Death of an Effendi Read online

  ‘Depending on what?’

  ‘Water,’ said Tvardovsky, ‘and pumps.’

  ‘And money?’

  ‘Well, naturally.’

  ‘People, too,’ said Owen.

  ‘Yes,’ granted Tvardovsky, ‘people are important.’ He looked at Owen. ‘You know the country,’ he said. ‘How would the people feel?’

  ‘I think they would need to feel part of it,’ said Owen.

  ‘And at the moment they don’t,’ said Tvardovsky. ‘That is because they are serfs.’

  ‘Well, not really—’

  ‘The next best thing to. We were serfs, too, in Russia,’ said Tvardovsky. ‘I was one. Or, rather, the son of one. So I know.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s quite the same in Egypt.’

  ‘They need to feel part of it. Will the British make them feel part of it?’

  ‘We have done a bit,’ said Owen.

  ‘No,’ said Tvardovsky. ‘The answer is no. But Russians could.’

  Owen looked at the financiers on the adjoining tables.

  ‘You said they had no vision.’

  ‘Not these.’ Tvardovsky dismissed them with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘Others. Have you heard of a Russian named Kropotkin?’

  ‘No,’ said Owen.

  ‘He is a prince. But an unusually intelligent one. He says that cooperation, not competition, is the natural way of things. You British will not make the ordinary Egyptian feel part of things because you believe in competition. But that is not what the ordinary man wants. It is not natural to him. What is natural is cooperation. And that is what is needed here.’

  ‘And Mr. Kropotkin will bring it?’

  ‘Alas,’ said Tvardovsky. ‘It may take a bit of time.’

  ***

  After lunch the financiers, unused to the heat, returned to their tents for a siesta. Owen took a chair, however, and sat outside beneath an orange tree, where the foliage was thick enough to give dense shade. He could have gone back to his tent, next to Tvardovsky’s, but from here he could see better.

  At about four the financiers began to emerge from their tents and make their way to the armchair area, where they were served afternoon tea. They drank their tea, as the Egyptians did, without milk.

  From time to time someone came and led one of them off. Individual interviews had been arranged with the Governor of the Bank of Egypt and the Financial Adviser. ‘In the end,’ said Tvardovsky, ‘a financier has to work alone. We do not trust each other.’

  Tvardovsky went for an interview, too. Owen accompanied him to the tent but did not go in.

  Dinner was early in view of the shoot the next day. Tvardovsky sat at Owen’s table again. He drank heavily.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Owen. ‘We’re making an early start tomorrow, remember.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Tvardovsky. ‘The killing.’

  ***

  It was still dark but in the tents the lamps were on. Suffragis hurried about carrying bowls of hot water for shaving and coffee for those who needed it. Up on the terrace a light breakfast had been prepared but the main breakfast would be later, after the shoot. People were already walking down to the water.

  Owen emerged from his tent carrying a gun. Tvardovsky, coming out at the same time, regarded it distrustfully.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he said.

  ‘Protective camouflage,’ said Owen. He did not expect to use it. Duck-shooting was not what he was about.

  Tvardovsky himself was gunless. Nevertheless, he walked down to the boats with the others.

  They were flat-bottomed boats, like punts, suitable for the shallow water at the edge of the lake and for lying among the reeds. The boatman held the boats for the shooters to clamber in, two to a boat, with a boatman there to paddle and retrieve.

  At the last moment there was a hitch. There were not enough boats to accommodate everyone.

  ‘I’ll sit this one out,’ said Tvardovsky.

  ‘So will I,’ said Owen.

  ‘No, no,’ said the maître d’hôtel. ‘No problem.’

  He produced two more boats. They were of the basket sort, made of reeds. Empty, they seemed to lie on top of the water. Carrying someone, they sank down and water seeped in through the sides so that there was a little pool of water inside the boat, in which the person was sitting. After that, though, they sank down no more and the level of water remained the same, matching that outside.

  ‘Actually,’ said the maître d’hôtel, ‘you’ll find them more suited for shooting. The boatmen will be able to take you right in among the reeds and you’ll get a better shot.’

  Tvardovsky shrugged and climbed in. That was the snag. The boat could only take him, not Owen. Owen was being marshalled towards a similar boat lying alongside. Tvardovsky looked up at Owen.

  ‘I won’t be far,’ said Owen.

  Tvardovsky shrugged again.

  ‘Where gun?’ said the boatman.

  ‘No gun,’ said Tvardovsky.

  ‘No gun?’ The boatman turned to the maître d’hôtel, bewildered.

  ‘No gun,’ said the maître d’hôtel. ‘Just watch.’

  The boatman exchanged glances with the man holding Owen’s boat. The shrugs were ever so slight.

  Owen got into his basket. At once the water seemed to rush in.

  ‘All right,’ said the boatman, grinning. ‘Not sink.’

  For a moment Owen was not so sure about that; nor about the general stability of the craft. It rocked crazily and he grabbed at the plaited gunwales on either side. Then the boat settled. He found himself sitting in water. After the first shock it was not disagreeable: pleasantly warm, almost languorous—sensuous, even. He settled the gun between his knees.

  Then he remembered and cursed. He felt down into his pocket. Never mind that gun, it was the other one that mattered. He pulled it out, dried it against his tunic and then stuck it into his breast pocket.

  His boatman gaped.

  ‘This one,’ he said, tapping the gun between Owen’s knees. He pointed to the small arm. ‘No need,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Owen. It hadn’t felt very wet. He hoped the chamber had not been affected.

  The boatman pushed the boat out and then got in. He began to paddle.

  In the other boats the boatmen stood up and poled their craft along. This close to the shore the water was very shallow and the trick was not to get out but to get in, among the reeds. This was where the basket boats had the advantage. The other boats had to hold themselves out on the edge of the reeds. The basket boats could go right in.

  The boatman pushed the reeds aside with his paddle and edged through. Tvardovsky’s boat was just ahead of them.

  ‘You stay close to that,’ Owen directed.

  The boatman nodded.

  The reeds had closed all around them so that it was as if they were in a little enclave of their own. All they could see was the sky, which was, of course, all that they needed to see.

  They settled down to wait. While they had been paddling out there the darkness had cleared and the sun was just coming up over the top of the reeds, a great ball of red.

  The reeds were very still. But then, as the sun came up and the warmth began to touch the water, there were little rustles of movement. The lake was waking up.

  The boatman reached forward and touched the gun.

  Owen shook his head.

  The boatman mimicked putting it to his shoulder and firing.

  ‘He doesn’t like shooting,’ said Owen in Arabic, jerking his head in Tvardovsky’s direction. ‘He just wants to watch.’

  The boatman shrugged, accepting.

  Tvardovsky sat sombrely in his boat, a little apart from Owen. Owen tried to catch his eye but Tvardovsky was staring into the reeds.

/>   Suddenly there was a loud report and then from all along the shore, birds flew up into the sky. For a moment all was confusion as the birds scattered and squawked but then there were more reports and suddenly, from over to their right, the ducks came flying. They came with almost unbelievable speed, heading right across their front and out towards the centre of the lake.

  At once, raggedly, almost in panic, the shooting started. From somewhere very near them, just beyond the reeds, a veritable barrage opened up.

  Tvardovsky put his hands over his ears. The noise was deafening.

  The fusillade seemed to have no effect on the ducks. They just flew on and on, an endless number of them.

  But then suddenly they were gone. The shooting died away. The lake returned to its quietness. It was as if nothing had happened; only now, here and there among the reeds, Owen saw bunches of feathers and in the water the occasional floating spot of red.

  The boatman gave an exclamation and then paddled the boat swiftly to one side. He poked the reeds apart with his paddle, reached out and lifted a bird, hanging limply, into the boat. He paused for a second, eyes searching the reeds and then drove the boat on again, just a few yards. Another bird was handed into the boat.

  And then, surprisingly, two last birds came in towards them.

  ‘Effendi, Effendi!’

  The boatman thrust the gun into Owen’s hands.

  Almost without thinking, Owen put the gun to his shoulder and fired.

  The birds swooped on and he thought for a moment that he had missed. Then first one and then the other seemed to check in mid flight and fall like stones.

  The boatman whooped with delight and hurried the boat to where they had fallen and Owen was pleased, too, exhilarated. He had not meant to take part but then it had all happened so quickly, and he had not been able to resist.

  The boatman retrieved the birds and showed them to Owen, smiling. Then he stowed them away with the other birds.

  ‘Hotel?’ he said, picking up the paddle.

  ‘Tvardovsky,’ said Owen, looking around him. ‘Where’s Tvardovsky?’

  Everywhere were reeds. There was no sight of Tvardovsky.

  ‘The other boat,’ said Owen. ‘I need to find the other boat!’

  The boatman shrugged but then reluctantly began to paddle back in roughly the direction they had come. Only, among the reeds, the direction was no longer clear. In this part of the lake they reached to head-high and grew so thickly that you could not see more than a yard or two in any direction.

  ‘Tvardovsky!’ Owen called. ‘Where are you?’

  But there was no reply.

  ‘Ahmed!’ called the boatman. ‘Ahmed!’

  From somewhere further off they could hear the sounds of the other boats returning, the delighted chatter of the sportsmen.

  And then, floating out from behind the reeds, dyeing the water, came a little trail of red; not from a bird this time.

  Chapter Two

  Reactions afterwards were strangely muted. His Highness had, fortunately, departed the previous evening. His office issued a statement of regret on his behalf but otherwise seemed surprisingly unconcerned.

  ‘As long as it’s kept out of the newspapers,’ they said offhandedly.

  The Russians took a similar view.

  ‘These things happen,’ the Russian Consul said philosophically, ‘especially at shooting parties.’

  The party itself dispersed after breakfast—a good, solid breakfast for the hunters, with grapefruit fresh from the tree, fish fresh from the lake, and devilled kidneys which were not fresh at all but seemed somehow appropriate.

  The Khedive’s party left with them, including the princes, who had quite enjoyed the morning’s excitement but now that it was over saw no point in staying. Prince Fuad alone remained behind to wrap things up.

  The authorities had, of course, been notified immediately and shortly after breakfast the local Mudir appeared. He came with an air of resignation, clearly expecting the worst. The little experience that he had had of dealing with the great had taught him that was what you usually got.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ said Prince Fuad peremptorily.

  The Mudir spread his hands in deprecation.

  So he had heard. Regrettable, he said, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of Prince Fuad’s feet. Yes, regrettable. Very. And of an effendi, too? Even more regrettable. But every cloud had a silver lining. At least, so he gathered, it was of a foreign effendi.

  ‘What difference does that make?’ demanded Prince Fuad.

  Well, said the Mudir, gaining in confidence, or, possibly, garrulous through nervousness, it wasn’t like losing one of your own family. It wasn’t even like losing an ordinary Egyptian—

  His voice died away as his lowered eyes suddenly caught sight of the Russian Consul standing beside Prince Fuad.

  On the other hand, he babbled, desperately switching tack, the death of an effendi was always terrible. Even a foreign effendi. No, no—with sighing heart—that was not what he had meant—

  ‘What did you mean?’ asked Prince Fuad unkindly.

  Well, floundered the Mudir, it wasn’t like the death of a mere fellah. Or—his eye scanned desperately—one of the waiters, say. That would have been of no account at all.

  There Prince Fuad agreed entirely.

  ‘This was of an effendi, though,’ he pointed out.

  Exactly! And that was why he, a humble Mudir, was glad to come and offer his services—

  ‘An accident,’ said Prince Fuad. ‘Got that? Right. Well, off you go—’

  Owen was moved to protest.

  Oughtn’t the Mudir at least speak to the boatman? After all, he had been in the boat when—

  ‘Why not?’ said the prince, looking at his watch. ‘And you go along with him to see he doesn’t get it wrong.’

  The boatman, Ahmed, was still in a state of shock. He had been sitting opposite Tvardovsky, holding the boat still as the birds flew over. He had been noting the birds and seeing where they fell when suddenly he had become aware that Tvardovsky had slumped sideways and was hanging over the side of the boat and there was blood trickling down into the water, and blood seeping into the water in the bottom of the boat and blood trickling on to the boatman’s foot and—

  And by this time it was pretty clear that they were not going to get much more out of him.

  Owen made a last try.

  Had he been conscious of the shot?

  There had been so many shots. It had been just when the birds were flying over, at the height of the fusillade, in fact. He had not been conscious of any one particular shot, still less of the shot that had—

  He began to shake uncontrollably.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Prince Fuad, who had joined them. ‘It was just when everyone was shooting and one of the shots went astray. That’s the trouble with amateurs. The shots could go anywhere. I said as much to His Highness. It’s not like a shoot in Scotland, I said—I had some very good shooting there last year with Lord Kilcrankie—when everyone knows what they’re doing. Anything could happen! Well, I think he took my point, and that’s why he stayed away. Just as well, we wouldn’t have wanted him getting mixed up in this kind of thing, would we? Would we?’ he asked the Mudir suddenly.

  The Mudir, too, began to shake uncontrollably.

  ‘No,’ he managed to get out at last.

  ‘Of course, we had to have the shoot, though,’ said the prince, as they were walking away. ‘The Russians were absolutely insistent on it.’

  They returned to the terrace.

  ‘He’s quite satisfied,’ Prince Fuad informed the Russian Consul. ‘Definitely an accident.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said the Consul.

  ‘What else could it be?’ asked the Financial Adviser.

 
***

  Owen made one last effort.

  ‘What about the guns? Oughtn’t we to call them in? Then the bullet could be checked against the guns to find out which—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary!’ interrupted Prince Fuad.

  ‘Indeed not!’ cried the Russian Consul. ‘Think of the embarrassment it could cause!’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘It was obviously an accident. What’s the point of apportioning blame?’

  The Mudir was only too anxious not to apportion blame. He took Tvardovsky’s name and a few particulars from the Russian Consul and then made tracks as fast as he possibly could.

  ***

  The incident, though unfortunate, might well have been forgotten had it not been for an unusual feature of the legal system. Under the Egyptian legal code, which was modelled on the French one, investigation of a potential crime was the responsibility not of the police but of the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, as it was known. The police would notify the Parquet of the circumstances and the Parquet would then decide whether they merited formal investigation, in which event a Parquet officer would be assigned to the case.

  In the provinces the system was slightly different. The police came under the local governor, the Mudir, as he was called, and it was he who had the formal responsibility of notifying the Parquet when a crime was suspected.

  The Mudir had, then, notified the Parquet of Tvardovsky’s death. Strictly speaking—or, rather, loosely speaking, which was the way more normal in the provinces—no notification was required as the death was the result of an accident. However, as the Mudir himself had remarked, the death of an effendi was different and it had loomed sufficiently large in his mind for him to include it in a report. The Parquet officer who had read the report had written back requesting further details. When these did not satisfy him, he announced that he was opening a formal investigation.

  ‘Of course,’ said the British Consul-General’s aide-de-camp, as he and Owen were walking into the hastily summoned meeting together, ‘it would have to be Mahmoud!’

  In a country which tended to take a relaxed view of the conduct of business, Mahmoud El Zaki was an exception; although if you had said so he would have taken umbrage. He resented slights on his country. In private, however, he had to admit there was some truth in the charge; and, therefore, to make up for any deficiency he always worked with twice the zeal of anyone else.