They Came to Baghdad

  “I know something about it,” said Victoria cautiously, relieved by a mention of something that she did actually have a working knowledge of.

  “Good, good. You can develop negatives? I’m old-fashioned—use plates still. The darkroom is rather primitive. You young people who are used to all the gadgets, often find these primitive conditions rather upsetting.”

  “I shan’t mind,” said Victoria.

  From the Expedition’s stores, she selected a toothbrush, toothpaste, a sponge and some talcum powder.

  Her head was still in a whirl as she tried to understand exactly what her position was. Clearly she was being mistaken for a girl called Venetia Someone who was coming out to join the Expedition and who was an anthropologist. Victoria didn’t even know what an anthropologist was. If there was a dictionary somewhere about, she must look it up. The other girl was presumably not arriving for at least another week. Very well then, for a week—or until such time as the car or lorry went into Baghdad, Victoria would be Venetia Thingummy, keeping her end up as best she could. She had no fears for Dr. Pauncefoot Jones who seemed delightfully vague, but she was nervous of Richard Baker. She disliked the speculative way he looked at her, and she had an idea that unless she was careful he would soon see through her pretences. Fortunately she had been, for a brief period, a secretary typist at the Archaeological Institute in London, and she had a smattering of phrases and odds and ends that would be useful now. But she would have to be very careful not to make any real slip. Luckily, thought Victoria, men were always so superior about women that any slip she did make would be treated less as a suspicious circumstance than as a proof of how ridiculously addlepated all women were!

  This interval would give her a respite which, she felt, she badly needed. For, from the point of view of the Olive Branch, her complete disappearance would be very disconcerting. She had escaped from her prison, but what had happened to her afterwards would be very hard to trace. Richard’s car had not passed through Mandali so that nobody could guess she was now at Tell Aswad. No, from their point of view, Victoria would seem to have vanished into thin air. They might conclude, very possibly they would conclude, that she was dead. That she had strayed into the desert and died of exhaustion.

  Well, let them think so. Regrettably, of course, Edward would think so, too! Very well, Edward must lump it. In any case he would not have to lump it long. Just when he was torturing himself with remorse for having told her to cultivate Catherine’s society—there she would be—suddenly restored to him—back from the dead—only a blonde instead of a brunette.

  That brought her back to the mystery of why They (whoever they were) had dyed her hair. There must, Victoria thought, be some reason—but she could not for the life of her understand what the reason could be. As it was, she was soon going to look very peculiar when her hair started growing out black at the roots. A phony platinum blonde, with no face powder and no lipstick! Could any girl be more unfortunately placed? Never mind, thought Victoria, I’m alive, aren’t I? And I don’t see at all why I shouldn’t enjoy myself a good deal—at any rate for a week. It was really great fun to be on an archaeological expedition and see what it was like. If only she could keep her end up and not give herself away.

  She did not find her role altogether easy. References to people, to publications, to styles of architecture and categories of pottery had to be dealt with cautiously. Fortunately a good listener is always appreciated. Victoria was an excellent listener to the two men, and warily feeling her way, she began to pick up the jargon fairly easily.

  Surreptitiously, she read furiously when she was alone in the house. There was a good library of archaeological publications. Victoria was quick to pick up a smattering of the subject. Unexpectedly, she found the life quite enchanting. Tea brought to her in the early morning, then out on the Dig. Helping Richard with camera work. Piecing together and sticking up pottery. Watching the men at work, appreciating the skill and delicacy of the pick men—enjoying the songs and laughter of the little boys who ran to empty their baskets of earth on the dump. She mastered the periods, realized the various levels where digging was going on, and familiarized herself with the work of the previous season. The only thing she dreaded was that burials might turn up. Nothing that she read gave her any idea of what would be expected of her as a working anthropologist! “If we do get bones or a grave,” said Victoria to herself, “I shall have to have a frightful cold—no, a severe bilious attack—and take to my bed.”

  But no graves did appear. Instead, the walls of a palace were slowly excavated. Victoria was fascinated and had no occasion to show any aptitude or special skill.

  Richard Baker still looked at her quizzically sometimes and she sensed his unspoken criticism, but his manner was pleasant and friendly, and he was genuinely amused by her enthusiasm.

  “It’s all new to you coming out from England,” he said one day. “I remember how thrilled I was my first season.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  He smiled.

  “Rather a long time. Fifteen—no, sixteen years ago.”

  “You must know this country very well.”

  “Oh, it’s not only been here. Syria—and Persia as well.”

  “You talk Arabic very well, don’t you. If you were dressed as one could you pass as an Arab?”

  He shook his head.

  “Oh no—that takes some doing. I doubt if any Englishman has ever been able to pass as an Arab—for any length of time, that is.”

  “Lawrence?”

  “I don’t think Lawrence ever passed as an Arab. No, the only man I know who is practically indistinguishable from the native product is a fellow who was actually born out in these parts. His father was Consul at Kashgar and other wild spots. He talked all kinds of outlandish dialects as a child and, I believe, kept them up later.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I lost sight of him after we left school. We were at school together. Fakir, we used to call him, because he could sit perfectly still and go into a queer sort of trance. I don’t know what he’s doing now—though actually I could make a pretty good guess.”

  “You never saw him after school?”

  “Strangely enough, I ran into him only the other day—at Basrah, it was. Rather a queer business altogether.”

  “Queer?”

  “Yes. I didn’t recognize him. He was got up as an Arab, keffiyah and striped robe and an old army coat. He had a string of those amber beads they carry sometimes and he was clicking it through his fingers in the orthodox way—only, you see, he was actually using army code. Morse. He was clicking out a message—to me!”

  “What did it say?”

  “My name—or nickname, rather—and his, and then a signal to stand by, expecting trouble.”

  “And was there trouble?”

  “Yes. As he got up and started out of the door, a quiet inconspicuous commercial traveller sort of fellow tugged out a revolver. I knocked his arm up—and Carmichael got away.

  “Carmichael?”

  He switched his head round quickly at her tone.

  “That was his real name. Why—do you know him?”

  Victoria thought to herself—How odd it would sound if I said: “He died in my bed.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I knew him.”

  “Knew him? Why—is he—”

  Victoria nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s dead.”

  “When did he die?”

  “In Baghdad. In the Tio Hotel.” She added quickly, “It was—hushed up. Nobody knows.”

  He nodded his head slowly.

  “I see. It was that kind of business. But you—” He looked at her. “How did you know?”

  “I got mixed up in it—by accident.”

  He gave her a long considering look.

  Victoria asked suddenly:

  “Your nickname at school wasn’t Lucifer, was it?”

  He looked surprised.

  “Lu
cifer, no? I was called Owl—because I always had to wear shiny glasses.”

  “You don’t know anyone who is called Lucifer—in Basrah?”

  Richard shook his head.

  “Lucifer, Son of the Morning—the fallen Angel.”

  He added: “Or an old-fashioned wax match. Its merit if I remember rightly, was that it didn’t go out in a wind.”

  He watched her closely as he spoke, but Victoria was frowning.

  “I wish you’d tell me,” she said presently, “exactly what happened at Basrah.”

  “I have told you.”

  “No. I mean where were you when all this occurred?”

  “Oh I see. Actually it was in the waiting room of the Consulate. I was waiting to see Clayton, the Consul.”

  “And who else was there? This commercial traveller person and Carmichael? Anyone else?”

  “There were a couple of others, a thin dark Frenchman or Syrian, and an old man—a Persian, I should say.”

  “And the commercial traveller got the revolver out and you stopped him, and Carmichael got out—how?”

  “He turned first towards the Consul’s office. It’s at the other end of a passage with a garden—”

  She interrupted.

  “I know. I stayed there for a day or two. As a matter of fact, it was just after you left.”

  “It was, was it?” Once again he watched her narrowly—but Victoria was unaware of it. She was seeing the long passage at the Consulate, but with the door open at the other end—opening on to green trees and sunlight.

  “Well, as I was saying, Carmichael headed that way first. Then he wheeled round and dashed the other way into the street. That’s the last I saw of him.”

  “What about the commercial traveller?”

  Richard shrugged his shoulders.

  “I understand he told some garbled story about having been attacked and robbed by a man the night before and fancying he had recognized his assailant in the Arab in the Consulate. I didn’t hear much more about it because I flew on to Kuwait.”

  “Who was staying at the Consulate just then?” Victoria asked.

  “A fellow called Crosbie—one of the oil people. Nobody else. Oh yes, I believe there was someone else down from Baghdad, but I didn’t meet him. Can’t remember his name.”

  “Crosbie,” thought Victoria. She remembered Captain Crosbie, his short stocky figure, his staccato conversation. A very ordinary person. A decent soul without much finesse about him. And Crosbie had been back in Baghdad the night when Carmichael came to the Tio. Could it be because he had seen Crosbie at the other end of the passage, silhouetted against the sunlight, that Carmichael had turned so suddenly and made for the street instead of attempting to reach the Consul General’s office?

  She had been thinking this out in some absorption. She started rather guiltily when she looked up to find Richard Baker watching her with close attention.

  “Why do you want to know all this?” he asked.

  “I’m just interested.”

  “Any more questions?”

  Victoria asked:

  “Do you know anybody called Lefarge?”

  “No—I can’t say I do. Man or woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was wondering about Crosbie. Crosbie? Lucifer?

  Did Lucifer equal Crosbie?

  III

  That evening, when Victoria had said good night to the two men and gone to bed, Richard said to Dr. Pauncefoot Jones:

  “I wonder if I might have a look at that letter from Emerson. I’d like to see just exactly what he said about this girl.”

  “Of course, my dear fellow, of course. It’s somewhere lying around. I made some notes on the back of it, I remember. He spoke very highly of Veronica, if I remember rightly—said she was terrifically keen. She seems to me a charming girl—quite charming. Very plucky the way she’s made so little fuss about the loss of her luggage. Most girls would have insisted on being motored into Baghdad the very next day to buy a new outfit. She’s what I call a sporting girl. By the way, how was it that she came to lose her luggage?”

  “She was chloroformed, kidnapped, and imprisoned in a native house,” said Richard impassively.

  “Dear, dear, yes so you told me. I remember now. All most improbable. Reminds me—now what does it remind me of?—ah! yes, Elizabeth Canning, of course. You remember she turned up with a most impossible story after being missing a fortnight. Very interesting conflict of evidence—about some gypsies, if it’s the right case I’m thinking of. And she was such a plain girl, it didn’t seem likely there could be a man in the case. Now little Victoria—Veronica—I never can get her name right—she’s a remarkably pretty little thing. Quite likely there is a man in her case.”

  “She’d be better looking if she didn’t dye her hair,” said Richard drily.

  “Does she dye it? Indeed. How knowledgeable you are in these matters.”

  “About Emerson’s letter, sir—”

  “Of course—of course—I’ve no idea where I put it. But look anywhere you choose—I’m anxious to find it anyway because of those notes I made on the back—and a sketch of that coiled wire bead.”

  Twenty

  On the following afternoon Dr. Pauncefoot Jones uttered a disgusted exclamation as the sound of a car came faintly to his ears. Presently he located it, winding across the desert towards the Tell.

  “Visitors,” he said with venom. “At the worst possible moment, too. I want to superintend the cellulosing of that painted rosette on the northeast corner. Sure to be some idiots come out from Baghdad with a lot of social chatter and expecting to get shown all over the excavations.”

  “This is where Victoria comes in useful,” said Richard. “You hear, Victoria? It’s up to you to do a personally conducted tour.”

  “I shall probably say all the wrong things,” said Victoria. “I’m really very inexperienced, you know.”

  “I think you’re doing very well indeed,” said Richard pleasantly. “Those remarks you made this morning about plano convex bricks might have come straight out of Delongaz’s book.”

  Victoria changed colour slightly, and resolved to paraphrase her erudition more carefully. Sometimes the quizzical glance through the thick lenses made her uncomfortable.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said meekly.

  “We push all the odd jobs on to you,” said Richard.

  Victoria smiled.

  Indeed her activities during the last five days surprised her not a little. She had developed plates with water filtered through cotton wool and by the light of a primitive dark lantern containing a candle which always went out at the most crucial moment. The darkroom table was a packing case and to work she had to crouch or kneel—the darkroom itself being as Richard remarked, a modern model of the famous medieval Little East. There would be more amenities in the season to come, Dr. Pauncefoot Jones assured her—but at the moment every penny was needed to pay workmen and get results.

  The baskets of broken potsherds had at first excited her astonished derision (though this she had been careful not to display). All these broken bits of coarse stuff—what was the good of them?

  Then as she found joins, stuck them and propped them up in boxes of sand, she began to take an interest. She learned to recognize shapes and types. And she came finally to try and reconstruct in her own mind just how and for what these vessels had been used some three thousand odd years ago. In the small area where some poor quality private houses had been dug, she pictured the houses as they had orginally stood and the people who had lived in them with their wants and possessions and occupations, their hopes and their fears. Since Victoria had a lively imagination, a picture rose up easily enough in her mind. On a day when a small clay pot was found encased in a wall with a half-dozen gold earrings in it, she was enthralled. Probably the dowry of a daughter, Richard had said smiling.

  Dishes filled with grain, gold earrings saved up for a dowry, bone needles, querns and mortars, littl
e figurines and amulets. All the everyday life and fears and hopes of a community of unimportant simple people.

  “That’s what I find so fascinating,” said Victoria to Richard. “You see, I always used to think that archaeology was just Royal graves and palaces.

  “Kings of Babylon,” she added, with a strange little smile. “But what I like so much about all this is that it’s the ordinary everyday people—people like me. My St. Anthony who finds things for me when I lose them—and a lucky china pig I’ve got—and an awfully nice mixing bowl, blue inside and white out, that I used to make cakes in. It got broken and the new one I bought wasn’t a bit the same. I can understand why these people mended up their favourite bowls or dishes so carefully with bitumen. Life’s all the same really, isn’t it—then or now?”

  She was thinking of these things as she watched the visitors ascending the side of the Tell. Richard went to greet them, Victoria following behind him.

  They were two Frenchmen, interested in archaeology, who were making a tour through Syria and Iraq. After civil greetings, Victoria took them round the excavations, reciting parrot wise what was going on, but being unable to resist, being Victoria, adding sundry embellishments of her own, just, as she put it to herself, to make it more exciting.

  She noticed that the second man was a very bad colour, and that he dragged himself along without much interest. Presently he said, if Mademoiselle would excuse him, he would retire to the house. He had not felt well since early that morning—and the sun was making him worse.

  He departed in the direction of the Expedition House, and the other, in suitably lowered tones explained that, unfortunately, it was his estomac. The Baghdad tummy they called it, did they not? He should not really have come out today.

  The tour was completed, the Frenchman remained talking to Victoria, finally Fidos was called and Dr. Pauncefoot Jones, with a determined air of hospitality suggested the guests should have tea before departing.

  To this, however, the Frenchman demurred. They must not delay their departure until it was dark or they would never find the way. Richard Baker said immediately that this was quite right. The sick friend was retrieved from the house and the car rushed off at top speed.