Winds of Eden (10 page)

‘Abdul, have you any idea where Harry's wife is?' Michael asked.

‘No, sir. I never met her.'

‘But you know her name?'

‘I know she is the daughter of Sheikh Ibn Shalan.'

‘Ibn Shalan is?' Michael pressed.

‘A powerful sheikh no man wants to annoy, sir.'

‘Where does he live?'

‘He has houses in Basra and in Baghdad, but like all Bedouin his true home is the desert. It was in the desert Hasan Mahmoud was born and it was where he made his home.'

Michael asked. ‘Who is Hasan Mahmoud?'

‘His English name is Harry Downe, sir, but his true name is Hasan Mahmoud.'

‘Harry's Bedouin identity,' Charles explained.

Michael tried and failed to imagine his brother masquerading as an Arab. ‘Could Harry really pass himself off as Bedouin?'

‘My Arab customers who did not know him well never suspected he was British, Mr Downe,' Abdul replied.

‘Once he put on his Arab robes you wouldn't give him a second glance,' Charles agreed. ‘Every man in the Dorsets has a story about mistaking Harry for an Arab and either almost shooting him or seeing someone try. Did Harry leave anything with you except this letter, Abdul?'

‘Not with me. There may be something in Lieutenant Colonel Downe's room. It's how he left it. No one has been it apart from the women to clean it. If you want to look at it, you are welcome.'

‘Thank you, I would.' Charles left his wheelchair at the foot of the inner staircase and, leaning heavily on the banister, followed Abdul up the stairs. Tom and Michael climbed up behind them.

Abdul produced a bunch of keys from his robe, inserted one in a lock, and opened a door. He removed the key he'd used from the ring and handed it to Michael. ‘Don't forget to lock the room and return the key to me when you leave.'

‘I won't.' Michael looked inside. ‘You kept my brother's trunk?'

‘Nothing has been taken from this room since Hasan left. He was a good friend to me. War is chaos. Some people are reported dead who still live. I cannot imagine Hasan dead. I intend to keep his room like this until the war ends. If he does not appear then …' Abdul left without finishing his sentence.

Michael entered the room. A divan draped in camel hair rugs was pushed into the corner closest to the stove. A military chest secured by a large iron padlock stood next to it. A second unlocked chest stood behind the door. A plain wooden table and two chairs completed the furnishings.

‘By the look of this place, Harry lived simply.' Tom went to the window.

‘I watched him prepare to ride out into the desert from Amara,' Charles said. ‘He was in Arab robes, and carried a saddlebag that contained a handful of dates, a skin of water, a couple of gold sovereigns minted in 1872, his gun, sword, and knife. I took him to task for not wearing his identity discs, he said he was careful to have nothing on him that a native wouldn't carry. He not only lived with the Bedouin, he lived like them.'

Michael lifted the lid on the unlocked chest. He removed a set of Arab robes, headdress, sandals, soap, tooth powder, toothbrush, hairbrush, underclothes, and a bottle of brandy.

Tom pulled at the padlock on the military chest. ‘Do you want me to ask Abdul if he has the key for this?'

‘If Abdul had the key he would have given it to us.' Charles released his grip on the door and lowered himself on to one of the chairs.

Tom examined the padlock.

‘I'll open it.' Michael thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out what looked like a pocket knife. He opened it up and extracted a slim blade.

‘I didn't know you could pick locks as well as Harry.' Tom watched him set to work.

‘It was Harry who taught me. I give him full marks. This is not an easy lock to pick.'

‘Too complicated for you?'

‘I didn't say that.'

Five minutes later Michael lifted the lid. He took out a medium-sized wooden box and handed it to Tom who opened it.

‘There are a couple of hundred gold sovereigns in here.'

‘Anything else?' Michael asked.

‘Just the coins.'

Michael lifted out another, smaller square box that appeared to be a block of solid wood. He ran his fingers over the sides, testing the surface and pressing the corners. Moments later a tiny secret drawer slid open. Inside was a key. ‘Looks like we found the key to the safety deposit box Harry mentioned in his will.' Michael slipped it into his wallet.

‘Is there anything in there that might lead us to Harry's wife?' Tom asked.

‘Nothing, just the two boxes.' Michael sat back on his heels. ‘It's not much to show for a life.'

‘No,' Charles murmured. ‘Not much at all.'

Chapter Ten

Gray Mackenzie & Co,
Basra, Friday 31st December 1915

‘We only have an hour before Michael and I have to be at the wharf,' Tom warned Charles as they entered the bank.

‘Wheel me to the office door and leave the talking to me.' Charles straightened his cap. His features hardened, and he was transformed from helpless invalid to authoritative officer. He rapped the glass inner door with his cane and motioned Michael to open it at the occupier's ‘come'.

‘Major.' The man behind the desk rose when the entered. ‘Anthony Smith, how can I help you?'

‘We're here to check Lieutenant Colonel Downe's safety deposit box.' Charles took the letter Crabbe had sent him from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Notification of Lieutenant Colonel Downe's death from a fellow officer. His brother has his will. We have the key.'

Anthony read the papers. ‘We were all upset to hear of Lieutenant Colonel Downe's death. He was a popular visitor here. My condolences, Mr Downe. The family resemblance is remarkable.'

‘Thank you.' Michael reached for his wallet and extracted the key.

Mr Smith rang a bell and an elderly clerk appeared. ‘Escort these gentlemen to the bank vault, Friedman. Give them Lieutenant Colonel Downe's safety deposit box, and any assistance they require.'

Less than five minutes after entering the building they were in the vault. Friedman showed them Harry's box but it took the combined strength of Tom and Michael to lift it on to the table. Friedman tactfully moved to a desk at the door, opened a ledger, and pretended to study it.

Michael produced the key and lifted the lid. He removed a black ledger and a leather jeweller's case to reveal a mass of sovereigns.

Tom whistled. ‘Looks like Harry saved his pennies.'

Michael opened the ledger. ‘According to an entry Harry made last November there were 6,000 but there's an entry below his I can't decipher. It looks like Arabic.'

Charles examined the jeweller's case. Set on indented beds of cream velvet were a ruby and diamond necklace, tiara, ring, earrings, and four bracelets, two large enough to be worn above the elbow, two smaller ones below. He'd seen the set before. Maud had been wearing them the evening he'd called on her in India and told her he was taking her to Basra – and John. He could even remember their conversation, the obdurate look on her face when she'd announced:
‘I'm not going.'

His voice, bitter angry resonated through his mind. ‘
You'll board that ship if I have to drag you up the gangplank by your hair. You said life is short. A tour of duty on the Western Front has shown me just how short – and painful. But some pain can be avoided. You're not going to hurt John any more than you already have. Whether he lives for another month or sixty years he's going to be as happy as a whore like you can make him.'

He'd succeeded in dragging Maud to Basra but he hadn't succeeded in alleviating John's further pain. John had called on Maud only once in Basra. To inform her he was divorcing her.

Tom interrupted Charles's thoughts. ‘These look as though they belong in an empress's collection.' He picked up one of the three-inch long earrings.

‘Only if you're talking about a pagan empress,' Charles concurred. ‘They're too ostentatious for any modern woman. If you trust them with me, Michael, I'll see Maud gets them.'

‘Of course I trust you, but can we be sure this is the set Harry intended for Maud?' Michael was wary of giving Harry's possessions to anyone except his wife.

‘I saw Maud wearing them in India. She admitted John hadn't given them to her.'

‘My brother has better taste.' Tom replaced the earring in the box. ‘I'm guessing instead of selling them, Harry gave her what he thought they were worth.'

Michael carried the ledger over to the clerk. ‘Do you read Arabic, Mr Friedman?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Could you please tell me what this says?' He pointed to the last entry in the ledger.

‘It appears to have been made by Lieutenant Colonel Downe's wife, sir.'

‘She comes here?'

‘She has done, sir.'

‘To do what?'

‘That I couldn't tell you, sir. Gray Mackenzie & Co prides itself on client confidentiality.'

‘She accessed this box?' Michael pressed him.

‘Yes, sir. She had a key and a signed letter of permission from Lieutenant Colonel Downe.'

‘You have the letter?'

‘A copy I made, sir.' Friedman handed it to Michael.

‘Dated last November before the Battle of Ctesiphon.' Michael couldn't conceal his disappointment. A more recent date might have meant that Harry had by some miracle survived the Turkish ambush. ‘Did she take out money?'

‘According to this notation, yes, sir.'

‘How much?'

‘A thousand sovereigns.'

‘What would that buy in Basra?' Michael asked.

‘A great deal, sir.'

‘A house?'

‘A fine one, sir.'

‘Do you have Mrs Downe's address?'

The man flicked through the ledger. ‘No, sir. Only the time of her visit. Eight o'clock, Tuesday morning. 7th December. She was accompanied only by a woman. Veiled, of course. No manservant, which was unusual. I remember thinking at the time he must have been upriver with the lieutenant colonel.'

‘How long did she spend here?'

The clerk checked the ledger again. ‘No more than ten minutes, sir.'

‘Will you notify me if she comes again?'

‘Aside from the fact that I've been ordered to give you every assistance, it would be my pleasure, sir. Will you be staying in Basra?'

Michael thought for a moment. ‘Tom, would you mind going upstream alone? I'll stay on for a few days to talk to people in HQ and write a background piece on the campaign for the
Mirror
.'

‘While you try to find Harry's wife and daughters?' Tom surmised.

‘That too, if I'm lucky,' Michael returned the ledger to the box and locked it.

Kut Al Amara, Friday 31st December 1915

Major Warren Crabbe left HQ, turned down the lane that connected number 1 and number 1A alleyways and entered the Officers' Hospital. Two second lieutenants were in the room designated as an aid station. One was having a shoulder wound dressed by Matthews, the other bathing a graze left by a bullet that had nicked his earlobe.

He knew both men. When they'd arrived to join Force D six months before, he'd called them ‘Eton Wet Bobs' the ultimate derogatory term applied by seasoned officers to the newly commissioned. After Ctesiphon, they'd lost their round-faced, wide-eyed innocent look. Now both had the lean, uncompromising appearance of battle-hardened men.

‘Stop wearing your officers' caps and insignia within the sights of the Turkish snipers, or learn to duck,' Crabbe advised.

‘If we'd ducked any lower we'd be under the worms,' one of them retorted.

‘Best you know your place. Major Knight around?' Crabbe asked Matthews.

‘In the main ward, sir.'

Crabbe walked across the corridor and opened the door. David Knight was sitting in the curtained alcove he grandly referred to as his ‘office' although all it held was a travelling desk, a chair, and a shelf of forms and ledgers. Every one of the beds in the room was occupied. From what he could see of the occupants' faces, more by fever patients than the wounded.

‘I swear you have a bloodhound's nose that enables you to sniff out a fresh brew of tea over a mile radius, Crabbe. I've just sent Dira to make a pot.'

‘Where's John?'

‘Checking Cleck-Heaton. We've left the bastard in a room next to the operating theatre in case John has to go back in. The shrapnel Cleck-Heaton took did serious damage to the blood vessels supplying his lungs.'

‘Swine doesn't deserve medical care.' Crabbe handed Knight one of the envelopes the brigadier had given him.

‘As a doctor I can't agree with you, as John's friend and fellow officer I do. What's this?'

‘Read it and I'll put some brandy in our tea to celebrate.' Crabbe took a flask from his top pocket.

Dira brought a tray into the alcove.

‘Can you bring a chair and an extra cup please, Dira, for Major Crabbe? And tell Major Mason tea's ready.'

‘Yes, sir.

Knight read the letter. ‘How the hell did you manage this, Crabbe?'

‘By asking.'

‘Come on, you must have traded something?'

‘Like what? Everyone knows the brigadier is as straight as a ramrod.'

‘I'm amazed.'

‘What's amazing?' John joined them. Skeletally thin as a result of campaigning in the worst of the heat, overwork, and his brandy addiction, John was a shadow of the man Harry had introduced to Crabbe when he'd arrived in Basra to marry Maud in July 1914.

‘See for yourself,' Crabbe handed him the letter.

John read it. ‘So, I'm not likely to be shot at dawn any sunrise soon.'

‘That has to be good, doesn't it?' Crabbe hadn't been looking for praise for his efforts on John's behalf, but he'd hoped for a more enthusiastic response.

‘Yes, sorry, that was remiss of me. Thank you, Crabbe. I know how hard you've worked for this. I'm grateful for everything you've done for me, and at no little risk to your own career.'

‘Hardly. I reckon I've been promoted just about as high as a ranker can expect.'

‘It's good news for you, John, the hospital, and me.' Knight took the flask from Crabbe and poured liberal helpings into all three teacups. ‘This means that I, and the other medics, can get the occasional hour's sleep. If I was the emotional kind, Crabbe, I'd kiss you.'

‘I'm glad you're not.' Crabbe handed John an envelope. ‘The brigadier made three copies. He told me to make sure you carried one with you at all times in case a sycophant of Perry's or Cleck-Heaton's questions your right to roam. He's asking Townshend to countersign the copy he kept and is telegraphing the contents to Nixon in Basra. He ordered me to keep the third copy safe. The brigadier wants to know if you'd like a message sent out on the wireless to tell your family you're alive.'

‘What did you say?'

‘That it would be your decision.'

John thought of his parents, his brother Tom, and sister Lucy. He loved them dearly but he was closest to his mother and brother. Both would have been devastated by the news of his death but he knew them well enough to realise, given time, they'd follow his father's example and take the news of his demise in typical British fashion – stiff-upper-lipped and stoical. Not because it was expected of them but because it was the way they dealt with every misfortune life threw at them that they were powerless to alter. It would be cruel to give them hope when Kut could be overrun today – tomorrow – next week – and he could be killed or really die of fever. Or, if the brass took it into their heads to countermand the brigadier's lenience – shot. As for Maud, he didn't doubt she'd already ensnared another man to dance attendance on her. One who might even believe he was the father of her child.

‘Given the number of casualties we've admitted between the ranks, non-coms, and officers' hospitals today, it might be as well if we keep the news of my miraculous recovery inside Kut. I'd hate to give my family hope only for them to receive a second telegram if I succumb.'

‘Probably as well,' Crabbe agreed. ‘I'm beginning to think it will come as a surprise to the brass and the outside world if any of us survive this rat trap.'

The quayside, Basra, Friday December 31st 1915

Tom held out his hand. Michael shook it.

‘You'll take care of yourself?'

‘For the few days it will take me to gather background information before following you upstream.' Michael looked over at Tom's shoulder at the hillock Adjabi and Sami had built from his trunk, bags, and packages. ‘Is that everything of mine, Adjabi?'

‘Everything, Sahib,' Adjabi answered.

‘You've left the Fortnum hampers for Captain Mason?'

‘Apart from the one you left for Captain Reid, yes, sir.'

‘You'll be seeing Sami again very shortly,' Michael said in amusement as Adjabi embraced Tom's bearer.

‘Nothing is certain in this world, Sahib.'

‘Sami, find me a comfortable berth on board and a chair with a view of the riverbank,' Tom ordered. He turned back to Michael. ‘I don't like the thought of you living in that Arab brothel.'

‘Coffee shop,' Michael corrected. ‘It was good enough for Harry.'

‘Harry had odd tastes that shouldn't be taken as a recommendation. If you asked Richard Chalmers I'm sure he'd find you a bed in military quarters.'

‘Old war correspondent adage. The further from the brass you get, the more accurate the rumours.'

‘Then beg a bed from the Butlers at the mission.'

‘No fear, they'll have me singing hymns every night after supper. I'll be fine at Abdul's.'

‘I'm not so sure.'

‘Harry was.'

‘Harry spoke Arabic and passed as a native.'

‘I can learn Arabic.'

‘In a few days?'

The boat engines coughed and wheezed before bursting into life, drowning out hope of further conversation.

Michael shook Tom's hand again. Sami appeared at the top of the gangplank. Tom left the quay and joined him. The plank was hauled on board. Michael turned his back on the troops lining the lower decks of the paddle steamer and walked over to Adjabi.

‘You stay with the luggage, I'll find us rooms.' He crossed the quay and entered the coffee house.

Abdul's coffee shop, Basra, Friday 31st December 1915

‘No, sir, you cannot have your brother's room.' Abdul was obdurate.

‘You said Harry had paid you for the year.'