Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

  “I’m not sure,” I said as I accompanied him out of the house. “He ran out into the darkness. I came as fast as I could. I left Mrs. Woolley locked up in the shed.”

  “If you could rouse a few of the other men and tell them that Cecil has gone missing,” he said, “I’ll go down and start searching for him now.”

  McRae started to call out the boy’s name. I ran back into the house and knocked on the doors of Leonard Woolley and Harry Miller. Mr. Archer had been through too much already, and I thought Father Burrows would be more of a hindrance than a help. I gave a quick synopsis of how Cecil had threatened Mrs. Woolley before taking the gun and disappearing. Disturbed by the noise, the other occupants soon opened their doors to find out what was happening. Cynthia Jones appeared, looking an absolute fright in her old-fashioned nightgown and bed hat. Father Burrows emerged blinking, battling with his wire-framed spectacles. The Archers, the poor grief-stricken parents, stepped into the main room looking as though their spirits had been sucked out of them.

  “Please, I think it’s best if you go back to bed,” I said.

  “What happened?” asked Mr. Archer.

  “Please . . . please, not . . . not that woman,” said Ruth Archer, with fear in her voice. “She hasn’t . . . escaped?”

  “No, nothing of that kind,” I said. I didn’t want to add to their worries. “She’s still locked up in the shed. It’s Cecil. He seems a little . . . unbalanced.”

  “When will this nightmare end?” asked Mr. Archer. “There’s something rotten about this place. In fact, I don’t believe it’s where Abraham was born after all.”

  “I wish we’d never come!” his wife exclaimed, then started to cry. “Why didn’t we stay in Paris? Sarah was so happy there.”

  Miss Jones and I watched them walk arm in arm back to their room. Cynthia asked me what had happened to Cecil, and as I related what had occurred, she looked taken aback and more than a little shocked.

  “But don’t worry, I’m sure he’s not a danger to anyone but himself,” I said. “I must get back to Mrs. Woolley. I promised her I wouldn’t be long.”

  “Please take care,” she said, her eyes full of concern as she handed me her flashlight. “After all, I’d hate it if anything happened to you as well.”

  Miss Jones’s words echoed through my head as I made my way first to my room to get some blankets and then back to the shed. Just as I was about to turn the lock and open the door, I heard a call from Lawrence McRae.

  “He’s over here, by the spot where . . . where we found Miss Archer!” the architect shouted.

  I saw the beams of light from the men’s flashlights change direction as they ran through the darkness towards the bottom of the ziggurat. I hoped they would be in time to save the poor boy’s life. He was in a very bad way, close to complete nervous collapse. As I opened the padlock and stepped into the shed, I heard a gunshot split the night.

  19

  “Quick, push something against the door,” said Katharine.

  “But what about Cecil?” I asked.

  “If the stupid boy wants to go and kill himself, I say let him,” she replied. “After all, he hardly behaved like the perfect gentleman, did he?”

  The statement was true enough, but I ignored her cruel remark and told her that I felt duty bound to see if I could help. My nursing training had not left me and I still felt a moral compulsion to relieve any suffering I might encounter. If Cecil had indeed shot himself, he could still be alive, and, if so, his life might be saved.

  “Now, where’s that syringe?” I asked. “From my reckoning it should be still in this corner where Cecil threw it.” I bent down and, with the light from the flashlight, searched for the hypodermic needle. I looked in dusty corners, under the edge of the mattress, and even outside the door, but it was nowhere to be found.

  “Perhaps Cecil took it as he went out, when he picked up the gun,” said Katharine as she saw me scrabbling on the ground.

  “Yes, I suppose he must have done,” I said. “Anyway, I must go and see what I can do.”

  “And you’ll lock the door, won’t you?” pleaded Katharine. “I don’t want that boy making a second attempt on my life.”

  I did what she asked and then, with the flashlight, ran through the darkness towards the men’s cries and calls emanating from the base of the ziggurat.

  “Who’s that?” It was Miller’s voice.

  “It’s Agatha,” I said. “What’s happened?”

  I tried to make sense of what I saw. Cecil lay prostrate on the ground, on the exact spot where Sarah had died. In the sand by his right shoulder lay Woolley’s gun. He wasn’t moving, but as I ran my flashlight across his body—from his head, neck, torso, towards his waist, lower body, and limbs—I couldn’t make out any traces of blood or any obvious wounds.

  “Is he dead?” asked Miller.

  McRae stepped forwards, kicked the gun out of Cecil’s reach, and bent down. “No, he’s still breathing,” he said. “Cecil, Cecil, wake up,” he said, shaking him.

  “He’s probably injected himself with a sedative,” I said, crouching down by the boy and using my flashlight to illuminate the ground. There, half buried in the sand, was the syringe. I picked it up and, as I held it up to my flashlight, saw that it was empty. “He must have had the gun in his hand but quite wisely decided not to end it all. Instead he decided to use this,” I said, showing the men the syringe. “And the gun must have gone off as he injected himself. He’s just going to have a very long, very deep sleep, nothing more.”

  “But where the hell did he get hold of that?” asked McRae.

  “It’s mine,” I said.

  “And do you make it a habit to go around carrying drugs of this kind?” There was an unpleasant tone to McRae’s voice. “I hope you haven’t got anything else stashed away.”

  I did not reply.

  “Let’s get the boy back to the house,” said Woolley. “We can take it in turns to watch him and then we can inform the police of everything when they arrive tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?” asked McRae. “Surely we don’t need to tell them—”

  “I’m afraid they need to know everything that has gone on here,” Woolley replied, cutting him off.

  “But it won’t look good, not with the boy’s history,” said McRae.

  “His history?” I asked.

  There was an awkwardness that hung in the night air. The flashlight that shone on McRae gave him an unhealthy, sallow appearance.

  “I suppose you may as well know now,” he said. “It’s about the boy’s parents. The reason why I’ve been so protective of him. I didn’t want to say anything before.” He fell silent before Woolley prompted him to continue. “You know that Cecil’s father and mother died in an accident. That is true enough. But what you don’t know is the manner in which they were killed. You see, one day Richard, my brother, was showing the boy how to use a gun. They lived deep in the Scottish countryside and they were going to hunt some rabbits. But that day—this was when Cecil was only fourteen—the boy . . .” He cleared his throat and continued. “We still don’t know the exact circumstances of what happened, but Richard and his wife, Elizabeth, died by gunshot wounds.”

  “So you’re saying that Cecil killed his own parents?” asked Miller.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate,” replied McRae. “Well, the coroner seemed to be very understanding. He ruled accidental deaths. Of course, I had to pull a few strings. Luckily I had some contacts in the local force, and I had to promise that he would live with me until he came of age.”

  “And you brought him to this camp?” said Woolley.

  “Yes, but I was sure that—”

  “You do know you put everyone’s life here at risk, don’t you?” Woolley’s voice was cold and full of anger. “How am I going to explain this to the directors of the museums? What will I say when I tell them the truth?”

  “I don’t see why they need to know.”

  “Are you
insane?” said Woolley, his voice rising. “For all we know, Cecil here may be some kind of unhinged killer. What if he is the one responsible for Miss Archer’s death?” His brain worked quickly as he tried to make sense of how this new piece of information fitted into the larger picture. “What if her rejection of him led him to bash her over the head with a rock? And then he planned on framing my wife for the death? Perhaps he was going to make the shooting of Katharine look like a suicide. After all, the facts are undeniable: he stole into the shed, armed with my revolver, with the aim of shooting her.”

  “That’s nonsense and you know it,” said McRae. “Cecil would never dream of hurting Sarah. He loved her. And as regards to what just happened in the shed, I suspect he was just blowing off a bit of hot air.”

  “Hot air indeed!” exclaimed Woolley. “Had it not been for Mrs. Christie’s clever intervention, I suspect all of this could have turned out very differently. No, I’m afraid that there is no question: the police will have to be informed of all the circumstances. And if I have my way, the boy will be tried and found guilty. He’ll certainly be taken away, and even if he does escape with his life, I can tell you that he’ll never set foot within the camp again.”

  “But—”

  “We’ve stood here in the dark long enough as it is already,” Woolley continued. “There’s nothing more to be said. We need to get Katharine out of that awful place and back into her own quarters. God knows she’s suffered enough as it is. But first let’s get this boy inside. Come on, Miller. Will you give me a hand?”

  The men took Cecil by the shoulders and legs and carried him into the house, leaving McRae and me to trail behind. I was curious to know more about Cecil and his mother and father. I could understand how the boy might have accidentally shot one of his parents, but not both. Surely after he had seen a bullet go into one of them—say, his father—he would have realized what an appalling thing he had done and then dropped the weapon. But if he truly did not mean to carry out the act of murder, why would he then swing around and take aim at his mother? What was it that made him hate them so much? It did not make sense. Woolley’s theory—that Cecil had killed Sarah and then intended to frame Katharine and, after shooting her, make that death look like a suicide—seemed much more plausible.

  “I understand this must all be very distressing for you, Mr. McRae,” I said.

  “Yes, indeed it is,” he said as he stared straight ahead, refusing to meet my gaze.

  “I wondered if I could ask a question.” I did not wait for his response. “Was Cecil a happy boy? As a child, I mean.”

  “Happy?”

  “Yes. Was he a cheerful little boy, without a care in the world?”

  “No, I don’t suppose he was. But that doesn’t make him a killer, Mrs. Christie.”

  I fell silent for a moment. “No, of course,” I agreed. I was conscious of McRae’s inference with regard to Katharine Woolley: murder was a habit, he had suggested. At the time he had been trying to persuade us that Katharine had killed her first husband and that, since then, Mrs. Woolley had been possessed by some kind of urge to murder again and again. But what if it was not Mrs. Woolley who had a taste for murder but Cecil? And what if his uncle had known this all along and was doing everything in his power to protect his charge? Did that make him an accessory to the crimes?

  “I know it’s none of my business, but I was just thinking . . . about the accident involving Cecil and his parents,” I said.

  “I’d really rather not talk about it any more, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  “You see I can’t understand why Cecil didn’t drop the gun after the first shot went off,” I said. “I must appear terribly stupid, but—”

  “Yes,” said McRae, implying that I appeared to be very stupid indeed.

  “But it seems to me that if it was an accident, then the most natural thing in the world would be to throw the weapon from one’s hands. Or to simply stop shooting.”

  McRae turned to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “I really don’t think it’s any of your business, do you?” In the darkness I could sense the anger burning in his eyes. “In fact, I would suggest that you stop this line of inquiry right now. Am I making myself clear?” I felt his fingers dig into my skin. “After all, I think we’ve had enough accidents for the time being.” The pressure on my shoulder intensified for a moment before he released his grip and stormed away back into the house. McRae was definitely hiding something—something which would not remain in the shadows for long. I would ask Davison when he arrived if he could send off and request records of the case, including information about the beneficiaries of Richard and Elizabeth McRae’s will.

  I had so much to tell Davison that I didn’t know where I would start. In truth, I couldn’t wait to see him so I could at last speak freely of some of the things I had observed since I had arrived in Ur. The phrase wheels within wheels came to mind; I sensed that so much still remained obscured from me. But as I walked back to Katharine, I had to acknowledge that this was more like a case of “murders within murders.” I pictured a Venn diagram of sorts, a series of interlinked circles, their edges outlined in blood.

  20

  “Mrs. Christie, Mr. Davison of the Foreign Office tells me he is already acquainted with you, is that correct?” asked Woolley as he led my friend into the room where we were just finishing breakfast.

  “Yes, indeed,” I said as I stood up and shook Davison’s hand. The look we exchanged—a rather formal but courteous expression of recognition—concealed not only the real nature of our purpose in Iraq but also the depth of our friendship.

  “And this is Captain Forster, a representative of the Baghdad Police, who has been dispatched to try and sort out this unholy mess,” added Woolley as he introduced a sandy-haired young man who looked barely old enough to shave, never mind lead a murder investigation. Clearly he had been sent out as part of the British administration in Iraq, and I wondered how much he really understood about the country.

  “I’ve told Mr. Davison and Captain Forster the details of what has occurred, but obviously both of them will want to interview each of you in turn,” said Woolley, addressing the group at the table. “I hope that won’t put you to too much of an inconvenience.” Murmurs of agreement came from Mr. Miller, Miss Jones, and Father Burrows; Mr. and Mrs. Archer and Katharine Woolley were not present, as they had decided to take breakfast in their rooms. “First of all, they are going to question Cecil McRae, who remains locked in my room.”

  “The whole thing is bloody ridiculous,” said Lawrence McRae under his breath.

  “You may think so,” replied Woolley, who had heard the architect. “But nevertheless the process is one that has to be followed.”

  “You know as well as I do that the boy would not hurt a fly,” said McRae.

  Woolley was implacable. News of Cecil’s past had already circulated through the camp, and so Leonard felt able to speak freely. “I’ve informed Mr. Davison and Captain Forster of the boy’s background,” he said calmly, “and they will contact the relevant authorities back in Scotland to find out the exact circumstances of his parents’ deaths.”

  McRae pushed his plate away from him and stood up from the table, finding it difficult to contain his anger. “I always suspected you cared more for the dead than for the living, but now I know this to be the case,” he said.

  “Mr. McRae, I do think that’s quite—” said Woolley just as McRae stormed across the room towards him. The architect lunged at Leonard, and just as he was about to strike him in the face, Davison and Forster restrained him.

  “If anything happens to that boy, I know who to blame,” McRae exclaimed as he tried to free himself from the men’s grip.

  “Really, I think that’s—” said Woolley.

  “I think it would be best if you calmed down,” said Davison. “Come on, Forster, let’s take him outside for a breath of fresh air.”

  As the two men ushered McRae towards the door, the architect tu
rned to Woolley and said, “If that boy dies for a crime he didn’t commit, you’re the one that should be punished.”

  An embarrassed silence descended on the room and was broken only when Miss Jones asked if anyone would like another cup of tea. “I do think it would help,” she said.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Woolley. “I suggest, if you’re all in agreement, that we get back to work as soon as possible. Not only are we behind schedule, but we could all do with something to take our minds off . . . well, off the rather distressing events of the last few days.”

  “Indeed,” said Burrows. “In fact, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.” As Father Burrows moved over to discuss the intricacies of a certain cuneiform tablet with Woolley, Mr. Miller came over to take his place at the table.

  Since the incident on the ziggurat, when I had half fancied that I felt a certain amount of tenderness towards the handsome photographer, I had deliberately tried to distance myself from him. I dreaded the rejection and couldn’t bear to let myself be humiliated.

  “I heard what you did last night to save Katharine from Cecil,” said Harry. “It must have taken a great deal of courage.”

  “It was only what needed to be done,” I said coolly, pretending to butter a piece of cold toast.

  “Agatha . . . I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but I wondered if, well, if I had done anything to offend you.”

  “No, not at all,” I said.

  “I know the Americans and the British have very different attitudes when it comes to friendship,” he said. “You must think us Yanks are vulgar and overfamiliar.”

  “You’re forgetting my father was from New York.”

  “Yes, I remember you saying,” he acknowledged, trying to warm my spirits with a flash of his winning smile. “Anyway, whatever it is I’ve done, I’m sorry. Maybe someone here told you something about me and . . . well, if you want to believe them, there’s not much I can do about it.”

  As Miller stood up to leave the table, I realized I had to say something. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing you’ve done,” I assured him, my resolve softening. “The truth is that I’ve been rather shocked by everything that’s gone on here. Sarah’s murder, the awful way in which she was killed, and then all that business with Mrs. Woolley and Cecil McRae . . . It’s shaken me to the core.”