I told Davison that there was no need for him to venture south to Ur just yet; his presence, or that of another official, would only raise more questions. After all, no crime had yet been committed here save that of the suspicious death of a cat. There was something about the demise of that ginger tom that unsettled me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Had Woolley killed it so as to try and drive his wife insane? Was he subjecting her to a subtle form of psychological torture?
It was no surprise that, after the events of the last few days, an air of melancholy descended over the expedition. Despite the best efforts of the seemingly eternally cheerful Harry Miller and the youthful exuberance of Sarah Archer, the group’s spirits could not be raised. Breakfast was mostly a silent affair, while the evenings seemed to stretch on for eternity, with endless conversations about cuneiform tablets, the minutiae of the archaeological process, and the lineage of Abraham. Finally, one night, after a particularly depressing dinner, Woolley declared that, as he knew it would soon be Miss Archer’s birthday—she would be twenty-one on the following Saturday—he thought it would be a good idea to celebrate it with a picnic at the top of the ziggurat.
“What a swell idea,” said Miller, slapping Woolley on the shoulder. “We could all do with something to look forward to.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woolley,” said Sarah. “I was beginning to wonder how long you British could carry on with your long faces.”
“Now, don’t be rude, dear,” said Ruth Archer, giving Woolley an apologetic smile. “What would your father say if he heard you?” Luckily for Sarah, Hubert Archer had stepped outside with Father Burrows for some night air.
“No, Sarah is quite right,” replied Woolley. “We’ve been down in the dumps for too long. It should be a jolly event. Your father has given his approval, and I’ve started planning it with the chef and the servants already. There will be food, a nice fruit punch for those of us who partake, and a fresh lemonade with mint too for Mr. and Mrs. Archer and you, Mrs. Christie.”
“And will Mrs. Woolley grace us with her presence?” asked McRae, barely trying to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.
“I’ve yet to hear from Katharine on that point,” said Woolley. “As you know, she has not been quite herself since Tom died. But I hope she will come; she needs cheering up, as do we all. This will give us an opportunity to put that unpleasantness behind us. Then we can go into the season with a renewed vigor.”
* * *
On the Saturday of the picnic, Woolley announced that Katharine was feeling a great deal better and had decided that she would, after all, join us on the outing. On hearing this news I went and knocked on her door.
“Come in!” she called from inside.
I opened the door and stepped into what seemed like a different room to the one I had seen a few days before. Mrs. Woolley had thrown open the shutters and light streamed in, bathing everything in a delicate yellow glow. She had taken the trouble to order her desk: there was no sign of the papers that she had been working on. The floor appeared to have been swept, the clothes that had previously spilled out of the wardrobe had been tidied away, and the pots that had cluttered her dressing table had been arranged neatly. Like the room itself, Katharine appeared to have tidied herself up. She had washed and brushed her hair, her neck seemed free of the blotches that had plagued her complexion, and she was dressed in a striking lavender blouse, skirt, and jacket, with shoes, gloves, and a hat to match.
“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” she said brightly, taking a gray silk scarf from the wardrobe and tying it lightly around her neck. As she did so, I noticed that she had painted her nails a vibrant red color and was wearing an elegant gold dress watch.
“Yes, it is,” I replied. “And you’re looking a great deal better.”
“I thought it was about time I faced the world again,” she said.
“I’m very pleased to hear that.”
Katharine walked over to the window and looked out. “I can’t imprison myself in here any longer. And I refuse to continue to be afraid. I told Leonard about my fears regarding my first husband and he convinced me that I had nothing to worry about. In fact, looking back, I’m sorry I said such silly things to you. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It was understandable after—”
“After what happened with Tom. Yes, I remember now Leonard telling me about what he had done. Yes, the cat did scratch me and my husband took it away to put it down.” There was something artificial about her delivery, as if she were reading an over-rehearsed script. “Best, really. One cannot have an animal like that around. Leonard did me, and everyone else, a favor.”
I knew she was not telling the truth but I decided not to voice my suspicions, as I didn’t want Katharine to suffer another relapse.
“And as regards my own safety,” she continued, “as Leonard said to me this morning, what can happen to me? I’m going to be surrounded by him and the other men, you, all my friends on the dig. Then there are the servants. I’ve nothing to worry about at all.” She said this as if she were trying to convince herself. “After being cooped up in here for days, I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to the picnic, even though Sarah Archer is not exactly my favorite person.”
“Yes, I don’t quite understand her,” I said.
“Oh, good. I was worrying that she and you might become as thick as thieves.”
“No, not at all. She’s very young,” I said. “And also, she’s too rich.”
“Too rich? Surely no one can be too rich.”
“You know what I mean,” I said, smiling. “She’s got different values, different ideas about the way life should be. All that money—imagine! And she told me that she will be soon be very rich in her own right. Independently wealthy, quite apart from her father.”
“I know. Aren’t some people lucky?” Katharine said. “That’s not to say I have any regrets in marrying a poor archaeologist. There are other benefits, it must be said.”
I recalled the conversation I had had with her husband. The couple, or so Woolley had told me, had never been intimate. Perhaps Katharine was referring to the simple joys of companionship; that was, I knew, enough for many people. It would have been enough for me, but never for Archie. During the dark days leading up to my divorce, I had even suggested that Archie continue his relationship with Miss Neele as long as he remained married—in name only, of course—to me. Thank goodness Archie had had the good sense to reject such a proposal.
“Oh, please don’t say anything about my aversion to Sarah,” pleaded Katharine, suddenly realizing the implication of what she had said. “If it got back to her or her father, the Archers might think twice about pledging their financial support. And Leonard would be furious with me.”
“I’ll keep it just between the two of us,” I assured her.
“Anyway, I must get going,” she said. “I promised Leonard I would supervise the picnic. I don’t know why he suggested to the Archers that we have it at the top of the ziggurat. What’s wrong with the courtyard? Anyway, it’s done now. But it does mean an awful lot more work.”
Katharine was not exaggerating. The chef had to draft in extra help from his sons, and throughout the day Leonard had even been forced to requisition some of the Arabs from the dig to carry things from the house up to the top of the ziggurat. As was their custom, they sang as they worked, that strange sound that was not so much a song as a monotonous chant. However, by four o’clock they had erected various tents, a couple of tables, and a selection of chairs, cushions, and rugs, and an hour later they finished bringing all the supplies of food and drink to the top of the ziggurat. We left the house all together in a group, and to outsiders it would have appeared as though none of us had a care in the world. The conversation was superficially light, and a delicious sense of anticipation hung in the desert air. Harry Miller took snaps of us all as we walked—he said he wanted to give a selection of the resulting photographs to Sarah Archer as a birthday pres
ent—and he made us smile and laugh with his seemingly endless supply of jokes.
“Do you know why photographers can be so nasty?” he asked, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
“Nasty? I don’t know. Why?” asked Sarah, twirling her parasol around in her hands.
“You really can’t work it out?” teased Harry.
The girl shook her head. Clearly there was a spark between them, something that both McRae and his nephew pretended not to be bothered about.
“Well, here we go. First we frame you, then we shoot you, and finally . . . we hang you on the wall.”
“That’s a terrible joke!” said Sarah, laughing.
“It amused you, though,” said Harry. “You can’t deny that.”
“Only because it was so awful,” she replied.
It did not amuse me, however. I also noticed that it failed to raise a smile from Leonard Woolley. Perhaps he was too worried about the smooth running of the picnic, and as we walked he busied himself with last-minute arrangements, talking to various Arab servants in snatches of conversation I did not understand. I could not fail to be impressed by the sound of the language—rich guttural tones that seemed to be wrenched up from the very back of the throat—but there was something quite alien and unnerving about it, too.
By the time we had reached the top of the ziggurat, climbing steadily up one of the three staircases that led to the pinnacle, we were all out of breath. However, we were met by a glorious sight: a series of tents had been erected in one corner of the enormous plateau and a number of servants were ready with trays of drinks. The lemonade was tart but delightfully refreshing, while the fruit punch was, according to those who sampled it, both delicious and quite potent.
“Just think, Sarah, you could be celebrating your twenty-first birthday in one of the best restaurants in Paris, London, or New York,” said Ruth Archer, “and here you are at the top of an ancient temple in the middle of a desert. Who would have thought it?”
“I couldn’t think of anything nicer,” said Sarah, flashing a smile first at Miller and then at McRae. The girl—who was out of earshot of her father—was playing a very dangerous game with this flirtation. Ruth cast a concerned look at her daughter and tried to engage her in conversation with Miss Jones, but the girl’s eyes kept returning to the two men. She never once looked at poor Cecil, who stood by himself in a corner of the tent with a brooding expression on his face and a large glass of punch in his hand.
“Don’t you think this is just splendid?” asked Katharine, coming up to me.
“Yes, it was a lovely idea,” I said.
“I feel so much better,” she said. “How could one not, standing up here, with this view?”
I looked across the desert plain, the setting sun turning the sands the color of blood. The sound of Sarah’s laughter drifted across the ziggurat. She had made her way over to talk to Miller, who said he wanted to take some photographs of her standing at the edge of the ancient structure.
“Be careful, Sarah,” said Ruth. “There’s a terribly long drop there.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Archer,” said Miller. “She’s in safe hands.”
Sarah changed her pose with each click of Miller’s camera, clearly enjoying the attention from her fellow American. As she kicked her heels she dislodged a few small stones, sending them over the edge of the ziggurat. Her black net dress, embroidered with chenille, made the near-translucent whiteness of her skin stand out, giving her the look of a ghost.
“I’d really like to have a suntan,” she was telling Miller, “as it’s the fashion now on the Riviera. But Daddy would be furious.”
“Well, I think you look swell just the way you are,” replied the photographer.
“In fact, he would not be at all pleased by some of these pictures,” said Sarah. “He can be such a prude at times. By the way, Mommy, where is he?”
“Father Burrows is showing him some inscriptions on one of the temple walls,” said Ruth. “And you’re right, your father would most definitely not approve. So I’d make it quick if I were you, Mr. Miller.”
Although Woolley was trying to persuade people to sit, as the food was ready, Sarah Archer and Harry Miller were reluctant to move away from the precipice. Harry asked Sarah to turn her back to him so he could photograph her silhouette set against the sky.
“Just look at this light!” exclaimed Miller. “The shadows are something else.”
McRae mumbled something to Cecil and both of them glared in the direction of the photographer. As Sarah pirouetted around, she caught sight of her father approaching and signaled to Miller to stop.
“I get the message,” said Harry Miller. “But I think we got something special there.”
The two walked over and took their seats under the tent as the servants began to plate out the food. The group fell silent as we began to eat a thick tomato stew made with meat which I think was lamb but may have been goat. Woolley took out a bottle of wine and offered it to the group.
“Yes, I think I would like a glass of that too, if you don’t mind,” said Katharine.
“Do you think that’s a good idea, my dear?” asked Leonard. “After all . . .”
“What?” said Katharine under her breath.
“Just that it may not be wise, that’s all,” he said gently, trying to prevent the conversation from escalating into a row.
“I think it will do me a world of good—just like this party,” said Katharine, holding out a glass.
Husband and wife locked eyes, and finally, after a few moments, a defeated Leonard poured out the wine for Katharine.
“Thank you,” she said.
Miller, glass in hand, stood up and proposed a toast to both Mr. and Mrs. Woolley for hosting the picnic and to Sarah Archer to wish her happy birthday. We all sang along, and even Lawrence and Cecil McRae roused themselves from their black humor and joined in.
“Thank you,” said Sarah, coming to sit by me. “I can’t believe I’m twenty-one.”
I thought of myself at that age. What had I achieved by then? Absolutely nothing of consequence. “And what do you have planned when you return to America?” I asked. “I suppose you must have a great many suitors waiting for you at home.”
“There are some young men who have been picked out for me as being eminently suitable, yes,” she said. She cast a flirtatious glance over at Harry Miller. “But whether or not I will accept them is another matter.”
As the servants lit a series of long torches, enclosing the group within a circle of fire, Sarah began to tell the story of how, aged eighteen, she had endured a proposal from a man she considered old enough to be her father. Mr. Adams, the man in question—whom she regarded as really quite ugly—had taken great pride in outlining what he thought were his considerable financial resources. Sarah had sat and listened patiently to his list of assets: his properties scattered across New York and Philadelphia, his portfolio of stocks and share certificates, his savings and investments. “So you see, Miss Archer, it would be greatly in your interest if you were to accept me,” proclaimed Mr. Adams, “as I can offer you a personal sum in excess of two hundred thousand dollars.” She told everyone how she had made a pretense of amazement, thanked him for his offer, and told him that, as she would only have five hundred thousand to her name, she was sure that he would find her too poor for his consideration. “Also, I fear that you are too handsome for me, sir,” she added with extra spite.
Although the group laughed at the story and her punch line, I thought Sarah’s comment to be ill-judged. Her aspiring suitor had been crass, yes, but that did not—in my opinion—permit her to be so cruel. It was obvious that her father thought so, too.
“You don’t do yourself any favors by telling that story,” said Mr. Archer. “In fact, it’s not at all Christian of you.”
“Papa, you know as well as I do that Mr. Adams would have been wrong for me.”
“That may be so, but—”
“I think you should listen to
your father,” said Katharine, interrupting the girl.
Sarah looked astonished that someone outside her family had dared to contradict her. “Excuse me, I didn’t quite hear what you said.”
She was giving Katharine the chance to retract her comment, but it was obvious from what Mrs. Woolley said next that she had no intention of doing so.
“I think at times it is wise to listen to those who know better,” said Katharine. “Those with a little more experience of life.”
Sarah Archer looked around at the startled expressions of some of those in the group and, emboldened by what she took to be support, placed her fork back on her china plate and said, “And those who think they know better should sometimes keep their own counsel.”
Katharine’s eyes burnt with a dark fury. Leonard reached over and placed a hand on his wife’s arm, but she brushed it off.
“In fact, the kind of advice I get from people never ceases to amaze me,” continued Sarah, pausing for full effect, “especially from those who are not quite all there.”
“How dare you,” said Katharine, standing up.
“Sarah!” hissed Mr. Archer.
“What? I’m only voicing what we all think, aren’t I?” She looked around for someone to try and back her up. “Or am I the only one brave enough to say the unsayable?” She turned to Katharine and addressed her directly. “Very well. Here goes. The truth is everyone thinks you’re cracked. That you’re crazy. Unhinged. There are plenty of words to choose from—take your pick.”
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