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

by Laurie R. King

  When he had finished, he took his coffee over to the window. Windows in traditional Arabic architecture were primarily shuttered openings that faced inward, onto the central courtyard, to provide a basic amount of light and ventilation. Here, the French had breached the external walls of the dar’s upstairs guest-rooms with hinged windows. The sacrifice of security and privacy was well worth it, from Holmes’ European eyes, and the tantalising glimpses of gardens, streets, and rooftop terraces had proved the most desirable quality of the rooms during his stay.

  Now, he flung the glass open and planted his shoulder against the frame, his cup balanced on the tiled sill. The town’s noise obscured the splash of the courtyard fountain, but the air was still fragrant. Somewhere, a canary trilled. He took out his tobacco, torn between simple pleasure and waspish impatience.

  He would give Russell until the morning, before he turned the town upside-down.

  He knew that she was almost without a doubt the author of her own absence. Had it not been for two things, he might have thought that she had decided to, as the Australian aboriginal peoples called it, “go walkabout”—that the memory of those weeks in Palestine with Ali and Mahmoud, living in their goat’s-hair tents and drinking coffee as strong as that in his cup now, had tempted her to the romance of the dunes. Her version of his own sojourn in the southern High Atlas, but among the Tuaregs.

  Except that the letter left for him in Rabat five days ago suggested, and the appearance of a mute boy that morning confirmed, a quite different scenario than a light-hearted holiday. The letter, and its author, opened the door to an alternative explanation that was both reassuring and yet, in the longer term, troubling; one that—

  “Salaam aleikum, Holmes.” The lisping voice from the adjoining window startled Holmes, but it did not surprise him. He leaned out, past the burning cigarette resting between his fingers on the window’s sill, and looked into a pair of black eyes above a faint smile that revealed a gap in the front teeth.

  Holmes’ grin was considerably wider. “I thought as much! Aleikum essalaam, Ali Hazr.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I wondered if I mightn’t see you, before long,” Holmes said to Ali. They were settled before the brazier in Holmes’ room, speaking in the habitual low tones of men on whom heavy secrets often rest: A dar’s architecture allowed for little privacy. “Did my brother, Mycroft, tell you we were here, in Morocco?”

  “He sent word last month, but his letter only reached us ten days ago. We have been in remote parts. As my brother no doubt told you.”

  “I have not seen Mahmoud. He left a letter for me in Rabat.”

  Ali lifted his eyes from the process of dribbling tobacco into cigarette paper. “A letter?”

  Holmes took out his note-case and gave Ali the page. “I know his hand well enough, there was no need for a signature.”

  Holmes watched his eyes skip over the sheet. The younger man was more conservatively dressed than he had been in Palestine, where brilliant colours and beaded plaits had given him the look of a Bedouin pirate. Now, his clothes were chosen with care, but he wore no scent, and his dark eyes showed no trace of kohl.

  “How is Mahmoud?” It was not an idle question: Trapped in England the previous year, Ali’s partner had suffered—and Ali with him.

  “He is well. Nearly himself.”

  “Nearly?”

  “There are … uncomfortable elements to our task here. We shall both be glad to go home.”

  He did not mean England.

  Ali scowled at the brief message, holding it up to check for hidden marks. There were none—Holmes had looked, but retained the page in case he had missed something. Now, the writer’s partner replaced the note in its envelope, and dropped both onto the glowing coals.

  “He left it at the hotel on Monday,” Holmes told him. “I’ve been travelling in the Atlas, and only returned to Rabat yesterday. Where I found a letter from an old friend-in-arms, and discovered that Russell had last been seen walking away from an encampment near Erfoud on Tuesday. You and I both seem to have mislaid our partners. Experience suggests that the two events are connected.”

  Ali, frowning into the flames, muttered, “Insh’Allah.”

  Holmes narrowed his eyes. “That sounded remarkably like a prayer.”

  The younger man woke to the unlit cigarette resting between his fingers. When he had it going, he pulled his long, wickedly sharp knife from its decorated scabbard and drew a scrap of wood from his pocket. Ali thought best with a knife in his hand.

  “A year ago,” Ali began, “Mahmoud and I left England, fully intending to return to Palestine for good. We took our time, stopping two weeks in Paris. Mahmoud—Marsh—wanted to talk with Iris. He thought it possible they would not meet again, and he had business with her over the boy.”

  Ali and Mahmoud Hazr were also Ali and “Marsh” Hughenfort, with a complex and high-born English history they had worked hard to leave behind. Iris was Marsh’s wife; “the boy,” their grandson. A very young duke.

  “We nearly made it. We were waiting at the docks in Marseilles when Mycroft’s telegram caught us up, and sent us to Morocco instead.

  “You will know, by now, of the rebellion in the Rif?” Ali asked.

  “Even in the peaceable corners of the country, talk is of Abd el-Krim.”

  “A remarkable man.”

  “You have met him?”

  “I have fought beside him. But let me begin in the early months of the year, that you can follow the path that brings you and me together.”

  “Any army requires guns,” Ali said, frowning at the object beneath his knife, “even one that has conquered well-supplied enemy strongholds. More than medical supplies, or horses, or food even, an army requires arms. So in February of this year, Mahmoud and I saddled a pair of fine horses and headed up into the Rif out of Tangier, to sell some guns.

  “Our first concern was to keep out of the hands of Raisuli. You know Raisuli?”

  “A brigand and general opportunist, who claims the throne of Morocco. I have heard him called ‘the last Barbary pirate.’ ”

  “Raisuli is the blood enemy of Abd el-Krim. Selling guns to the Emir would declare us Raisuli’s enemies as well. Since Mahmoud and I did not wish to end our days nailed to a tree while the vultures feasted on our entrails, we took care to avoid him.

  “It took us until the end of February to reach Abd el-Krim. He was fighting eighty miles or so down from Ceuta, trying to use some captured artillery against a Spanish warship lying off the coast. Mahmoud offered them advice, and the ship moved away in a hurry.

  “It was a piece of good fortune, and it opened a door that might have taken some time otherwise. We joined with him for a few weeks, and saw enough fighting to prove that we were men. The Berber are a simple people. Like the Bedu, in many ways.”

  “Brutal?”

  “Clear-minded. Practical. We were not blood—would never be blood—but we had demonstrated our backbone and our skill, and that counted for a great deal. Plus that, our guns were good.”

  “You actually sold them guns?” No need to ask what else they were doing: The two brothers were spies, after all.

  “It is what gun-sellers do.”

  “Agents of His Majesty, selling guns to be used against two European countries.”

  “You begin to see why Mahmoud and I are keeping our heads down.”

  “Who knows?”

  “You.”

  “Lyautey?”

  “I have met the Resident General briefly, twice. He knows me as a representative of Abd el-Krim, nothing more.”

  Holmes watched the nimble hands for a moment, then: “What do you need?”

  The knife peeled a paper-thin curl of wood from the small block, shaping legs. “I believe you are friends with Maréchal Lyautey?”

  “He’s a distant cousin.” He explained the link to the surprised Ali. “So I have known him for years, even though my visit here earlier this month was the longest conversatio
n we’ve had.”

  “Your brother’s letter merely said that you would count yourself the man’s friend. The Maréchal has been here for twelve years, and has forged considerable respect. He is known to be a man of iron decisions. He stands firm against the wishes of Paris, yet when it comes to the voices of subordinates, Lyautey not only listens, he actively requests advice. He is an aristocrat who seems to understand the lives of working men. He is a Christian with great respect for Islam. He is often in pain, such that he must work from his bed, yet he does not permit infirmity to keep him from rising and riding into the hills when need demands.”

  “I have seen no sign of infirmities,” Holmes interrupted.

  “He has been to France twice this year for surgical operations. He returned from one such just last month. He would have retired by now, but for Abd el-Krim.”

  Holmes said nothing. Ali glanced up from his whittling.

  “He is also known as a man whose word is as iron as his will. During the War, even when he was called back to France as Minister of War, his Moroccan programs continued. The men of the Rif see Lyautey as a man who would bleed himself dry before betraying an oath.

  “So, that is your Maréchal Lyautey. In the meantime, Mahmoud has become as close to Abd el-Krim as a man who is not of the Beni Urriaguel can ever be. Do I need to tell you about the Emir?”

  “I have been hearing about Abd el-Krim for weeks now, mostly stories. He is Robin Hood, he is a brilliant tactician, he is a murderer, he is a power-mad tribal leader out for revenge against the Spanish, he is a greedy man aiming to control the Rif mining interests.”

  Ali did not deny any of the descriptions. “Abd el-Krim is a man in his early forties, educated in the Fez madersa, whom fate gave a path, and who found the courage to step onto it. Precisely speaking, the Emir did not begin the Rif Rebellion, but he was the man who bound the rebelling tribes together, who took over a dozen small revolts and Raisuli’s self-serving brigandry and forged them into an independence movement. It is true that the Germans would give almost anything to regain their mines near Melilla—one suspects Deutschmarks behind the seven million American dollars the Spanish offered him.”

  “Seven million? For what?”

  “Seven million dollars—plus arms to use against the French—if the Emir would permit them to reoccupy the area around the mines.”

  “He turned them down?”

  “The bay is the only place along the Mediterranean coast where large numbers of troops may be gathered. Ceding it to Spain would mean holding a knife to the throat of the entire Rif.”

  “Raisuli would have taken the money—and then gone back on his word.”

  “You see the difference between the two men.”

  “Yet Raisuli is not without his followers.”

  “There are those who would die for Raisuli because of who he is, who care nothing for his sins because the blood of the Prophet runs in his veins. For them, it is a world of black and white: Compromise is weakness, victory is proof of divine approval, crimes are not crimes if they are in the service of the Most High. When religious fanaticism enters the realm of politics, the mix is extremely volatile. Spain does its best to stir the pot—they believe that Raisuli’s victory would be to their benefit.”

  “Why then does Raisuli deny the rightful Sultan of Morocco? Surely that is a God-given position if ever there was one.”

  “Raisuli is also of the house of Alaouite, Morocco’s ruling family for three centuries. He regards himself as a more rightful ruler than Sultan Yusef. Abd el-Krim, on the other hand, denies the Sultan because Yusef is under the control of France. A political viewpoint, rather than the visceral religion of Raisuli—just as Abd el-Krim is attempting to fight a war of independence rather than a jihad against the Christian world. The Emir walks a razor’s edge every day.”

  “The traditionalists do not like Abd el-Krim?”

  “They like him less. He is a modernist, who would bring the country into the new era. For example, he has little patience for local marabouts, shrinekeepers, whom he regards as dangerously mired in the past. He attended the Fez madersa and is a Believer, but he does not speak the language of the holy men.”

  “And this is the man your brother has befriended.”

  “Mahmoud’s advice has proved good, his commitment to the Rifian cause solid. This means that now, after ten months, he is in a position to say a word into the ear of Abd el-Krim, and it will be heard.”

  “And what is the word that Mahmoud has said?” By now, the two men were speaking in low murmurs.

  Ali paused to set the rough creature on the table for a moment, to check that it stood firm on its four legs. Then he resumed. “My brother says that the head of the Rif Republic and the Sultan’s foreign minister should meet, face to face, without the presence of Spain. That we need to bring together Emir Mohammed Abd el-Krim and Maréchal Hubert Lyautey.”

  “Moroccan soldiers mutinied in 1912 when they thought France was controlling the Sultan. Why wouldn’t the whole country go up in flames over this?”

  “It would. Were it known.”

  “A secret meeting, then. Abd el-Krim would come, despite the risk of arrest?”

  “Once we saw that Chaouen was all but won, we put the question before the Emir. He agreed, and a message was carried to the Maréchal, asking if he would be willing to meet.

  “It was the following day that your brother’s letter reached us, giving your location in Rabat. It seemed a possible solution to the problem of how to permit Lyautey a guard without risking knowledge of the meeting getting out. Plus, you might be needed to talk him into it.

  “We received Lyautey’s tentative acceptance eight days ago—on the twelfth. Mahmoud left the next day, both to find you and to confirm that the site we had thought of would be adequate.

  “We requested a neutral place, to the north of Fez, even though if the Emir wished, he could walk into Fez through the Bab Bou Jeloud and no man would be the wiser. A handful of teachers at the madersa might recognise the man from the boy he was, but outside of them, his face is known only to those who have fought at his side. Abd el-Krim walks in the shadows.”

  “So long as his name is not said aloud.”

  “As you say. He would not come to Fez knowing that a potential enemy could be waiting, Allah ystor.”

  “Why do you need me?”

  “Your cousin has made preliminary agreement to come and speak with the Emir. He may be less willing when he finds that it will take him away from Fez for a day, and that it renders him vulnerable. Only a brave man would ride alone to such a meeting, but only a stupid man would do so without being certain it was no trap. Lyautey is a brave man. He is not a stupid one.”

  Holmes studied the side of his companion’s face. Ali remained intent on the figurine. After a while, the older man got to his feet, walking to the little window to stare unseeing at the rooftops.

  A chain of links, strung across a chasm: Lyautey, Holmes, two British spies, and a rebel leader, on which the perilous future of a country rested—and Morocco’s future was only a part of the picture. If such a meeting went wrong, if Lyautey was shot or taken prisoner and England’s hand in his fate came to light, French outrage would have artillery pointing north across the Channel.

  “Why?” he asked, his back to the room. “What are you after?”

  “Till now, the Rif Rebellion has pushed exclusively north, against Spain. If it matters at all to this discussion, Mahmoud and I happen to believe that the Rifi have a right to their land, but opinion notwithstanding, the Emir is on the brink of forcing Spain to the negotiating table. By spring, when the Spanish people have buried their dead and filled their eyes with newspaper images of the Spanish retreat from Chaouen, after the government have patched their wounded and added up the cost of what they left behind, Spain may well begin to feel that narrowing their Protectorate down to the countryside around Ceuta—as Britain has the country around Gibraltar—would be of benefit. And the brothers Abd e
l-Krim would be a powerful presence across a negotiating table. They may ride on horseback and dress in handspun robes, but do not make the mistake of picturing them as tribal barbarians. They are educated men with subtle minds, who would give their lives for the sake of their Republic.”

  “And you wish to convince both Lyautey and Abd el-Krim that they need not be enemies?”

  “I—we—wish fervently to at least delay any confrontation.”

  “But the Rifi are moving south into the Werghal Valley.”

  “How do you know this?” Ali’s voice said that it was no surprise to him.

  Holmes turned. “The Maréchal told me. He also said that, militarily speaking, the Rifi had little choice.”

  “As I said, a wise man. It is true that, as things stand, there appears no alternative. The French border divides families. The brothers of those families must ride to their support. Their manhood demands it.”

  “While French authority equally demands that it defend the borders it has been given, even when those borders are nonsensical.”

  “Two men alone can stop it, insh’Allah.”

  “I do see that.” Holmes pushed his shoulder off the glass and walked back to the fire. “And you wish me to convince the Resident General of Morocco that he can trust the word of his sworn enemy. That he can place his life and the future of the country in the hands of a man who can only wish him, and all other French, dead.”

  “He can, because Mahmoud and I have said so.”

  “Two more men he has no reason to believe.”

  “If Lyautey trusts you, he will trust us.” Ali glanced up from incising tiny textures into the creature’s neck.

  Holmes held the other man’s eyes. “The odd thing is, you are probably right.”

  “But it must be soon. Abd el-Krim has agreed—in general terms—to be within a day’s ride of here on Monday, insh’Allah.”

  “What, in two days? Impossible!”

  “Once the French Christmas is over, troops from Fez will begin to move into the Werghal.”

  “How do you know all these— No, don’t tell me.” With the number of factions here, spies would be thick on the ground.