Death in a Desert Land Read online

  “Did they know each other—Miss Bell and Mrs. Woolley?”

  “They were not the best of friends.”

  “I wonder why not. You would think they would have so much in common.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s something wrong with her.”

  “With Mrs. Woolley? What do you mean?”

  “She’s not all there.”

  “You mean she’s mad?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say it’s Len I feel sorry for.” Mrs. Clemence took up a book with an air of finality, a gesture which served as an indication she had nothing more to add on the subject. An uncomfortable silence—something I had not experienced since first stepping onto the train at Calais—settled over our carriage, and I turned to my guidebook.

  At that moment a knock at the compartment door roused me, and my thoughts returned to my current journey through the desert. The bearer informed me that we were about to stop for something to eat, and, sure enough, within a matter of minutes the banshee cry of the train’s brakes sounded all around us. I was ushered out onto a deserted platform and into an isolated restaurant, where I was presented with a series of dishes drowning in fat. As I ate I again thought back to the conversation I had had with Mrs. Clemence on the Simplon–Orient Express. What she had chosen to keep from me was just as interesting as—no, it was much more interesting than—the information she felt free to part with. I opened my notebook and jotted down a series of key points about what I knew of the case so far.

  July 1926: Gertrude Bell (GB) found dead in her bed in her house in Baghdad. Dial poisoning. Overdose? Family kept suicide quiet, made out she died of natural causes.

  October 1928: Discovery of two letters by GB, and one drawing sent to her, in her house in Baghdad. Letters point to her fear that someone may be about to murder her. Why didn’t she send the letters to her father? Drawing is an illustrated plan of one of the graves at Ur. Initials G.L.B. added next to one of the bodies. At the time of her death GB believed her future murderer would be found at Ur. What if the murderer is no longer there? After all, it is now two years since her death.

  Possible factors that could have a bearing on the case:

  Suicide of Lieutenant Colonel Bertram Keeling; killed himself at the base of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, Cairo, September 1919. Did he know GB? Was the death really a suicide? Could he have been murdered?

  Intelligence connection? Keeling, Gertrude Bell, and Leonard Woolley all worked in British Intelligence during the war.

  The personality of Mrs. Katharine Woolley. Clash between KW and GB?

  The treasures of Ur and their division between London/Philadelphia and Iraq. Clash between LW and GB? Relationship between GB and photographer Harry Miller?

  Enemy of GB, identity unknown.

  By the time I stepped back onto the train, I had a clearer idea of what I needed to find out. I would watch, listen, and ask the occasional question. Just as Mr. and Mrs. Woolley and their team excavated the past, so I would do my own spot of gentle digging. In the course of their work they had uncovered treasures of exquisite beauty, but they had also unearthed the unmistakable signs of human sacrifice. Darkness was falling across the desert, and in the distance I could hear the scream of what sounded like a wounded animal being hunted, most probably to its death.

  4

  I made the final part of the long journey across the desert by car. As soon as I stepped out, I was assaulted by a great torrent of enthusiasm. “Welcome to Ur!” I immediately recognized the impish face that greeted me as that of Leonard Woolley. His blue eyes sparkled with life, and, dressed in shorts, long socks, a jacket, and an open shirt, he looked more like an adolescent than a man of middle age. He gestured to an Arab boy to take my bags.

  “It’s such a pleasure to have you here, Mrs. Christie,” said Woolley, shaking my hand. “I can’t tell you how much my wife is looking forward to meeting you. She has a hundred questions to ask you about your writing, particularly that book about the doctor. Very clever, yes, very clever indeed. But she’s indisposed at the moment, having one of her headaches.” His face seemed to freeze for a moment before he began again. “But never mind. I’ll give you a tour around the site, then I really must get back to work and leave you to settle in your room. Terribly basic, I’m afraid, but better than nothing. Then later, just before sunset, I’ll take you up to the ziggurat,” he said, pointing to an enormous baked-brick structure that dominated the skyline. “And then we can have dinner. Meals are usually quite a simple affair here, but we try our best.”

  Woolley led the way down a dusty path towards a single-story brick house with a veranda built for shade at the front.

  “How was your journey?” he asked as we walked.

  “Long, and hot, but—”

  “You survived the food?”

  “Yes, just about,” I said, smiling. Then the smile froze on my lips as we passed through a gate surrounded by a barbed wire fence that encircled the enclosure. I felt like I was stepping inside a prisoner-of-war camp.

  “It’s a shame about the wire fence, but it can’t be helped,” said Woolley. “The desert is full of marauders and thieves. As you no doubt know, we are digging up a great deal of precious and semiprecious stones, as well as beautiful objects crafted from gold and lapis lazuli. Some of the finds have been valued in the thousands of pounds, if not the hundreds of thousands. Out here life is cheap, I’m afraid.”

  I thought about the death of Gertrude Bell. Was that why she had been killed? Because of some dispute over a piece of ancient jewelry or precious metal?

  “But don’t worry, you will be perfectly safe,” said Woolley, misinterpreting the expression on my face as concern over my own safety. “There’s a jolly group we have with us at the moment. You’ll meet them all at some point I’m sure, but look—over there is Father Burrows and our secretary, Miss Jones. Let’s go over and I’ll introduce you.”

  I trailed behind Woolley as he continued to talk—about the climate, the ferocious heat of the summer months (which meant that, in effect, the season of the dig ran only from October to March), the terrible rainstorms in the autumn, and the extraordinary power of the sands. One spring he had returned to find a whole wing of the house buried up to the roof in sand, something that took three days to shift. “But what we’ve uncovered makes up for the slight discomforts we experience, wouldn’t you agree, Father?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said a tall, spindly man wearing round, wire-framed glasses and a white clerical collar.

  “Father Burrows, this is Mrs. Christie, the famous author I’m sure you’ve heard so much about.”

  “I rather think not,” I said, feeling myself blushing.

  “And this, Mrs. Christie, is the person whom we all rely on—the one who makes the operation run like clockwork. The indispensable Miss Cynthia Jones.”

  “Mr. Woolley, how you flatter so,” said Miss Jones, a kindly looking spinsterish type with lank mousy hair and large brown owl-like eyes. She turned to me and smiled sweetly. “How do you do?”

  “I’m a little tired and dusty after the journey, but thrilled to be here,” I said.

  “I know,” Woolley interjected. “Miss Jones, why don’t you show Mrs. Christie to her room and we can have a tour of the site once she’s settled in.”

  “I’d be delighted,” said Miss Jones.

  “I’ll go and check on Katharine,” said Woolley. “Poor thing, she’s been forced to lie low again. These damnable migraines are the bane of her life. And then I must get back to the dig. Please excuse me, Mrs. Christie.”

  Woolley and Father Burrows retreated amid talk of cuneiform tablets, royal cemeteries, and seams of clay.

  “You must forgive us if we appear rather caught up in our work, Mrs. Christie,” said Miss Jones. “Because the dig is confined to such a short season, in effect less than six months, it means that there is always so much to do. And with the richness of the finds, we never seem to have enough time.”

  “I co
mpletely understand,” I said. “It must be absolutely fascinating. I don’t know much about archaeology—although last year I was on the island of Tenerife, where I saw at second hand something of the work of Professor Wilbor. Have you met him?”

  Miss Jones said she had not, but she had read something of his work on the Guanche culture of the Canary Islands. A memory flashed into my mind of a man’s crumpled body at the bottom of a dry riverbed, a nasty smear of blood on the rocks, a bird-of-paradise flower spiked through his eye.

  “That journey from Baghdad to Ur Junction is exhausting,” said Miss Jones. “I don’t know why the train has to take so long—and all through the night. Come with me. I’ll show you to your quarters.”

  As we stepped under the shade of the veranda I noticed a well-fed ginger cat curled up in a round basket fashioned from reeds. He had that look of unknowability so peculiar to cats, a quality that I found frustrating; it was one of the reasons why I preferred dogs.

  “Look, there’s Tom,” said Miss Jones.

  I bent down to stroke him, but before I could do so, I felt a light slap on the back of my hand.

  “Best not to touch him,” said Miss Jones. “The only person he seems to like is Mrs. Woolley. Anybody else who tries to get close to him is rewarded with a vicious scratch or a nasty bite. We’ve tried to get rid of him several times, but Mrs. Woolley will not have it. And her word is the law around here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You weren’t to know,” she said as we stepped into an open courtyard. “On the left here is the room of Mr. McRae, the architect, and his nephew, Cecil. I’ll tell you about them later. And on the right is the antiquities room, where the treasures are studied and stored. That’s always locked, of course, as one cannot be too careful. Mr. Woolley has a key for that and I have a spare. There is a darkroom for Mr. Miller, the photographer, who is in Baghdad for another day or so.” I didn’t tell Miss Jones that I had already met him. “And ranged around the courtyard are the other bedrooms.”

  A number of Arab servants busied themselves with household tasks, carrying containers full of water, clearing up plates and dishes from breakfast, and sweeping up what seemed like an insurmountable amount of dust and sand. We passed into a large living room with apricot-colored walls and a floor made of burnt bricks partly covered in rush matting. In the corner there was a makeshift library, mostly stocked with books on ancient history and archaeology, and in the center of the room stood a long, rectangular wooden table and several chairs.

  “All this won’t be what you’re used to, but it might provide you with some colorful material if you were ever to write a book set in the Near East,” said Miss Jones.

  I did not reply; instead I asked, “How long have you been here?”

  “A few years now,” she replied.

  “And what do you do?”

  “You mean the reason why Mr. Woolley finds me so—what was it—indispensable?” She smiled as she said this. “I’m just a glorified dogsbody, really. I don’t do any of the transcribing of the tablets, but I type up Father Burrows’s notes. I make sure every new find is logged and described, together with the appropriate reference numbers. I deal with the correspondence between the staff here and the museums in London and Philadelphia. And also I’m rather good at making tea.”

  “That’s a relief! I was worrying that all I would find out here is that peculiar brand of coffee everyone seems to drink,” I said.

  “The kind that keeps you up all night—it’s like tar, isn’t it?” she said. “Or something you’d find at the bottom of a rather dirty bucket.”

  The comment made me laugh, but at this she shot me a look of warning. “Shh—best keep your voice down,” she said in a whisper. “We’re about to pass by Mrs. Woolley’s room. She can’t be disturbed when she is having one of her attacks.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. I thought about what Mrs. Clemence had said to me on the Orient Express. “What exactly is wrong with her?”

  Miss Jones did not respond. Either she had not heard me or she had deliberately chosen to ignore the question. “Here’s your room,” she said, opening the door. “Very basic, but you should be comfortable enough.”

  As I stepped into the darkness, my heart immediately sank: it was nothing like the splendor of the Carlton. The walls and the floor, constructed with baked bricks, were bare of decoration apart from an old print of Baghdad and, by the side of the single bed, a threadbare Persian rug. In the corner there was a desk and chair, together with a bowl and jug for washing, and by the window, which looked out into the courtyard, was an old basket chair that had clearly seen better days.

  “The whole house was built from reused bricks found on the site, some of which are twenty-five centuries old, or so I’m told,” said Miss Jones, her eyes taking on a misty, dreamlike quality. “So for all intents and purposes we live just like the people who settled in Ur in ancient times. At night, when the house is quiet, you can almost feel like you’re stepping back in time. I’m not a superstitious person, Mrs. Christie, but even I can feel the ghosts of the past here.” Her owlish eyes blinked, a gesture which seemed to bring her back to the present. “I’m just across the courtyard, so if you need anything, please just ask,” she added. “Now, where are your bags? That stupid boy’s probably put them in the wrong room. Excuse me, I’ll go and see where he is.”

  I walked over to the open window and looked out at the dusty courtyard. The sound of voices drifted over the hot air, and then two figures—those of a handsome middle-aged man and an awkward-looking adolescent—came into view.

  “I just don’t understand,” I could hear the boy say. He seemed on the verge of tears.

  “Women—one of life’s greatest mysteries,” said the man in a lilting Scottish accent, his pale face and auburn hair shaded by a hat.

  “It’s not funny, Uncle,” the boy replied. “How would you feel if your heart was always being broken?”

  “I’m sorry, Cecil, but as I’ve said before, women can be extremely cruel. Best to avoid them if you can.”

  “Sarah says she could never love me. Do you think that’s true?” The boy’s face was covered in spots, his dark hair had been plastered down on his head with grease, and his elongated frame reminded me of a large, ungainly bird. “She said I was ugly. That I was stupid. That I should never talk to her again.”

  “I think it’s best if you put Sarah out of your mind. You know she won’t always be here, don’t you? Her mother and father will move on soon and then no doubt return to America. Of course, you could always write to her, but—”

  “I don’t want to write to her, I want to . . . ,” he began, his face coloring.

  “Now, now, let’s not get upset. Try to see—”

  “If I can’t have her, then no one will. I can make sure of that.”

  “Cecil, you’re talking nonsense now. Let’s go and have a cup of tea.”

  The older man, whom I took to be Lawrence McRae, the architect, placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder and led him across the courtyard and into the house. The voices quietened and a moment later Miss Jones returned, followed by the Arab boy and my bags.

  “Sorry about this, but for some unfathomable reason Sahid left your bags outside Mrs. Archer’s room. She’s staying here with her husband, Hubert, and daughter, Sarah. I’m sure you’ll meet them later when they’ve returned from their excursion to Eridu. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “It’s supposed to be the oldest city in the world. One of the five cities built before the great deluge.”

  “Are they the visiting Americans?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “He’s very interested in sponsoring the expedition. Made his money from the railroads. He’s here because he wants to see evidence that Ur was the birthplace of Abraham.”

  “And has Mr. Woolley uncovered such evidence?”

  “Not yet, but he’s determined that he will.”

>   “And what of Archer’s wife and daughter?” I asked. “What are they like?”

  “Ruth is a lovely woman—hasn’t a bad bone in her body. Her daughter, Sarah, meanwhile, is another matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She is beautiful—blond hair, blue eyes, alabaster skin, alluring figure. A vision of perfection. I suppose she can’t help the way she looks, but when she’s out of sight of her father, you should see the way she teases some of the men on the site. It’s not fair. A man has—well, he has certain appetites and urges. I’ve told her she should be more careful, the way she leads the men on. And then there is the upset she causes poor Mrs. Woolley. It’s obvious to everyone they don’t like each other; I think Katharine is jealous of the girl’s youth and beauty, and Sarah can’t abide the way that she tries to steal male attention away from her. I’m sure Katharine would have got rid of the girl had it not been for the fact that she knows they need Archer’s mountain of money. So, if you notice an odd atmosphere at dinner tonight, you’ll know what it’s all about.”

  “I see,” I said, slightly at a loss for words.

  “I suppose we should be grateful for the fact of Mr. Miller’s absence. He’s the photographer I mentioned earlier.”

  “In what way?” I asked as I sat down on the hard mattress.

  “He plays them off, one against the other. One minute he is fetching and carrying for Mrs. Woolley, the next flirting with the young girl. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries a spot of lovemaking with you when he returns.”

  I tried to stop myself from blushing at the memory of our encounter in Baghdad.

  “So life in the camp is rather the opposite to what I was imagining,” I said. “I brought a number of novels with me in case I might get bored. But it looks as though there will be little chance of that.”

  “We’ll keep you entertained, that’s for certain,” said Miss Jones with a sardonic smile. “What with the treasures from the site, the history, the personnel and our visitors, I doubt you’ll have a dull moment.”