Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

  “Why don’t you open it?” asked Davison.

  “No, it’s addressed to you. It could be anything—something personal.”

  “I doubt it . . . Here,” he said, passing the letter to me. “It looks like it’s from the department.”

  I carefully opened the envelope and took out some documents, together with a photograph. My heart did not flutter so much as almost stop when I saw what lay before me. Here was the link to the past that had been eluding me.

  * * *

  On my way back to the sitting room I encountered Captain Forster in the courtyard and asked him whether it was possible to have a quiet word with him.

  “I wonder if you’d mind bringing in Mr. and Mrs. Archer, Mrs. Woolley, and the young McRae,” I asked.

  “I’m not sure about the Archers—they may have chosen not to come to breakfast after everything that’s happened—but as far as the other two are concerned, they are still held under lock and key,” he replied.

  “Yes, I understand, but it is terribly important that everyone is here,” I said.

  “As soon as Hamoudi tells me that the men have cleared a path to the station, I plan to take Mrs. Woolley straight from her room under guard,” he said. “Of course, it’s going to be difficult for the Archers, traveling with their daughter’s body in the same vehicle as her suspected murderer, but I can’t see any other way. Anyway, just time for a spot of breakfast before we set out.”

  As he turned away from me to go back inside, I placed a hand lightly on his arm. “Captain Forster, I have to tell you that Katharine Woolley is not responsible for the murder of Miss Archer,” I said.

  “But surely, what with the incident with Davison, who must have been drugged while guarding Mrs. Woolley’s room . . . ,” he said. “I can’t see any other explanation: the culprit has to be Mrs. Woolley herself.”

  I gave a little understated cough. “If you’d be so kind as to go and gather everyone and bring them into the sitting room, I will furnish you with all the details,” I said, almost as if I were about to run through a complicated travel itinerary or a particularly tricky recipe for a fruit cake.

  “I’m really not sure that—”

  Davison, who had silently stepped out into the courtyard, cut him off. “Forster, please do as Mrs. Christie says. She’s the one who has been working on the case since she first arrived here at Ur. She is about to explain everything.”

  Forster looked at me as if seeing an example of some exotic species for the first time, then flushed, no doubt embarrassed at the public wounding of his male pride. “Of c-course, yes,” he said, stumbling over his words. “W-whatever you say, Davison.”

  The captain left us alone. Davison’s eyes were full of concern for me. I smiled gently at him, a smile that spoke of the depths of our friendship.

  “You are quite certain of this,” said Davison softly, “of what you intend to do?”

  “Yes, quite certain,” I said. “In fact, it’s the only course of action.”

  “But what about the documents—the photograph?”

  “It’s something, but not enough. We need more.”

  Davison looked at me in a new way, almost as if he were a visitor to a museum and I were one of the ancient marble sculptures on display. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I said lightly.

  “I’m just wondering how you became so brave, so fearless,” he said.

  The comment made me laugh. “I’m neither brave nor fearless, but good at pretending to be so,” I said. “And you’re forgetting my books.”

  “Your books? What have they got to do with anything?”

  They were not works of great literature; I knew that. But they had fast-moving plots that people could lose themselves in, and characters who showed a great deal of pluck and courage. These were men and women who fought for truth and justice. Some of them were detective figures, of course, but others were ordinary enough individuals who found themselves in quite extraordinary circumstances. I saw myself in the same light. Although in the grand scheme of things I was nobody very special, I recognized that I did have a talent for rooting out evil.

  “Everything,” I said. “Now, what do you say to a spot of breakfast?”

  31

  We need some more chairs,” Davison said as we walked into the sitting room. “And some extra places, too.”

  “What for?” asked a rather harassed-looking Father Burrows as he busied between kitchen and table.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Archer are joining us for breakfast,” Davison replied. “As well as Mrs. Woolley and Cecil McRae.”

  The mention of the two names sent a ripple of anticipation that stilled the low murmur of voices.

  “But I thought that—”

  Father Burrows was interrupted by Captain Forster, who appeared at the door like someone stepping onstage right on cue.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Archer, please take your seats at the breakfast table,” said the policeman. “I’ll go and fetch . . . well, the rest of the party.”

  The Americans looked wretched, pale, and worn-out. Mr. Archer had tried to shave, but a series of nicks and cuts around his jawline suggested that the experience had been an unpleasant one. Mrs. Archer had pouches under her eyes and it appeared as though she had dressed in haste, as her blouse was creased and a little dirty around the cuffs. Neither of them seemed to understand what was about to happen or that they were going to be joined at the table by the woman they blamed for the death of their daughter.

  “Did you manage to get much sleep?” asked Woolley as the couple took their seats.

  The archaeologist did not receive an answer, and perhaps it was this that made him feel he should continue to talk over the awkward silence. “At least the storm is over now,” he said. “Terribly inconvenient, I suppose, but ‘theirs not to reason why.’ ”

  I whispered the rest of the Tennyson couplet to myself, “ ‘Theirs but to do and die.’ ”

  Understandably, everyone looked miserable and downcast, and Woolley realized at once he should have chosen a different line. “Beautiful sky, though,” he said as he tried to ameliorate the situation. “I don’t know if anyone saw the dawn. Quite extraordinary colors cast over the desert: such a very pure quality of light.”

  The comment drew a few murmurs of assent as people began to take their places at the table. Cynthia Jones chose a seat by Mr. and Mrs. Archer. I sat down opposite them, between Davison and Conway. Leonard Woolley waited for the arrival of his wife, and Lawrence McRae stood by the door, ready to welcome his nephew. Father Burrows continued to place plates and dishes on the table. People started to make small talk about storms, the sands, the possibility of other ancient sites lying buried under the surface of the desert. Yet, apart from Mr. and Mrs. Archer, who still seemed to be trapped in some kind of daze, everyone’s real attention was directed towards the door as we awaited the arrival of the two people who had been accused of murdering of Miss Archer. The air of expectation may have been invisible to the eye, but it was certainly palpable in that room.

  As the minutes passed and the conversation ebbed and stalled, I wondered what could be keeping Forster. All he had to do was unlock the doors and accompany Mrs. Woolley and Cecil McRae from their makeshift prisons to the sitting room. I hoped the boy had not done anything stupid. We had tried to tell him that his imprisonment was just a temporary measure and that he was being kept in the room for his own safety—that he was in no way a suspect in the investigation into the death of Sarah Archer. But I knew he was in a terribly vulnerable state. His erratic behavior when he had pointed a gun at Mrs. Woolley and me and contemplated killing himself illustrated the unbalanced nature of his mind. I would never forgive myself if he felt he had no choice but to end it all. As I saw an image of him hanging from a length of sheeting, I felt the familiar bird of panic flutter in my chest. Please, no . . . please, not that.

  Just then I heard the sound of approaching voices. Captain Forster entered the room, followed by Katharine Woolley and
Cecil McRae. The two made very different impressions. Katharine was immaculately turned out, dressed in her favorite shade of vieux rose. She greeted the room as if she were the star attraction and smiled demurely as Woolley walked forwards and pulled back a chair for her. The boy, meanwhile, was unshaven and unkempt and appeared to have aged a good ten years. He could not meet anyone’s eye, and as he walked he stooped as if he feared the ceiling would collapse on him.

  The sight of Mrs. Woolley and Cecil McRae wrenched Mr. Archer out of his stupor. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded of Forster.

  The captain did not answer.

  “Woolley, do you know what the hell is happening?” asked the American. But he received no answer from the archaeologist.

  Mrs. Archer reached out and grabbed the hand of a pale-looking Cynthia Jones. “And to think that woman nearly succeeded in killing you,” she said. “After what she did to poor Sarah, I don’t know how she’s got the cheek to sit at the same table.”

  “We must all remain calm,” said Forster. “There’s an important matter that needs to be discussed—something that has come from quite unexpected quarters.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Archer. “I appreciate the gesture of offering us breakfast before the journey, but if that means sharing a table with the likes of this . . . this creature, then you can count me out.” He stood up to leave. “It’s a long way to Baghdad, and in case you’ve forgotten, we have to bury our daughter.”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Archer,” said Davison.

  “And who are you to tell me what to do?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation Davison said calmly and with a matter-of-fact tone, “I’m with His Majesty’s Government; more than that you need not know. Now I’d like to invite Mrs. Christie here to say a few words.”

  “Mrs. Christie?” asked a clearly appalled Mrs. Archer. “I don’t think we’re in any mood for frivolity. As you heard my husband say, we—”

  But Davison cut her off. “What Mrs. Christie is about to tell us is far from frivolous,” he said. He paused for maximum effect. “In fact, Mrs. Christie was sent by the British government to accompany me to Iraq. And now she is about to reveal the real identity of your daughter’s killer.”

  “But we thought . . . ,” said a bewildered-looking Mr. Archer.

  “Yes, you thought that Mrs. Woolley here was the killer,” I said, standing up. “And in many respects it looked as though she must be the person responsible for the murder. After all, she was there at the scene of the crime. She was discovered kneeling by the body with blood on her hands. She was, people said, jealous of Sarah Archer’s youth and her beauty. And the two women had had a disagreement only minutes before Sarah stormed off into the night, soon followed by Mrs. Woolley. But, more importantly, Katharine Woolley’s behavior was already—how shall I put it?—somewhat erratic. In effect, she needed little motive to kill Sarah; it was genuinely believed that her madness was enough of an explanation. Of course, she was known to have quite an unusual, dominant personality, but she started to complain of seeing things, hearing voices. Other people in the camp became understandably fearful of Mrs. Woolley and her strange ways. Many of you also believed that she had killed her ginger cat too. But I can tell you that she did not kill that poor animal and neither did she murder Sarah.”

  I had the attention of everyone now. I took a deep breath and continued. “For a number of months Mrs. Woolley has been subject to a most terrible form of poisoning.”

  The revelation produced a series of gasps from around the room. I opened my handbag and took out one of the jars of night creams I had taken from Katharine’s dressing table and tested.

  “Mrs. Woolley was in the habit of using a number of creams, some to moisturize her hands, others which she rubbed into her face last thing at night,” I said. “It’s a habit common to many of us women. And with this very dry climate out in the desert, it was almost essential. However, in the creams there was one ingredient that was responsible for Mrs. Woolley’s strange behavior: hyoscyamine.”

  “But how do you know?” asked Cynthia Jones.

  “I tested them,” I said. “You see, during the war I not only trained as a nurse but also worked in the dispensary of my local hospital. I learnt a good deal about poisons, and the knowledge proved very useful indeed—and not just for my books. You see, hyoscyamine produces a range of symptoms, such as headaches, blurred vision, dizziness, disorientation, euphoria, short-term memory loss, and, most importantly, hallucinations. Katharine Woolley experienced many of these symptoms—symptoms which some of you believed were indicative of her mental instability.”

  Katharine looked like she was too afraid to let herself believe what I was saying; after all, for months she must have thought that she was going insane.

  “She may have had this . . . this substance in her beauty creams, but why does it then follow that she is innocent of murder?” asked a clearly skeptical Mr. Archer.

  “A very good question, Mr. Archer,” I said. “One must learn not to take anything at face value. Let me explain.” I took another deep breath. “As you now know, I did not come to Ur as a mere tourist. I came to investigate the death of Miss Gertrude Bell.”

  “Miss Bell?” asked Woolley.

  “Yes. I’m sorry for the deception, but I had to keep my real motives hidden. You are all aware that Miss Bell died in Baghdad in July 1926. There was an air of mystery surrounding her death, but the official line was that she died due to a weakness of her system after an episode of pleurisy and then an attack of bronchitis. However, the doctor who examined her body discovered that she had died due to an overdose of Dial, a sedative similar to veronal.”

  “This is all very interesting, but what’s it got to do with the death of my daughter?” asked Mr. Archer.

  “Absolutely nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing?” he replied. “Then why are you telling us all of this?”

  “Quite recently two letters which seemed to have been written by Miss Bell came to light which stated that she had been in fear of her life,” I said. “She added that if she were to die, then it was likely that her killer would be found at Ur. But—and this is important—there is no connection whatsoever between the deaths of Miss Bell and your daughter. The truth of the matter is simple: one was a case of suicide or an accidental overdose—I suppose we may never know—and the other was a cold and heartless murder.”

  “Then why are you bringing it up here?” asked Mrs. Archer, who had taken a handkerchief out of the sleeve of her blouse and started to wring it between her fingers. She looked first at her husband and then at Cynthia Jones. “I don’t understand.”

  “The killer thought they were being very clever, you see,” I continued. “They laid the foundations of the case thoroughly, skewing one’s perception of it from the very beginning. You see, someone took advantage of Miss Bell’s death. They wanted it to be seen as a murder, when in fact it was nothing of the kind, just a rather wretched end after a life full of achievement.”

  “But who would want to do that?” asked Father Burrows, who looked hot and exhausted after cooking a breakfast that no one was looking at, never mind eating.

  “Indeed, who?” I asked, looking around the table. It always fascinated me how the innocent appeared the most guilty, while those who had committed the worst sins often seemed guileless.

  “And what of Cecil?” asked Lawrence McRae. “Surely it’s time to clear the boy’s name. He was foolish, wrongheaded, but he’s suffered enough. Look at the state of him.”

  Cecil could still not meet my gaze. It was time to tell the truth.

  “What Cecil McRae did was unforgivable,” I said. The boy flushed red in the face and, as I spoke, began to squirm in his seat. “He threatened Mrs. Woolley and me with a gun and we were in fear of our lives.” I paused. “However, he acted in the mistaken belief that Katharine Woolley had killed Miss Archer. In a fit of adolescent passion he took it upon himself to try to enact some kind of rev
enge. Luckily for us—and for him—he had more sense than to let his hotheaded nature get the better of him.”

  In fact, I believed it was Cecil’s lack of courage that was behind this, but he was in too delicate a frame of mind to hear such an ungarnished interpretation of his behavior. I could see the next question almost forming itself on the lips of my small audience, and so I preempted it. “And now we come to the matter of Cecil’s confession.”

  “Yes, why did the boy confess to a crime he didn’t commit?” asked Mrs. Archer.

  “That was a necessary deception, I’m afraid,” I said. “And I’m sorry, Cecil, that you’ve been locked up against your will for all this time. But really we had no other choice.”

  “Locking up a vulnerable lad like a savage beast . . . It’s criminal!” exclaimed Lawrence McRae. “If we were so minded, we could bring—”

  “Yes, I can see your point, Mr. McRae, but if you’d be so kind and let me explain,” I said in a calm and steady voice. “After all, I’m sure Mrs. Woolley here could easily pursue the matter herself if she so chose.”

  The comment silenced McRae and I continued. “The real killer of Miss Archer wanted to point the finger at Mrs. Woolley. That had been the overarching motive from the very beginning. Everyone had to believe that it was Katharine who had killed Sarah Archer. After all, she had been found literally red-handed next to the girl’s body. But what the killer had not expected—what no one could have predicted—was the way that Cecil McRae behaved after hearing the news of Sarah’s death.” I addressed the boy directly. “You truly loved that girl, didn’t you?”

  As Cecil nodded, a tear slipped down his cheek. He did not need to say any more.

  “The killer panicked when Cecil threatened to shoot Mrs. Woolley,” I explained. “You see, the person behind all of this did not want Mrs. Woolley to die. They wanted Katharine to suffer much more than that.”

  “Suffer more than death itself?” said Woolley, looking at his wife with tears in his eyes.