by Seven Dials
Pitt stared at him in slowly dawning comprehension as to the magnitude of what he was being asked to do. It overwhelmed him. He had no idea how even to begin, let alone weigh any conclusion. He knew nothing about Egypt except fragments he had picked up in conversation, newspapers, and a little more recently about the cotton grown there. He did not know the city of Alexandria; he would be utterly lost. The climate would be nothing like London, or the food, the clothes, the customs.
And yet at the same moment as fear gripped him, so did a kind of excitement which grew with each second, and the words of acceptance were on his lips before he had thought clearly of how he could succeed.
“Yes, sir. What is the best way? Thomas Cook?”
The shadow of a smile touched Narraway’s lips. “It was an order, Pitt, not a request. Your only alternative would have been your resignation. But I’m pleased I did not have to make that point to you.” At last he turned and looked up. His eyes were cautious, softer for a few minutes. “Be careful, Pitt. Egypt is not an easy place at the moment, and you are going there to probe into delicate issues. I want the information, but I would like you back alive. Your death in some back street would not reflect well on my professional reputation.” He picked the money up from the top of the desk and with it a plain white envelope. “Here are your tickets, and what I believe will be sufficient funds. If you need more, go to Mr. Trenchard at the British Consulate, but don’t trust him more than you have to.”
Pitt took the money and tickets. “Thank you.”
“You sail from Southampton on the evening tide tomorrow,” Narraway added.
Pitt turned to leave. He would have to be on the first train in the morning, and he had to pack. It had not yet even occurred to him to think what clothes he owned would be even remotely suitable.
“Pitt!” Narraway’s voice recalled him sharply.
He turned. “Yes?”
“Be careful. This is probably exactly what it looks like—a man with more passion than sense. But just in case it is political, something to do with cotton or . . . or God knows what . . . listen more than you talk. Learn to watch without asking questions. You’re not police in Alexandria.” His face looked suddenly weary, as if he was already anticipating griefs that had not yet happened, or perhaps remembering those that had. “There’ll be no one to protect you. Your white skin will be as much against you as for. For God’s sake, man, take a little care!” He said it angrily, as if Pitt was in the habit of running wild risks, and it was that which touched Pitt with a coldness of fear, because he had seldom if ever really jeopardized his own life, except perhaps in Whitechapel, on his first assignment for Narraway. He was used to the safety of office, which was not a uniform but as good as one.
He found his mouth dry when he answered. “Yes, sir,” he said stiffly, and went out before Narraway could say anything further, or Pitt could betray his feelings.
CHAPTER
SIX
“EGYPT!” Charlotte said incredulously when Pitt told her. He had arrived home late and dinner was already served.
“I know where Egypt is,” Daniel offered. “It’s in the top of Africa.” He said it with his mouth full, but Charlotte was too stunned to correct him. “You’ll have to sail in a boat,” Daniel added helpfully.
“But it will be . . .” Charlotte began, then she caught sight of Jemima’s troubled face, “interesting,” she finished awkwardly. “And hot . . . won’t it? What will you wear?”
“I’ll have to get some clothes when I get there,” he replied. There were scores of things he wished to say to her, but he knew her anxiety, especially after the danger she and Gracie and the children had survived so recently, when they had had to leave Dartmoor in the middle of the night. Tellman had rescued them, arriving in the dark and packing everything they owned into a pony cart and driving them to the nearest station. They had been accosted on the way, and Tellman had actually fought the man and left him near senseless on the ground. Jemima still remembered it rather too clearly. Pitt smiled at her. “I’ll bring you back something nice,” he promised. “All of you,” he added as Daniel was about to speak.
Charlotte was less easy to distract later when they were alone.
“What can you do in Egypt?” she demanded. “It’s a British Protectorate, or something like that. Haven’t we got police there? They could send a letter, and if they don’t trust the postal service, a courier.”
“The local police won’t know what to look for, or recognize it if they find it,” he answered. He had thought, as he walked quickly along Keppel Street on the way home, the wind blowing the rain in his face, the wet pavement gleaming in the lamplight and passing traffic spraying water up in sheets, that he was looking forward to the adventure of going to an ancient, sunlit city on the edge of Africa. The fact that he did not understand the language, was unfamiliar with the food, the money, and the customs, was unimportant. He could learn enough. He would do his best to find out something about Ayesha Zakhari, probably things he would rather not have known, but at least he would be as sure as he could that it was the truth. It might explain what had happened.
Now he was in the multilayered comfort of home. There was certainty of the heart here, as well as of the simple pleasures like his own chair, his own bed, knowing where everything was, homemade bread toasted crisp, with sharp, bitter marmalade and hot tea for breakfast. Above all there were the people. He would miss them, even in a few days, let alone weeks.
He told her so, over and over, in words, in touch and in silence.
PITT STOOD ON THE DECK of the ship and stared across the blue water towards a horizon which was a glittering margin between sea and sky, unbroken by even the suggestion of land. He was glad to escape from his cabin, which was in fact only half his. He was obliged to share it with a thin, unhappy man from Lancashire who made the journey regularly in the pursuit of his business. This man saw dark times ahead, and found a kind of satisfaction in saying so at every possible opportunity. The only virtue he possessed in Pitt’s eyes was that he was uninterested in anyone else. Not once had he pressed Pitt as to what he did, where he came from, or why he was going to Egypt.
Narraway had given Pitt no story to explain himself, leaving it entirely up to him to invent whatever he pleased. He held that a man who created his own story was more likely to believe it and make no slips which would give him away. Pitt had spent the two-hour train journey from London to Southampton racking his brains for some excuse which did not rely on knowledge he did not possess. There was no point at all in suggesting any kind of business. Five minutes’ conversation would show that he knew nothing about commerce. He was no scholar, and certainly not in the history or antiquities of Egypt, which was a subject of such interest now, and increasing all the time. His ignorance would show at the very first question.
What sort of man goes alone for a holiday to a foreign country about which he knows nothing, and where he has no friends or family? Not a married man, and he had chosen to be as close to the truth as possible, for convenience and safety, and because it gave him an anchor within himself. But if he did not go for pleasure, then it had to be some kind of necessity.
He settled on the invention of a brother who had gone for reasons of business and not been heard from in over two months. That gave him a compelling purpose and at the same time a justification for asking questions, and an explanation for his own ignorance on almost everything. So far he had answered all questions to everyone’s apparent satisfaction. His cabin companion had responded only that if the brother’s business was in cotton then he was doomed, and Pitt had best start looking in the alleys or even the river for what was left of him. Pitt had not replied.
Now he stared at the blue water and felt the breeze sweet and quite warm on his skin, and looked forward to the interest of a new place unlike anything he had ever imagined, let alone seen.
As soon as he landed he presented his passport, then saw to the disembarking of his luggage. With his case in his hand he
stood on the quayside amid the shouting and the bustle. He heard a dozen different languages, none of which he understood, but there was something common to docksides the world over. In London it would have been bright at least, but there was always that chill in the wind up from the water. Here the heat wrapped around him like a damp, muffling blanket. The smells were at once familiar—tar, salt, fish. But there were also different smells—spices, dust, something warm, and sweat.
Some of the men worked naked to the waist. Others stood around dressed in long robes and turbans, talking to each other, inspecting a box here or a bale there.
With the captain’s assistance he had already changed a little of his money into the local currency of piasters, he suspected at a highly unfavorable rate, but the convenience was worth a price.
It was late afternoon already and he must find lodgings before dark. He picked up his case and started to walk off the quay towards the busy street. Was there anyone who would at least understand English, even if they did not speak it? What sort of public transport was there?
He saw a horse and open carriage near the curb, presumably Alexandria’s equivalent of a hansom. He was about to go over and ask the driver to take him to the British consulate when another man in Western clothes cut in front of him at a brisk stride, climbed up and swung into the seat, shouting his instructions in English.
Pitt determined to be quicker next time.
It took him twenty minutes to find another carriage, and a further five to persuade the driver to take him to the consulate for what he considered to be a reasonable fare. Of course he had no notion as to whether this man was taking him as he wished or not. He could have ended up in the desert, for all he was able to judge for himself, but he was too fascinated not to stare around as he was jerked and jolted along the streets. Narrow alleys opened into wide, sunlit thoroughfares.
Everything was of warm sand colors shifting into darker terra-cotta and the soft browns of wooden windows jutting out over the unpaved earth and stones below. Sun-bleached awnings hung motionless. Chickens and pigeons moved at will, pecking and squawking. Now and then a camel lurched with the peculiar grace of a ship bucking against the tide. Heavy-laden donkeys plodded along.
People wore pale robes, men with turbans, women with flowing scarves that also covered the lower half of their faces. Here and there was a splash of red or clear blue-green.
There seemed to be insects everywhere. Over and over again Pitt felt the needlelike sting of mosquitoes, but he could not move quickly enough to swat them.
All around him the air was pungent with the smell of spices and hot food, the sound of voices, laughter, now and then metal bells with a strange, hollow music to them.
Dusk came suddenly, and in an enamel-clear sky changing from hard blue to luminous turquoise there floated the most haunting cry, singing and yet not as he had ever heard it before. It seemed to ululate up and down without drawing breath, and floated as if from a height, penetrating the evening till it shivered from the towers and walls of every building.
No one looked startled. They seemed to have expected it exactly at the instant it came.
The carriage drew up at a marble-faced building of great beauty, its smooth stones alternating in lighter and darker shades to give it a rich appearance. Pitt thanked the driver, handed over the agreed price, and stepped out onto the baking footpath. The air around him was balmy, warm on his skin as if he were inside a room facing the sun, although the sky was darkening so rapidly he could barely see across the street for the depth of the shadows under the farther walls. There had been no twilight. The sun had disappeared and night was immediate. Already the footpaths were filling with people laughing and talking.
But it was dark already, and he had nowhere to spend the night, and the immediacy of that need should override interest. He went up the steps of the building and inside. A young Egyptian in an earth-colored robe addressed him in perfect English and asked in what way he could assist. Pitt replied that he sought advice, and repeated the name Narraway had given him.
Five minutes later he stood in Trenchard’s office, the oil lamps giving a soft, muted glow to a room of antique and startlingly simple beauty. On one wall a painting of sunset over the Nile was haunting in its loveliness. On a small table a piece of Greek sculpture sat next to a rolled-up papyrus and a gold ornament that could have come from the sarcophagus of a pharaoh.
“You like them?” Trenchard asked with a smile, snapping Pitt’s attention back to the present.
“Yes,” Pitt said apologetically. “I’m sorry.” He must be too tired, too overwhelmed by new sensation to be thinking properly.
“Not at all,” Trenchard assured him. “You could never love the mystery and the splendor of Egypt more than I do. Especially Alexandria! Here the corners of the world are folded together with a vitality you will find nowhere else. Rome, Greece, Byzantium, and Egypt!” He said their names as if the words themselves captured an impressionable magic.
He was a man of instant charm and perfect diction, as if he read poetry aloud for his pleasure. He was of average height, but looked taller because he was slender, and he moved with unusual grace as he came around his desk to shake Pitt’s hand. His face was patrician, with a rather large aquiline nose, and his fair brown hair waved a trifle extravagantly. Pitt had the impression of a gentleman, perhaps posted here to suit the convenience of his family rather than from any innate skill. He was no doubt well educated in the classics, possibly even with a dilettante interest in Egyptology, but he had the air of one who takes his pleasures seriously and his work with relative lightness.
“What can we do for you?” he asked warmly. “Jackson said you asked for me by name?” It was a question that politely required an explanation.
“Mr. Victor Narraway suggested you might be able to give me some advice,” Pitt replied.
Trenchard’s eyes flashed with understanding. “Indeed,” he acknowledged. “Do sit down. You have just arrived in Egypt?”
“Off the steamer docked an hour ago,” Pitt acknowledged, accepting the seat gratefully. He had not walked very far, but he had been standing on deck for a long time, too eager and too interested to wait below in his cabin.
“Have you somewhere to stay?” Trenchard asked, but his expression assumed the negative. “I would suggest Casino San Stefano. It’s a very good hotel—a hundred rooms, so you’ll have no trouble getting one. They are all twenty-five piasters a day, and the food is excellent. If you don’t care for Egyptian, they serve French as well. Rather more important than that, you can get there by carriage down the Strada Rossa, or perhaps less expensive and more discreet is an excellent tramway, twenty-four trams a day, and both the Schatz and the Racos end at the San Stefano terminus.”
“Thank you,” Pitt said sincerely. It was a good beginning, but he was overwhelmed by his ignorance and the feeling of being in a city in which even the smell of the air was foreign to him. He had never felt so fumblingly blind, or so alone. Everything familiar was a thousand miles away.
Trenchard was watching him, waiting for him to continue. He could have enquired for a hotel from anyone. He must explain at least something of his purpose here. He began with what was public knowledge, at least in London. He gave Trenchard the bare facts of the murder of Lovat and the arrest of Ayesha Zakhari.
“Zakhari!” Trenchard repeated the name curiously, his face alive with interest.
“You know her family?” Pitt said quickly. Perhaps this was going to be easy after all.
“No—but it’s a Coptic name, not Muslim.” He saw Pitt’s lack of understanding. “Christian,” he explained.
Pitt was startled. He had not even considered the question of religion, but now he realized its importance.
Then the moment after, Trenchard added more, his mouth twisted in a slight, wry smile, his eyes meeting Pitt’s steadily. “From what you say, she is something better than a prostitute, perhaps a rather exclusive courtesan. If she were Muslim she would be cut off
from her own people for associating with a non-Muslim man in such a way, however discreetly. As a Christian, if she is extremely careful, she can maintain the fiction of acceptability.”
“I don’t know that she’s a courtesan!” Pitt said rather hotly, then felt embarrassed at his own lack of professional detachment as he saw the laughter in Trenchard’s eyes.
Trenchard forbore from comment, even though it was in his expression, not unkindly, simply as the gentle weariness of a man of the world dealing with someone of startling naÏveté. Pitt felt scalded by it. He was a professional policeman with far more knowledge of the darker sides of human nature than this aristocratic diplomat. He controlled his temper with difficulty.
“The only association we know of is with Saville Ryerson,” he said in a chillier tone than he had intended. “Lovat was apparently an ardent admirer when he served here in Alexandria twelve years ago, but we don’t know if he was ever more than that.”
Trenchard folded his hands, completely unperturbed. “And you want to know?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Presumably your brief is to clear Ryerson?” That was more an invitation to explain his precise needs than a question, but Trenchard was a man whose courtesy never failed. Pitt had the sudden, profound impression that if he were to shoot you, he would do it politely.
There was no point in being abusive; Trenchard would only consider him even more of a fool.
“If possible,” he agreed.