Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

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  To M. F.

  Prologue

  Dearest Father,

  I can hardly believe the words that I am about to set down. It sounds ridiculous, quite preposterous, but I am in fear of my life.

  There have been many occasions where I have been forced to confront the prospect of dying. The terrifying ascent and descent of the Finsteraarhorn, when I was convinced I was going to slip into a glacial crevice or, in the midst of a ferocious snow storm, be swept off the edge of a precipice and fall thousands of feet to my death.

  I remember too the time when I traveled across the desert sands to Hayyil, a perilous journey that many have not survived. When I finally reached the feared city I was taken prisoner. There I heard it said that in that place murder was considered so normal, it was likened to the spilling of milk. There are those, many of whom were born in Arabia, who seemed offended by my spirit of adventure, as if I was an affront to the female sex. Indeed, in Hayyil I was told that a woman should only leave her house on three occasions: to marry her bridegroom, on the death of her parents, and in the event of her own death.

  And then there was that no-man’s-land of the soul that I inhabited after Dick’s death. I have never been so low as then, when it felt as though I had nothing left to live for, when I had been tempted to put an end to it all. The shock of the news of his shooting at Gallipoli almost stilled my heart. I was at a lunch party in London when one of our number casually mentioned how sad it was that Dick Doughty-Wylie had been killed in action. How were they to know of my attachment to him? Afraid that I was going to be ill, I excused myself from the lunch, my head reeling. I learnt later that Dick had left his pistol behind on his boat and witnesses told me that he strode into village houses—which conceivably could have been packed to the rafters with Turkish soldiers—holding nothing more than his cane. As he reached the top of the hill, a swell of Hampshires, Dublins, and Munsters behind him, he was shot in the head and buried where he fell. What a terribly sad end to a glorious life.

  The only conclusion I can come to as to why Dick would advance unarmed is that he could not face the situation back at home: a wife who threatened to commit suicide if he were to leave her, a woman—me—whom he loved but knew he could never marry.

  I must resist the urge to get swept back into the past. But there is a reason why I cite these occasions, moments when I have faced the possibility of nonexistence.

  I believe, and have done so since I was a girl, that there is nothing that lies beyond the here and now. When I am gone I know that I will know nothing, be nothing. I don’t expect to meet dear Dick, or my darling brother Hugh, in some paradise of an afterlife.

  So you see, it is not death that frightens me. It is the thought—quite natural and justifiable—that someone may want to wrest my life away from me before I am quite ready. I have lived a good life, a great deal fuller and richer than many women on this earth, but am I ready to die? Lately, I have become weak, I have suffered from illness. But not to see that rare bloom of a daffodil in my garden in Baghdad? Not to walk through the date palms on a spring day or take a swim in the waters of the Tigris on a hot summer’s evening? Not to sit under the shade of a tamarind tree and eat a ripe fig? Never again see the delights of my little museum that houses the treasures of the past? And this is nothing compared to the important work still to be done with King Faisal and the continuing improvements in an independent Iraq. No, I am not ready to go just yet.

  It could be my fancy, but I have become convinced that someone wishes to do me harm. An uneasiness of spirit has come over me. I feel as though I am being watched, studied, but when I look up there is no one in the room. In the early hours, when I have been in bed reading, I have noticed how Tundra suddenly stirs, the dog’s ears pricked, her bright eyes turning on some invisible enemy, a low growl beginning to form in the back of her throat. I have gone to the window, looked out into the purple night, but I have been unable to see or hear anything beyond the stirring of the palms in the breeze. I have taken to sleeping with my gun under my pillow. I need to be ready, prepared. As someone once told me, “Every Arab in the desert fears the other.”

  Ever your affectionate daughter,

  Gertrude

  * * *

  Dearest Father,

  I cannot write very much because my hand is trembling so; I apologize if you cannot read my words.

  Enclosed is a drawing that I received this morning. As you can see, it shows a grave at Ur, which has recently come to light during the dig overseen by Mr. Woolley and his team. Next to a stick figure you will see a set of initials. They are my own: G.L.B.

  If the missive’s purpose was to unnerve me, then it has worked. I feel shaken to the core. My hope is that this was the only function of the letter, that it was designed to unsteady me and nothing more.

  In my previous letter, I spoke of my irrational fears that someone wants me dead; now I am afraid that this is indeed the case. You know that I do not have a melodramatic streak. I do not strive to create drama where there is none. I have always borne my miseries with fortitude. I am of a practical bent and not prone to fancies. I wish I did not have to set the words down; to see them written before me gives them a certain reality that makes me tremble. But set them down I must.

  If I were to be found dead—and if there was an indication that my death was not due to the onset of some terminal illness—then it is safe to assume that I was murdered. And my murderer? I suggest you look no further than Ur.

  Ever your affectionate daughter,

  Gertrude

  1

  “So, what do you make of it?” asked Davison as he took the two letters from me.

  I did not answer immediately. Too many questions were crowding my head. I took a sip of iced soda water and gazed across the terrace of the hotel to the Tigris below. A lonely boatman was singing a queer, discordant song that brought back to me the ghosts of the past.

  “And the handwriting is definitely that of Gertrude Bell?”

  “It seems so,” said Davison, peering at the scrawl again. “Someone who knows about these kinds of things has compared the letters to others she wrote to her father and stepmother, and although it’s difficult to say for certain, there are particular elements of style—such as the distinctive way she formed her d’s, for example, with a curious backwards slope—that suggest they were indeed written by Miss Bell.”

  “I’ve always understood that she died of an illness—pneumonia or something bronchial,” I said, remembering the obituaries I had read of the famous adventurer and Arabist when she died in July 1926. At that time I had been in the midst of my own troubles, drowning in a sea of grief after the death of my mother, valiantly trying to hold together a marriage that was falling apart at the seams, battling a creative block that was driving me to the edge of reason.

  “Yes, that was the story put out by the family,” said Davison. “But according to the doctor who examined her, Miss Bell died from barbiturate poisoning. A bottle of Dial tablets was found by her bedside at her house here in Baghdad. Of course, no one wanted to draw attention to the fact that her death, or so it was thought, was a suicide.”

  “And tell me again how these letters came to light.”

  “It had been
thought that her family had taken possession of the bulk of Miss Bell’s archive, diaries, numerous photographs, documents relating to the archaeological museum she founded, letters, and so on. Indeed, as I’m sure you know, her stepmother published two volumes of Gertrude’s letters only last year. But then, just last month, these unsent two letters were discovered in a tin box that served as a place to store seeds. It was only when one of Gertrude’s former servants, Ali, a gardener whom the family continued to employ, started to look for a particular type of seed that he came across them. Of course, he couldn’t read the contents—he’s a local, and Miss Bell was always proud of the fact that she communicated with her servants in Arabic—but Ali knew that they had been written in his mistress’s hand. And he knew enough English to realize that the initials G.L.B. were those of Miss Bell. He did the right thing and took the letters to our man in Baghdad. Apparently, the drawing distressed him a great deal. He thought it represented some kind of curse.”

  “I can imagine it would have that effect,” I said. Although I had missed the British Museum’s Treasures of Ur exhibition earlier in the year, I had seen a similar drawing of dozens of stick figures reproduced in the Illustrated London News. Reading about the discovery of the skeletons—which were thought to be victims of human sacrifice that dated to 2,500 years before the birth of Christ—had sent a chill through me. “Do you know if Miss Bell had any enemies?”

  As Davison smiled, his intelligent gray eyes sparkled mischievously. “Plenty, I would have thought. She was hardly the easiest of women to get along with. Headstrong—independent if one wants to be polite, bloody infuriating if one is speaking plainly. Sorry, I—”

  “Davison, you know I always prefer plain speaking. Did you know her well?”

  “We only met a few times, once out here in Baghdad, another time in Egypt, and then, of course, in London.”

  “And is there anything I should know about her background? Her work for you at the Secret Intelligence Service or for any of the other covert government departments, for instance?”

  Davison looked away from me, his gaze settling on a cluster of black rocks on the other side of the riverbank. “Now, is that a sacred ibis down there?” He started to raise himself out of the wicker chair to take a closer look. “I do believe it is. You know what, I’ve never seen one of those. Fascinating, of course, especially if you’re interested in Egyptian mythology. Venerated and mummified by the ancient Egyptians, you know; a representation of Thoth.”

  I could feel my cheeks begin to color with frustration.

  “But, on closer inspection,” he said as he squinted down at the river, “it could be a northern bald ibis, said to be one of the first birds that Noah released from his ark, that bird being a representation of fertility. Anyway, whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

  As he turned his head to me, Davison assumed a pose of the utmost seriousness. He managed to freeze his features into a mask of implacability before the skin on his cheeks started to turn pink, his eyes sparkled once more, and he burst into a loud fit of laughter.

  “I’m sorry, Agatha,” he said, taking up a starched linen napkin to wipe the beads of sweat from above his upper lip. “It was too good an opportunity to miss to tease you. I know it’s not really a laughing matter, but you should have seen your face! You looked like you wanted to slap me—or at the very least walk out of the hotel and take the first Orient Express back to London.”

  “You can laugh as much you like,” I said, fighting the urge to smile, “but there was a time, not too far in the past, when you didn’t trust me enough to provide me with all the information I needed to help you. Remember?”

  “But Tenerife was different,” he said, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “You know the reason why I was so reluctant to share certain details of my life with you.”

  “That may be so,” I said. Although it would have been easy to do so, I decided not to embarrass Davison, and instead turned the conversation back to the current case. “Now that you’ve had a jolly laugh at my expense, why don’t you tell me what you know?”

  “Very well,” he said as he crossed his legs. “Yes, you’re right. Miss Bell did work in secret intelligence during the war.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “She was stationed in Cairo, where it was her mission to provide us with evidence about the links between the Germans and the Turkish Empire, particularly in eastern and northern Arabia. Because she had done all this traveling, trekking across the desert, gossiping with sheikhs over strong coffee, she had an unparalleled insight into certain alliances which would otherwise have remained obscure. She wrote reports for the Arab Bulletin, which I’m sure you know provided the British government with a stream of very helpful secret information.”

  I thought back to my own time in Cairo, where I had lived with my mother for three months during the winter of 1907. What a stupid girl I had been. At seventeen years old I had only been interested in romance—endless flirtations with dashing men in the three or four regiments stationed out there—and my appearance.

  “Miss Bell sounds like she was an exceptional woman,” I said, feeling distinctly unworthy in comparison. “Am I right in remembering that she took a degree from Oxford?” My education could be described as patchy at best—for great swathes of my childhood I did not even go to school—and, the more I heard from Davison, the more I was beginning to feel envious of Miss Bell’s extraordinary achievements.

  “Yes, the first woman to take a first—and a brilliant one at that—in Modern History. And in two years instead of the usual three. She always seemed the most intelligent person in the room. That had its benefits, particularly for the department, but of course she was not the most subtle of individuals. I remember once, at some grand dinner, sitting opposite her and hearing her describe one of the diplomat’s wives, in a dismissive voice, as a “nice little woman.” That was always her insult of choice for women she deemed her inferior, which was the majority.”

  In that instant I felt a certain relief that Miss Bell was no longer with us—I doubted she would have liked me—and then, almost immediately, I felt ashamed for thinking ill of the dead.

  “But why do you think she believed someone at Ur wanted to kill her? Did she know anyone there?”

  Davison took out two photographs from the inside pocket of his jacket and passed them over to me. “This is Leonard Woolley, of whom you’ve no doubt heard, the man in charge of the dig down at Ur.” I studied the image of a man dressed in shorts and a jacket, a man with a puckish face, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, peering intently at a clay slab in his hands. “Woolley and Miss Bell knew each other during the war when he was head of intelligence at Port Said and she was stationed in Cairo. From all accounts, they seemed to get on well. The only thing we’ve managed to dig up is a possible suggestion that the two did not see eye to eye in regards to the dividing up of the treasures at Ur.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, in Miss Bell’s role as head of antiquities in Iraq, it was her duty to decide which objects she should set aside for her museum here in Baghdad, and which ones she allowed the team at Ur to transport back to Britain and America. Apparently, Woolley was upset that Miss Bell insisted on keeping for the museum an ancient plaque showing a milking scene. I’ve been told that Woolley valued it at around ten thousand pounds. She also managed to secure a gold scarab which experts believe is worth one hundred thousand pounds.”

  I could not disguise my astonishment. “Really? As much as that?”

  “Yes, and she won it on the toss of a rupee.”

  “I can imagine Woolley would be annoyed. But surely nobody is suggesting that’s the reason why he might want her dead?”

  “We both know that murder has been done for an awful lot less.”

  “Indeed we do,” I said, taking a moment to pause to look at the river, with its traffic of gufas and other vessels. “So, what do you have in mind? You told me something of your plan before we
left London, but I’m assuming there is something more specific you want me to do.”

  “Yes, there is,” said Davison, all traces of his former joviality now erased from his face. “We need to know for certain whether there is any truth in Miss Bell’s suspicion that she was going to be murdered. For that, I’m asking you to travel down to Ur. I’ve already discerned that you would be welcome there. There is a Mrs. Woolley, you see, and she normally dislikes other women on site. She is the queen of the camp and likes to be treated as such. She cannot endure the prospect of competition from other members of the female sex, but I am told that for you she would make an exception. The reason why you are most suitable for this assignment—the reason why your name was mentioned to me by the head of the division, Hartford—was because of Mrs. Woolley’s enthusiasm for The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Something of a literary snob by all accounts, but her passion for that book is—”

  “I see,” I said, feeling uncomfortable with the prospect of further praise of my work. “Can you tell me any more about Mrs. Woolley?”

  Davison did not say anything for a few seconds. As he began to form his thoughts I noticed a pair of horizontal lines crease his forehead, making him look a good deal older.

  “Perhaps it’s better if you forge your own opinion of her,” he said, draining the last of his brandy. He raised his hand to call over the waiter. “But know this: Miss Bell told various acquaintances that she believed Mrs. Woolley to be a dangerous woman.”

  “And is this Mrs. Woolley, in this photograph here?” I asked, gesturing towards an image of a woman who, although middle-aged, still possessed a certain striking beauty. The photograph showed her sitting on the desert floor, examining a shard of an old pot.

  “Yes, that’s her all right,” said Davison. “From what I’ve heard of her, Katharine Woolley is a Jekyll-and-Hyde character, charming one moment, cold and cruel the next. There is also some mystery surrounding the death of her first husband, Lieutenant Colonel Bertram Keeling, whom she married at St. Martin-in-the-Fields in March 1919. Six months later, Keeling, who was only thirty-nine, shot himself at the foot of the Great Pyramid of Cheops.”