‘Safe?’
A sudden grim smile transformed Sir Rupert’s face. The manner which Shrivenham had been likening to that of a Prussian drill sergeant was laid aside. The man’s charm became suddenly apparent.
‘Safety hasn’t usually been one of my preoccupations, I agree,’ he said. ‘But in this case it isn’t only my own safety I have to consider – my safety includes the safety of a lot of other people as well. So make those arrangements for me. If the air passage is difficult, apply for priority. Until I leave here tonight, I shall remain in my room.’ He added, as Shrivenham’s mouth opened in surprise, ‘Officially, I’m sick. Touch of malaria.’ The other nodded. ‘So I shan’t need food.’
‘But surely we can send you up –’
‘Twenty-four hours’ fast is nothing to me. I’ve gone hungry longer than that on some of my journeys. You just do as I tell you.’
Downstairs Shrivenham was greeted by his colleagues and groaned in answer to their inquiries.
‘Cloak and dagger stuff in a big way,’ he said. ‘Can’t quite make his grandiloquence Sir Rupert Crofton Lee out. Whether it’s genuine or play-acting. The swirling cloak and bandit’s hat and all the rest of it. Fellow who’d read one of his books told me that although he’s a bit of a self-advertiser, he really
‘Scheele’s Green?’ said his friend, frowning. ‘Something to do with wallpaper, isn’t it? Poisonous. It’s a form of arsenic, I think.’
‘Cripes!’ said Shrivenham, staring. ‘I thought it was a disease. Something like amжbic dysentery.’
‘Oh, no, it’s something in the chemical line. What wives do their husbands in with, or vice versa.’
Shrivenham had relapsed into startled silence. Certain disagreeable facts were becoming clear to him. Crofton Lee had suggested, in effect, that Thomas Rice, Oriental Counsellor to the Embassy, was suffering, not from gastroenteritis, but from arsenical poisoning. Added to that Sir Rupert had suggested that his own life was in danger, and his decision not to eat food and drink prepared in the kitchens of the British Embassy shook Shrivenham’s decorous British soul to the core. He couldn’t imagine what to make of it all.
Chapter 10
I
Victoria, breathing in hot choking yellow dust, was unfavourably impressed by Baghdad. From the Airport to the Tio Hotel, her ears had been assailed by continuous and incessant noise. Horns of cars blaring with maddening persistence, voices shouting, whistles blowing, then more deafening senseless blaring of motor horns. Added to the loud incessant noises of the street was a small thin trickle of continuous sound which was Mrs Hamilton Clipp talking.
Victoria arrived at the Tio Hotel in a dazed condition.
A small alleyway led back from the fanfare of Rashid Street towards the Tigris. A short flight of steps to go up and there at the entrance of the hotel they were greeted by a very stout young man with a beaming smile who, metaphorically at least, gathered them to his heart. This, Victoria gathered, was Marcus – or more correctly Mr Tio, the owner of the Tio Hotel.
His words of welcome were interrupted by shouted orders to various underlings regarding the disposal of their baggage.
‘And here you are, once more, Mrs Clipp – but your arm – why is it in that funny stuff? – (You fools, do not carry that with the strap! Imbeciles! Don’t trail that coat!) – But, my dear – what a day to arrive – never, I thought, would the plane land. It went round and round and round. Marcus, I said to myself – it is not you that will travel by planes – all this hurry, what does it matter? – And you have brought a young lady with you – it is nice always to see a new young lady in Baghdad – why did not Mr Harrison come down to meet you – I expected him yesterday – but, my dear, you must have a drink at once.’
Now, somewhat dazed, Victoria, her head reeling slightly under the effect of a double whisky authoritatively pressed upon her by Marcus, was standing in a high whitewashed room containing a large brass bedstead, a very sophisticated dressing-table of newest French design, an aged Victorian wardrobe, and two vivid plush chairs. Her modest baggage reposed at her feet and a very old man with a yellow face and white whiskers had grinned and nodded at her as he placed towels in the bathroom and asked her if she would like the water made hot for a bath.
‘How long would it take?’
‘Twenty minutes, half an hour. I go and do it now.’
With a fatherly smile he withdrew. Victoria sat down on the bed and passed an experimental hand over her hair. It felt clogged with dust and her face was sore and gritty. She looked at herself in the glass. The dust had changed her hair from black to a strange reddish brown. She pulled aside a corner of the curtain and looked out on to a wide balcony which gave on the river. But there was nothing to be seen of the Tigris but a thick yellow haze. A prey to deep depression, Victoria said to herself: ‘What a hateful place.’
Then rousing herself, she stepped across the landing and tapped on Mrs Clipp’s door. Prolonged and active ministrations would be required of her here before she could attend to her own cleansing and rehabilitation.
II
After a bath, lunch and a prolonged nap, Victoria stepped out from her bedroom on to the balcony and gazed with approval across the Tigris. The dust-storm had subsided. Instead of a yellow haze, a pale clear light was appearing. Across the river was a delicate silhouette of palm trees and irregularly placed houses.
Voices came up to Victoria from the garden below. She stepped to the edge of the balcony and looked over.
Mrs Hamilton Clipp, that indefatigable talker and friendly soul, had struck up an acquaintanceship with an Englishwoman – one of those weather-beaten Englishwomen of indeterminate age who can always be found in any foreign city.
‘– and whatever I’d have done without her, I really don’t know,’ Mrs Clipp was saying. ‘She’s just the sweetest girl you can imagine. And very well connected. A niece of the Bishop of Llangow.’
‘Bishop of who?’
‘Why, Llangow, I think it was.’
‘Nonsense, there’s no such person,’ said the other.
Victoria frowned. She recognized the type of County Englishwoman who is unlikely to be taken in by the mention of spurious Bishops.
‘Why, then, perhaps I got the name wrong,’ Mrs Clipp said doubtfully.
‘But,’ she resumed, ‘she certainly is a very charming and competent girl.’
The other said ‘Ha!’ in a non-committal manner.
Victoria resolved to give this lady as wide a berth as possible. Something told her that inventing stories to satisfy that kind of woman was no easy job.
Victoria went back into her room, sat on the bed, and gave herself up to speculation on her present position.
She was staying at the Tio Hotel, which was, she was fairly sure, not at all inexpensive. She had four pounds seventeen shillings in her possession. She had eaten a hearty lunch for which she had not yet paid and for which Mrs Clipp was under no obligation to pay. Travelling expenses to Baghdad were what Mrs Clipp had offered. The bargain was completed. Victoria had got to Baghdad. Mrs Hamilton Clipp had received the skilled attention of a
