“What? Why not?” Agatha thought, fleetingly, that Katharine was about to confess to a preference for her own sex. But that couldn’t be so, could it? According to Max, she was a man-eater.
“I wanted to tell you the day of the wedding, but I was afraid to. You see, I’ve never told anyone.” Katharine’s eyes dropped to the patch of sand between them.
“What?” Agatha whispered. “What did you want to say?”
Katharine glanced up at her, then looked away, toward the horizon. “When Bertram died—the day he killed himself—he’d sent for a doctor. To see me.” She fumbled in her pocket, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her nose. “We’d been having . . . problems, you see.”
She fell silent again. Agatha held her breath, afraid that anything she asked now would sound like prying.
“I . . . We . . . found it difficult. Impossible . . . to . . . ,” Katharine faltered, searching Agatha’s face. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Agatha nodded. She didn’t. Not really. She wasn’t certain if Katharine was talking about her sex life with her first husband or their inability to conceive a child. But she sensed that to ask outright would be like prodding a snail emerging from its shell.
“I wanted to, of course,” Katharine went on. “I adored Bertram from the moment I set eyes on him. But on our wedding night . . . we . . . I . . . I mean, they tell you it’s going to be painful, the first time, don’t they? But I never dreamed it could hurt as much as that. And it never got any easier. Every time he . . .” She brought the handkerchief up to her nose. “After six months we decided to call in a doctor. We were in Egypt at the time, and it wasn’t long after the war, so it wasn’t easy to find one. He . . . examined me. I’ll never forget the look on his face as he told me to get dressed. I asked him what was wrong with me, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said he had to see my husband first.”
Agatha saw another tear trickle down Katharine’s face and land without a sound in the sand.
“I only found out later what he’d said.” Katharine closed her eyes, a residue of tears seeping out at the corners. “It might have been the language. He spoke Arabic, of course, and his English was limited. But the way he put it was utterly blunt. He told Bertram that he had married a man, not a woman.”
“What?” Agatha’s mouth fell open. This was unbelievable. She had seen Katharine, naked, at the hammam in Damascus. She had the kind of body women envied and men dreamed of. A more perfect specimen of womanliness was hard to imagine. What wickedness had been in this doctor’s mind?
“He had discovered that I had no . . . female parts. Not inside, anyway. No womb, no ovaries. And only a very tiny . . .” Katharine’s voice died away, her face ghostly. “That’s why it was so painful, you see.”
“Oh, Katharine . . .” Agatha gathered her up, feeling her shoulders heave with sobs. Now she understood it all. The suicide. The look in Katharine’s eyes when she came down the aisle at the church in Baghdad. The nightly bathing ritual designed to keep Leonard at arm’s length. And the way she toyed with men like Max—even that was comprehensible, seen through this new lens. How wretched, to be attracted to a man, to sense that he was attracted to you, knowing all the while that mutual desire could never be consummated.
“There’s no . . . name for it.” Katharine raised her head, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief. “I tried to find out, of course, when I got back to England. I’m a freak of nature, is about all the medical books say. One in a hundred thousand is born like me. The curse of it is we look like real women—on the outside. And we feel like real women, too.”
“Katharine, forgive me—I have to ask you this.” Agatha paused. It wasn’t prying. If she was going to be of any help to Katharine, she needed to know. “Why did you marry Leonard?”
A look of resignation crossed Katharine’s face. “I thought you’d ask me that. And you’re not going to like the answer. The fact is I had no choice. The trustees didn’t approve of me being out here as a single woman. If I hadn’t married him, I’d have lost my job. He proposed and I accepted.”
“Does he know?”
“God, no!” Katharine gave a little shudder. “Do you think he’d have married me if he had? He might come across as a cold fish, but it turns out he’s as keen on . . . that side of things . . . as any man.”
“But you must have realized what you were letting yourself in for?”
“Not really,” Katharine said with a shrug. “I thought he was marrying me as much for his own convenience as mine. He’d never betrayed any interest in women. I actually wondered if he might be homosexual. When I realized that he wasn’t, I . . . well, I convinced myself that I could do just what I’ve done with other men: let him do . . . certain things . . . but not come too close, keep him at arm’s length. But it’s . . .” She broke off, shaking her head. “He was very patient at first, but now he keeps asking me when I’m going to let him into my bed.”
“Do you love him?”
“What a question!” Katharine clicked her tongue. “I like him. I respect him. But . . . I don’t know if I could ever love anyone again. Not after Bertram.”
“That’s understandable.” Agatha nodded. “But is it really fair to string him along like this? Couldn’t you come to some sort of . . . compromise?” She wondered how to say what she was thinking without making things even more excruciatingly embarrassing for Katharine.
“What do you mean?”
Agatha hesitated. “It’s not my place to tell you how to behave within your own marriage, Katharine. But wouldn’t it be better to have it out in the open? I can’t believe a man as intelligent as Leonard wouldn’t show some understanding if he knew the facts.”
“What if he went the other way? Had the marriage annulled?”
“Does he love you?”
“He says he does.”
“Then he’ll remember the vows he made, won’t he?” Agatha said. “For better, for worse. Till death us do part.”
“I can’t imagine anything much worse than being told your wife is incapable of the one thing that makes marriage different from every other kind of relationship.”
“But there are worse things,” Agatha said. “Sickness. Disability. People marry and stay together despite things like that.” She paused. “You say he’s very patient. Can’t you give him the benefit of the doubt? Give him the chance to find a way through this? Because if you don’t tell him, you’re condemning yourself to a life of misery, aren’t you? No job can be worth that.”
Katharine said nothing. There was a distant look in her eyes.
“You’re living a lie, just as I was with Archie in the end,” Agatha said. “I know what that feels like. It’s an intolerable burden. That’s why I had a breakdown—and the same thing could happen to you if you don’t open up to Leonard.”
Katharine nodded. It was the slightest movement, almost imperceptible. “I know you’re right. But I’m not sure I’m brave enough. How could I tell him?”
“Well, you told me. That’s a start, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” She nodded again, with a little more conviction this time. “You won’t tell anyone, though, will you? Not Max or Nancy. I couldn’t bear it if everyone was whispering about me.”
“Of course I won’t.” Agatha squeezed her hand. “I promise you, your secret’s safe with me.”
CHAPTER 24
It was several hours before Agatha saw Katharine again. They got back to the expedition house to discover that an official from the British Consulate in Baghdad had arrived at Ur Junction and was on his way to see them. The news sent everyone into a flurry of activity. Breakfast was cleared hurriedly away, and each member of the household—including Agatha and Nancy—was assigned part of the house to tidy up at top speed.
“Why is he coming?” Nancy called over her shoulder as she plumped up the cushions on the sofa.
“I don’t know,” Agatha called back. Her job was to empty the ashtrays, which were dotted all over
the house and were always overflowing with cigarette butts in the mornings. “I suppose they have to keep an eye on things, with all the valuable goods being unearthed here.”
“I expect he’s coming about the trouble in Basra.” Michael’s face, with its frame of ginger whiskers, appeared round the door. “There’s been an uprising near the border. Nothing for us to worry about—but they might want us to keep our eyes open.”
Max had been dispatched to collect the visitor. By the time he drove through the gates, the house was looking fairly respectable. Agatha and Nancy watched through the living room window as Leonard and Katharine went to greet the new arrival.
“I’ve seen him before,” Nancy said. “He’s the assistant to the High Commissioner. His name is Hugh Carrington. Not very nice, I’m afraid.”
“About Delia?”
Nancy nodded. “He tried to fob me off. Said there was no point pursuing the matter because it came under the Official Secrets Act. When I insisted on seeing his boss, he got very nasty. He didn’t say anything unpleasant, but his manner was glacial. He made me feel like a nuisance, an intruder.”
Agatha and Nancy didn’t actually see Hugh Carrington face-to-face until later that day. Max drove them to the dig site so that Leonard and Katharine could be left alone with him.
There was a tent pitched in the shade of the ziggurat, where Nancy sat reading while Agatha went to one of the new trenches. Max gave her a trowel and a brush and showed her what to do.
“If you find anything—anything at all—just shout,” he said.
It was thrilling, kneeling there in the sand like a real archaeologist. Before long, Agatha’s trowel made contact with something hard. She brushed away the sand to reveal the tip of something blue and glassy. She called out to Max, who came running.
“A shard of a goblet, by the look of it,” he said. “Don’t worry too much about getting it out intact—it’s much later than the period we’re interested in: only a thousand years old at the most.”
“Oh! What a shame.”
Max smiled at Agatha’s crestfallen expression.
“You can keep it if you like. Take it home as a souvenir of your visit.”
By the time they went back to the house, Agatha had a bag full. The colored shards reminded her of the fragments of sea glass she sometimes used to find washed up on the beach as a child. Tiny pieces of blue, green, and amber, their edges worn smooth by the waves. She laid her new finds out on the bed of her room in the annex, angling them to the sun so that they glowed like jewels.
Only a thousand years old at the most.
It made her smile, remembering Max’s words. She lay down next to her treasure trove, closing her eyes as images of the day before flooded in. Was it dangerous to let her mind run on? To imagine some kind of future with this man? Was it even remotely possible, with the kind of life he led?
She had fallen into a doze when his voice woke her up. He was on the other side of the door, telling her it was time to go to the Bedouin village for the sheikh’s feast.
“I’ll take you first, if you don’t mind,” Max said when she opened the door. His tone was businesslike. She wondered why. Then she saw that Duncan was coming along the corridor toward him. “Pierre and Michael and Duncan will go with you. Then I’ll come back for Katharine and Leonard and our other visitor.”
Max took them in the truck, the men in the back on sacks, and Agatha and Nancy in the front. Agatha was in the middle, her leg against the gear stick. There was a moment when Max’s hand slipped. She felt the heat of his skin through the fabric of her skirt.
“Oh—sorry!” He jerked his hand away, glancing sideways. She could see that he was trying not to smile. She smiled back, knowing that Nancy wouldn’t see. Images of the day before slid into her mind’s eye again. His body glistening with water, his face hovering over hers as she lay in the sand, the look in his eyes when he kissed her.
“Is that Hamoudi?” Nancy’s voice broke into her reverie. She was peering through the window, shading her eyes.
“Yes, it is.” Max waved at the robed figure riding toward them on the back of a mule. When they drew level, he wound down the window and said something in Arabic. After a brief conversation, they were on their way again. “He went to tell them about our visitor,” Max said. “It can be a little tricky if government officials turn up uninvited. It makes the tribesmen uneasy—and things are delicate enough as it is.”
“Is it going to be all right?” Nancy sounded nervous.
“Oh yes—please don’t worry,” Max said. “It’s just etiquette, you know—doing things by the book. Very important in this part of the world.” He slowed down as the tented village came into view. “By the way, don’t be offended if they seat you two in a different place from the rest of us. Their women aren’t allowed at the feast, you see. Western women are admitted, but they’re kept well away from the men.”
He pulled up by the wooden palisade that encircled the village. As they stepped out, Agatha could smell the mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat. It was coming from a pit dug in the sand. Next to it, suspended over a fire, was a huge copper cauldron being stirred by two robed men.
“Come and meet the sheikh,” Max said. “But don’t try to shake his hand—they’re not allowed to. Just nod your head.”
Sheikh Munshid of the Ghazi was a striking individual with an emerald-green headdress and a henna-tinted beard. He greeted them with a bow under the wide brown canopy of his open tent. Once they had been introduced, Agatha and Nancy were ushered to the far end of the enormous space in which the feast was to be served. They sat on jewel-colored cushions laid on goatskin rugs, watching Max present Michael, Pierre, and Duncan to the sheikh.
When Max left to collect the others from the expedition house, Agatha heard the muffled sound of giggles coming from somewhere behind them.
“Who’s that?” Nancy had heard it, too.
Agatha glanced over her shoulder. There was a partition screening off part of the tent, and she could see something moving through the fabric—an elbow or a shoulder made a lump that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
It wasn’t until Katharine arrived and took her place next to them that they found out what was going on. “Those are the sheikh’s womenfolk,” she said. “They’re not allowed to sit with us, but they like to peep at the guests and listen to what’s going on.”
The tent was filling up with Bedouin men. Agatha lost count at thirty. When everyone was seated in a big circle, the sheikh gave an order and a man on his left went out, returning with a falcon perched on his wrist. He set the bird on a wooden perch in the middle of the tent. Max leaned across to the sheikh and said something in Arabic. Agatha and Nancy looked at Katharine.
“He’s congratulating the sheikh on his magnificent bird,” Katharine said. “It’s all part of the ritual. Because we pay him to protect us, he has to show us his prize possession and we have to compliment him.” She smiled. “Don’t worry—it doesn’t last long. The food will be here soon.”
Sure enough the falcon was carried out and three men appeared, carrying the huge copper cauldron Agatha had seen when they arrived. They set it down in the middle of the circle, curls of smoke snaking out over the guests. The air was full of a delicious mix of spices and roast lamb.
“The pot is full of rice,” Katharine said, “and the meat is cooked on a spit, then laid on the top. They’ll come round with flaps of Arab bread in a minute. You have to help yourself from the cauldron and eat it with your fingers.”
The men were served first. Agatha’s stomach rumbled as she watched the sheikh and the elderly men of the village walk in procession to the cauldron, followed by Max and the others, and finally, the younger Bedouin men. Would there be anything left?
She needn’t have worried. When everyone in the circle had had several helpings, the cauldron was still half-full. When the women had eaten their fill, it was lifted up and set down in a second circle where the lesser guests sat. Agatha noticed
Hamoudi and Saleem among them.
Meanwhile, plates of sweetmeats were handed round the sheikh’s circle, and coffee was served. Agatha bit into a square of something that was brown on top with a biscuit-colored base.
“Oh—this is delicious!” She took another from the proffered plate. “What is it?”
“It’s called holwah tamar,” Katharine said. “They make it with dates, walnuts, and sesame seeds.”
“What’s going on over there?” Nancy was looking toward the front of the tent. A crowd of ragged-looking men and woman had gathered just beyond the threshold. They all looked undernourished and were peering into the tent with anxious faces.
“They’re waiting for the leftovers,” Katharine replied. “They get anything that’s still in the pot when the servants have finished. It’ll be bones, mainly, and a bit of rice. But they’re beggars. They’ll take whatever’s on offer.”
The women watched what happened when the cauldron was taken outside. The waiting crowd flung themselves upon the food, and when the big copper pot was lifted, it was tipped toward the tent so that those inside could see that it was quite empty.
The sheikh got to his feet and nodded at the men sitting around him. It looked as if he was about to make a speech. Instead, he slid his hand inside the shawl draped over his shoulders and pulled out a pistol. There was a collective gasp as he pointed it at Leonard Woolley.
“Oh God,” Katharine hissed. “What’s he doing?”
Leonard glanced at Max, who said something in Arabic. The sheikh laughed and said something back. Katharine gasped, clutching Agatha’s arm.
“What’s happening?” Agatha whispered. “What did he say?”
“Max asked him if the gun’s loaded.” Katharine’s grip tightened. “He said yes, what would be the point otherwise . . . and that he bought it with the money paid to him by our . . .”
The sight of Max rising from his cushion stopped her dead. He was saying something else to the sheikh. Pointing at something outside the tent. With a broad smile, the sheikh turned round and took aim. A bullet whizzed over the heads of his fellow tribesmen, swiftly followed by a terrific crack outside. All the Bedouin men roared with laughter as they flocked out to see what the sheikh had hit.
The Woman on the Orient Express Page 24