by Seven Dials
“He served in the army here about twelve years ago,” Pitt added. “In England it is harder to learn much about him. I want to know his reputation, and if he earned any enemies among his fellows.” Better at this time not to mention Ayesha. He could always add that later, if it seemed a good idea. “His name was Edwin Lovat.”
Ishaq waited, his eyes on Pitt’s face.
Pitt named Lovat’s regiment and his rank, then gave a brief description of his physical appearance, trying not to sound desperate as he saw no reaction in Ishaq’s face.
Ishaq nodded. “I remember them,” he said without any emotion at all.
“Them?” Pitt asked, without hope. Perhaps to Ishaq English soldiers were all much the same. He could not blame him. Pitt was trained to observe and identify, and if anyone had asked him to swear to one Egyptian in the street over another, he could not have done so.
“Those four,” Ishaq replied. “Always together. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, walked like . . .” He gave up and looked at Avram. He said something in Arabic.
“Swagger,” Avram supplied.
“Do you know the names of the others?” Pitt asked. If not, he could ask the present military officials. They would tell him at least that much. It was no secret which of his colleagues a man sought out in his off-duty hours.
“Yeats,” Ishaq said thoughtfully. “And Garrick,” he added. “I cannot think of the last one.”
“That is very good. Thank you,” Pitt said eagerly. “Were they good soldiers—Lovat in particular?” The moment he had said it, he thought it stupid. How could any British soldier be good in the eyes of an Egyptian?
Avram said something in Arabic and Ishaq nodded. He answered Pitt as if it were he who had asked. “He had courage and he obeyed the rules that mattered.”
Suddenly, Pitt was interested. “And the other rules?” he said softly.
Ishaq grinned, white teeth in the firelight, then suddenly he was totally serious. “The others he was careful to break only when he would not be seen,” he replied.
Pitt drew in his breath to ask the obvious question.
Avram interrupted. “He was brave. That is good. A coward is of use to no one. And he was obedient, yes? A soldier who cannot obey orders is a danger to his fellows, is that not true?” This time he looked at Pitt.
“Certainly,” Pitt agreed, not sure why he had been cut off. Had he been too direct, or was it a question whose answer might embarrass Ishaq? Why? Illegal dealings of some sort? Immoral? “Did the soldiers spend their time off duty in the village or go into Alexandria?” he asked.
Ishaq spread his hands. “Depends how long,” he replied. “There is little to do here, but the city needs money for pleasure.”
“It is a beautiful city simply to walk around,” Pitt said, quite sincerely. “There is much to learn of history, the cultures of many other people; not only Egypt, but Greece, Rome, Turkey, Armenia, Jerusalem—” He stopped, seeing the look in Ishaq’s face. “I did not know Lovat,” he finished.
“So much I see,” Ishaq said dryly. “Soldiers off duty like to eat and drink, to find women, and sometimes to explore a little, look for treasures, have fun.”
It sounded time-wasting if indulged to the exclusion of all else, but harmless. He had not reached the subject of broken rules, even obliquely. It looked like it was going to be a long evening, but at least Pitt was not cross-legged anymore, although the ground was hard. He had become so used to the mosquitoes that he swatted at them without thought.
“What sort of fun?” Avram asked, but with an expression of boredom, as if he was merely filling the silence.
Ishaq shrugged. “Hunting in the marshes,” he replied casually. “Birds, looked for crocodiles occasionally. I think they went upriver once or twice. I arranged it for them.”
“To look at the temples and ruins?” Pitt asked, trying to keep the same tone of voice as Avram.
“Think so,” Ishaq agreed. “Went all the way up to Cairo once. See the pyramids at Giza, and so on.” He grinned. “Got caught in a sandstorm, so they said. Mostly, though, they stayed closer.”
It was not worth pursuing, but there was little else to say to keep the conversation alive. Pitt was beginning to lose hope of learning anything about Lovat that would even show his character, let alone any idea why he had been murdered. Perhaps all he would learn in Egypt was that Ayesha Zakhari was a highly educated and passionate patriot rather than a woman seeking to make use of her beauty to buy the luxuries of life.
“They usually went together, all four of them?” he asked. Perhaps he would be able to find at least one or two of these other men and learn more details of Lovat from their recollections.
“Mostly,” Ishaq agreed. “Not so safe to wander around alone.” He regarded Pitt closely, to see if he understood without having it spelled out to him, word for word, that the English were occupiers, an armed force in a foreign land, and as such, very naturally subjects of many emotions, some of them violent.
Pitt understood it very well. He could feel it in the air, see it in the covert glances of people when they thought themselves unobserved, both men and women. There might be gratitude for financial rescue, but no one liked to be obliged, or dependent. There would be individual affections and hatreds, like Trenchard’s love for his Egyptian mistress. There would be a certain respect, possibly curiosity, and even at times a growing understanding. But always the anger was close under the surface. The memory of the bombardment of Alexandria would make it sharper now, but the same feelings would have been there then, only more deeply buried.
They sat in silence a few minutes. The sound of the oxen moving in the water was relaxing, a steady, natural noise. The night wind carried a breath of coolness, refreshing after the long, hot day.
“And of course there was the woman,” Ishaq said, watching Pitt more closely than he pretended. “But if anyone were to kill him for that, they would have done it then. She was the daughter of a rich man, a learned man, but a Christian. Not as if she were a Muslim. That might have caused trouble . . . a lot of trouble. Very Christian, Mr. Lovat.” In the darkness of the hut his face was unreadable, but Pitt heard a dozen different emotions in his voice. If Ishaq had been English, Pitt might have been able to discern them, untangle one from another, but he was in an alien land, an old and infinitely complex culture, and speaking to a man whose ancestors had created this extraordinary civilization thousands of years before Christ, let alone before a British Empire. In fact, the pharaohs had ruled an empire of their own before Moses was born, or Abraham fled the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
The earth under him was unyielding, the air still heavy and warm, and he could hear the beasts moving now and then outside in the starlit night, all as real as the hard ground and the whine of mosquitoes, and yet he felt an unreality of the mind as if his presence here were a dream. It was hard to remember that Saville Ryerson was actually in prison in London, and that Narraway expected Pitt to find some way to avert scandal.
“Very Christian?” he asked.
“Very.” Ishaq nodded, the emotions remaining unreadable in his voice. “Used to go out to that holy place, the shrine down by the river. Loved it. He was upset because it is a very holy place indeed . . . a shrine for us as well.”
“Us?” Pitt was puzzled. “For Islam?”
“Yes. Before it was—” Ishaq stopped.
Avram looked at him, his face somber.
Ishaq stared past Pitt. “It was my father who buried them all,” he said so quietly Pitt barely heard the words. “I remember his face for months after that. I thought he would never get over it. Perhaps he didn’t—he had dreams about it for the rest of his life. It was worst when he was dying.” He took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. “My sister looked after him, did what she could to make him easy, but she couldn’t stop the ghosts from coming back.” His face looked pinched and his voice was thick with emotion. “He used to talk to her for hours, telling her about it because he couldn’t he
lp himself. He had dreams . . . terrible dreams . . . the blood and the burst flesh, cooked like meat, faces charred until eyes could hardly tell they had once been human . . . I’d hear him crying out—” He stopped.
Pitt turned to Avram, but Avram shook his head.
They waited in silence.
“Fire,” Ishaq said at last. “Thirty-four of them, as far as anyone could count, in the ashes. They were trapped inside.”
“I’m sorry,” Pitt said softly. He had seen fire in England; he knew the devastation, the smell of burning flesh that never left his memory.
Ishaq shook his head. “My father’s dead, and my sister too now.”
Avram looked startled. “I didn’t know that!”
Ishaq bit his lip and swallowed hard. “In Alexandria . . . an accident.”
“I’m sorry.” Avram shook his head. “She was beautiful.” He said it as if he was speaking of far more than merely what the eye could see.
Ishaq opened his mouth to say something, but for a moment he had not the control to master the grief within himself.
Pitt and Avram remained silent. It was dark outside now. The stars were visible through the open window, needle sharp in the velvet of the sky. The air was cooler at last.
Ishaq looked up at last. “I think Lieutenant Lovat was sickened by the fire as well,” he observed, his voice quite level now. “It wasn’t long after that when he got ill. Fever of some sort, they said. Seemed to be a bit of it in the camp. He was shipped home. Never saw him again.”
“Did his friends stay?” Pitt asked.
“No,” Ishaq replied softly. “They all went, for different reasons. Don’t know what happened to them. Sent somewhere else, I expect. The British Empire is very big. Perhaps India? They can sail past Suez and down that new canal to half the earth, can’t they.” That was a statement, not a question. There was no lift in his voice to imply doubt.
“Yes,” Pitt murmured, hoping profoundly that he would find at least one of them in London, not have to conduct questions by telegraph through some deputed official. And Ishaq was right—half the world was accessible to Britain through that genius of negotiation and engineering, the Suez Canal. Thinking of the critical importance of it to the economy and the rule of law to the entire empire, and all that meant, it was inconceivable that Britain could ever give back complete autonomy to Egypt. Cotton was only a tiny part of it. How had Ayesha Zakhari ever imagined she could succeed? The hostage of economic dependence was far too precious to yield.
Pitt felt a weight of darkness descend on him as if he were trying to untangle an impenetrable knot, and every thread he pulled only bound it tighter.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said aloud, inclining his head to Ishaq. “Your food and your conversation have both enriched me. I am in your debt.”
Ishaq was pleased; the evidence of it was something indefinable in his expression, the angle of his body, now only dimly seen in the waning candlelight.
They stayed only a few minutes longer, then left with repeated thanks.
Back on the path by the water’s edge, the surface now a pale glimmer reflecting no more than the odd ripple of starlight, it was difficult to see where they were going, and Pitt realized how tired he was. His body ached not only from sitting on the ground but from the bruises gained in the incident in the carpet bazaar, and his head pounded from being hit by the police. Now, more than anything else at all, even a perfect solution to Lovat’s death which would exonerate both Ryerson and Ayesha, he wanted to lie down on something soft and sink into a long, profound sleep.
He followed Avram, almost as much by sound of footfall on the dry earth as by sight, for another mile at least, before just about bumping into him when they came to a large solitary hut well away from the water. They were offered hospitality, at a price Avram paid on the promise from Pitt that he would yield up his share when they returned to Alexandria and San Stefano. At the rate he was spending, Pitt would be obliged to ask Trenchard to forward him more funds, and reclaim them from the consulate, and eventually from Narraway.
THE NEXT MORNING was cooler than before. It had a luminous, silvery clarity away from the city, and lying between the vast inland water to the south of Alexandria, and the Mahmudiya Canal leading towards the Nile itself, the reflections of light early in the day were of extraordinary beauty. The dark silhouette of camels with their silent, lurching gait was more like a dream than a reality.
Today Pitt would go to the military authorities of the post where Lovat had served. After a breakfast of fruit, dates, bread, and thick black coffee which came in a cup barely larger than a thimble, he set off. Avram accompanied him, although this time his presence was unnecessary. Pitt had the strong feeling he came largely in order not to allow Pitt the chance of escaping without fulfilling his financial obligations. Avram would not have put it so insultingly, but he was caring for his investment.
It took nearly an hour of argument and abrasive persuasion before Pitt found himself with a thin, mahogany-skinned officer of very apparent short temper and dislike of curious civilians. They stood side by side on a small shaded veranda looking onto the sun-baked drill yard. Another soldier had been left outside to wait.
“Special Branch?” Colonel Margason said with distaste. “Some kind of special police. Good God! What is the world coming to? Never thought London would stoop to that.” He glared at Pitt. “Well, what do you want? I don’t know any scandal about anyone, and if I did I should deal with it to a man’s face, not go whispering about it behind his back.”
Pitt was tired, aching, and covered with mosquito bites. There was hardly a part of him which did not hurt in one way or another.
“Then if I am unfortunate enough to be detailed to catch a spy in your command, I shall know not to expect any help from you . . . sir,” he said testily, and saw Margason flush with annoyance. “However,” he went on, “it is on behalf of a man murdered in London that I am enquiring. His death appears to have an Egyptian connection, and the only one we are aware of is his service at this post, some twelve years ago. It would be pleasant to be able to clear his character of any slurs that his defense in court may come up with, as soon as they are made, rather than simply denying them blindly, which too often is not believed.”
Margason grunted. Dislike was set even harder between them, but Pitt’s argument was undeniable, and whatever he felt about Pitt, he would defend the honor of his regiment. “What was his name?” he demanded.
“Edwin Lovat,” Pitt replied, sitting down carefully on one of the chairs, as if he intended to remain as long as was necessary to get all he wanted, to the last word. Actually, the seat was hard and not particularly comfortable. It caught him in exactly the same places as the ground had yesterday evening, not to mention where he had slept on a straw palliasse through the night.
“Lovat,” Margason repeated thoughtfully, and still standing. “Before my time in command, but I’ll see what I can do. General Garrick was in charge then. Gone home. Find him in London, I imagine.” He smiled sarcastically. “Could have saved yourself a journey. Or didn’t you think of looking at any records? Heaven help Special Branch if you’re typical.”
“We do not take one man’s opinion, unsubstantiated, Colonel Margason,” Pitt said as levelly as he could. “Nor are we relying on military information alone. The man was murdered in extraordinary circumstances, and a senior minister in the government is implicated. We cannot afford to leave any possibility unexamined.”
Margason grunted again, and kept his eyes on the bare, foot-pounded yard with its surrounding sand and earth-colored buildings. “Don’t read that type of thing in the newspapers. Haven’t got time. More to do out here.” He grunted a little at the blazing sun outside. “Lot of unrest. More than they think in London, sitting in their offices. One really bad incident and it could all blow.”
“I’ve seen it,” Pitt agreed. “Nasty incident in the carpet bazaar yesterday. English officer fortunate not to be killed.”
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Margason’s mouth pulled tight. “There’s bound to be. Gordon was murdered in Khartoum, and we still haven’t settled that. Damned Mahdi is dead, but that means little. Dervishes all over the place. Bloody madmen!” His voice trembled very slightly. “Kill the whole lot of us if we gave them the chance. And you come here asking about the reputation of one soldier who served in Alexandria twelve years ago and got himself killed in London. Good God, man, aren’t you competent to keep a damned cabinet minister out of it without coming traipsing out here to waste my time with questions?”
“I would waste less of it if you would tell me about Lovat,” Pitt replied. “Haven’t you got an officer who remembers him with more detail, and more honesty, than the written records of his service? The woman accused is someone he knew when he was here.”
“Really? He jilted her and she kept a grudge all those years? Remarkable. Did he rape her?” Margason sounded contemptuous, but not personally offended. Pitt was not even sure whether the man’s disgust was for Lovat or his victim.
“Did your soldiers often rape the local women?” Pitt said with something close to innocence. “Perhaps you would have less difficulty keeping the ill feeling from erupting if you stopped that.”
“Look, you impudent . . .” Margason snarled, whirling around with the tension and agility of an animal about to spring.
Pitt did not move. “Yes?” He raised his eyebrows.
Margason straightened up. “I was here then, but I was only a major. I don’t know anything about Lovat except that he was a good soldier, not remarkable. He courted a local woman, but according to all I’ve heard, it was perfectly in order. Just a young man’s romantic fantasy about the exotic. She certainly never had any complaint. He was invalided out.”