by Jane Jakeman
She did not, in fact resemble our mother at all, having inherited my father’s blond English looks, while I have inherited my mother’s Greek dark eyes and black hair. We are not the least alike, neither in appearance nor, as I thought, in character, though one or two similarities were to emerge.
We did not correspond directly all through the years of my Greek adventures, though after I had reached my majority I went to the British Consulate in Patras and affixed my signature to various documents which would allow my sister a gentlewoman’s education and dress allowance from the estates which I had inherited. I expressed my opinion that she should have a proper education and learn to speak some languages and do some figuring instead of receiving the usual young lady’s training in idle tittle-tattle, but this must have been dismissed as youthful eccentricity and I think had no effect whatsoever upon the choice of school for my sister. It was as well therefore that she turned out to possess a great fund of common sense, which made up for the deficiencies in her schooling.
The lady on the houseboat was a grown woman, wrapped in veils against the mosquitoes, yet I recognised her instantly: there was that fair hair springing from her temples in lively curls, as our father’s had done; there were the large blue-grey eyes impressing with their candour; there was that beaming smile that I remembered the child Ariadne turning upon the object of her pleasure.
Which was now myself; she rose and moved to greet me and I hastened on to the deck of the boat, where my sister flung her arms around me.
“Why, Ambrose, this is such good news! I have been in correspondence with your manservant Belos, you know — he wrote through our lawyers to tell me how terribly wounded you had been — and I was intending to come to England and cheer your convalescence! So it is doubly a delight to see you here — and looking so well. Charles — my husband — will be back very shortly — he is longing to see you.’’
It was but a few moments before I was seated next to her and a glass of lemon water was poured out for me.
I felt my spirits relax in that enchanted setting, and yet the desert was close, though beyond our view as we sat on the deck of the Zubeida.
As travellers to Egypt know, the desert is somehow omnipresent. Even in the crowded streets of Cairo a sudden flurry of wind-borne sand will remind the wayfarer of the wider world. Cairo is surrounded by desert which continually presses in upon it; if it were not for the human army ceaselessly brushing and sweeping away the drifting grains of sand, in streets, in courtyards, in palaces and hovels, constantly repelling the invasions of sand, the city would eventually vanish beneath the dunes, swallowed up like the lost cities of the ancients. As I write this, grains of sand are drifting on to the very pages and I have to pause and shake them off.
So we were conscious, even though we could not see them, of the vast deserts that stretch away beyond the thin green fringe of the river, and of the massive creamy white bulks of the pyramids of Egypt and the great silent head that broods there, a presence felt far beyond its purviews.
I think that Ariadne has now accepted that her life with Charles is destined to be, as mine has been, a traveller in distant lands. She told me about her husband and his interests and profession in that first occasion as we sat side by side, looking at the exquisite view. Charles is a geologist, engaged in a search for new knowledge beyond the boundaries of Europe. Ariadne is caught up in his restlessness, with ceaseless exploration which brought him to Egypt to study the rock formations out of which arise towering desert cliffs, and from which the very Sphinx itself was hewed.
The Zubeida is not only their houseboat but their home while they are resident in Egypt. It was Charles' idea to stay so pleasantly on a boat moored to the riverbank, said Ariadne, while he consulted with men of science as to the geological formations which surrounded them. There was, I understand, a particularly clever engineer with whom he had been preparing a map.
I was well disposed to my brother-in-law for this charming idea of houseboat living, which appealed to me as somewhat more imaginative than one might have thought to find, but after I had met him I realised that it was also a very prudent course of action, for Charles is nothing if not careful. He took the view that it was much healthier to stay on the river. “It will be so much safer here,” he said that evening when we enjoying a pilaw in the dining room below deck. “In case there is any epidemic in the city we can isolate ourselves so easily from infection — just pull up the gangway and sail southwards down the river to healthier places such as Luxor or Aswan. And what more beautiful spot than here?”
It is indeed a glorious place, where the blue waters of the Nile flow around the flowery stretches of Rodah Island. From the deck of the Zubeida, we could see tall tulip trees and the brilliant colours of bougainvillaea. This houseboat life in Egypt was handsomely pleasant: the Zubeida had cabins fitted out in brass and mahogany, a sitting room on deck, and awnings sheltering the passengers from the fiery heat of the Egyptian sun. It became our custom to sit on the deck every evening and watch the magnificent blaze of the sunset.
The Zubeida was one of the larger dababeyabs, or passenger boats, that cruise the waters of the Nile. It seemed that Charles had followed the usual precautions taken by travellers in Egypt who desire to live on a boat to keep infection at a distance and had watched as the Zubeida, stripped of all her old furnishings, was deliberately sunk into the waters of the Nile to rid her of all rats and insects. The boat was then hauled out of the water and set afloat again and once her cabins and decks had dried out they were redecorated and the whole ship furnished with new chairs, beds, and hangings, so that it was certain that she could not harbour the slightest thing that might spread disease.
The Zubeida in fact offered very considerable creature comforts, which I have never affected to despise. When we fought in the mountains and crossed the high trails and passes of Crete, I went often without food, and our small band of soldiers thought themselves well enough fed with a few loaves of hard bread, a handful of black olives, and a pitcher of rough wine or spring water. So, as a battle-scarred traveller who has had to tighten his belt often enough in the past, I now congratulate myself on my good fortune whenever any of the delights of life are placed before me.
To return to the Zubeida, she had a crew of some eight men, headed by the rats, Ahmed, and including a cook who could provide all meals required by passengers and crew. The boat had a kitchen built in the forequarters with its own iron ovens, their walls sealed with gypsum plaster as a protection against the spread of fire. The stores of oil, flour, beans, and cheese were carried aboard in great Balias pottery jars, well stoppered and proof against insect invasion. Sweet well water was brought on board regularly, and I may say the houseboat was virtually self-sufficient in almost all departments: if need arose, we could lift the gangplank, cut ourselves of from the shore, and survive for a month or more.
The crew included Faridun, the ship’s cat, whose task it was to prevent any re-infestation by small rodents. Charles toyed with the idea of getting a mongoose, for they are said to be very effective hunters of snakes as well as of rats and mice, but a mongoose would always remain a wild animal and when we were at anchor would have to be tied up to keep it on board. Whereas Faridun’s loyalty could be bought with titbits of fish, though I cannot say he repaid them with the vigilance of a hunter and was usually to be found beneath Ariadne’s chair, as indeed cats are depicted in some of the paintings I have seen in the ancient tombs of Egypt.
That first evening, as we sat side by side on the deck, there was remarkably little conversation; we fell somehow into an easy exchange of silences and casual talk. Charles returned from a visit to the city, where he had been speaking to some mining engineers who hoped to open up the shafts in the Eastern desert where the ancients had once mined gemstones, and we spoke a little of the treasures of the past which lie concealed in the deserts beyond the Nile.
“I hope to amuse myself with some study of the ancient monuments,” said I. “Do you know of
the studies of hieroglyphs which M. Champollion has undertaken in France? I feel I myself must make an attempt to recover something of these mysteries.”
“If anyone can do it, you can, brother-in-law,” said Charles. “I am sure of that, for Ariadne has told me that you have the damned quickest brain ever encountered.”
“Charles, don’t swear!” said Ariadne. “But we may thank Heaven that at least Ambrose does not seem to be engaged in any such venture as that in which he suffered such dreadful wounds.”
“Some might think him very courageous, to have joined the Greek uprising in fighting for their liberties against the Turks. It was a high-minded and noble enterprise which he was engaged in — you may be proud of him, Ariadne. Though courage seems out of fashion in these feeble days.”
High-minded and noble! God, if Charles but knew! He has never seen a battle — the reeking filth of the dead, the blood and mud and tumbled guts of the wounded, the gibbering fear of the living who will kill anything and anybody, who will maim and torture and stab other men in the back that they themselves may survive — and as for me, I was no better than the rest when it came to battle, for all my youthful talk of liberty.
But Ariadne was as innocent of cynicism as her spouse.
“Proud of Ambrose — yes, I am. But I am also frightened for you,” turning towards me, “frightened for you because of your impetuous nature!”
I interrupted this account of my glowing merits.
“Have no fear, for I have learnt some wisdom, I assure you. I was a young man when I went to Greece. I will risk my life less readily now, I can tell you! I no longer burn with the ideals of eighteen.”
“Well, if you should find you want to burn again, brother, you may truly do so in the desert, if you do not take care. But I hope you are grown more circumspect.”
“I am a good deal older and wiser, you may be certain of that. I intend to pass my time quietly studying the monuments, and I wish also to explore the city, of course.”
I did not wish to present the complicated history of Miss Lilian Westmorland at this point, lest my sister’s fear of my impulsive nature should seem justified. At a later date, I resolved, I would tell her of the young woman who might at some time have need of protection. I now changed the subject. “Can you recommend a guide to Cairo for me — I mean someone who really knows the city from the inside — all its nooks and crannies and alleyways!”
“As a matter of fact, I believe I know just the fellow for you,” said Charles. “He cuts a somewhat unusual figure, not in the ordinary run of guides, but you won’t mind that, I imagine. It’s a sheikh, a very learned man, who studies learned histories; he has helped us with the knowledge of the old Arabic geographers, who knew the routes across the deserts and the places where gems and metals were mined. But I warn you, he wears tatter-demalion animal skins, and looks half-starved, for I believe he abstains from food for days at a time. They say, however, that he has connections in all parts of the city, for it is whispered he is the sheikh of all the harafish, the beggars of Cairo! He can tell you anything you want to know about any quarter of the city — I’ll ask the rais to send for him if you like. My love, was that not a mosquito?” Charles turned to Ariadne anxiously. “Have you got your veils with you? I will ask Ahmed to bring them, if not. Let us all sit up on deck and watch the sunset. We can dine later and exchange our news when Ambrose is fed and rested after his travels. Does that suit your inclinations, Ambrose?”
Of course, I assented. The sunsets of Egypt are splendid beyond anything, short and fierce, so that night seems to fall with tremendous rapidity, like a dark velvet curtain. On that evening the great blazing disc of gold and orange filled the sky to the west and slowly sank, as we watched, beneath the black rim of the land, and as it sank I thought of Elisabeth, as I do every night at sunset and at every dawn.
Whatever was to come, whether our future lay together or apart, mad or rational, I knew I loved her to the deepest dregs of my heart. But my heart has been through many adventures: it is older and wiser than once it was!
*
The old sheikh, he who dresses in animal skins and lives with the poorest, the beggars, the conjurers, the harafish of the streets of Cairo, came to me on board the Zubeida a few days later.
It was early in the morning, that fresh and cool hour when anticipation of the day is still a pleasure, when birds and jackals rule the desert and fishermen stretch their nets in the pearly morning light that is reflected in the waters of the Nile.
He called softly from the bank, a gentle whistling sound which we had pre-arranged, for I had already sought out in Cairo the Arab guide to the city whom Charles had recommended. He was a learned man, with a tumble-down house near the great mosque of Shaykhu, where poor scholars have studied and been housed for many centuries, and his celllike room was crammed with parchment manuscripts. He was known to have contacts everywhere among the beggars, the eyes and ears of the poorest of the poor. Barely a donkey moved or even a mouse stirred but one of his harafish knew of it, and the tale would eventually find its way to him.
Yet, poor though he was, he would not act for money alone. He hated the thing that I hated, the relentless piece of cruelty that was in train. He could exist on a daily crust of bread and a bowl of water and he had his sacred texts and the companions of his mind and soul: what did he need of foreign money?
On this morning, he said nothing, but plucked at my sleeve and guided me through the sleepy streets till we came to the banks of the canal which flows alongside the old city. It is choked in many places with weeds and sometimes with refuse, but there are still fishermen in some clear stretches, and this morning something had been caught in the nets. As we drew near I asked him what had taken place in my stumbling Arabic, for I had a still imperfect command of that language, but he shook his head and was silent, looking grave and distressed as we made our way along the canal bank.
There was a small group of men on a rough and narrow wooden quay and their catch lay motionless in the water.
The long net had trapped her, along with brownish-green water-plants and small silvery creatures, and her young body was held fast in its knots. The fishermen still looked shocked, appalled at what they had netted at first light.
I leaned down into the water and drew the net closer to the shore amongst the brown swirls of the canal. On either bank of this narrow cut, tall houses peered down at us, their occupants invisible behind the wooden lattices, but I thought I heard prayers being murmured from somewhere nearby. In this city, nothing is ignored: everything that happens is seen by eyes which may be behind a screen or a veil.
The fishermen were muttering blessings and prayers as I lifted the girl up out of the water. The face turned towards me with the swirl of the current as I pulled her to the land and as the body moved I saw the flash of gold and silver pinned to her garments clearly visible beneath the surface. A brooch made in the European style, fashioned to a special design. A gold horse’s head within the crescent of a silver moon.
It was on account of this clue to a Western connection that my old guide had fetched me, hoping that I might be able to shed some light on the matter. Alas, there were other traces that were tragically familiar to me.
Around the throat were deep-purple-red marks, exactly as I had seen on the body of that poor girl two continents away, on a wet evening in England.
It is true, then. The evil of which I had suspected this creature — it is proved beyond any doubt. To do this to a young and entirely innocent human being who has scarcely begun to live — how right I was to fear him and to pursue him like a very hell-hound. Only I had not followed him close enough, for if I had I might have prevented this death of an innocent, another young life caught and crushed in his net of cruelty, like that poor servant girl at Westmorland Park whose lifeless body I had gazed upon less than a month ago. That had been some warning of what was to come, and I bitterly reproached myself that I had not anticipated this terrible crime which I was not in t
ime to prevent.
This killer possessed a deliberate and careful mentality; he adapted his methods according to his needs: for some victims, a careful and elaborate plot. For others, a hasty dispatch where it best suited his purpose, in the deserted grounds of an English mansion or in an alley-way of Cairo.
Slowly, I unpinned the jewel from the sodden garments and held it up to the light.
“Can you take me to the house?” I asked the sheikh, showing him the brooch.
He nodded and turned away to lead me up a narrow
flight of steps cut in the very rock of the city, towards the heart of old Cairo.
Rage was burning in my throat as I set after him; the pin of the brooch drove into the palm of my hand, but I scarcely noticed it.
FOURTEEN
Thank God I was in time! I burst in to that dreadful household like an avenging angel, yet, for all my bravado, there was no human enemy with whom I could grapple.
He had gone, of course, and left his filthy deeds behind him.
This was a cunning man, the most skillful strategist I have ever countered, who had devised a scheme so subtle and so wicked that it was almost perfect.
Yet, for every stratagem there is a counter-stratagem. I had my own armour against his attack, had already summoned it long ago in England, in the quiet house of an obscure country doctor. I did not, I admit, have prescience of the full extent of Casterman’s malice; that, I think, would lie beyond the ken of all but demons. No, my armour was literally to protect myself: it was donned for purely selfish motives, viz., to protect my skin, literally. The preservation of one’s own hide is one of the greatest steps a man may take in order to add to the general sum of human well-being and
happiness and I shall never allow any cant about sacrifice to persuade me otherwise.
So it was that as I rushed into that room I would not allow Miss Lilian Westmorland to exhibit any signs of merciful charity towards the sick. I flung myself towards her and pulled her away from that bedside as she was in the very act of stretching out her hands towards the sufferer; I pulled at her as if I were dragging her from a fire, as if hot coals were touching at the hem of her dress, lugging her back and out of the door just as she reached out towards the poor wretch lying on his palliasse.