Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  “I wish I had your ability to let it go,” I said, with sincerity that surprised me. “I can't just write this off as unsolvable.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s your job,” Albert said. “Sorry, you might not get paid for this.”

  “I don't get paid anyway,” I said. “Being a detective is just what I do between semesters at university.”

  “So that part was true?”

  “Yup, mechanical engineering and all. And I am Canadian, I promise. The only lies were being rich and why I was on board.”

  The two of us fell silent, enjoying the breeze. Now the sun was hitting this part of earth the air was warming.

  “You're an odd woman, Hannah,” Albert said with a smile. “I think the world could do with a few more of you.”

  “Then I'll take that as a compliment.”

  “As was intended.”

  *****

  “An unseen local Nigerian?” A policeman stood in Peterson's small cabin. He stood to attention so straight you could use him as a yardstick, with moustaches Major Stoat would envy. Two other policemen were wrapping Peterson up and placing him on a stretcher. The ship was utterly still. It had docked at Lokoja.

  “That is what we are forced to conclude,” I took a deep, shame-filled breath. “Everyone on board has an alibi for the murder and neither the pearl nor its trunk can be found. I have all my notes here.” I offered them to the policeman, who ignored them.

  “And you trust the word of this woman?” The policeman looked to Captain O'Hara.

  “I do,” Captain O'Hara said, staring at a point two inches to the left and three inches above the policeman's ear. ”She is a private detective from Canada.”

  “That's no job for a woman,” the policeman tutted. He caught my death glare. “A woman shouldn't have to see as many dead bodies as a detective, miss.” My glare didn't let up. He began to ignore it. “A local thief is not too unusual. We had problems before the war. Now shipping is increasing again the thieves are back, no doubt. I must convince the Governor to give us the patrol boat we've been asking for.”

  “What will happen to Mr Peterson?” I asked.

  “We'll cable Edinburgh, find out what his next of kin want done,” the policeman said. He made a few marks in his notebook and then put it in a pocket. Peterson's body was taken out of the cabin, the policeman and I leaning awkwardly to let him pass. “Until then he'll have a cold slab in the morgue.”

  “He would want a Christian burial.”

  “I don't think we'd give him any other kind,” the policeman tugged on his cap and made to leave. “Thank you very much, Miss. Captain.”

  With a few taps of overly polished leather shoes he was gone and that was the end of it. The entire investigation ended with a lie to the police. I stepped out of the room, where Albert waited. The Captain nodded to us both by way of thanks. He strode off towards the top deck, taking the scent of gin with him.

  “I don't think we did the right thing, there,” I said.

  “I know you don't,” Albert said and patted me on the shoulder. “But it had to be done. Mrs Rothberg had to be cleared. Peterson needed to be laid to rest. This can't stay an unsolved mystery forever.”

  “It won't.” my expression lowered. “I will solve it, given enough time.” I cursed myself. I'd already said that about one mystery since I left the twenty-first century. How many mysteries would I run away from before I found the truth?

  With the click of a door opening Mr Rothberg came out of his cabin, looking grey, like newspaper, and I felt I could count every cold blue vein under his skin.

  “Are you all right, Mr Rothberg?” I asked.

  “Not my best.” Mr Rothberg dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. His voice came from very far away in his mind. He carried a great weight on his shoulders. “I'll be better for some air.” He walked towards the stairs like a ghost.

  “Poor man,” I shook my head after he passed. “I wish I knew how to solve this, I wish I could put it all to rest.”

  “You've got to look to the future Hannah,” Albert said, also heading for the stairs. “The future is bright.”

  “What happened to Mr Doom and Gloom?” I followed him.

  “Oh he's still here,” Albert tapped his chest. “I just don't want to let him out anymore.” The two of us climbed the stairs. Outside, Lokoja was a mess of loading cranes and smoke, horns and porters’ cries. “We're only a quarter of the way to French West Africa, and an eighth of the way to Timbuktu, and I feel a thousand times better than when I arrived in Onitsha.”

  “A good murder can do that for you,” I said sarcastically. “Pity I wasn't able to solve it.”

  “You're staying on until Timbuktu, aren't you?” Albert said, with a hint of worry in his voice.

  “That's where I am meeting my partner.”

  “Partner?”

  “The one I work with, the one who insisted I take this case.” I explained. “And then it will probably be back to London.”

  “So you'll be on the same ship returning?”

  “I think my partner has a rather faster method of travel in mind,” I laughed. “Sorry.”

  “Not an aeroplane, surely? I'd hate to risk travel over the desert in one of those,” Albert laughed.

  “Don't worry, Albert, Timbuktu is a fortnight away,” I said. “Let's enjoy the time we have.” This seemed to satisfy Albert, who turned to watching the comings and goings of the docks.

  And besides, I added internally, I haven't found the pearl yet.

  *****

  The river Niger still hadn't shrunk much by the time we reached Timbuktu. Even at its narrowest point it was as wide as the Thames in London. Here the river was like the Nile, a broad ribbon of green running through the desert.

  The town of Timbuktu lay about eight miles north of the river where the desert trade routes met the river trade routes. It had stood there for thousands of years on its little well and harvested the commerce of the Sahara. The steamer Livingstone dwarfed the jetty built for small ferries and fishing boats. Only a single crate needed to be unloaded.

  An ageing Renault 40CV, old even for the early days of the automobile, waited for us at the docks. It had been sent to the docks by Colonel Martin to pick up Major Stoat. Unfortunately the Major wouldn't dream of letting us refuse a lift into town.

  The journey into the desert passed slowly while the Major talked to us and Albert tried to be polite. I stayed quiet and watched the scenery. This area of the desert was rocky, with sand in the distance, encroaching with the winds. Goats and camels eked out a living eating the scrubby plants that grew in such an environment, and the humans eked out a living on them.

  The town of Timbuktu had seen better days. Once it had been the capital of an empire that stretched from Nigeria to Morocco. Now it was just another French outpost in the desert to maintain their control of the Sahara. The Renault swept into town, bringing dust and rocks with it. The locals scurried out of its way, the French driver having no apparent concern for them.

  “Where would you like us to drop you, Captain?” The Major said as we entered the city.

  “At the Western Hotel thank you, Major,” Albert replied. Major Stoat translated this into French for the driver, astounding me that such a personality spoke French so well.

  We turned the corner past a mosque. A mud pyramid rose to a great height above us, casting a cool shadow over the car as we passed. The Western Hotel turned out to be a sandstone building that had once been a rich man's house. It reminded me of the Alhambra in Spain, but much smaller. However, it was crumbling like an old man, a remnant of the days when Timbuktu had been a jewel in the desert.

  “Thank you, Major,” Albert hauled himself out of the car while the driver saw to our bags. “Enjoy the famous French hospitality.” I was already out of the car and staring around at the town, my bright blue dress catching the scandalised eyes of the locals.

  The driver deposited both Albert's and my baggage beside Albert, and Albert, embarras
sed, passed mine back to me. The Renault drove away with the clatter of early piston engines. The smell of petrol fumes and fresh dust kicked up into my nose.

  “Well, I suppose this is it,” Albert looked sheepish. “Unless you're heading into the hotel?” He waved his trunk at the hotel building. It didn't look like it even had running water, let alone electricity.

  “No,” I shook my head. “Sir–, er, my partner will be meeting me here.” I coughed awkwardly. Technically “here” was Timbuktu, not specifically outside the Western Hotel.

  “Well then,” Albert lurched, unsure of how best to say goodbye. In the end, he pulled me into a brotherly hug. “You're always welcome at Coldwold Park when you're back in England. I won't be staying here long.” He smirked as we broke our embrace. “It's funny. When I was there all I could think of was getting here and now I'm here all I can think about is getting back there.”

  “Well don't waste the opportunity,” I poked his chest. “Not many people get to see Timbuktu.”

  “Oh, I won't waste it,” Albert said. “No more wasted opportunities. Good bye, Hannah, and thank you.”

  “Goodbye, Albert,” I bowed my head. By the time I looked up he was gone. I could still hear his voice, muffled and indistinct as he greeted the receptionist. I looked around the town of Timbuktu. Given the few westerners I could see on the street, Albert might be their only guest until the next steamship ploughed its way up-river.

  Where was Sir Reginald? I cursed. A man with a time-machine shouldn’t be late. I turned my head, feeling foolish, and feeling the eyes of the Arabs on me. It was silly, I wouldn’t catch a glimpse of him by leaning over to see a fraction of an inch further.

  Then, a flash of scarlet silk against black wool, a towering stovepipe climbing to the sky. My eyes focused on it like a hawk. Sir Reginald was at the other end of the street talking with an Arab holding the reins of a dozen camels. It had to be Sir Reginald. Nobody else on earth would wear a stovepipe hat and a tail coat in the desert. The heat alone would strike them down.

  “Sir Reginald!” I called, stepping towards him.

  “Hm?” Sir Reginald turned his head. He said a few things in Arabic, making placating gestures to the camel driver.

  “Sir Reginald!” I came up to him and threw an arm around him. “Am I glad to see you! Oh but I let you down.” I stamped my foot in irritation.

  “My dear?” Sir Reginald narrowed his eyes.

  “I couldn't find the Purple Pearl. I tried, but this mystery, it's too much. No way could anyone on that ship have stolen it and yet, somehow they did. And poor Mr Peterson was killed by whoever stole it,” I splurged out the words, explaining every piece of evidence bit by bit as Sir Reginald's frown grew deeper and deeper.

  “My dear,” Sir Reginald eventually cut in. “I am afraid I must stop you.”

  “What?”

  “You see, I don't believe I have made your acquaintance,” Sir Reginald said.

  I felt the bottom drop out of the world.

  “What?” I managed, blinking in confusion.

  “Perhaps you mistook me for another Sir Reginald?” Sir Reginald said awkwardly, aware of the absurdity of the statement. It was not as if young men in tail coats and top hats were on the corner of every Timbuktu street.

  “I...but...” I shook myself and then looked at Sir Reginald properly, running my eyes over every detail. His face had more colour than the man I knew, and the skin was smoother and clearer. A tiny change, just hints here and there, but with only one conclusion. This was Sir Reginald, but not my Sir Reginald. This one was at least five years younger. He'd barely entered adulthood.

  “Er…yes,” I nodded. “I'm sorry, think I must have done.” I stepped back from him, clutching my trunk awkwardly.

  I retreated to a respectful distance and watched young Sir Reginald return to his Arabic conversation to the camel wrangler. After a few minutes young Sir Reginald mounted a camel, thanked the wrangler with ten-shilling note, and rode out of the city as fast as he could coax the camel to go. I watched him and felt despair welling up inside. I was trapped in 1919 and Sir Reginald was five years younger than I needed him to be.

  Then there was a very faint, low pitched popping noise.

  “You would not believe,” Sir Reginald's familiar voice appeared behind me, “just how powerful a headache I got when I realised that paradox.”

  “Sir Reginald!” I turned, and there he was, the age he should be, looking exactly as he had when he had left me two weeks before in Onitsha.

  “And now, I think, we should talk about the pearl.”

  Chapter XXV

  The time-machine lay nestled in between two forced-earth buildings. A roll of canvas hanging from the canopy hid its most outlandish aspects. Its chimney belched out coal smoke and nothing could hide the click-clack of its little pistons but if any of the Arabs saw it they paid it no mind.

  “So that was you, from the past,” I looked wistfully in the direction young Sir Reginald had disappeared, north, into the desert.

  “Shortly after I began travelling, one of my first mysteries,” Sir Reginald said. “The mystery of the six-fingered man. The theft of a valuable Moroccan crown jewel and the thief had left a clear handprint with six fingers, the only suspect being Siddig Al-Bahir. It turned out he had an unknown illegitimate son with the same condition. I was quite pleased with that mystery.” Sir Reginald smiled at the memory. “I am afraid when I first met you I didn't think anything of it,” he continued. “My father, of course, was also Sir Reginald and you quickly passed out of my mind, surprising as it may seem. When I got to twenty-first-century London, there you were again.”

  “The day in Hyde Park, you came rushing up to me as if you knew me,” I said softly.

  “Always wondered when that loop would close,” Sir Reginald said and adjusted his coat. “And now we know. Nothing more to do about it.”

  “Wait, does that mean...?” my eyes darted wildly as the implications sank in. “Does that mean you've only been bringing me along because you knew at some point I'd end up having to talk to you in 1919? I thought you chose me!”

  “My dear corn-rose, if I thought for a moment you were an unsuitable person to learn the mysteries of time travel I would have left you in twenty-first century London and let causality go hang,” he soothed, raising up his hands in supplication. “I met you in 1919 because you were the right person and I judged that you were the right person in the twenty-first century, not the twentieth. The fact I had already met you played no part in my judgement.”

  “If I wasn't the right sort of person to travel in time,” I spoke slowly as I glowered, trying to pick the chrono-dynamics apart. “You would never have met me in 1919. But you did meet me in 1919, therefore I am the right person to travel in time?”

  “No, 1919 had nothing to do with it, that was entirely co-incidental,” Sir Reginald reassured me. “I decided you were the right person in the 21st century when I saw your potential, your kindness and your incisiveness. The choice I made then allowed me to meet you in 1919. If I chose to leave you in the twenty-first century, causality would have coped just fine, your presence here could be written off as a symptom of heat stroke, something I will suffer from in approximately twenty-three hours, five years ago.” Sir Reginald checked his watch as he spoke.

  “I made a big difference to a lot of people on the Livingstone,” my chilly exterior began to warm and I unfolded my arms. “Your uncle especially.”

  “I was not aware; therefore it would not have affected my judgement,” Sir Reginald walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not merely dragging you along for company, my dear, and I’m not merely training up a student. You are important to me. Please, do not ever doubt that.”

  I looked into Sir Reginald's sky-grey eyes. There was a longing inside them. His eyes flickered for a moment to just above my left breast where so recently a sword had been driven through and into my lung. It was a moment so small no-one but Sir Reginald and I, traine
d to observe the smallest details would have ever noticed it. My expression softened.

  “I am beginning to hate time travel,” I said with a tired smile.

  “Next mystery, I promise, we'll pick one time period and stay there. I did not expect this Purple Pearl business would grow out of hand,” Sir Reginald nodded. “I’ve had enough of driving a sledgehammer into the foundations of causality as well.”

  He broke apart from me. “Now, I think you should tell me all about the journey on the Livingstone.” Sir Reginald walked over to a trunk sitting on the plate of the time-machine and opened it. Vapour poured out and cold air drifted towards me. The entire trunk was filled with ice. “Cold drink?”

  It took about half an hour to explain it all; the murder, the disappearance of the pearl, the alibis of all the suspects. He was a good listener and trusted me to mention every detail of importance. They were all written on my phone or notebook in any case. He leant against the boiler of the time-machine and waited to speak until I had finished.

  “Curious that a thief would not also rob the man he had shot.” Sir Reginald cocked his head to one side. “Fifteen pounds is not quite a fortune but it would enable a Nigerian to live like a prince.”

  “Well, I never thought it was a local thief.”

  “Nor I.” Sir Reginald jumped to attention and headed for the controls. “I don't like this Hannah, I truly don't. Wherever that pearl goes, death follows swiftly.” Sir Reginald paused over a handful of controls that set the space–time coordinates. “I believe the death of Marcus Aurelius can be solved easily enough, but the mystery of the Purple Pearl, I’m afraid the only way to solve this mystery might be to skip to the end.”

  “The end?”

  “Of human civilisation, my dear,” Sir Reginald's face broke into a smile. His hand moved over the controls, setting the furthest date I'd yet seen.