Garment of Shadows: A Novel of Suspense Featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes

by Laurie R. King

  So I turned and walked in the other direction. To my astonishment, four steps away the small hand insinuated itself into mine. I whirled around, lifting the hand in a threat.

  “Child, no. Leave me.”

  He looked, if anything, puzzled. His finger went up, pointing … at the series of bowls mounted on the wall.

  At the so-called clock.

  I felt the mechanism of my brain turning, more cumbersome than any thirteen-bowled timepiece. “Clock?” I asked in Arabic. “Sorcerer’s clock?”

  He nodded.

  I worked my hand inside my djellaba, loosened the hair-pin on my breast pocket, and dug around until I found the tiny scrap of onionskin. The child came forward to see what I had, and then looked up and granted me an expression of wide approval. He patted his narrow chest and pointed at the paper, then held out his hand in a gesture clearly meaning, “Now, will you come, please?”

  However, if he had been responsible for the written Arabic, then he could speak it. “Where do you want me to go?” I asked him.

  His light brown eyes slowly blinked; his hand remained raised.

  I thought about it, thought about the lack of shelter and the coming night. What choice had I? To join the acrobats and snake-charmers at the city gate? I took a breath, and placed my hand in his.

  I had, it seemed, acquired a guide.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THIRTEEN DAYS EARLIER

  Sherlock Holmes watched the slender brown hands pour the thick coffee and arrange the silver spoons, then fold themselves against the woollen robe in a semblance of a bow. When Youssef had been assured they needed nothing else, and his dark eyes had surveyed the room as if commanding the objects there to behave themselves in his absence, he left. Holmes took an appreciative slurp from his cup, stretched his feet towards the glowing brazier, and told his companion, “I thought I’d hire a guide in Marrakech.”

  “Be certain that he has a functional rifle.”

  “It’s still unsettled down there?”

  “ ‘Unsettled.’ That’s an understatement. One of the more distasteful tasks of my position is arranging for ransoms. That, and funerals.”

  “I see. Well, for your sake, I shall specify arms.”

  “At least you’re not going north.”

  “You’ve worked a miracle in this country.” They were speaking French; the pronoun Holmes had used was neither plural nor formal, but the tu of intimates. The older man on the other side of the brazier, dressed in a blue uniform with seven stars on its sleeve that even at this hour looked morning-crisp, was Morocco’s Resident General, Louis Hubert Gonzalve Lyautey. The Maréchal was, oddly enough, a blood relation. Of course, most minor European gentry could locate common blood if they looked deeply enough, but in the case of Holmes and Lyautey, they were fifth cousins on their mothers’ sides. The two men had met by accident thirty-one years before, when, during the usual stilted dinner conversation of fellow passengers on a Mediterranean crossing, Holmes happened to mention that he was related to a French artist by the name of Vernet.

  The two had seen each other but a handful of times in the intervening decades, and Holmes hesitated, on finding himself in Morocco, to inflict familial duties on someone with as much pressing business as Lyautey. However, he had discovered in this distant cousin a complex and intriguing mind, and the alternative was to remain under the jurisdiction of Randolph Fflytte and his band of merry film-makers, forced to carry out a prolonged act of imbecility. So, he wrote to the Maréchal (using the surname Vernet) and the Maréchal wrote back immediately, to say that the turmoil on the Protectorate’s northern border was keeping him in Fez, but he was well pleased to have a house-guest, if the guest did not mind a host who was somewhat préoccupé.

  Holmes seized this opportunity, and five days ago he had made a coward’s exit from Rabat, abandoning his wife to her task. In truth, Russell had been looking forward to the experience of emoting before the cameras, although she would never have admitted it, and certainly not to Holmes.

  Or so he told himself.

  Morocco had come under French control twelve years earlier. A land of Islamic feudalism, a country with neither railroads nor telegraph lines, its roads were the tracks of camel caravans, its only wheeled vehicles the toys of children. The 1912 treaty had divided the country between Spain in the north and France in the south, and within weeks, native troops in Fez rose up and massacred their French officers. European shops and offices were ransacked, the Jewish quarter was in ruins, the Sultan locked himself inside the palace, for fear of being rescued by his supporters. When Lyautey dismounted at the gates of Fez, in May 1912, tribal gunmen were inside the walls, and the new Resident General was greeted by the news that all was lost.

  Lyautey’s response had been to walk without hesitation into the medina, to the house that had been set aside for his use, and dress for the formal reception.

  On the surface, a blue-blood cavalry officer would seem a most unlikely choice for escorting a Mediaeval country into the modern world, but whether through accident or intent, the appointment of Hubert Lyautey had been a stroke of genius. Even as the Great War approached Europe, he had seized the Moroccan problem as one would a fractious young horse, taking its reins in a grip both iron-like and respectful.

  Unlike Spain to the north.

  “A miracle is called for,” Lyautey now told his English cousin, “to negotiate a path between Spain and the Rif rebels.”

  “Have they put someone sensible in charge of those negotiations, at least?”

  “That’s not for me to say, although I try.”

  “You?”

  “Me. France appointed the current Sultan; France controls Fez and the major portion of Morocco; therefore, France is responsible for any foreign negotiations the Sultan might wish to make. Et la France? C’est moi.”

  Resident General, military commander, governor of the state, and foreign minister. No wonder the man was looking his age.

  “I heard rumours about the Rif while I was in Rabat, but little hard fact,” Holmes remarked.

  “Extraordinary, is it not, how disconnected the parts of Morocco are? Always has been—the Sultans have never really controlled the Atlas mountains, or even the Rif. Rif means ‘edge,’ did you know? As in sharp. Of course you know that. Very appropriate. No, identity in this country is tribal, not national. The north is in a riot of bloodthirsty savagery, while down in Rabat, French ladies sip their tisanes in sidewalk cafés. Morocco is like a man walking his dog while his hat is in flames.”

  Holmes’ mouth twitched at the image. “Forgive me, but I have spent most of the past year travelling in places where news is sporadic, inaccurate, and maddeningly out of date. I understand that Spain is having little luck in quelling the Rif Revolt?”

  “The Spanish have combined wholesale corruption with abject stupidity, and now de Rivera—you know that Spain has become a military dictatorship?”

  “That I did hear.”

  “Primo de Rivera. A dictator determined to replicate the catastrophic decisions and attitudes of his predecessors. As we speak, men are dying. You heard of Annual?”

  “A town, and a battle.”

  “A catastrophe, for the Spanish. From childhood, the Berbers of the Rif are taught violence and blood. They scorn a man who has not killed before his marriage. Three years ago, in the summer of 1921, some five or six thousand Rifi tribesmen bearing antiquated rifles came down from the mountains against fifty thousand Spaniards armed with everything from machine guns to aeroplanes, and slaughtered them. Twenty thousand Spanish soldiers and civilians died. A Moroccan Verdun—and the Rifi picked up all that equipment as they left. Tens of thousands of rifles, hundreds of machine guns, artillery—enough to furnish an army. Which is what they now have. They’re calling it a war for independence. And thanks to the Spaniards, it’s on my doorstep.”

  “Sounds remarkably effective, for tribal warfare.”

  “The two brothers at its head—Mohammed and M’hammed b
in Abd el-Krim—are a clerk and an engineer of mines. The Rif has enormous mineral potential. Iron, phosphates—you’ll recall that The Great War nearly broke out in 1911 over the Agadir mines?”

  “Gunboat diplomacy at its most flagrant.”

  “And if the response dissuaded the Germans from colonial claims here, it didn’t stop them from economic colonisation. They were happily burrowed into one of the world’s largest iron deposits, just south of Melilla, when the rebellion came down and smashed everything to pieces. The mine, the port, the equipment, all now in rebel hands.

  “Extraordinary country, this,” Lyautey mused. “Terrible and beautiful. A gem. And like a gem, hard, multi-faceted, and tough to hold on to. The hills rich with minerals, the central plains as fertile as anything in Europe, the people lively and intelligent, located in a place vital to world trade. If we can bring to bear what I like to call our ‘arsenal pacifique’—medicine, education, and hygiene—if we can nurture the social framework here instead of the usual mindless European destruction that leads to resentment and anarchy, we have a chance to witness the birth of a vibrant and beautiful new nation. Yes, the only thing Morocco lacks is natural harbours, and once we’ve built a couple of sea-ports, this land will blossom.”

  “Assuming the rebellion doesn’t spill over to the French side.”

  “As you say. These brothers Abd el-Krim, I don’t know what to make of them. They’re modern. And somehow, they have managed to unite tribes across the Rif into one fighting force—they even have Arab and Berber fighting side by side, unheard of in this land. As we speak, a major battle is going on, scarcely 150 kilometres to the north. More problematic for us, reports indicate that Rifi troops are moving in along the boundary, which is only a day’s ride from here. Ah, but come, you’re not interested in matters military, my dear cousin.”

  “To the contrary,” Holmes said. “It makes a refreshing change from moving pictures. That is, if you are willing …?”

  “Very well, if you like. Ah, Youssef, how did you know that I was thinking my coffee needed a drop of brandy? The man’s a mind-reader,” he said to Holmes. “Would you like some in yours, cher cousin? No? In a glass, then, Youssef, and that will be all. Lift your glass, my English friend, that you might drink to the stupidity of your fellow man.

  “To the north of here,” the Maréchal began, “deep in the Rif mountains, lies a town called Chaouen. It is a sacred town built by Moors expelled from Spain—I am told it resembles Granada—with a multiplicity of mosques and shrines, a town to which previously (so legend has it) only three Europeans had ever come; two of them, in heavy disguise, left safely; the third, a missionary, died from poison.

  “Four years ago, a Spanish general by the name of Castro Girona talked his way into Chaouen to tell the city leaders that they ought to surrender.

  “Incredibly enough, they did—and equally incredibly, the Spaniards marked this triumph by stabling horses in the mosques and abusing the ladies of the town. Offensive behaviour, so short-sighted.

  “This past summer, Spain had to draw back, stranding some three or four thousand troops in Chaouen. In September, they moved several divisions—Intelligence reports say forty thousand men—to Tetuán, some fifty kilometres off, and sent them to Chaouen’s relief.

  “The Spanish troops reached Chaouen around the first of October, having lost far more men along the way than the number they were relieving. And six weeks later, just in time for the heavy rains, they began their retreat. Through mountainous terrain. With no proper roads for their artillery and armoured cars, while a whole nation of skilled and well-armed guerrillas lay among the rocks like shadows. The Rifi waited until the last Spaniard was free of the town—their Foreign Legion brought up the rear, under a young madman by the name of Franco—and fell on them like wolves.

  “I can’t imagine what is going on up there now—no, I can imagine. Every Rif male has a gun and a reason to hate the Spanish. Thousands will be dying. Tens of thousands.”

  “Under Mohammed and M’hammed ibn Abd el-Krim.”

  “The two brothers. Their names are about all we know of them, other than the older one having a limp. Their only photographs could be any man in Fez. The younger one, the Revolt’s strategist, was educated in Spain as a mine engineer—they were born to the Beni Urriaguel, whose land holds most of Morocco’s iron deposits. The elder brother—Mohammed, the Emir of the Rif Republic—worked as a Spanish journalist and native affairs officer until he was gaoled during the war—his limp is from an escape attempt. Both bear long witness to the insults, corruption, harassment, and general contempt with which the Spanish treat their Moroccan possession.

  “And yet, if you’d told me five years ago that there would be a rebellion, I’d have wagered that it would have Sherif Raisuli at its head.”

  Holmes stirred. “Raisuli as in ‘Perdicaris free or Raisuli dead’? Brutal and corrupt Raisuli, the last of the Barbary pirates? The man has made a career out of kidnapping Europeans—Perdicaris and Varley, Harris, Maclean. I wonder how much he’s made altogether from his various extortion schemes?”

  “Raisuli lives in considerable luxury—more to the point, he pays his men well. But it’s not just ransoming prisoners, or selling them as slaves. The Sherif’s a master in the art of playing European countries against one another. During the War, he took German money to foment a tribal revolt against us. More recently, I’m told that he’s tried to collect their bounty on Abd el-Krim—the Germans are determined to get their iron mines back. He’s even made a couple of attempts on my life—he has his eye on the Moroccan throne. Claims to be of the blood.

  “He’s given the Spanish merry hell for years, although of late he’s quieted down towards them—Abd el-Krim has forced him to choose sides. Given a choice between Spanish pesetas and the threat of an enemy’s Republic, Raisuli went with Spain.”

  “Spain must have mixed feelings about that.”

  “They can’t afford to be fastidious about their allies. The Sherif may be ruthless and corrupt, but to his followers he is blessed—baraka—and can do no wrong. Buying peace with him secures Spain’s western flank.”

  “For the time.”

  “True. As you say, for a pair of office workers, the brothers Abd el-Krim have proved unexpectedly adept at guerrilla tactics. No one but Raisuli has been able to resist them—and once they run out of Spaniards to pick off, they’re sure to turn their sights on him.”

  While to the south, Holmes reflected, moving picture companies and adventurous tourists moved freely across new French roads and on new French railways. And one more or less retired English consulting detective sat before a brazier with his distant cousin, in one of the most intriguing towns he had ever laid eyes upon.

  “Will the Emir Abd el-Krim win?” he asked.

  “Only if he can avoid a confrontation with France.” Lyautey took out his cigar, frowning at the end of it. “The problem is, the border between the French and Spanish Protectorates was drawn in haste, with little attention paid to tribal boundaries. The Werghal River made for a convenient line, but as Spain withdraws, the Rifi move in. I have asked for reinforcements; however, Paris tells me our troops are heavily committed in the Rhineland and the Ottoman mandates. They’ll change their mind once Abd el-Krim forces the issue. His Berber are magnificent fighters—independent, ruthless, and absolutely fearless. But—to answer your question—when he does attack us, it will be the end of him. If he tries to fight a war on two fronts, with tribal warriors, he will lose.”

  And when Paris does send your reinforcements, Holmes wondered, how far north will you push? It was not a question he could ask, even of a friendly cousin. Still, faced with Spain’s dangerous incompetence, any military man worth his salt would be sorely tempted to redraw the equation by—treaties be damned—simply sweeping across the mountains and tucking all of Morocco under French rule. Let the politicians sort it out.

  As an Englishman, Holmes knew he should be concerned. Twenty years ago, Britain h
ad let France have Morocco under the firm condition that the northern strip remain Spanish. It was one thing to have a moribund power like Spain in charge of land a cannon’s shot from Gibraltar; it would be quite another if France, a strong country with whom England had a not always easy history, took over the coastline.

  Holmes wondered if this Abd el-Krim understood the delicate balance of power his revolt was threatening—and the danger that awaited, should he venture south of the Rif mountains. “Interesting, is it not,” he mused, “how often the fate of nations comes down to personalities? Like Colonel Lawrence: one little man who has changed the entire shape of the Middle East.”

  “I have heard of Colonel Lawrence. I do not know that I would have wished him under my command.”

  “Most of his superior officers would have said the same. But don’t be led astray by the Lowell Thomas portrayal. Lawrence was a singularly effective officer, for his time and place.”

  “I should like to meet him,” Lyautey admitted.

  “I should like to introduce you.”

  “You know him?”

  “We met in Jerusalem, just after the War. My … Russell and I were in Palestine for some weeks. Living as Bedouin, in fact—you’d have been amused to see it.”

  Lyautey reached for the decanter and demanded the story. Holmes lifted his glass, considering. The tale concerned British espionage, some details of which were unsuitable for French ears. Too, Lawrence had been broken—in heart, and nearly in mind—by his own government’s ruthless abandonment of the Arab cause, a betrayal that had left him standing alone, a liar to his friends. But the distasteful particulars of that powerplay might be avoided, and the events themselves were five years old—there were details he could adjust to resemble a police investigation rather than an Intelligence one.