in a somewhat patronizing tone as he and Woolley led me out of the room.

  “Yes, I think I do,” I said. The sweetness of my delivery disguised my true feelings. McRae’s insistence on Katharine’s guilt had made me more than a little suspicious of him.

  I followed the men to the Archers’ room. After McRae knocked gently on the door, a shaken-looking Mr. Archer appeared. He was clearly in no mood to talk and simply nodded in agreement as McRae outlined the plan to search Mrs. Woolley’s quarters. From there, we went back to the main room and retrieved a key to the shed from Father Burrows.

  “I can assure you that my wife is not in the best of moods,” said Woolley. “So pay no attention if she’s rude to you.”

  I had an idea. I thought back to something Miss Jones had said when I had first arrived at Ur. “I know: Why don’t I take her some coffee as a peace offering?” I suggested.

  “If you like, yes,” said Woolley vaguely. I left the two men and went into the kitchen. I made the strongest, most pungent, sweetest pot of coffee I could, the kind of thick brown liquid that could keep you up all night—which was just the effect I wanted to achieve. When it was ready, I took a sip of the dark, bitter brew. After a few moments my head started to spin and I felt adrenaline begin to course through my veins. That should do the trick, I thought.

  As I carried out the steaming coffeepot on a tray, I asked the two men whether it might be possible to go by myself to the shed.

  “But what if Katharine tries to attack you?” asked McRae.

  “Nonsense. I doubt Mrs. Woolley will do anything of the sort,” I said.

  “What do you think?” asked McRae, addressing Woolley.

  “Katharine might throw some cruel things Mrs. Christie’s way, but I doubt that she’d hurt her,” the archaeologist replied.

  “If you feel afraid, you must come back to the house straightaway,” McRae declared.

  I left the men under the shade at the front of the house and proceeded on my own to the storage shed. After placing the tray on the floor, I eased the small key into the padlock. The lock gave a satisfying click. I picked up the tray and paused for a moment on the threshold. I strained my eyes to make out the shapes and forms before me. Katharine lay curled up on the mattress, completely covered with a white sheet, and as I stepped closer, I struggled to make out whether she was breathing. Was she asleep or . . . ? I felt panic rise in my chest, as if a small bird had got itself trapped inside my rib cage and threatened to push its way up through my throat. I put the tray down on the earthen floor and edged forwards, fearful of what I might discover. I turned my head to the half-open door and the line of light that partly surrounded its frame. It was tempting to rush out of the shed and call for Woolley and McRae, but I swallowed my fear, moved to the edge of the mattress, and knelt down. I extended my hand and, unsettled by the sight of my trembling fingers, steeled myself to pull back the top edge of the sheet.

  “Katharine,” I whispered, so softly that I wasn’t quite sure whether I could be heard.

  Just then the sheet moved and a hand shot out to grab me. I reeled backwards, but the grip on my wrist tightened.

  “Katharine—it’s me, Agatha,” I said, trying not to raise my voice. After all, I did not want Woolley and McRae to come running.

  She was sitting up and staring at me with wide, terrified eyes, the look of a woman who was in fear of her life.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” I whispered. “I’m here to help. Katharine, please.”

  The grip on my wrist loosened and finally she fell back onto the mattress.

  “Listen, we don’t have much time,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been told that I have to search you for a gun that has gone missing. I doubt very much you have it, but—”

  “A gun?” she said, looking confused.

  “Yes, Leonard’s revolver.”

  “What do they think I would do with a gun?” she said, brushing her dark hair away from her face.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But the house is in a state of panic. People want to blame you for . . . well, for everything that has happened.”

  “But you know that I didn’t do any of those things! I could never hurt Tom, my dear, dear Tom.” Tears came into her eyes at the mention of the dead cat. “Lying here, I’ve been thinking about him. The way he used to curl up on my bed. The feel of his soft fur against my cheek. I wish he was here with me now. And although Miss Archer could be irritating, I would never do such a terrible thing as . . . as murder.” She pronounced this as if she were fearful of the word itself. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  That was the question. Did I? The situation was so very complex that I wasn’t quite sure what I believed. Yet I did not have time to explain everything.

  “Yes,” I said, even though I wasn’t quite sure of it myself. “Now, before we go any further, would you mind if I searched the room? For the gun.”

  Katharine responded with a shake of her head.

  “It won’t take long and then I’ll explain what is going to happen next,” I said. There were few places to hide a gun in the room, and after I had searched the floor and walls, looking for any recently dug holes or gaps, and then the mattress, there was only Katharine’s person that needed to be checked. “I think this is why McRae chose me for the task,” I said lightly as I related what I needed to do.

  Her face darkened at the request. “That’s completely out of the question,” she snapped. “I’m not going to be frisked like—well, like a kind of woman I’d rather not mention.”

  Was she hiding something in her clothes?

  “I understand that all of this must be terribly distressing,” I said. “But I really do have to know that you are not in possession of that gun.”

  Katharine stared at me, that dark energy burning in her eyes. “Very well,” she said finally. She stood up and raised her arms as I ran my hands over her slim, boyish body.

  Even though I discovered nothing, part of me wished that she had indeed stolen the gun, if only to protect herself.

  “I hope you’re satisfied now,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that,” I said, trying to soothe her nerves. “I know it may not seem like it, but I’m actually trying to help you.”

  “Help me?” Her tone was sarcastic. “Somehow I can’t see it myself.”

  I walked over to the door and looked outside to check that nobody was listening. I picked up the tray and brought it over to the mattress.
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br />   “Katharine, I’m going to tell you something that is going to alarm you,” I said.

  She turned her head to the wall like a small child who had decided to withdraw their affection from one of her elders.

  “I am fearful that something may happen to you tonight,” I continued. “I think someone may be planning to do you harm.”

  “Harm? What do you mean?” she said, turning back to look at me.

  “I’m not certain, but I want you to make sure you stay awake,” I said. “I’ve brought you a pot of very strong, very sweet coffee—not to drink now but to take later. It will be cold and not very nice, but it’s important that you do as I say.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I need you to be on your guard,” I explained. “I suspect someone will steal into the shed tonight and try to . . .” It was difficult to say the words.

  “To what?”

  I took another deep breath. “To make an attempt on . . . on your life.”

  Katharine looked around at the walls of her prison. “And you want me to stay here?” She immediately jumped up and tried to make a dash for the door. I grabbed her by the wrist. “Listen—please,” I urged. “It’s the only way we are going to find out who is behind it all. If you run now, you’ll only put yourself at greater risk.”

  The muscles in Katharine’s arms tensed as she considered what to do.

  “If you want to discover the identity of your real enemy, then it’s the only way,” I said. “I know it’s risky—I know that you’ll be afraid—but I’ve got a plan. I’m going to stay awake too and station myself outside. At the first sign of any trouble, I’m going to come running.”

  “But what about the others? Wouldn’t it be better if you shared your plan with them? At least then they might be able to protect me.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not sure whom to trust,” I said. “If I revealed everything, then we might lose our opportunity. Waiting any longer would be a very bad idea. When the police arrive tomorrow, they will probably arrest you, after which anything could happen—perhaps the very worst. You see, I believe someone wants you out of the way. And I think someone has been trying to drive you mad.” I was conscious that I was speaking too quickly, and so I made an effort to slow down. “Do you remember what you told me about the faces at the window? The voices you said you heard?”

  “Yes, it was awful,” said Katharine, the painful memories casting a shadow across her face.

  “Well, I’ve got a theory about all of that. I can’t go into it just yet, but I hope perhaps I can share it with you once tonight is over.”

  Katharine nodded. She looked at me with a certain amount of respect and admiration. “Very well. Now tell me,” she said, taking a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

  18

  Throughout dinner we all tried to pretend that everything was perfectly normal, but it proved an impossible task. Our nerves were in a delicate state and jangled with each scrape of a plate or bang of a glass on the table. Conversation was a stilted affair, and we made an effort to avoid the subjects that preoccupied us: the body in the pantry, the destruction of Miller’s camera, the imprisonment of Mrs. Woolley, and—most terrifying of all—the missing revolver.

  When I had reported that I had found no trace of the weapon, either in Katharine’s meager quarters or on her person, the room had fallen silent. The inevitable question hung in the air like a nasty gas: if she had not taken the gun, then who had? It had to be somebody in the house: Mr. or Mrs. Archer, Harry Miller, Lawrence or Cecil McRae, Father Burrows, or Cynthia Jones. Of course, I wasn’t without suspicion, and at various points during the meal I caught sight of people casting dark glances in my direction. There was also the possibility that Leonard Woolley was not being entirely honest and remained in possession of the revolver after all. If so, he could be playing a very clever game of double bluff.

  After the food had been cleared away, Father Burrows asked me whether it would be a good time for him to show me the basics of cuneiform. I was hardly in the mood, but it would have been rude to refuse, as Woolley had already told him that I was keen to learn. Perhaps it would provide a little distraction from the endless play of dark thoughts that continued to circle through my mind.

  Father Burrows went to get a sheet of paper and a pencil and with boyish enthusiasm started to explain the principles of the ancient writing system. He told me how the Mesopotamians would use a stylus made from a piece of reed to inscribe what they wanted to say on a fresh piece of clay—clay which had been gathered from the banks of the Tigris or the Euphrates. It was not so much an alphabet, he told me, but an elaborate series of syllables and words. On the piece of paper he began to make a number of marks—there were, he said, vertical, horizontal, and oblique wedges—signs which he then asked me to copy onto my piece of paper. The lesson went on to take in more complex aspects of the system—it was, he said, impossible to write a consonant on its own, and certain sounds such as j or c simply did not exist—but, despite my best efforts, I could not concentrate, as my mind was shadowed by the horrors of the night to come.

  “Now, why don’t you try to copy this,” he suggested, pushing a sheet of paper towards me. “After you’ve had a little practice, we can get a piece of clay and use that.”

  My handwriting was messy at the best of times, and no matter how hard I tried to copy the series of strange signs, my efforts were clearly disappointing.

  “Don’t worry: if you put your mind to it, you’ll be a dab hand in no time.” Burrows glanced across the room at Cynthia. “When I first met Miss Jones, she was a complete novice like you, and yet she picked it up very quickly. Quite the natural, weren’t you, Miss Jones?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Cynthia, blushing and turning her back towards us. I suspected that, like me, she felt uncomfortable with compliments.

  “It’s fascinating,” I said, “but I’m afraid I’m rather tired. Would you mind if we took it up again tomorrow?”

  “Not at all,” said Father Burrows. “Yes, it has been quite an exhausting day. However, I’m pleased that you’d like to learn more about cuneiform. Most people show no enthusiasm for it whatsoever. Once you’ve mastered the basics, then you can go on to read some of the great texts. Oh, the wonders of the library of Ashurbanipal! Do you know that?” He did not stop for an answer. “The last great king of the Neo-Assyrian Empire. A collection of thousands upon thousands of clay tablets discovered by Layard in the mid part of the last century. In fact, it was Layard’s assistant Hormuzd Rassam—himself quite an intriguing figure—who unearthed the most famous ancient Mesopotamian text of all, the Epic of Gilgamesh, dating from the Third Dynasty of Ur. Yes, really quite fascinating.”

  I tried to say good night to Father Burrows, but even as I made moves to step away from him, he continued with his monologue.

  “There are many parallels between Gilgamesh and the Bible, particularly when it comes to the great flood,” he said. It was obvious that Burrows had no intention of drawing his lecture to a close, and although I did not want to appear rude, I also did not care to stand and listen to him for the next half hour or so.

  “I could listen to you talk about this into the early hours, but I’m afraid I do have to go to bed,” I said. “Will you forgive me if I say good night and you can tell me more tomorrow? I have the whole morning free, but only if you have time: I wouldn’t want to take you away from your work.”

  Father Burrows’s eyes lit up at the prospect of hours of uninterrupted discourse on the literature of the ancients. “I would be delighted,” he said.

  I doubted whether he would get the chance, as I was certain that the next day would be taken up with much more serious matters. I said my good nights to the rest of the group and, feeling relieved, retreated back to the quiet of my room. I knew I would have a long night ahead of me, and so, after using a match to light a couple of candles, I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes for a few moments. The events of the
last few days flashed before me, unpleasant memories that, like bloated corpses in a river, refused to settle and disappear. The terrible sight of Katharine’s cat, that stain next to him on the bed. The image of all those pale, shocked faces patterned by deep shadows cast by the torchlight, gazing on something unspeakable. The body of Sarah Archer, the girl’s head smashed in. The horror in Katharine’s eyes as she looked down at her hands streaked with blood. The hatred on Ruth Archer’s face as she lashed out and tried to attack Katharine Woolley.

  I felt too unsettled to rest, and so I took up my notebook in an attempt to make sense of it all. Davison had sent me here to look into the death of Gertrude Bell; yet, since my arrival at Ur, her murder seemed almost peripheral. There was something else at work at the camp, something dark and base and evil that did not look as though it had a connection to the death of Miss Bell. My mind started to work, teasing out the various possibilities, and as I tried to record the conjunction of myriad motives and hidden designs, my pen could not keep up with the fast flurry of my thoughts.

  As the night drew on, I listened for the now-familiar sound of the occupants making their preparations for bed until finally there was silence. Before I left the room I made sure that I was sufficiently prepared for what might happen. I did not want to use my arsenal of poisons, but I felt a little more secure knowing that in my handbag was a syringe filled with a fast-acting drug that could put a man to sleep in minutes. I took a deep breath and quietly opened my door, hoping that I could slip out of the house without being noticed. If I were to confront anyone such as Mr. Woolley, who I knew did not need much sleep, then I would tell him that I was going to step outside to look at the stars, that I intended to refresh myself with a little night air.