‘It’s better that you stay at home.’
‘I’m going whatever you say, Fadil. I’d like it if you took me.’
He sighed. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘St Aloysius’,’ she said.
THE ELEVENTH DAY
Chapter Twenty-Six
Olivia struggled to sleep that night. It was the thought of Edward’s empty bedroom downstairs, the pregnant plumpness of Alistair’s pillow beside her, the intermittently visible moon through the billowing curtains: a glinting sliver that Clara might or might not be alive to see.
Questions taunted her, the old and tired (the naughtiness, Clara’s missing letter) alongside the new (what did Nailah know? Why had Olivia concealed so much from Edward?). She kept seeing Clara in her mind’s eye: the slow way she had of smiling, those dimples in her cheeks; that day they’d both laughed until Clara nearly cried. Me, Livvy? I’m top-drawer. Olivia pressed her fists to her eyes. Where are you, Clara? Won’t you please, please come back? Her heart felt as though it were gasping rather than beating, sore punches in her chest.
She fell asleep at some point. She must have, because she woke to a golden dawn. Early as it was, the air was already stiff with heat. She lay still, waiting to see if everything felt miraculously better in the brightness of God’s new day (a favourite maxim of the nuns).
It didn’t.
Ada came in with a cup of tea, half of which had spilt onto the silver tray and was lapping around a plate of shortbread.
‘Tell me again where you got your training?’ Olivia asked, more out of habit than curiosity.
‘At Lady Fitz-Darton’s, Mrs Sheldon.’
‘I have no idea who that is.’
‘That bruise ’as come up, it looks nasty.’
Olivia pressed her cheekbone gingerly. ‘You’ll have to cover it with powder.’
‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘Try, please.’
The ride into town passed uneventfully, and before Olivia felt fully ready she and Fadil had reached St Aloysius’. With its sweeping marble staircase and cream stuccoed façade it had the look of a school or museum of some sort; it seemed too beautiful a place to house disease. Imogen was right: this was not an establishment for the impoverished.
Her conviction on the matter grew when she told a Greek nurse in the entrance hall that she was there to visit a young local woman and boy, and the nurse immediately answered that they were on ward twelve, as though the two of them were the only locals there.
Olivia’s heels echoed as she followed the nurse’s starched hood down the corridors. She looked through the windows of the ward doors. Neat beds, lots of light, flowers. Olivia had once spent a week in hospital in Hampshire having her tonsils out, back when she was ten. The air there had been filled with smoke from open peat fires, the hacking coughs of other patients. Nothing like this.
‘Here we are,’ said the nurse as they reached a door marked with an italicised ‘12’. ‘This is Mrs Sheldon,’ she said to three uniformed women congregated at the front desk, ‘for Babu.’
‘It’s so kind of you to come,’ smiled one of the women, a neatly proportioned lady with olive skin, classical features, and dark hair scraped back beneath her tented cap. She stepped forward and introduced herself as Sister Rosis.
Olivia looked around the room. There were ten beds, all filled with white children watched by bonneted women. In the far corner of the ward a set of screens had been set up, concealing whoever lay within. She pointed at it, confirming Babu was there. ‘Why have you hidden him away like that? Is it because he’s poor?’
‘No, Mrs Sheldon,’ the nurses chorused.
Olivia raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
‘He’s in a very grave condition,’ said Sister Rosis. ‘He’s dehydrated and not rallying as we’d like. He slept poorly last night and can’t keep down his medicine. His cousin took him out yesterday against our advice, and brought him back much worse than he was.’ Sister Rosis’ tone made her disapproval clear.
‘Why did Nailah take Babu out?’
‘She said they had to go away somewhere. She seemed very anxious.’
Olivia wondered if she’d been trying to escape talking to Edward and Tom. She thought the answer was probably yes, and became instantly more curious as to what they’d wanted with her.
However, as she followed Sister Rosis across the ward and peeked into Babu’s makeshift cubicle, absorbing the tableau of Nailah’s hunched shoulders, Babu’s horribly thin form, his flickering eyes beneath his bulging forehead, she realised how difficult broaching the subject was going to be. It felt insensitive, to say the least, to consider jumping straight into it. I’m awfully sorry to bother you, Nailah. I’ll only be a tick. I think you know who my sister was having an affair with. Would you mind terribly passing the information on? While you’re at it, could you share what business those officers had with you yesterday? As soon as you tell me everything I’ll leave you to keep your vigil in peace.
Sister Rosis pulled back the screens. The metal stands scraped the floor. Nailah started. She flushed as she met Olivia’s eye.
Nailah was struck momentarily dumb by Ma’am Sheldon having come so soon. She took her in (yellowish-green bruise ill-hidden by powder, fine cream jacket, matching hat, lilac silk skirts), gathering her thoughts.
Ma’am Sheldon asked her if she’d been there all night.
Nailah said she hadn’t.
In fact, she’d left at the end of evening visiting hours. Kafele had been waiting for her again. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he’d said, running towards her. ‘I should have done something before, when you first told me what Jahi was planning, got you away. I’ll find a way yet, Nailah.’
‘I’m not sure you can any more. Not now.’ She’d kept her eyes locked on her worn sandals as she spoke, the dusty pavement, unable to meet Kafele’s gaze. For once it hurt more than it helped to see his determined face, floppy hair; the love in his amber eyes. ‘You should forget about this,’ she’d said, ‘forget about me. Get on with your life.’
‘How can you say it?’
She’d felt tears rising, and nearly choked with the effort of swallowing them down. ‘It’s for the best.’
‘Of course it’s not.’ He’d grasped her hands, forced her to look at him. ‘A life with you, Nailah, it’s the only kind I want.’
‘I’m so afraid it won’t be possible.’
‘It will, Nailah. It will.’
They’d walked home in near-silence after that. Nailah had tried to make herself feel better with the thought of Isa waiting there, telling herself that she might yet have come up with a plan for what to do next. But when Nailah got there, there was no Isa, no Cleo – they were both at Sana’s – Nailah had been quite alone with Jahi, nothing to distract her from his words. I don’t know what to do, do you understand me? So out of control. It was close to ten before he left. Nailah had finally let herself cry when he’d gone, wept herself to sleep, scared of so much, so very much.
‘I would have stayed with Babu if I could,’ she said to Ma’am Sheldon now, ‘but it’s not allowed.’
Ma’am Sheldon turned to Sister Rosis. ‘Surely you can make an exception?’
‘It’s not hospital protocol.’
‘But it would be a kindness.’ Ma’am Sheldon took a seat on the other side of the bed, and smiled at Sister Rosis, head to one side. Nailah wondered if it was the same expression she had used to get her way as a child. Nailah could see her as a lively, curly-haired girl with pigtails and a nursery full of dolls. A beautiful mother, a rich father.
A beloved older sister.
‘Just for a day or two?’ Ma’am Sheldon said.
Sister Rosis sighed and agreed. As easy as that. She took her leave, advising Ma’am Sheldon that the gong would ring for the end of morning visiting shortly.
When she was gone, Nailah thanked Ma’am Sheldon.
She shook her head as though it were nothing. ‘Babu should have you here,’ she said. ‘I was remembering
earlier how I went into hospital as a child, not long after my parents died.’
‘Your parents are dead?’
‘Yes, when I was small.’
The news shocked Nailah. The picture in her mind of the laughing, pigtailed child evaporated immediately.
‘I had no one with me,’ said Ma’am Sheldon. ‘Not even my teachers visited. One of the nurses told me if I kept crying she’d tell my headmistress I was causing trouble.’ She shook her head. ‘What a horror. But, Nailah, I’m sure Babu’s mama would be grateful you’re here. I can’t help thinking mine would have wanted me to have someone like you.’
Nailah ran her forefinger over Babu’s damp brow. She thought, I’m not so sure about that. She didn’t know why Ma’am Sheldon had told her the story. Was she being deliberately kind, trying to win her trust? Why is she here? What does she want?
‘I’m sorry about your aunt passing,’ said Ma’am Sheldon, then frowned. ‘I’ve always hated people saying that about my parents. “Passing” is such an ill-fitting word.’ She grimaced apologetically. ‘I feel for you, if that helps.’ She gave a short, unhappy laugh. ‘Which I’m sure it doesn’t.’
Nailah didn’t know what to say.
Ma’am Sheldon looked down at her lap. The rim of her hat shadowed her swollen face. Nailah thought perhaps she was thinking of her sister, so in a ploy to distract her she asked, ‘Do you remember them, your parents?’
Ma’am Sheldon closed her eyes; it was as though the question upset her.
She didn’t open them again for what felt like a long time.
Nailah shifted in her seat.
‘I’m starting to,’ Ma’am Sheldon said at last, breaking the silence. ‘Just now, there was something. A morning, back in our garden.’ Her brow creased. ‘I must have been about seven. I had climbed a tree. Mama was standing at the bottom of it. I can see exactly what she looked like,’ she tapped her head, ‘here. I can hear her voice.’ Ma’am Sheldon’s own tone seemed full of wonder. ‘Mama said, “Shall I fetch your lunch and you can eat it up there? A picnic in the sky, how splendid.”’ A smiling sadness lifted Ma’am Sheldon’s lips. ‘Isn’t that lovely?’ she said. ‘Such a nice idea for a little girl’s lunch.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I remember.’ She ran a finger absent-mindedly over her cracked cheek. ‘It can’t have been long after that my parents died, and Clara and I were separated.’ She took a breath, her expression became less dreamy, resolve snapped into her sea-sprite eyes. ‘She’s why I’m here, Nailah. I think you can help me find her.’
Nailah felt like she’d swallowed her heart.
‘I know you know things…’ The bell rang. Ma’am Sheldon talked over it. ‘Things you might not feel comfortable talking about, but I have to ask you to do just that.’
Sister Rosis was walking over. She was almost upon them.
‘Nailah,’ said Ma’am Sheldon.
‘Mrs Sheldon,’ said Sister Rosis, ‘time to go, I’m afraid.’
Nailah exhaled, so hard she nearly choked.
Ma’am Sheldon sighed, pushed herself to standing, and bade Nailah goodbye. ‘I’ll call again later,’ she said.
Nailah nodded mutely.
She watched Ma’am Sheldon disappear from the ward, trying and failing to work out how much she suspected. Stay out of this, she told her silently, ask no more, for you have no wish to know any of it. She sank her head into her hands, wishing Babu would rally so that she could take him, force Sana to give her Cleo, and then flee with Kafele, as far from this place and Ma’am Sheldon’s bubbling curiosity as it was possible to go.
Before anyone else got hurt.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Imogen was waiting at the foot of St Aloysius’ stairs when Olivia stepped outside, her carriage parked next to Olivia’s beneath the jacaranda trees. She ran forward, meeting Olivia halfway up the steps, apologising for not having been in yesterday evening, she’d gone to call at Benjy’s. Unfortunately Tom had left for the desert by the time she got back, she hadn’t talked to him. Had Olivia spoken to Edward?
Olivia said she had not.
‘You look very pale,’ said Imogen. ‘Are you all right?’
Olivia filled her cheeks with air, not at all sure that she was.
‘Olivia…?’
‘I keep seeing her,’ Olivia said, ‘my mama.’
Imogen’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, darling.’
‘At first it was just this one memory, of her dressing for a ball, but now there’s more.’ Even as Olivia had told Nailah of that Cairo garden, she’d felt those memories nudging at her, unremarkable, other than in their being: Mama talking over her shoulder as she helped Olivia lace her boots; her frown of concentration as she pored over a book in a library; an exclamation as she let a glass slip, fragments smashing on the tiles. ‘I’m scared they’re not real,’ Olivia said. ‘I have no idea if I’m making them up, because I want to see her so much. And I’ve got no one to ask.’
‘You can ask me.’
‘But I want to ask Clara.’ Olivia heard the crack in her own voice. Imogen’s beautiful face melted. ‘I can’t see her, back then,’ Olivia said, ‘not at all. It’s as if she never existed to me, and I hate it. I hate me for it.’
Imogen shook her head. ‘I wish there were something I could say.’
Olivia let go of a long breath. ‘I wish there was too.’
Imogen smiled sadly. At length she asked, ‘How did you get on with Nailah?’
‘Badly. I’m going to go back later. I thought I might go to the shops first, fetch some fruit, soap, things to read.’
‘Butter her up.’ Imogen nodded. ‘It’s a good idea.’
‘That’s not why I’m doing it.’ Olivia frowned, thinking about Nailah’s stained dress, the worry lines on her skinny face. ‘I felt awful for her. She’s got nothing.’
Imogen sighed. ‘Any clue about who’s paying for the hospital?’
‘No.’
‘I thought it might be Benjy, it’s why I went to see him, but he said he’s had nothing to do with it. He didn’t even know Nailah had left to look after her aunt’s children until I told him. Apparently Amélie hadn’t seen fit to mention it. He had some rather interesting things to say on the matter. Come, I’ll take you to lunch, we can talk more there. There’s no point in you going all the way home, we can pick up Nailah’s bits and pieces on the Cherif Pasha.’
‘I don’t know.’ Olivia shuddered. ‘I’m not sure I could stand going there.’
‘I’ll be with you. You’ll have your bodyguard over there.’ Imogen nodded in the direction of Fadil in the carriage. ‘We’ll go to Draycott’s, it might do you good to go back there, face up to it.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘I think it would help.’
‘Think away, I’m not going.’
The marble foyer of Draycott’s was exactly the same as it had been last time Olivia was there: cavernous, polished, clicking with the expensive shoes of officers and gentlemen. ‘Welcome back, Mrs Sheldon. Good day, Mrs Carter.’ The maître d’ had the same obsequious bow (although the wary look he gave Olivia was new). ‘I’ll show you to your table.’
‘You booked?’ Olivia asked Imogen. ‘Did you have this all planned?’
‘No, no.’ Imogen floated away after the maître d’. Her scent mixed with his fragrant pomade, leaving a perfumed wake. ‘I always have a table here.’
Olivia suspected she was lying. Nonetheless, she followed her into the dining room. Her skirt brushed the tablecloths, she could see the parakeet’s cage on the terrace beyond. She took a breath, feeling an echo of her panic eleven days ago creeping through her. Her pursuit of Fadil jumped into her mind. She heard Hassan’s words in the stable yesterday, his question just after Clara was taken, too: Did you manage to speak to the soldier you were looking for? Something wasn’t right about it. Olivia touched her fingers to her forehead, trying to work it out.
She sat down. A waiter arrived and took them through the menu. He recommended a
particularly fine mullet baked with saffron and almonds. Olivia looked around, catching furtive glances directed at her, hands raised to whispering mouths. What do you suppose she’s doing here? Lunch and a show, weren’t they all lucky? Giles Morton from The Times was there – he raised enquiring eyebrows at Olivia, reminding her she still hadn’t replied to his letter. She averted her eyes; she couldn’t think how to respond to his digging now.
Instead she familiarised Imogen with all Hassan had said, and her suspicion that, since Clara had apparently left from outside Draycott’s willingly, the Egyptian she’d gone off with was the same man she’d been having the affair with. ‘I wish I’d told Edward. I asked Fadil if there was any way to get a message to him, but he says no. I don’t know what to do. Should I just tell Fadil everything?’
‘There’s no point,’ said Imogen, ‘he wouldn’t be able to do anything. He doesn’t have the stripes.’
‘What about someone else, one of the lieutenants? Or the police?’
‘And have our Clara’s business spread all over Alex by sundown? No, we can’t do that to her, to the children.’ Imogen clicked her tongue. ‘Let me go to the ground, see if I can’t get word to Tom. Meanwhile, you concentrate on getting this man’s name from Nailah.’ She frowned. ‘There’s something awry about her hiding so much. I keep wondering what it was Edward and Tom were trying to get out of her.’
‘Whatever it was, they didn’t get it,’ said Olivia, thinking of their faces when they left her. ‘They were… Put. Out.’
Imogen took a sip of water. ‘Then there’s the way Nailah left Amélie’s service without telling Amélie or Benjy why she was going. It seems the other servants only got to hear about her aunt’s death through gossip. Yet Tabia died right there, in Montazah. The man who killed her came to Benjy to confess. Why didn’t Nailah tell anyone she was related to her?’
‘Privacy?’
‘It seems more like secrecy to me. And another thing, why did the peasant whose horse trampled Tabia confess at all? Tabia was mown down in the dead of night, the man could have got away with it if he’d said nothing.’
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