They Came to Baghdad

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.

‘Lucifer, no? I was called Owl – because I always had to wear shiny glasses.’

‘You don’t know any one 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? Any one 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