Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

  It was obvious that Hubert Archer, in an effort to cope with the tragedy, had clicked into automatic mode, playing the part of the American businessman and millionaire to perfection. By doing so, it was obvious that he was attempting to deflect the shadow of grief that loomed over him.

  “Now, top of the agenda as I see it is to decide what to do about the police, or rather their absence,” he said. “I can’t believe that there is no one around who could help with this matter. Burrows? McRae? Do you know any alternatives?” The men shook their heads. “Miller?”

  “Sorry, but I’m afraid Woolley is right when he says the man from Baghdad will take just as long as the chap from Nasiriya,” replied the photographer.

  “So, what do you do when there’s an emergency?” asked Mr. Archer.

  “We just wait,” said Woolley dryly. “It’s one of the hazards of being out here, I’m afraid.”

  Mr. Archer stared at Woolley in disbelief. “The next thing we need to decide is what to do about . . . about the body,” he said. I surmised that he was using deliberately clinical language so as to distance himself from the awfulness of what had happened to his daughter. “Obviously we can’t leave it out . . . there,” he said, glancing towards the ziggurat. “Ruth is with her now, but she can’t do that all day. And even though it’s winter, the heat of the sun would still . . . well, it wouldn’t be ideal. I’m sure all of us can agree on that.”

  The room was filled with an echo of murmurs and agreement, as if we were voting on the implication of a new card system at the local library or a particular planting scheme in the municipal gardens.

  “I’m wondering which is the coolest room in the house,” said Woolley. “I suppose it must be the pantry. Is that correct, McRae?”

  “Yes, indeed,” replied the architect. “A good few degrees cooler. Of course, we would need to move out the supplies.”

  “The pantry?” asked Mr. Archer. “It hardly seems suitable.”

  “No, but I’m afraid it is the best place,” said McRae. “After all, we wouldn’t want—”

  Hubert Archer cut him off with a nod of the head before clearing his throat in preparation for the most difficult question on his agenda. “And then there is the problem of what to do with Mrs. Woolley.”

  “In what regard?” asked Woolley.

  Archer’s reply came as quick and as deadly as a rapier. “Well, I know my wife for one would not be comfortable sleeping under the same roof as a murderer. I’m sure the same could be said for most of you around this table.”

  The statement—articulated and declared with the conviction of a man of standing and means—forced many in the group to acknowledge what they had only been thinking. Cecil, clearly distressed and red in the face, tried to talk but was stopped from doing so by his uncle, who placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. Father Burrows looked like the saddest man on earth, an Adam being given the news that there was no place for him in paradise. Miss Jones had gone pale and looked as if she were unable to raise her big brown eyes from a dirty mark on the table, a stain that seemed to hypnotize her. All traces of jollity and optimism had been wiped clean from Mr. Miller’s face. And Woolley himself appeared inscrutable, for once unable to interpret or predict.

  Finally he stood up and addressed the group, talking quietly at first. “I know that you all have very grave concerns about what has happened,” he said. “And I must express my deep sadness and condolences to Mr. and Mrs. Archer. Although my wife has not been well—many of you have witnessed that—this does not mean that she is the one responsible for . . . for what befell poor Miss Archer.”

  “How can you stand there and say that?” said Cecil McRae, standing up with such force that his chair nearly fell over. “There’s only one of us who was found with blood on our hands: Mrs. Woolley.”

  “That’s enough, Cecil,” said Lawrence, trying to calm the boy.

  “Everyone’s thinking the same thing,” said Cecil, shaking with anger. “We more or less saw it with our own eyes. First the cat and then this. She clearly took a rock and smashed it on Sarah’s head. How could she do that?” The boy’s voice broke, and tears had started to stream down his face. “Maybe she’s just mad or evil or a bit of both, I don’t know. But I think she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone prettier than her getting more attention. And Sarah was younger, much younger, and much more beautiful, too. I’m sorry, but if you’ve snuffed out a life, that means, by my reckoning . . . well, that she’s got what’s coming to her.”

  “Cecil, control yourself!” commanded Woolley. “I will not have such talk in my camp.”

  The boy looked at Woolley with a mix of anger and self-loathing and, unable to bear the contradictory impulses which were raging inside him, dashed a water tumbler to the floor and ran out. The impact sent shards of glass across the hard floor.

  “Cecil! Come back!” shouted McRae. He bent down to pick up the pieces of the glass and, in the process, cut his thumb.

  “You’re bleeding,” said Cynthia.

  “It’s nothing; don’t worry,” said McRae, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping it around the wound. “And, Woolley, I’m sorry about that. He’s young and headstrong, and you know how much he thought of Sarah.”

  “Never mind,” said Woolley. “Now, where were we? Yes, the question of what to do about my wife.”

  Just as Mr. Archer was about to launch into another speech, I thought it best if I tried to calm things down a little.

  “May I venture a suggestion?” I said. All eyes turned to me, astonished that I had an opinion on the subject.

  “Yes, Mrs. Christie?” asked Mr. Archer.

  “I can see that we are all getting rather heated about the matter,” I said. “And I can comprehend the very strong feelings. But I do believe it is important to stick by the English principle of innocent until proven guilty.” I said this although I was quite uncertain of Mrs. Woolley’s innocence in the matter.

  “A very noble idea, but in this instance—” said Mr. Archer in a rather condescending manner.

  “In this instance, I think it’s all the more important we don’t let tribal instincts take over,” I said. I thought of the paragraph in Mrs. Woolley’s manuscript relating to tribal law. “We can’t let ourselves be swayed by outmoded notions of justice. Even though many of us might consider the judicial system in Iraq to be, well, not quite what we would find at home, it’s good to remember something of the country’s contribution to the history of the law.”

  “Indeed, but with the police so far away, and—”

  “Exactly so, Mr. Archer,” I said, trying to disarm him with a smile. “With the police so far away, we cannot allow this to degenerate.” An image of an ancient relic, an enormous tablet from a bygone age, came into my mind. Something I had been taken to see in the Louvre all those years ago when I had been a carefree girl in Paris. “Correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Woolley—as you will know so much more about this than I—but is there not something called the Code of Hammurabi?”

  “You mean the ancient Babylonian law code? Discovered by Jéquier in 1901 at the ancient site of Susa. Translated a year later by Father Scheil.”

  I had no idea of the history, but I knew to trust Woolley’s expert knowledge. “Yes, I’m sure that’s right,” I said. “Does that code not lay down what later became the precept of a presumption of innocence?”

  “ ‘Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat’?” he replied. “Which roughly translates as ‘The burden of proof lies upon him who affirms, not he who denies.’ ”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “It’s up to those who are doing the accusing to find the body of evidence.”

  “Hold on there, my dear,” said Mr. Archer, addressing me as if I were a child. “I’m sure you can get away with this kind of thing in your books, but unless I’m mistaken, you aren’t qualified in the law.”

  I could feel myself blushing. “No, I’m not, but I do think—”

  “And if you
’ll forgive me, you’re not the only one acquainted with the Code of Hammurabi,” he continued. “While we were in Paris, I went to the Louvre to see the famous stele for myself. As a scholar of the Old Testament, it was only natural that I wanted to study an ancient relic that spoke of the lex talionis. My view, like young Cecil’s, is very much ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ ”

  Leonard Woolley interjected, “I can understand that in a state of shock you may feel like this, but surely it’s more Christian to think of the Sermon on the Mount: ‘If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.’ ”

  “Woolley, Mrs. Christie, I’m not here to have an argument about the finer points of theology,” snapped Archer. “Let me outline the facts as I see them. My daughter has been murdered. Her corpse is lying outside, being watched over by my heartbroken wife. The police aren’t due until tomorrow morning. Under this roof there is a murderer. A murderer who has been discovered with blood on her hands. A murderer who is none other than Mrs. Katharine Woolley.”

  “But Mrs. Woolley told me—”

  Mr. Archer cut me off. “Told you what? That she was innocent?”

  “Yes, that she heard the sound of footsteps or a scuffle, and the next thing she knew, she stumbled upon your daughter’s body.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Why the hesitation? From the look in your eyes, it’s obvious that you’re not completely sure of Mrs. Woolley’s innocence.”

  It was true. I couldn’t stand up before Mr. Archer and tell him that Katharine had not killed his daughter. Yet neither was I certain of her guilt in the matter.

  “Just as I thought,” pronounced Mr. Archer. “Now, what I propose is this.” He began to outline his scheme for dealing with the immediate aftermath of his daughter’s death. “Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting that we try Mrs. Woolley in some kind of kangaroo court. I’m not that ignorant or barbaric; just that I think it would be best if we removed her from the house. That we contained her somewhere under lock and key while we wait for the authorities to arrive tomorrow. Woolley, is there any such place here?”

  Leonard turned his head away from Archer so he could not see the resentment burning in his eyes.

  “Woolley, did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, I know a place,” interrupted McRae. “There’s a storeroom just by the outer fence that is used to keep spare tools, building materials, and the like.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” shouted Woolley. “You cannot expect my wife to spend the night in that shed?”

  “Perhaps we could make it comfortable for her. Could a mattress conceivably be brought in for her?”

  “Yes, but . . . ,” said Woolley, the color draining from his face.

  “And it’s lockable from the outside?” asked Archer.

  “Yes, there’s a padlock on the door,” answered McRae.

  “There’s no way Katharine will agree to this,” said Woolley. “No way at all.”

  “Well, I’m afraid she won’t have much choice in the matter,” said Archer. “As far as I’m concerned, she gave away her rights when she smashed that rock down on my daughter’s head. Ideally, I would have her removed from the compound altogether, but as the police will want to question her first thing, this is the most appropriate compromise, don’t you think?”

  Archer looked around the group as if he had just won a particularly tricky game of cards. No one had the energy or the courage to argue with him any more. Even though I was not totally convinced of Mrs. Woolley’s innocence, I felt that the plan was a mistake. What if Katharine was right and someone wanted to do her harm? Even if she was locked up in that shed, she would still be terribly vulnerable. The phrase lamb to the slaughter came to mind.

  “But is this really the best course of action?” I asked.

  “What do you propose, Mrs. Christie?” Archer’s tone of voice was withering now. “That we all carry on as if nothing had happened? Should we all sit down and enjoy a nice cup of tea? Yes, that would be very English, wouldn’t it?”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “Why don’t I stay with Katharine in her room as I did last night? You can lock it from the outside if you like. That way Mrs. Woolley will continue to be comfortable and you will feel safe knowing that she is . . . contained.”

  “You’re prepared to spend hours locked up with a woman who could be a killer?” whispered Miss Jones, her eyes shining with the anticipation of future horrors to come.

  “I don’t think you need be quite so melodramatic, Cynthia,” I said, trying to lighten the mood with a smile. “I’m sure I will be quite safe, as will the rest of you.”

  “No, that’s completely out of the question,” said Archer.

  “But—” said Woolley before Archer cut him dead.

  “Your wife will sleep in the storeroom, which will be locked. And I’m saying this for her safety as much as ours.” Archer walked over and whispered something in Woolley’s ear, then turned to the rest of us and added, “I’m sure you do understand now that this plan would be for the best, don’t you, Woolley?”

  “Yes, I suppose under the circumstances you’re right,” said Woolley. He no longer had the energy to fight. “I’ll go and talk to Katharine now.”

  What had Archer said to Leonard to make him change his mind? Perhaps he had dangled the prospect of not withdrawing the funding from the dig after all. Before Archer excused himself, he said that he would go and talk to his wife and tell her about the arrangements for the body of their daughter to be moved into the pantry. His face was inscrutable, as expressionless as an ancient carving; I wondered at what point Mr. Archer would allow himself to grieve for his dead daughter. If he was so ardent in his Christian beliefs, then the thought of everlasting life would at least give him some comfort. But was there not also a danger in such an attitude, too? Did his fundamentalism not blind him to the very real joys and sadnesses of the concrete world in which he lived?

  “Thank goodness Mr. Archer is taking charge of the situation,” said Cynthia to me after Archer had left the room and the rest of the group began to disperse.

  “I only hope he knows what he is doing,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “Surely everyone will sleep more soundly knowing that Mrs. Woolley is locked away in that shed.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But there’s something not right about this—something not right at all.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said.

  “You’re beginning to worry me, Agatha,” said Cynthia. Her eyes searched the room for signs of danger. “When the police arrive, they will take away Mrs. Woolley, and then we can get back to normal, can’t we?”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “You’re not telling me something,” she said, her hands beginning to tremble. I could sense the difficulty with which she formed her next question. “Y-you think someone else is in peril, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

  “But who?”

  “It’s Mrs. Woolley herself. I fear someone means to do her harm. I think someone wants her dead.”

  14

  Back in my room, I took out my notebook and scribbled down the events leading up to the death of Sarah Archer at the base of the ziggurat.

  There she was, the young girl full of life, celebrating her twenty-first birthday, kicking up her heels at the edge of the ziggurat as Harry Miller took his photographs. Her mother told her not to go too near the edge, warning her of the long drop. Harry Miller replied that the girl was in safe hands. Then we all sat down to eat. Sarah told her story about that inappropriate proposal, cruelly describing the man as old and ugly. Her father told her off, which then gave rise to the awful clash between Sarah and Katharine Woolley.

  The atmosphere had changed from jovial to something more unsettling in a moment. Sarah had grabbed a torch and stormed off into the night, quickly followed by Leonard Wool
ley and Harry Miller, then Lawrence McRae and Cecil. Mr. and Mrs. Archer, disgusted by Katharine’s behavior, left the picnic, soon followed by Mrs. Woolley and Miss Jones, leaving Father Burrows and myself. Then the night air was split by that unholy scream and we all clustered round that horrible sight, the figure of Katharine Woolley, her hands covered in blood, kneeling by the body of Sarah Archer.

  As I finished reading through what I had written, I heard the sound of wailing. I opened my door to see two servants carrying the shrouded body of Sarah Archer on a bier. Behind her trailed her father and mother. Ruth Archer’s pale face was a mask of misery like that of a painting I had once seen of Mary after the death of Christ. The sad parade made its way across the courtyard to the pantry, where Harry Miller stood at the door. As the servants maneuvered the body into the room, the photographer bowed his head in respect, leaving the Archers to kneel by their daughter’s body.

  “That was the saddest thing I think I’ve ever seen,” said Miller, catching my eye and walking over towards me. “I can’t believe one moment there she was, happy as anything, standing on the top of the world, with everything to look forward to. Then the next minute her life had been snuffed out. It doesn’t seem right somehow.”

  “No, it doesn’t. There’s something very evil at work here,” I said. “Mr. Miller, would you mind coming into my room? I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Not at all,” he said, running his hand through his hair.

  “I’m just trying to build up a picture of what happened before and around the time of the—of Miss Archer’s death,” I said as I closed the door behind us. “And I wondered whether it would be possible for me to have a look at some of the photographs you took. Just to see if they might provide some kind of clue.”

  “To the murder, you mean?”

  “Well, yes,” I said. It seemed that there could be no other explanation for the girl’s death.

  He shuffled uneasily on his feet, and a certain nervous quality came into his eyes. Was there something he wanted to hide? “I would need a couple of hours to develop the film.”