Bishop’s niece, an ex-hospital nurse, and competent secretary. All that was over, to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. Mrs Hamilton Clipp would depart on the evening train to Kirkuk – and that was that. Victoria toyed hopefully with the idea that Mrs Clipp might press upon her a parting present in the form of hard cash, but abandoned it reluctantly as unlikely. Mrs Clipp could have no idea that Victoria was in really dire financial straits.
What then must Victoria do? The answer came immediately. Find Edward, of course.
With a sense of annoyance she realized that she was quite unaware of Edward’s last name. Edward – Baghdad. Very much, Victoria reflected, like the Saracen maid who arrived in England knowing only the name of her lover ‘Gilbert’ and ‘ England ’. A romantic story – but certainly inconvenient. True that in England at the time of the Crusades, nobody, Victoria thought, had had any surname at all. On the other hand England was larger than Baghdad. Still, England was sparsely populated then.
Victoria wrenched her thoughts away from these interesting speculations and returned to hard facts. She must find Edward immediately and Edward must find her a job. Also immediately.
She did not know Edward’s last name, but he had come to Baghdad as the secretary of a Dr Rathbone and presumably Dr Rathbone was a man of importance.
Victoria powdered her nose and patted her hair and started down the stairs in search of information.
The beaming Marcus, passing through the hall of his establishment, hailed her with delight.
‘Ah, it is Miss Jones, you will come with me and have a drink, will you not, my dear? I like very much English ladies. All the English ladies in Baghdad, they are my friends. Every one is very happy in my hotel. Come, we will go into the bar.’
Victoria, not at all averse to free hospitality, consented gladly.
III
Sitting on a stool and drinking gin, she began her search for information.
‘Do you know a Dr Rathbone who has just come to Baghdad?’ she asked.
‘I know everyone in Baghdad,’ said Marcus Tio joyfully. ‘And everybody knows Marcus. That is true, what I am telling you. Oh! I have many many friends.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ said Victoria. ‘Do you know Dr Rathbone?’
‘Last week I have the Air Marshal commanding all Middle East passing through. He says to me, “Marcus, you villain, I haven’t seen you since ’46. You haven’t grown any thinner.” Oh he is very nice man. I like him very much.’
‘What about Dr Rathbone? Is he a nice man?’
‘I like, you know, people who can enjoy themselves. I do not like sour faces. I like people to be gay and young and charming – like you. He says to me, that Air Marshal, “Marcus, you like too much the women.” But I say to him: “No, my trouble is I like too much Marcus…”’ Marcus roared with laughter, breaking off to call out, ‘Jesus – Jesus!’
Victoria looked startled, but it appeared that Jesus was the barman’s Christian name. Victoria felt again that the East was an odd place.
‘Another gin and orange, and whisky,’ Marcus commanded.
‘I don’t think I –’
‘Yes, yes, you will – they are very very weak.’
‘About Dr Rathbone,’ persisted Victoria.
‘That Mrs Hamilton Clipp – what an odd name – with whom you arrive, she is American – is she not? I like also American people but I like English best. American peoples, they look always very worried. But sometimes, yes, they are good sports. Mr Summers – you know him? – he drink so much when he come to Baghdad, he go to sleep for three days and not wake up. It is too much that. It is not nice.’
‘Please, do help me,’ said Victoria.
Marcus looked surprised.
‘But of course I help you. I always help my friends. You tell me what you want – and at once it shall be done. Special steak – or turkey cooked very nice with rice and raisins and herbs – or little baby chickens.’
‘I don’t want baby chickens,’ said Victoria. ‘At least not now,’ she added prudently. ‘I want to find this Dr Rathbone. Dr
‘I do not know,’ said Marcus. ‘He does not stay at the Tio.’
The implication was clearly that any one who did not stay at the Tio did not exist for Marcus.
‘But there are other hotels,’ persisted Victoria, ‘or perhaps he has a house?’
‘Oh yes, there are other hotels. Babylonian Palace, Sennacherib, Zobeide Hotel. They are good hotels, yes, but they are not like the Tio.’
‘I’m sure they’re not,’ Victoria assured him. ‘But you don’t know if Dr Rathbone is staying at one of them? There is some kind of society he runs – something to do with culture – and books.’
Marcus became quite serious at the mention of culture.
‘It is what we need,’ he said. ‘There must be much culture. Art and music, it is very nice, very nice indeed. I like violin sonatas myself if it is not very long.’
Whilst thoroughly agreeing with him, especially in regard to the end of the speech, Victoria realized that she was not getting any nearer to her objective. Conversation with Marcus was, she thought, most entertaining, and Marcus was a charming person in his childlike enthusiasm for life, but conversation with him reminded her of Alice in Wonderland’s endeavours to find a path that led to the hill. Every topic found them returning to the point of departure – Marcus!
She refused another drink and rose sadly to her feet. She felt slightly giddy. The cocktails had been anything but weak. She went out from the bar on to the terrace outside and stood by the railing looking across the river, when somebody spoke from behind her.
‘Excuse me, but you’d better go and put a coat on. Dare say it seems like summer to you coming out from England, but it gets very cold about sundown.’
It was the Englishwoman who had been talking to Mrs Clipp earlier. She had the hoarse voice of one who is in the habit of training and calling to sporting dogs. She wore a fur coat, had a rug over her knees and was sipping a whisky and soda.
‘Oh thank you,’ said Victoria and was about to escape hurriedly when her intentions were defeated.
‘I must introduce myself. I’m Mrs Cardew Trench.’ (The implication was clearly: one of
‘Yes,’ said Victoria, ‘I did.’
‘She told me you were the niece of the Bishop of Llangow.’
Victoria rallied.
‘Did she really?’ she inquired with the correct trace of light amusement.
‘Got it wrong, I suppose?’
Victoria smiled.
‘Americans are bound to get some of our names wrong. It does sound a little like Llangow. My uncle,’ said Victoria improvising rapidly, ‘is the Bishop of Languao?’
‘Languao?’
‘Yes – in the Pacific Archipelago. He’s a Colonial Bishop, of course.’
‘Oh, a Colonial Bishop,’ said Mrs Cardew Trench, her voice falling at least three semitones.
As Victoria had anticipated: Mrs Cardew Trench was magnificently unaware of Colonial Bishops.
‘That explains it,’ she added.
Victoria thought with pride that it explained it very well for a spur of the moment plunge!
‘And what are
‘Looking for a young man I talked to for a few moments in a public square in London,’ was hardly an answer that Victoria could give. She said, remembering the newspaper paragraph she had read, and her statement to Mrs
