Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

  “If you could just listen for a moment to what Mrs. Christie has to say . . . ,” said Davison.

  “About what?”

  I did not have the time or the inclination to reveal everything I knew about the complicated case, and so I told Forster something of my suspicions relating to Cecil and how I did not believe that he had killed Sarah Archer. Then I outlined how he might be able to help.

  “No, it’s completely out of the question,” said Captain Forster. “It would be tantamount to interfering with the evidence. No, I couldn’t allow it, I’m afraid.”

  “But can’t you see Mrs. Christie’s point?” said Davison in as calm a manner as he could manage.

  The young captain looked at me and with a wave of the hand turned away from me. “To be honest, I cannot,” he said, his face reddening. “I need to establish the facts of the case for myself. I can’t have the evidence messed about with in this manner.”

  Davison tried to interrupt, but Forster cut him off. “I wouldn’t expect a lady to know the correct protocol of such an investigation,” he said, addressing me. “To be honest, I’m rather surprised at you, Davison. You really should know better. In fact, I may even have to mention this to my superiors back in Baghdad.”

  Would Davison reveal his hand and tell the pompous young fool of his real status—that, instead of being a mere civil servant in the foreign office, he worked for the Secret Intelligence Service?

  “I’m sorry you think that,” said Davison, remaining composed. “But perhaps you’re right. Maybe it was an oversight on my part.”

  “We’ve got to do this by the book,” said Forster, checking his watch. “Let’s get on with it. That boy should have come round now.”

  “Indeed,” said Davison, taking a small card from his inside jacket pocket. “But before we go and question him, there is something I should show you.”

  “What is it now?” snapped Forster. “Really, Davison. My chief said he was sending someone with me who would help and assist me, not bother me with all these unnecessary details. It really is quite—”

  The sight of what was written on the card—Davison’s name and title at the service—stopped Forster in his tracks. He coughed in a halfhearted attempt to swallow his words. “Well, I—I mean,” he blustered. “If I’d only . . . then, of course, I—”

  “Not to worry,” Davison, smiling gently, assured him. “You weren’t to know. And I’d appreciate it if you kept that information to yourself. Now, why don’t you listen carefully as Mrs. Christie here explains what’s going to happen.”

  Forster blinked back his astonishment as I turned towards him and began to outline in more detail what I wanted him to do.

  22

  We had all been told to wait in our rooms until we were called for questioning. My own session with Forster and Davison was done very much for show, as we had discussed certain aspects of the case earlier in my room. The interrogations continued until four o’clock, when we were informed that we were invited to return to the living room to take tea with Captain Forster, who wanted to share with us some important information. I was the first to arrive, and as I entered, Forster jumped up and found a chair with a thick cushion for me at the table.

  “Are you sure you are comfortable?” he asked, fussing around me like an old maid. “Would you like some tea? And how about a cake?” He snapped his fingers and a servant brought over a little plate of Arab delicacies. He lowered his voice so nobody else could hear. “If you do get a moment to talk to Davison, I would be enormously grateful if you could extend my apologies for earlier. Really, I had no idea. If I had known, obviously I would never—”

  At that moment the door opened and Father Burrows entered with a nervous-looking Miss Jones, soon followed by Lawrence McRae, the man who went by the name of Harry Miller, Mr. and Mrs. Archer, Leonard Woolley, and then Davison. All of them took their places at the table and helped themselves to tea, the ritual accompanied by the familiar sounds of the clink of teaspoons on china and the low murmur of polite conversation. On the surface the occasion appeared an utterly civilized one, but underneath the sheen of respectability there was something ugly, something evil.

  “Now, who is it we are waiting for?” asked Forster, looking around the table. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Woolley.”

  “Katharine still hasn’t recovered from her terrible ordeal,” said Leonard Woolley, taking a sip of tea. “I’m afraid she won’t be joining us.”

  “Mr. Woolley, I thought I made myself clear that everyone had to attend the meeting this afternoon.”

  “Is that strictly necessary?” Woolley’s eyes glinted.

  “I must insist: there can be no exceptions,” Forster maintained. “If you’d be so kind as to go and request her presence . . .”

  Woolley placed his teacup on the table, stood up, and with as much grace as he could muster walked out of the room. The conversation resumed as if nothing had happened. Father Burrows started speaking about the intricacies of certain cuneiform tablets with Miss Jones, who did not seem to be paying him very much attention. Harry Miller informed Lawrence McRae of his intention to go to Baghdad as soon as he could to order a new Leica camera—the question now was which model he should order—but the architect remained silent and preoccupied. Without doubt he was worried about the fate and well-being of his unfortunate nephew. Mr. and Mrs. Archer talked quietly together, so softly in fact that I couldn’t make out their words.

  A few minutes later Woolley returned with Katharine trailing behind him. At her entrance, all heads turned towards her as if she were some kind of lodestar. She was dressed smartly not in her customary shade of vieux rose but in black. She held herself with a dignified posture—her expression spoke of stoicism and unspoken suffering—and as her husband pulled out a chair for her, she reminded me of one of the great classical actresses of the stage. Ruth Archer opened her mouth to speak—was she about to apologize for some of the awful things she had said?—but her husband placed a hand on her arm.

  “Let’s wait to hear what the captain has to say,” he said, then looked up and addressed Forster. “The sooner we get this over with, the better. We have a funeral to organize. A daughter who needs to be buried.”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Forster. “And I do appreciate the fact that you’ve delayed your departure. As I said, we can help with any arrangements regarding the body and so on.”

  The captain’s reduction of Sarah Archer to a mere “body” startled Ruth Archer, and quite understandably she took out her handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth. I only hoped that the inexperienced officer would not make any more blunders.

  “Now, as I suggested, we have some important information that I would like to share with you,” he continued.

  A silence descended on the group as we waited for the captain to impart his news.

  “As you know, on Saturday night the body of Sarah Archer was found at the base of the ziggurat. She had sustained a number of serious—in fact, fatal—head injuries.” Again Mrs. Archer winced at Forster’s words. “It looks as though she had been hit with a rock.” The captain must have caught a glimpse of Mrs. Archer’s appalled face and, after clearing his throat, began again. “I must thank Mr. and Mrs. Archer for their patience and for their help at this most distressing of times. And I would like to thank each of you for your cooperation. I know it must not have been easy to relate the details of what you saw and heard.”

  Mr. Archer shifted impatiently in his seat. “Thank you, Captain Forster,” he said. “And we are grateful to you too for coming down here. However, I’m conscious that time is of the essence. I don’t want to appear rude, but we do need to sort this out as soon as possible so as to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “As I was saying, we have concluded our investigation into the death of Miss Archer”—Forster puffed out his chest slightly—“and I am satisfied to tell you that we have secured a confession from—”

  A low, excited murmur ran around the table.


  “—Cecil McRae, who—”

  At the mention of his nephew’s name, Lawrence McRae stood up, tipping over his cup of tea as he did so.

  “Oh, my, dear me,” said an agitated Miss Jones, taking out her handkerchief and dabbing the table.

  “That wicked, wicked boy! How could he have done that?” exclaimed Ruth Archer.

  “This is absurd!” shouted McRae. “Cecil is the last person who would have hurt that girl.”

  “If I can ask you to sit down, Mr. McRae,” said Forster, “I can explain to you—”

  “No, I will not sit down. I demand that you take me to see him.”

  “All in due time,” said Forster.

  “What did you do?” said McRae. “Beat a confession out of him?”

  “I can understand why you feel distressed,” said Forster, “but, really, that’s quite unnecessary.”

  “Please, Mr. McRae,” said Davison, coming to stand by the architect. “If you could let the Captain explain . . .”

  McRae glared first at Davison and then across at Forster; he must have been thinking that he’d very much like to punch them both, before he audibly dragged his chair back across the floor and sat down. “I won’t believe a word of it—not until I hear it from the boy’s mouth myself,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. McRae,” said Forster. “As I was saying, we have obtained a confession from Cecil, a confession that was given voluntarily and entirely without duress.” He took out a notebook from his pocket. “This is not strictly proper procedure, but I can see how the crime has distressed you all,” he said, watching the stricken faces of the Archers and the nervous hands of Miss Jones flutter across the table as she continued to blot up the last traces of the spilled tea. “In order to put all your minds at rest, I can supply you with a few more details in Cecil’s own words.”

  He cleared his throat once more and, from his notebook, began to read out the boy’s statement:

  I wasn’t looking forward to the picnic. I didn’t want to go and I thought the whole thing was a stupid idea. As soon as I saw Sarah flaunting herself in that black dress, I felt my blood begin to boil. Part of me wanted to tell her to go and change into something more modest. Another part of me—well, let’s just say I wish she could have been nicer to me. None of this would have happened if she had been a bit kinder. Not so cruel. Why did she have to go and say those things? That I was ugly and stupid? Why did she tell me that I couldn’t talk to her?

  After walking to the top of the ziggurat, I helped myself to a couple of those fruit punches. I suppose they must have gone to my head. I was watching Sarah and Harry Miller laugh and joke about. He was taking her picture and she was standing at the edge of the ziggurat. You should have heard them. It made me sick to my stomach. And then the next thing I knew, she was looking at my uncle in the same kind of way. She never once cast a look in my direction. I saw her dancing on the edge, kicking her heels up, in that dress, a dress that was nearly transparent. If she’d never worn it, things might have been very different.

  My uncle saw the way I was looking at Sarah and told me not to worry. One day I’d forget her, he said. I didn’t want to forget her. I wanted to be with her forever. Then Sarah’s father came, everybody sang happy birthday, and she started telling that stupid story about the man who had proposed to her. She got into that horrible row with Mrs. Woolley and stormed off. “This is a birthday I’ll remember,” she said, or something to that effect.

  I didn’t mean to do it. It was a terrible accident. You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that I didn’t mean Sarah any harm. I just wanted to go and make her feel a bit better. She was upset after that argument. So I went after her. I found her running down the path. I called her name, asked her to stop, but she told me to go away. I reached out and grabbed her. I just wanted to talk to her. But she got me all wrong. She said some cruel words to me and went to slap me, but when I reached up to protect myself, she fell backwards. It all happened so quickly. She must have banged her head. I shook her, told her to wake up, that I didn’t mean her any harm. But then I thought what would happen if she did wake up. She would tell people that I had tried to attack her. What happened with my parents would get dragged up again. I would get locked away, or worse. And so I took hold of a rock and hit her over the head. I know it was a bad thing to do. I can see that now. But I wasn’t thinking right.

  That’s when I heard footsteps. I suppose it must have been Mrs. Woolley. I didn’t meant to hurt Sarah. I hope that one day Mr. and Mrs. Archer will forgive me.

  This completes my statement.

  —Cecil McRae

  Captain Forster looked up from his notebook to a sea of bewildered faces. Mrs. Archer wept into her handkerchief and her husband’s face looked ashen. Lawrence McRae seemed as though he was on the point of storming out again, and Miss Jones stared at her tear-stained handkerchief with something approaching horror in her eyes.

  “We should pray for the boy,” said Father Burrows.

  “I may be a Christian man, but I refuse to pray for him,” said Hubert Archer. “In fact, I’m going to see that boy hangs for what he did. Come on, Ruth.” He stood up and held out his hand for his wife. He turned to Captain Forster. “We don’t want to bury Sarah out in the desert. We’d like to take her back to Baghdad, if that’s possible.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Forster. “I’m sure that can be arranged, can’t it, Davison?”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Davison, playing the role of the subservient civil servant. “I’d suggest the British cemetery. I know your daughter was an American, but it does seem the most fitting and distinguished place. After all, it’s the same cemetery in which Gertrude Bell was buried.”

  The Archers seemed honored that their daughter had been compared to the famous traveler and archaeologist who had helped to found the new state of Iraq. The mention of the name had other effects, too: Harry Miller got up from the table and turned his back on the group; Leonard Woolley smiled in fond recollection and said that she was greatly missed, while his wife remained unmoved; and Miss Jones asked to borrow a clean handkerchief from Mrs. Woolley, which she then used to dab her eyes. I still could not work out whether the death of Miss Bell was connected in any way to the murderous goings-on at Ur. An image of an ancient pot lying in pieces flashed into my mind. I couldn’t see how it would be possible to fit all the differently shaped shards back together.

  “We’ve all had quite a shock,” said Miller from behind me. I turned around to see the handsome photographer. “Who would have thought that Cecil was the murderer? Are you all right?” he asked me. “You look a little pale.”

  “I do feel a little shaken by the news,” I said. I had to do everything in my power to stop myself from asking him to explain himself. If he wasn’t Harry Miller, then who was he? What had he done that was so terrible that he had had to flee America? And what was the truth about his relationship with Gertrude Bell? “I think I’m still suffering from shock,” I said instead.

  “Why don’t we take a walk?” Miller said in a gentle voice. “That might help calm your nerves.”

  “Very well,” I said in a louder voice. “A little fresh air might be just the thing I need. Where shall we go? Perhaps to the ziggurat?”

  When Davison saw us leave the room, he shot me a look of warning.

  “How extraordinary,” said Miller as we stepped into the courtyard. “It seems too unbelievable for words.” He continued to talk about what Cecil McRae had done to Miss Archer; meanwhile, I remained silent and studied his profile. Certainly there was nothing in his physiognomy to suggest that he was hiding anything; in fact, his open expression and handsome features suggested nothing but a good, old-fashioned American wholesomeness, the kind I had encountered many times both at home in England and on my travels. Yet I knew that appearances counted for nothing.

  “Sorry, I should stop talking about it, as I can see that it’s distressing you a good deal,” he said while we walked towards the ziggurat.

>   “Well, I am worried about what will happen to that young boy now,” I replied. “Do you think he’s the one who smashed up your camera?”

  “I guess he must have been. Perhaps he thought that I had caught him looking at Sarah with an angry expression, or maybe he was just so cross about my flirtatious interchange with her on the top of the ziggurat.”

  “It will all come out when Forster questions Cecil again back in Baghdad,” I said. I wondered how I could ask Miller a little more about his background without raising his suspicions. “But jolly annoying for you, having to buy a new camera.”

  “Yes. I’ll have to go to Baghdad to put in an order,” he said. “It will probably take weeks to arrive.”

  We started to climb the stairs up towards the first level of the ziggurat. “Have you always been a photographer?” I asked.

  “I don’t think I’m suited to do anything else,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.

  “How did you learn?”

  “I got the bug as a kid,” he said. “I pestered my folks to buy me a Brownie and from that first Christmas I was hooked. I must have been about ten or eleven. I started to take shots of our dog, my grandparents, the trees in the park in winter, and then when I was sixteen I got a job on the local paper, the Middleton Bulletin. That was great training, let me tell you. I covered everything: crime, sports, personalities, local politics . . . It was a fast life but a hard one.”

  He didn’t seem to be lying, but I knew that practiced or pathological liars sometimes came to believe their own falsehoods.

  “It seems a bit of a jump from news photography to taking images of artifacts found in the desert sand,” I said.

  “Let’s just say I had my heart broken,” he said, turning away from me. “Anyway, I’ve talked too much about myself.” He stepped closer to me. “I’d like to get to know you a little better.”