Death in a Desert Land Read online

  “The food’s not too bad tonight: nothing’s burnt, nothing’s too salty or too spicy,” said Cynthia, smiling at Katharine. “Usually I have to take a glass of water with me when I go to bed. A good decision of yours to supervise Abdul in the kitchen.”

  We talked of cooking and the ingredients you could buy in Iraq, and the ones they had shipped in, and various disastrous meals that they had eaten since arriving in the country. Mrs. Woolley made us all laugh by telling us how at one dinner she had been presented with a congealed broth made from sheep brains and on another occasion she had taken a mouthful of a dish so rich in chili spice that it had made her nose stream. The conversation was light and pleasant—jolly, even. From Mrs. Woolley’s demeanor—her eyes were now bright and clear—you would never guess that, only a few hours before, she had been laid low with a terrible migraine.

  During a break in the conversation I expressed my gratitude to Mrs. Woolley for going to such trouble with the dinner. It was the least she could do, she replied. After all, I had given her hours of pleasure. She looked down the table and addressed her guests.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, lightly tapping a fork against her glass, “but I wanted to welcome our guest tonight, the distinguished author Mrs. Agatha Christie.”

  As the room quietened and all eyes turned to stare at me, I felt myself beginning to blush. I was not keen on being the center of attention. Katharine saw the look of consternation on my face and she leant over and whispered, “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to make a speech.” She raised her voice and continued, “Many of you may know that I have—how shall I put it?—particular tastes in literature. I only read what I consider to be la crème de la crème. And I can tell you, without a doubt, that Mrs. Christie’s work is that rare thing, the very best. I’m not going to embarrass my friend any further—for all her genius, she is an extremely modest woman—but please could I ask you to raise your glasses to our very welcome guest, Agatha Christie.”

  The assembled guests stood up from their seats and toasted my name. The whole thing was ghastly, but I told myself that it would soon be over and that it had been done with the best of intentions.

  “Thank you,” I managed to say. “That’s most kind. Please sit down.” I turned to Katharine and, in order to try and deflect attention away from me, asked her about the digging season.

  “Yes, I’m confident it’s going to be our most productive yet, don’t you think, darling?” she asked, calling down the table for her husband’s opinion.

  “What’s that?” replied Leonard.

  “Mrs. Christie here was just asking about our hopes for the season. And I told her that we have every confidence that it’s going to be extraordinarily productive.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “In fact, after dinner I’ll show you, Mrs. Christie—and of course you, Mr. and Mrs. Archer—some of the treasures we have already unearthed. Needless to say, a few of the very best artifacts have already been sent to Baghdad, London, and Philadelphia, but we still have things of wonder here. To see them by candlelight is a most magical experience.”

  “I’d like that very much,” I said.

  “Is there anything that once belonged to Abraham?” asked Mr. Archer.

  For a moment the question flummoxed Woolley, but he quickly regained his composure. “Not yet—but as I said, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. We’ve dug up so many other beautiful things: lyres, gold cups, headdresses, necklaces—”

  “Finery doesn’t interest me,” Archer replied. “What I want to see is something concrete that once belonged to the great patriarch. As you know, it could be worth a good deal to you. We’re talking thousands of dollars, Woolley.”

  “That’s most kind of you, Mr. Archer. In fact, I have one object that should interest you a great deal and which I think may have a connection to Abraham himself.”

  “Really?” said Archer, his eyes lighting up.

  From across the table Father Burrows leant over to Cecil McRae and whispered something into the boy’s left ear. The adolescent, who had remained silent and sullen for most of the meal, snorted at what Burrows had said. All eyes fixed on him.

  “Do you find something amusing, young man?” asked Archer, a man who believed his fortune should protect him from mockery. “Would you like to share it with the rest of the table?”

  The boy squirmed in his seat. “N-no, sir,” he stuttered, his pimpled face reddening.

  “Perhaps you find God a subject of humor, is that it?” There was an unpleasant, bullying tone to Archer’s voice now. “Let me tell you, there’s nothing funny about it.”

  “I think you’ve made your point, sir,” said Lawrence McRae, who was sitting between the millionaire and Cecil. “My nephew meant no harm.”

  Archer continued to glare at the boy and was about to say something to McRae but was prevented from doing so by his wife’s pleading look, an expression which I assumed she must have perfected over the years through constant practice.

  “I believe you were in Paris recently, Mr. Archer,” said Woolley, desperate to ease the tension in the room.

  “Indeed,” said Archer. “A place full of sinners.”

  “Father—you can’t say that!” said Sarah.

  “Why not? It’s what I believe. Some of the people I saw in that city, well—” He stopped himself. “I couldn’t begin to tell you, not with ladies in the room.” He looked at his daughter’s bare shoulders with disgust. “And you, young lady, should learn to cover yourself up.”

  Sarah was about to answer her father back, when her mother placed a gentle hand on her wrist.

  “Why don’t we do that tour of the artifacts now?” said Woolley, dabbing his lips with a white napkin and standing up. “Mr. and Mrs. Archer? Mrs. Christie? Would you like to join me? We could have coffee when we return.”

  As we stood up from the table, all of us breathed an audible sigh of relief. Woolley took a key from the inside pocket of his jacket and led our little group towards the antika room. I cast a backwards glance to the table and saw that Sarah continued to flirt with Mr. McRae while Cecil remained silent. Katharine Woolley excused herself and Cynthia Jones walked over to talk to Father Burrows.

  Woolley turned the key in the door of the antika room and the four of us stepped inside. The light from his candles immediately caught the gold of an exquisitely crafted cup that he said had been used to store cosmetics. “Not dissimilar to the kind of stuff my wife uses at night on her face,” he joked. Archer managed a half smile. “She has a seemingly infinite amount of jars; I’ve no idea what’s in them.” From a trestle table in the center of the room Woolley picked up a cylinder seal fashioned from lapis lazuli, together with its impression, which had been transferred onto a flat piece of clay. “As you can see, this shows a banquet scene—again not dissimilar to the kind of feast we have been enjoying tonight.” Woolley pointed out the figure of what he said was a queen or a princess drinking wine from a beaker.

  “What’s that?” asked Ruth Archer as Woolley’s candle passed over a horrible devilish face complete with horns.

  “Oh, yes, a very curious find,” Woolley replied. “It’s a copper pin, the kind of thing they used to fasten tunics. But I’m at a loss to know why it’s got horns; maybe its owner had a mischievous sense of humor. Can you see the work that’s gone into this?” Woolley picked up a gold dagger. “Look how it’s been formed, how it’s been crafted with such love and attention to detail. Of course, gold wasn’t mined at Ur. Rather it was imported from Persia and—”

  His words were interrupted by a piercing howl. Each of us momentarily froze, as if the horrible noise had paralyzed our nervous systems.

  “It’s my wife—it’s Katharine,” said Woolley, running from the room.

  Everyone had been drawn to the source of the disturbance, which seemed to have come from Katharine’s bedroom. A circle had formed around Mrs. Woolley, necessitating Leonard to push his way through.

  “What the hell has happene
d?” he shouted. “Katharine? What’s wrong?”

  Katharine Woolley stared down at the bed as if in a daze. I followed her gaze and there, by the pillow, was Tom, her adored cat. It wasn’t moving, and there was a small pool of clear liquid mixed with blood on the pillow case by its mouth. Leonard strode forwards, bent down, and gently took hold of the animal’s front paw. He lifted it with no resistance. He then opened the creature’s eyes; all signs of life had been extinguished.

  “I’m afraid to say Tom is dead,” said Leonard, turning to his wife. “He must have died in his sleep. I doubt very much he suffered.”

  Tears formed in Katharine’s eyes, and the pain she felt was visibly etched on her face. She tried to speak, but the words refused to form themselves in anything but an animalistic moan.

  “Darling,” said Leonard, taking his wife in his arms, “I know it’s an awful shock, but I’m sure it’s for the best. He was probably getting on a bit, and he didn’t seem to like anyone but you.”

  Katharine looked up in confusion at her husband’s clumsy attempt to comfort her. She pushed him away and came to sit on the bed next to the limp body. She placed her head right down against the cat’s stomach and nuzzled the poor creature’s fur.

  “Tom, dear Tom,” she whispered.

  The rest of the party turned their backs and, with a few polite, well-meaning words—“I’m so terribly sorry,” “It’s always such a shock, losing a pet one has loved”—the guests made their way to the main room. I remembered all too well the deep sorrow I had felt after losing each of my dogs—to recall them brought a lump to my throat—and so I went over to Katharine, sat on the bed, and took her hand. I knew that there was no need to utter commonplaces at this time. Woolley himself looked embarrassed at this show of feminine feeling and slowly edged his way out of the bedroom with the words “Yes, good to have some time to come to terms with it. Poor old Tom.”

  Katharine continued to sob, her tears coating the cat’s fur with a fine sheen, until finally she could cry no more.

  “Thank you,” she said as she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “It’s the least I could do,” I said. “I know it’s no comfort, but I do know what it’s like.”

  “What I don’t understand is why—why now? Despite what Leonard says, I don’t think he was that old. Of course, we don’t know exactly, as we found him as a stray in Baghdad.”

  “Perhaps he had been ill?” I suggested.

  “He hadn’t shown any signs of illness,” said Katharine, taking one of his paws in her hands and cradling it as if it were the hand of a baby. “After getting ready for tonight, I left him sleeping there, on the bed. I gave him a stroke and he started to purr.” At the memory, tears began to appear in Katharine’s eyes once more.

  “Think of all the lovely times you had together,” I said, squeezing her hand. “All the pleasure he gave you—and you gave him.”

  “Thank you, Agatha,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks now. “If you would just give me a few minutes . . . to say my goodbyes.”

  “Of course,” I said, standing up. “And just think what a wonderful life he had.”

  The grief consumed her and I quietly made my way out of the room and rejoined the others at the table. Even though the cat had not been popular—I remembered Cynthia’s words about how some of her colleagues had tried to get rid of it before, much to Mrs. Woolley’s distress—there was a funereal atmosphere in the room. Woolley had poured out generous measures of brandy for those in the party who consumed alcohol, and most of the group sat in respectable silence. Hubert Archer was engaged in a conversation with his wife, and as I passed them I heard the millionaire say, “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It was only a cat! I’d understand if it had been her child,” closely followed by Ruth’s words: “I think it’s best if you keep your own counsel, Hubert.”

  “How is she feeling?” asked Cynthia.

  “She’s in shock, of course,” I said.

  “She may need a glass of brandy,” said Woolley. “Yes, that will do the trick.” He poured a generous measure of cognac into a glass and was about to take it into his wife’s room, when Katharine appeared at the door. There was something unreal about her, and she stepped into the room with the air of an actress making her final appearance at the end of a tragedy. All traces of tears were gone now, but her face had a deathly pallor to it, almost as if she were wearing a mask.

  “Thank you all so very much for coming,” she said in a brittle, artificial voice. “It was a lovely evening and your company was as charming as ever.”

  Woolley walked towards her with the glass of brandy. “Darling, I think you should drink this,” he said, passing the glass to her.

  “No, I couldn’t possibly,” she said, waving away the brandy. “I need to keep a clear head. I’ll start on the washing up now. There’s no point in putting it off.”

  Each of the guests stared at Katharine Woolley with incomprehension and embarrassment. A few minutes before she had been reduced to tears, and now here she was, pretending to play the part of the hostess to perfection.

  “My dear, you’ve had a terrible shock,” said Woolley, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “Why don’t you come and sit down?”

  Katharine brushed him off and walked over to the dining table. She reached for a plate to take to the kitchen to wash up but stopped herself.

  “If I am to do the washing up, I must take off my gloves,” she said.

  “Let one of the servants do that, darling,” said Leonard.

  “No, it won’t take long,” she said as she started to peel back a glove. “It’s no trouble, no trouble at all.”

  “Oh, my . . . ,” said Ruth Archer, her voice trailing off. Her gaze was focused on Mrs. Woolley’s lower arms.

  Underneath each of Katharine’s arms, on the soft flesh that ran between elbow and wrist, ran a series of bloody lines that looked like scratches from a cat. It appeared as though the wounds were fresh and no more than a few hours old.

  “What in God’s name has she done?” asked Lawrence McRae.

  The question did not need to be answered.

  It seemed there had been a struggle and Mrs. Woolley had killed the cat she said she loved.

  8

  I took Katharine’s hand and led her back into her bedroom. Leonard Woolley followed us.

  “What about the clearing of the plates?” she asked. “The washing up?”

  “That can wait,” I said, guiding her towards her dressing table. I glanced over at Woolley; understanding at once, he nodded and went to fetch a blanket. While I tried to distract Katharine with talk of her cosmetic lotions and cleansing creams, he undertook the unpleasant business of removing the body of the dead cat from the bed. Once he had done that—and stripped away the pillowcase with its nasty stain—he left us alone to talk.

  “Katharine, may I ask: What do you remember about earlier this evening?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If anything . . . particular sticks in your mind.”

  “Well, I sat here in front of the mirror and then I dressed for dinner.”

  “Do you remember putting your evening gloves on?”

  She looked down at the gloves, which were curled in her lap like a pair of strangely colored exotic snakes. Something stirred within her—a fragment of a memory, perhaps—and then she gazed in amazement at her arms.

  “What happened? Did something happen to Tom?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid he’s dead. Don’t you remember?”

  Katharine clutched at me with a desperation I had only seen in some of the men I had treated in the war. They had lost their minds on the front and had returned as empty shells haunted by the violence of their own actions and the violence done to them.

  “Dead? But how?” she asked, her hand trailing up to her forehead. “Where is he? Why is he not on the bed?” Her voice rose in a panic as she stood up and looked for her cat. It was a pitiful sight. “I left him on the bed,
sleeping. He was purring when I left him. Where is he? Where’s Tom? What have you done with him?”

  “Katharine, you must calm yourself,” I said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve had some bad news. You’re in shock. Try to take some deep breaths.” She looked down at her arms again. “Why do my arms hurt? How did I get these scratches?”

  “You can’t remember anything of what happened?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Why do you keep asking me what I remember?” Her voice had risen to a fevered pitch.

  “Please, you must try and stay calm.”

  “What happened? What?” The horrible look of panic haunted her eyes; her breathing had quickened and she had started to perspire. The signs told me that unless she was sedated, she could be on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

  “I’m going to leave you for a minute, but I am going to return,” I said. “Everything will be all right.”

  I left her and went to fetch Woolley, who was talking to Father Burrows. I explained the situation and told him that I thought it would be best to sedate his wife.

  “But, as I told you, the doctor is over two hours away,” he said. “Will that be too late?”

  I informed him that I had a supply of a medically prescribed sedative which I could administer if he agreed. He nodded vigorously and I returned to my room to retrieve the drug. I opened my trunk and, with my special key that I always carried with me, unlocked the case inside. From there I extracted my precious poisons. I quickly found what I was looking for—a simple barbiturate, similar to the one involved in the death of Gertrude Bell—locked up my case, and went to the kitchen for some tea. I returned to Katharine’s room, where she was pacing the floor like a caged animal.

  “I’ve got something here which will help you,” I said, stirring the grains of the sedative into the hot liquid. “Please drink some of this.”