Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

  “But how on earth did you do that here without anyone realizing what was going on?” I asked.

  “I thought it would be difficult, but it wasn’t really,” said Conway. “I did it in the darkroom. I could work there for hours without being disturbed. I had a lock on the door, which people thought was reasonable, because of course I couldn’t have anyone just walk into the room in case the exposure to the light ruined the film. And when I was in Baghdad I would ship the artifacts back to America.”

  “How many objects did you manage to copy? And which ones?” asked Davison.

  “I couldn’t get my hands on that scarab or anything similar,” said Conway, “but I didn’t do too badly. A couple of gold necklaces and bracelets, a fine gold bowl, and a spectacular dagger.”

  “Which would be worth—what?” I asked.

  “I suppose altogether between ten or twenty thousand bucks,” he replied.

  “And Mr. Woolley has never suspected?” asked Davison.

  “I don’t think so,” said Conway.

  “Well, he will have to be informed now,” said Davison. “And the authorities will have to be made aware of it, too.”

  “Of course,” he said, looking defeated. “In a way, it’s come as a form of relief. I’d rather fall into the hands of the police than those brothers. The Solomons are incapable of mercy.”

  Davison and I looked at one another; perhaps we were thinking along the same lines.

  “And what about your camera?” I asked. “Did someone else really smash it up or—”

  “No, it was me,” he said, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself. “I couldn’t risk you seeing what was on the film, you see. I knew, because of your curious nature, that you’d want to see every single negative. And my game would have been up.”

  “And that day in Baghdad?” I asked. “When we first met?”

  “I’m afraid that was all my doing, too,” he said.

  I turned away not so much in anger as in embarrassment and humiliation. To think I had fallen for his deceptive charms so easily. I felt my face flushing.

  “But if you’ll just let me explain,” he said. “It wasn’t because I was trying to hoodwink you.”

  “No, because I certainly do feel—”

  “No, it was . . . well, because I’d spotted you earlier that day at the hotel. I was there visiting a friend when I caught a glimpse of you. I asked at the desk and they told me who you were. I followed you along Rashid Street and . . . well, I couldn’t think of a way of introducing myself without it sounding corny.”

  “So you bribed a little Arab boy to snatch my handbag?” I remembered the look of hesitation and unease in that boy’s eyes. “Just so you could pretend to be a hero?”

  “You make it sound so sordid,” he said, his voice rising in protestation.

  I let his words speak for themselves.

  “Look, the reason why I did that—and, yes, it was unforgivable of me—was because I’d taken a shine to you. I thought, stupidly, that if I came to your rescue you’d . . . well, that I’d stand a better chance with you.”

  The words were difficult to hear, but they must have been a thousand times more difficult to utter.

  I was about to ask about Conway’s wife and whether she knew anything about the relationship he had enjoyed with Gertrude Bell. But Davison said, “Would you excuse us for a moment? There’s something I need to discuss with Mrs. Christie.”

  As we left Conway to contemplate his bleak future, he looked like a mere shell of a man, broken and hollow.

  “Do you believe his story?” whispered Davison.

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “It was humiliating to listen to.”

  “Wasn’t it just?” he said. “And it had that dreadful ring of truth to it. But listen—I’m sure you had the same idea as me? About using Conway in some kind of way?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but, yes, I think there are a few things that he might be able to help us with. After all, I think he owes me a favor or two, don’t you?”

  “Indeed,” said Davison, a mischievous sparkle lighting up his eyes. “Now, what did you have in mind?”

  24

  After having a long and detailed talk with Mr. Conway, all three of us walked back into the sitting room as if nothing untoward had happened. Fortunately, Conway was used to playing the part of Harry Miller, and we instructed him to carry on doing so. Of course, there was a risk that he might make a run for it, but we doubted that he would. Davison had confiscated his passport and warned him that if he did try to escape, then he would make sure that the authorities sought the heaviest sentence possible. The details of how to retrieve the stolen artifacts would have to be worked out later. There were more important things to deal with at the moment, such as the prevention of another murder.

  “There’s a sandstorm on its way, I’m afraid,” Conway told the group comprising Mr. Archer, Father Burrows, and Miss Jones. “Looks like a pretty nasty one, too.”

  “A sandstorm?” asked Mr. Archer, standing up from the table. “But we need to get out of here. We’ve got to get Sarah to Baghdad. And that boy needs to go into custody.”

  “I don’t think anyone is going anywhere for the next day or so,” said Leonard Woolley as he entered the room. I remembered how Woolley had told me that once, after returning from England to the compound, one part of the house had been covered with sand up to its roof and it had taken his men three days to clear it.

  “How bad do you think it’s going to be?” I asked.

  “I’ve just been up to the roof and it’s sweeping in from the south,” said Woolley. “We’ve had them before at this time of year. Luckily they’re not as bad as the summer storms. It’s nothing to worry about as long as we batten down the hatches. But obviously nobody can venture outside.”

  “But that’s just impossible,” said Archer, his face reddening. “I told you, Woolley, we need to get my daughter’s body to Baghdad. She needs to be buried, you idiot. Don’t you understand?”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Archer, if you go out there, within a few hours you’ll find yourselves buried, too,” said Woolley, who had clearly lost all patience with his former patron. “The sands are not discerning: they pay no attention to one’s place in the world or how much money you have in the bank.”

  “I don’t need to stand here and be spoken to like this.” Archer looked at Woolley with contempt and walked away. As he left the room he turned and said, “I intend to leave this godforsaken place just as soon as I can. There’s nothing but evil here, I can see that now. And to think I was going to invest in you. Thank goodness I didn’t: it would have been like giving money to the devil himself.”

  Miss Jones jumped up from a chair after Archer stalked out. “Shall I go and get him, Mr. Woolley? Perhaps there’s still time to try and salvage something from this.”

  “No, let him go,” said Woolley, sitting down at the table and pouring himself a cup of tea.

  “But what about our mission here?” she asked. “Just think about what his funds would do.”

  “Damn his money,” said Woolley, before realizing what he had said. “Sorry, ladies.” He took a sip of tea before he sprang up again. “I can’t sit around here, not with this storm coming in. Burrows, Miller, Davison, would you mind coming with me so we can secure everything outside? I’ve already got some of Hamoudi’s men on the job down by the dig, but there are still a few pieces of equipment lying around here and there. Mrs. Christie, Miss Jones, would you make sure all the windows in the house are closed and that the shutters have been secured?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But surely you’re not going to let Mr. Archer venture out there? Not if it’s as dangerous as you say.”

  Woolley walked over to the door and looked out at the sky, which was turning a sickly mix of sallow ocher, bright orange, and dusty brown. “No. By the time Archer’s got his things together, he’ll take one step outside and turn right around,” he said.

  The men left Miss J
ones and me alone in the room together.

  “It’s quite frightening,” I said. “The sandstorm, I mean. Have you experienced one before?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said blithely as we started to check on the windows and shutters. “The house feels like it is going to come crumbling down around you. Sand gets everywhere. It makes a terrible racket. But then it passes and life, well, it gets back to normal.”

  “But Woolley is right in saying that it would be dangerous to venture outside?”

  “Indeed it would,” she said. “I don’t think you’d stand a chance, not against those sands. It’s like an enormous tidal wave rolling in, only instead of water there’s sand. I think the pressure would crush you—that or you’d die from taking too much sand into your lungs.”

  “It sounds terrifying,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “I can’t believe you’re not more scared.”

  “I was the first time,” she said. “I thought I was going to die of fright. I went to bed, but of course I couldn’t sleep, what with everything rattling around me. It was as if an enormous giant had taken hold of the house and was trying to shake the life out of it. I had to keep singing nursery rhymes all night to comfort myself.”

  We went around the house, duly securing each of the windows and shutters, until we came to Katharine’s room. I knocked gently on the door and a voice told us to enter. Mrs. Woolley was sat on a chair by the looking glass massaging some cream into her hands. She barely turned her head towards us as we stepped into the room. Despite the drama of the last few days, when she had been accused of the most terrible crimes, it was obvious that she still regarded herself as the queen of Ur.

  “Would you please pass me that bottle of perfume?” she asked, gesturing with her hand in the direction of the desk. Her haughty tone of voice gave the question the air of a command more than a request. “It’s just there, by my papers.”

  By some sheets of what looked like Katharine’s novel in progress there was a beautiful black crystal perfume bottle with an enormous atomizing apparatus.

  “Have you heard about the sandstorm?” I asked as I passed the perfume to her.

  “Yes, we do get them from time to time,” she said, spraying herself liberally with the musky aroma. “Very inconvenient, of course, but nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s just what I was saying,” said Cynthia.

  “Mr. Archer seems intent on leaving,” I said, “even though your husband has warned him against it.”

  “I wish that beastly man and his awful wife would go,” said Katharine. “After what they put me through, I wish they’d step out into the sands and never be seen again.”

  “You don’t mean that, surely,” said Cynthia.

  “Why not?” asked Katharine, turning to us, her eyes blazing. She had that manic look about her again, an unnatural, detached expression that frightened me. She stared down at her hands and seemed to recoil, as if she had seen something that repelled her.

  “We’ve been told to make sure all the windows are closed and the shutters secure,” I said, hoping to distract her from thoughts of Mr. and Mrs. Archer. “Would you mind if I check yours?”

  Katharine did not respond but continued to gaze at her fingers and palms with revulsion. As I walked over to one of the windows that looked out towards the courtyard, Cynthia came to join me.

  “Do you think she’s all right?” she whispered. “Why is she staring at her hands like that?”

  “I have to admit I am concerned for her,” I said quietly. “As you know, she has a delicate constitution and she may still be in shock.”

  “What is that you are saying?” boomed Katharine.

  “Nothing,” said Cynthia, turning back towards her. “We were just talking about the approaching sandstorm and making plans for the cleanup afterwards.” She turned to me and said, “You wouldn’t believe how the sand gets into every nook and cranny in the house. It seems no matter how much you scrub, you simply can’t get clear of it.”

  “The blood,” murmured Katharine. “I can’t wash it off.”

  I went to her and took her hand. “There’s nothing there, my dear. Nothing at all. Your hands are clean.”

  As I raised them up for her to see, she dashed them down with a fury. “Get away from me,” she hissed. “I can still smell it. It turns my stomach. I’ve got blood on my hands. I’ll never be able to get rid of it.” She started to moan, a horrible low sound that reminded me of the queer chant of the Arab workmen.

  “I think we should fetch Mr. Woolley, don’t you?” said Cynthia.

  “Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” I said. I tried to take one of Katharine’s hands again, but she looked at me with poison in her eyes. It was obvious that I was causing her a great deal of distress.

  “Perhaps it would be better if you went and found him,” Cynthia suggested. “I can sit with her.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Before I left the room, I glanced back. What I saw nearly broke my heart. I had thought that Katharine had been making such good progress, but here she was, muttering to herself, looking like an inmate in some foreign asylum being tended to by a kindhearted nurse.

  I opened the door to a howling wind. This was no weather for a hat, and so I left it inside. The air was thick with dust and sand, and as I walked I had to shield my eyes and mouth with my handkerchief. It took me some time to find Woolley, who was down on a roped-off strip of excavated land, busy overseeing the collection of some odd pieces of equipment and tools. I didn’t want to alarm either him or his men, so I called to him and asked if I could have a word. At first he could not hear me above the noise of the wind, so I had to shout. He noted the seriousness of my voice and the expression on my face and told the Arabs to carry on with their work while he stepped away for a moment.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “It’s Katharine,” I said. “I’m afraid she’s having another one of her episodes.”

  “A headache?”

  “No, something altogether more worrying. She’s got this fixation that she . . . that she can still smell the blood on her hands.”

  “Oh, no,” said Woolley, sighing. “I thought, what with Cecil’s confession, that she might have put that to the back of her mind.”

  It was not yet safe to tell either him or anyone else in the compound the truth of Cecil’s guilt or innocence. “Yes, so did I. But she does seem very on edge. In fact, I fear for her sanity.”

  Woolley returned to his men and shouted out instructions. On the way back to the house I told him something of what I had just witnessed, reassuring him that Katharine was being looked after by Miss Jones.

  “That’s all we need, just as this storm is coming,” he said.

  He must have seen the minute changes in my face—a small lift of an eyebrow, a sudden blink of the eyes—because he added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound cruel.”

  “It must have been difficult for you,” I said, remembering what Woolley had told me about the state of their marriage.

  “It seems the events here have proved too much for her,” he said. “I should never have placed her in such a vulnerable position. Of course it’s all my fault. I’ve been selfish, thinking about the contribution she made to the work here. I should finally face up to it. Perhaps it’s time for Katharine to be taken somewhere safe, somewhere where she can be looked after properly.”

  “You mean—”

  But before I could finish my sentence, Father Burrows came running out of the house. Panic haunted his eyes.

  “Quick, Woolley!” he said breathlessly. “You’ve got to come!”

  “What’s wrong, man?”

  “It’s Mrs. Woolley! She’s—”

  Woolley pushed past him. I followed in his wake, running as quickly as I could across the courtyard towards Katharine’s room. The scene that greeted me was even more disturbing than the one I had left. Cynthia Jones, her deathly white face streaked with tears, was already being comforted by Wooll
ey. In the corner of the room, her head slumped forwards as if the life had been drained from her, was Katharine.

  “What’s wrong, Cynthia?” asked Woolley.

  “It was awful. I can’t tell you how . . . how awful it was,” she said, sobbing.

  Woolley looked over towards his wife. “Katharine . . . do you know anything about what happened?”

  But she did not respond. I walked over to Katharine and knelt down beside her.

  “Close the shutters,” she mumbled.

  I said gently, “We closed the shutters because of the storm. Don’t you remember?”

  “Thirsty,” she said. “Water.” As I poured her a glass I noticed that her pupils seemed dilated. After these few words she retreated back into unresponsiveness.

  “I was only gone a few minutes,” I said, walking towards Cynthia. “What happened?”

  She took a few deep breaths and, encouraged by Woolley and me, began to tell us what had transpired.

  “I thought that . . . that she would be a little calmer when you left the room,” she said. “She was getting agitated by your presence, wasn’t she? But almost as soon as you’d gone, she turned to me with that awful look in her eyes, like . . . like she wanted to do me some harm, some real harm. I told myself everything would be all right. After all, Mrs. Woolley had had these episodes before. But then, just as I was sitting there, trying to comfort her, she grabbed me. You can see how tight was her hold on me.”

  Cynthia raised up her right arm to reveal a reddish-purple mark around her wrist and lower part of her arm.

  “I tried to free myself, but her grip was too strong. I told her that she was hurting me, but she just kept looking at me with those eyes—fierce, blazing eyes full of hatred. It was so painful that I started to cry. I heard some voices and called out for help. Thank goodness Father Burrows was nearby. But before he came into the room, Mrs. Woolley said to me in a whisper, ‘Watch out—tonight . . .’ ”