The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  ‘Do you speak English?’ interrupted the tall man in the broad-brimmed hat.

  ‘English?’ William replied, nodding suspiciously.

  The man in the hat clapped his hands together and laughed out loud. ‘Wonderful!’ he announced, drawling so that the ‘er’ seemed to drag on. ‘I haven’t met anyone who can speak English in days,’ he said and slid some way along the bar top, His hand gripping a long jar of wine.

  ‘My name is To m Richmond, sir,’ The man said, and put out a hand. ‘My friends call me Thomas.’

  William looked down at the hand for a moment, then summoned his manners and shook it. ‘William,’ he replied.

  ‘William? A gentleman’s name, sir.’

  ‘Mr Richmond,’ William greeted.

  ‘Please! Call me . . .’ the man paused with difficulty, staggering a little, ‘. . . whatever you like.’

  William gave him a courteous nod.

  ‘Are you a merchant?’ Thomas Richmond asked, looking William up and down.

  William felt suddenly stung, memories of his family life coming back to him in a flood. The Saxons had been one of the greatest merchant families in all of England, yet William had turned his back on this tradition when he joined the army.

  ‘I am,’ he replied finally.

  Thomas Richmond suddenly looked relieved. ‘Thank God. I haven’t met another merchant in days, sir. It’s nothing but locals that smell of fish around here.’

  William smiled, though he felt exasperated. Time was dwindling and he was no nearer to finding out the cause of Greynell’s death.

  ‘And how do you like Rashid?’ Thomas Richmond asked. Before William could reply, he added, ‘It’s sadly in decline. Merchants are going elsewhere. Alexandria, I suspect. This is the last fortress of decadence left in this damned placed. But I fear even Babel’s will close its doors soon. A shame.’

  ‘You look at home here,’ William remarked politely, glancing around the room.

  ‘You see, I can understand every sordid conversation and squalid promise in this room, William,’ the Englishman replied, leaning casually on the bar. His hat slipped a little and William guessed the merchant was inebriated. ‘I am fluent in Arabic, sir. It helps when negotiating with these fishmongers.’

  Leone backed into William as another whore began wrapping her arms around the brother’s waist. Leone shrugged her away.

  ‘Captain . . .’ he began, wishing he had stayed outside.

  ‘Is this too much for you?’ William asked him.

  ‘I feel I am a target for their affections, Captain.’ Leone sighed, appearing awkward.

  ‘It would be harder to hit a moving target,’ William remarked and looked around the room. ‘While I speak to this gentleman, maybe you can mingle with the patrons. See what information you can gain from them.’

  The suggestion was unappealing, but another woman reached out to Leone and he struggled away from her. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  William waited until Leone had pushed his way from the bar, standing out amongst the customers in his European attire, before he returned to the conversation with the English merchant.

  Thomas Richmond grinned. ‘Your friend is not happy,’ he observed.

  ‘Too much attention for one man,’ William replied. ‘My friend is shy .’

  ‘He should take a girl,’ the Englishman suggested, gesturing to the women as they walked past, sizing up the rich and extravagant customers. ‘They could even show an old man a thing or two.’

  ‘Indeed,’ William said, and turned to a bare-breasted woman behind the bar counter. He held up two fingers and the woman nodded, retrieving a bottle and two glasses. ‘Will you drink with me?’

  Richmond’s smile broadened. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  After pouring out the drinks, William toasted the Englishman.

  Richmond downed his drink also, coughing slightly at the end of it. He then relaxed again and looked William up and down. ‘It is agreeable to meet a fellow Englishman,’ he said.

  ‘If that is so, then maybe you can help me,’ William said directly.

  ‘Of course. A fellow merchant must always be helped,’ Thomas Richmond slurred.

  ‘I am looking for someone. A friend. I understand he drinks here,’ William began. ‘If you could help me find him I would appreciate it.’

  Richmond nodded quickly. ‘Of course! Of course! Anything for the company. There has been only one Englishman here in weeks.’

  William listened. ‘Just the one?’ he asked. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Here they called him “Charlie”. A good man. A good merchant. He liked drinking. He liked whores. He has not been here for several days,’ the Englishman lamented.

  William’s look was urgent as he clattered his empty glass on the bar counter.

  The Englishman noticed the transformation. ‘Is it Charlie you’re looking for?’

  ‘If his full name is Charles Greynell, then yes.’

  ‘I confess I knew not his last name. Charlie was the only . . .’ Richmond began, but William interrupted.

  ‘Did he speak to you about anything of interest?’

  ‘No. He was a silent man. Spoke little,’ The other replied. ‘He was private. Would not even say where he was going. Nor where he had been.’

  William looked disappointed. ‘Nothing at all?’

  Richmond shook his head. ‘Who knows where he is now?’ he added.

  William looked to Leone, who was busy defending his honour. ‘Mr Richmond . . .’ William began.

  ‘Call me Thomas,’ the Englishman broke in.

  ‘Thomas then . . . I must know everything about Charles Greynell,’ William said. ‘If there is anything you recall, no matter how trivial, please tell me.’

  ‘Why? Is there something the matter?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Charles Greynell is dead,’ William told him.

  There was a pause, maybe of contemplation or something else, but the Englishman’s expression soon began to crease into confusion. ‘I do not understand. You are here to find Charlie. You asked me about Charlie. So Charlie is not dead . . .’

  ‘Charles Greynell was found murdered several days ago,’ William told him quietly.

  ‘No . . .’ Thomas murmured, sobering fast.

  ‘I need to know everything about him. I have to discover how he was murdered,’ William told him.

  ‘Of course,’ Thomas said distantly.

  ‘Will you help me?’

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘Is there anyone else here who might have known Charles Greynell?’ William asked.

  Thomas pointed across the bar to a rotund man in a long beige gown. ‘That man owns Babel’s. He would know.’

  William watched the bald fat man, his laughter high and almost effeminate as he massaged a young woman’s nipples, nuzzling her neck at the same time. ‘Him? I thought he was a client,’ William mused.

  Thomas leant over the bar and began hailing the man. ‘Khayyam! Khayyam!’

  The fat man ceased nuzzling and turned to the voice. He seemed to sigh and walked over to the bar, m uttering to himself quickly. His voice rose as he began addressing the Englishman.

  ‘Ask him about Charles Greynell,’ William interrupted.

  Thomas spoke and Khayyam answered hurriedly, going on to launch into a tirade.

  ‘What did he say?’ William asked.

  ‘He wants to know where Charlie is,’ Thomas replied, ‘for he has many debts to pay.’

  ‘Tell him I am not here to pay Charlie’s debts. Tell him I want some information.’

  Khayyam listened, hoping the response would be profitable. At once he frowned, growing angry again. He threw up his hands and began to turn away. William dipped into his money pouch and put two gold coins on the counter. The brothel owner paused.

  With his attention caught, William said, ‘When was the last time he saw Charles Greynell?’

  Khayyam replied quickly as Thomas translated, the fat man pausing only to take the tw
o gold coins from the bar.

  ‘He says it was several days ago. With me,’ Thomas replied.

  ‘And before? How long has he known Charlie? Did he say anything about where he was going?’ William asked.

  Thomas translated and Khayyam shrugged, saying barely a few words. ‘No. Charlie said little of his business. He went away for a few months but returned recently. Now he has gone again.’

  William felt tired. It was all he could do to control his frustration. Scratching his head, he weighed the purse in his hand. He was running out of money.

  Khayyam grew agitated again.

  ‘He wants recompense,’ Thomas said. ‘He wants to know when his debts will be paid.’

  William ignored him. There were no clues here. A dead-end and wasted time. No one seemed to know about Charles Greynell and it was looking increasingly likely that the knowledge of Mhorrer’s Hoard had died with their contact.

  William turned to the brothel owner, his shrill voice irritating him. ‘Tell this man he won’t be paid because Charles Greynell is dead.’

  Thomas paused, surprised at the vehemence in William’s voice. But he translated all the same and watched Khayyam crumble, whimpering theatrically about the loss of his money.

  William turned his back on the bar and looked across the room. Leone was picking his way through the crowd, appearing more and more bewildered by what he saw. The debauched acts in every carnal corner were making him increasingly meek, and William doubted he would have the nerve to ask about Charles Greynell, and disrupt the patrons as they wallowed in mutual desire. If William was honest, he felt a little out of his depth too. None of these gentlemen would pay them any attention if there was better sport to be had.

  On closer inspection the clientele were mostly Arabs, but he did see the occasional European, dressed in creased linen and sporting days of beard growth. Most of the non-Arabs appeared down on their luck, apart from Thomas Richmond, who was simply drunk. Again William asked himself: why Babel’s? Why come to a place like this, where the drink was terrible and the patrons were just as bad? The women weren’t anything special, those whom William could see anyway. But what about those he could not?

  He raised his eyes up the length of the atrium past the staircases that joined each random landing with the next. There were more rooms up there. Perhaps there were other whores in those rooms, for special customers. Customers like Charles Greynell.

  William turned to Richmond, who was fending off curses and accusations from Khayyam.

  ‘Mr Richmond, did Charlie have a favourite? Someone he would visit here often?’ William interrupted.

  Thomas tapped his lips thoughtfully. ‘A girl? I don’t know . They are all pretty.’

  ‘Can you ask Khayyam?’ William said. Thomas gestured over to the fat man, whose ranting turned suddenly to hope as he scuttled over. He listened to Thomas by cupping his hand around his ear, but when Thomas was done, Khayyam looked at William and spat on the floor.

  William pulled out another gold coin and slapped it down on the counter, seething.

  ‘Malika,’ Khayyam said as he snatched the coin from the bar.

  ‘I want to meet her,’ William said.

  Thomas beamed. ‘Finally, you are taking pleasures from Babel’s!’ he said and translated to Khayyam.

  Khayyam pointed at William and held up six of his fingers.

  ‘Six coins?’ William said as he reached into the emptying purse again. He looked down at the coins and shook his head. ‘Very well . . . Six it is.’

  The coins were stacked on the counter. ‘And you too, Mr Richmond,’ William added.

  Thomas raised his eyebrows and patted his breast pocket. ‘Me?’

  ‘I need your help,’ William said. ‘I cannot speak to her, remember?’

  ‘You wish only to speak?’ Thomas said, amazed. ‘You have not seen Malika . . .’

  William pointed at the Englishman, gesturing to him as company. Khayyam looked surprised but nodded and pointed at the coins, raising six more fingers. William breathed hard as he dug for more coins, thinking he was probably paying off ‘Charlie’s’ debt anyway .

  With the transaction complete, Khayyam led both men across the room, past further scenes of drinking and fornication until they arrived at the stairs. Brother Leone marched over to William after spotting him from afar. He was flushed and beads of sweat were collecting on his forehead.

  ‘Anything?’ William asked him.

  ‘No, Captain, but . . .’ Leone hesitated, then glanced at both Richmond and Khayyam, who were listening.

  William inclined his head. ‘Continue, Leone. I doubt they will understand you.’

  Leone nodded, but lowered his voice all the same. ‘I was going to say that the locals are ignoring me. They won’t even acknowledge me when I speak to them. And the women . . . well.’

  William smiled sympathetically. ‘You’ve done enough.’ He patted Leone on the shoulder. ‘Wait for me outside with the others. Inform Lieutenant Peruzo that we have a possible lead. This gentleman speaks Arabic and can translate for me. I wo n’t be too long.’

  Leone looked hopeful again and gave a quick nod in reply before braving the gauntlet of the whores outside. Before William could contemplate his decision, he was led upwards, over the creaking wooden steps to the first landing, and then up another flight to a second. It was there, overhanging the far end of the landing, that Khayyam gestured to a doorway veiled by a long scarlet sheet that billowed a little in the breeze.

  William swept back the curtain and stepped inside.

  The room was long and low, and night air buffeted his skin from an open window. In the middle of the room was a four-poster bed, veils of white muslin hanging on every side. The smell of incense was heady here, and with each breath the scent flowed like wine down William’s throat.

  For a moment he thought there was no one else in the room, and then from the bed came movement, the folds of sheets and veils rustling and shifting until a figure emerged from within them like a ghost. She rose deliberately slowly from the bed, her shadow and outline only glimpsed in the flickering light of a nearby lamp. Curling her fingers around the left post at the foot of the bed, she stepped around the corner.

  William heard Thomas gasp behind him; he understood why. Malika was almost as tall as William, with long black hair as thick as Adriana’s. Her face was oval-shaped, and her eyes shone like the brightest of stars, staring with a desire that was quite daunting. Her body was slim and curved in such a way that William’s hands would almost have spanned her waist, yet her rump was round and lush, matching her deep and heavy breasts, dark-rimmed around the nipples that jutted beneath her transparent gown. Even the dark triangle between her legs appeared perfectly shaped.

  Regarding both men, she raised her slender arm and pulled the clasp that held her thin gown to her shoulders. It fell away like feathers, floating gently to the floor at her feet. Naked, her legs parted slightly, she waited for them to approach her.

  William found himself staring and stirring, and felt suddenly ashamed of himself.

  ‘Thomas?’ he gasped.

  The Englishman hesitated, locked into the spectacle of her standing there, imagining carnal acts with this woman. William reminded Thomas of his purpose with a sharp nudge in the side. Thomas cleared his throat as William walked boldly over to Malika and bent down to pluck her discarded gown from the floor. He straightened up and pushed it into her hands. ‘Tell her to dress,’ William said, turning his back on her.

  Thomas did so under sufferance.

  They waited until the woman was dressed, her expression changed from desire to bewilderment. She muttered something and Thomas translated.

  ‘She wants to know when you wish to taste her pleasures, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want her pleasures, Thomas,’ William replied wearily. ‘I only desire some answers.’

  Malika sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Ask her about Charles Greynell.’

 
At the mention of the name, Malika seemed to cringe. She glanced nervously past William to the door and then to the window.

  ‘Why is she afraid?’ William asked.

  Thomas spoke to her and she paused for a moment. Then, with her head bowed sheepishly, she told them.

  ‘She says her owner would whip her if he knew that Charlie was being pleasured without paying,’ Thomas replied.

  ‘Tell her not to be afraid,’ William said, and put his hand under her chin, raising her face to his.

  Malika flinched like a scared child.

  ‘Does she know where Charles went during his journeys from Rashid?’

  Malika listened to Thomas but said nothing.

  ‘Well?’ William said after a silent minute passed. ‘Ask her again.’

  Thomas did so, and this time she looked at William and then at his purse. She said something to the Englishman and then looked up at William, her expression hardening.

  ‘She says that Charlie confides in her, and his trust cannot be .. .’

  William had an inkling of what she wanted. ‘Can it be bought?’

  Thomas asked. Malika nodded. William brought out three gold coins and looked at them with disdain. ‘This entire town is for sale,’ he growled as he drew out a fourth.

  ‘Did you expect otherwise?’ Thomas remarked casually. ‘She is a whore.’

  William put them on her opened palm, and she gripped them tightly. She began to speak to Thomas, though she could not keep eye-contact with either man.

  ‘She says Charlie went away for months at a time. He would travel to the south. He would follow the Nile down to Cairo and Luxor.’

  William looked at her, and understood. He nodded, trying to appear encouraging, but he was losing patience.

  ‘Ask her if Charlie ever gave her anything. A letter, a message . . . Anything at all,’ William said as he stepped away.

  ‘She says “No”,’ Thomas replied.

  William sighed. ‘No,’ he repeated and turned to leave. ‘Very well . . .’

  ‘Wait,’ Thomas said, as Malika murmured something more. ‘She says that he gave her a gift.’

  William looked back. ‘What was it?’

  Malika rose from her bed and went over to a stand where other gowns hung. On one hook was a length of string and a pendant. She lifted it from the hook and came over, talking all the while. ‘He said it was a good-luck char m he bought for her,’ Thomas continued.