The Lighthearted Quest (27 page)

“No surname?”

“If she has one I don't know it. Hortense is enough.”

“Is her shop stuffed with velvet trunks?”

Purcell smiled.

“I imagine not. But go there and look at her things, and drink mint tea, and talk, to begin with.”

“How often? As often as I came to you before I asked about Colin? Anyhow, mint is cheaper than gin,” said Julia.

Purcell's face crinkled with amusement.

“How long shall you be in Marrakesh?” he asked.

“Only a few days—a long week-end, I should think, unless I stay on alone.”

“Then you cannot take too much time. Go and drink tea at once, the first day, and arrange to return next morning to look at some piece again. Then get Hortense alone, and ask if she can help you to find your cousin.”

“H'm. Do I ask for Colin by name?”

Purcell reflected.

“No, I think not—it is always better not to use names. Describe him; you could mention that thumb of his.” Julia started a little at Purcell's mention of Colin's thumb—
sabe todo
with a vengeance. He smiled one of his fine smiles. “You might perhaps even say that he is an admirer, a follower, of Mademoiselle Astrid.”

“Goodness! Does she exist?”

“Very much so!” His smile was finer still.

Oh Lord, Julia thought, was there girl trouble too, to add to the other complications? What a worry!

“Beautiful?” she asked, slowly, but with a certain anxiety.

“No—but very rich!” Purcell replied; at this point his smile had to be seen to be believed, so full was it of some secret enjoyment. Julia watched him, puzzled—as he so evidently meant her to be; there was some catch which was entertaining him. But he certainly meant something and she thanked him again, and asked for Hortense's address. This he gave in a curious form. No street, no number—but starting from the small garden outside the Post Office in Marrakesh, a series of second, third, or fourth left or right-hand turns, and then a garden wall with a medlar-tree leaning over it, and the upper part of the house visible above. Julia pulled out her diary and wrote these details down.

“I am not sure that that is wise,” Purcell said.

“I haven't written down the starting-point, I can remember that,” said Julia—at which the man gave a sanctioning nod.

“I suppose your Irish friend will escort you about Marrakesh?” he asked.

“While he's there, yes; if I have to stay on can I walk about alone?”

“Oh, yes—certainly by day. Marrakesh is not Fez. But if you visit the souks take a guide, or you will lose your way.”

Remembering Abdul—“I'm not all that keen on Arab guides,” Julia said.

“Why not?”

She told him how troublesome her wart-nosed escort had been when he took her to Bathyadis' shop—“and when we went to Volubilis, there he was waiting by another car, wart and all. Perhaps I'm getting suspicious, and it was just a coincidence, but somehow I didn't altogether like it.”

“I do not like it either. And this reminds me, what have you done with the velvet coffer that you said you bought?”

“It's at my hotel, of course.”

“Did you bring it by train?”

“No, I came back by car, with a friend.”

“You went by car to Volubilis, I suppose. In the same car?”

“Yes.”

“Then the number will be known.” He looked concerned. “Is it open?”

“What, the car?”

“No, no, the coffer.”

“No.”

“Well,
leave
it open—with the lid up,” Purcell said, urgently. “No—better not to have it with you at all. It has been there twenty-four hours already; I ought to have seen to this last night, but that wretched Moshe!”—He broke off, and glanced at his watch. “You cannot bring it here tonight, there isn't time—the place will be full. Can you take it to Lady Tracy's?”

“Well I could, as I'm going there. But if it's unwise for me, what about her?”

“Lady Tracy is different,” Purcell said brusquely. “Nothing can happen to her.”

“Why not?”

“The Moors love her too much. Please take it to her this evening.”

“All right,” said Julia, slightly puzzled by all this. “In
fact I'd better go now”—and after paying for two evenings' drinks she took her departure.

“Take a taxi off the rank when you take the coffer,” Purcell said at the door—“Do not let that porter telephone for one.”

“Oh, very well.”

The girl duly picked up a taxi on the
place
at the top of the boulevard on her way home, as before booking it by the hour; when she ran in to collect the little coffer she took the precaution of wrapping it in her old duffle-coat, and so swathed carried it out under the curious gaze of the Espagnola porter. “Drive to the Mountain,” she told the taxi-man; only when they were out of earshot did she give the address of the pink-washed house on the cliff.

As the taxi wound up onto the high ground west of the Kasbah the girl felt a certain nervousness, a thing rather foreign to her nature. Suppose Mr. St John had really carried out his threat of writing to Lady Tracy about her, what sort of reception might she expect? It was true that the old lady had not, so far, done anything at all concrete to help her, but Julia recognised suddenly what it would mean to her to lose the affection and friendship of this golden character—as earlier in the afternoon she had realised how lost she would be without that other strange character, Purcell. Nervously then, on the cliff's edge, in the dark, she bade the chauffeur wait, and shouldered the duffle-coat bundle down the cement path to the door of the pink house.

‘Abdeslem opened to her, and insisted on relieving her of her burden, which he carried through into the arched hall where the old lady sat in her corner, beside her cluttered table and the broken and equally cluttered Chippendale chair—at her first words, as she rose in greeting, Julia's fears vanished.

“Oh, my dear child, how
delightful
to see you!” A warm embrace. “Sit down and tell me
everything.
'Abdeslem, have
some sherry brought. But what is that?” She indicated the oblong shape wrapped in the duffle-coat.

“Darling Lady Tracy, how good to see you. That isn't a
present,
I'm afraid,” said Julia firmly—“it's something I bought in Fez, that I thought perhaps you would house for me; my room is so tiny,” she said untruthfully. As she spoke she unwrapped the little coffer.

“Oh, charming! Just like mine, but more beautiful. Of course I will keep it for you. Where did you get it?”

“At Bathyadis',” said Julia, watching Lady Tracy's face. No reaction whatever. “Mr. St John helped me to get it cheap,” she pursued, still watching her hostess; and this time there was a slight change in the old lady's expression—a wise, careful look appeared.

“Poor Mr. St John! Oh, yes—what did you make of him?”

“Oh, he's tremendously learned, and explained all about Morocco, and these Moulays, and quoted de Foucauld,” said Julia with rather studied vacuity. “He was tremendously kind.”

Lady Tracy bent an acute glance on her.

“Did you get on well?”

Now why does she ask that? Julia thought. Instead of replying she in her turn asked—

“Lady Tracy, have you heard from him since I was there?”

“My dear child,
yes
—I have. A mysterious note which someone from the Consulate brought down today. He warns me against you, and thinks you are a spy!” The old lady gave a happy chuckle.

“Is he all right?” Julia asked rather anxiously—“I mean not ill or anything? Did he write from the Consulate, or from his own house?”

There was something peculiarly sweet and benignant about the glance which the very old woman bent on the very young one at that string of questions.

“My dear Miss Probyn, I should love you and trust you if
twenty
people told me that you were a spy! Yes, he wrote from his own home, and he did not speak of being ill, though he was clearly disturbed in mind. Why did you suspect illness?”

“Oh, I thought he was going to have a stroke!” said Julia, much relieved. “He asked me to take him to the Consulate, and I did, but he was terribly upset. I
am
glad he's all right.” She paused. “Did he say
why
he thought I was a spy? I'm not really, you know.”

“No, he explained nothing. The note was infinitely confused. Perhaps he really
is
getting a little old,” said Lady Tracy, detachedly.

Julia, drinking sherry, wondered if she should attempt to explain fully what had so upset Mr. St John. But she decided against this, and instead merely said that some enquiries she made about Colin seemed to have disturbed Mr. St John, and that he got quite cross and told her to go home!—“which I really
can't
do.”

Lady Tracy seemed satisfied by this, and said of course not—whereupon Julia asked her friend if she could possibly lend her a pair of field-glasses?

Lady Tracy was desolated—her nephew had asked if he could borrow them for his latest botanical trip. Julia began to hate this unknown nephew: always away when he was most wanted, and now carrying off the field-glasses as well, thereby setting her, Julia, back by some twenty-five pounds. Lady Tracy presently said that she hoped the weather would improve by the time Mme La Besse's experts arrived, so that they could get to work on the Phoenician graves. This was all news to Julia, and she enquired about it.

“Oh, yes, my dear child, someone immensely famous, from Cambridge; he wants to open some new graves. She thinks there are some that haven't been rifled on that headland close to the site, so he is coming out to excavate.”

“When?”

“In about a fortnight, I fancy. Didn't she tell you?”

“Not a thing.” Inwardly Julia was rather dismayed. If the expert came while she was in Marrakesh she would miss the grave-digging, a thing she really wanted to see; and Mme La Besse would make a frightful fuss about her going away again. However there was nothing to be done about it—and presently she rose and kissed Lady Tracy in farewell.

“Goodbye, my dear child. I expect you will find your cousin soon,” the old lady called as she went out. Julia was tempted to turn back and go into this rather enigmatic statement, but didn't. Mr. St John must have said something about Colin in his note, but it was no good pressing things. Come to that, she had been rather selective herself in her statements to her aged friend.

Julia wrote to Paddy Lynch that same evening after supper by airmail, asking if she would be welcome for a visit in about a fortnight's time, and if he would be able to take her to Marrakesh—“which is really the object of the operation. I believe I may be onto something, but I won't write, tell you when I see you. Will Nita be back?” She further said that she would be glad of two or three days in Casa as well, if it suited, and added a P.S.—

“Don't
repeat
don't
ring me up—write your answer, please.”

The answer when it came was completely satisfactory: she was always welcome, even though Nita was still at home, and Mr. Lynch had arranged to take from Friday to Wednesday off for the trip to Marrakesh. “As for this fancy business about the telephone, don't let Bruce Lockhart go to your head.”

Meanwhile Julia promptly tackled Mme La Besse on the subject of the expert who was coming to dig the Phoenician graves. His name, Professor Carnforth, was one which would have kindled Mr. Consett; to careless Julia it meant nothing, but she was glad to learn that he was arriving exactly a week hence, so that she would be able to see something of his operations, anyhow, before she went down to Marrakesh—a subject on which she continued to preserve a discreet silence to her employer. She did not omit to flit down to the Bar the very day after she had seen Lady Tracy, to ask Purcell to get her second-hand Zeiss glasses; that individual displayed his usual rapid competence, and only three days later handed Julia a parcel and a bill for £23.11.9.

“If you prefer to pay that with a sterling cheque, you can,” he said.

“Really? Oh, splendid. Of course Gib. isn't really abroad,
is it?” said Julia, causing the proprietor to laugh. “Are they good? Did you look at them?”

“Naturally, or I should not have accepted them. The field is not particularly large, but the magnification is very high indeed, which is what you want for your purpose. Practise using them as much as you can before you go; there is an art in using Zeiss glasses. Stand above the Gran Socco and learn to sweep them over the crowds, slowly, so that you can see every face in each group clearly.”

Julia took her sterling cheque down the next evening, and reported having successfully picked out her Berber flower-woman in the market—“and
not
at her stall; she was walking about talking to her chums.”

“Continue,” was all Purcell said.

Julia did continue—but not only in the market. She took the field-glasses out to the site with her next day, and walked up onto the high headland to the south of it, where the Phoenician graves soon to be excavated by Professor Carn-forth were alleged to be. The headland was a strange place, with vast bronze-coloured blocks of hard smoothish stone, mostly sharply rectangular, and often standing upright, giving the impression of Cyclopean doorways—the spaces between them might have been the entrances to passages or even to graves, Julia supposed. Blown sand filled the interstices between the huge rocks, making walking difficult, but at last she reached the top of the long whalebacked ridge, and could look down on the further side.

To her surprise she found herself looking into a quite different world. Instead of the dark heathy slopes and low hills behind her, the country in front was green and almost flat; a shining lagoon bordered with reeds ran into it, separated from the ocean by a sand-bar on which the Atlantic breakers tumbled and thundered. Julia sat down, unslung her new acquisition from round her neck, and focussing the glasses studied this fresh landscape. The flat ground immediately
below her was marshy; flocks of small white egrets were pecking and feeding on it, storks strode slowly and majestically about—it was fascinating how the powerful glasses brought these creatures right up to her eyes. Ranging further, she saw that at the far end of the sand-bar, a narrow channel appeared to lead in from the ocean to the lagoon—and in a moment, as she swung her glasses inland, she saw that this must in fact be the case, for tucked in close under the landward end of the ridge on which she sat was, of all things, a small white yacht.
How
amusing—what a queer place for a yacht to be! Fiddling unskilfully with the lenses, Julia managed to get a close-up of the little vessel. She was manned, not laid up for the winter, for washing flapped from her rigging, and a couple of Arabs in very miscellaneous clothing were padding barefoot about her deck, apparently cooking on some form of stove or brazier for'ard. Out of the most idle curiosity Julia tried to see her name—the gilt letters were there, but it required a lot more of her inexpert twiddling before she got them into focus where she could read, or nearly read them—
Finetta,
it looked like. Funny—Finetta was the name of one of the Monteith girls; the prettiest, with whom Colin had carried on one of those childish innocent boy-and-girl affairs that last summer when she had been up at Glentoran. How silly she was—she had never done anything about the Monteiths, and contrary to Geoffrey's prediction she hadn't met them.