The Face in the Cemetery Read online

  Not quite alone, in fact; with Owen, and also with the Cat Woman squatting down on her heels against the wall.

  Hanafi caved in at once.

  ‘I was the man who went between, yes,’ he said, head bowed. ‘The mudir came to me one day and said: “You live out in the sugar cane. I want you to take a message for me.” But when I heard who the message was for, I said: “No, no, these are bad men. They will kill me.” “They will not kill you,” said the mudir, “they will reward you.” But still I would not go. But then the mudir said: “I know how it is with you. You need money, and then you can go to some other place where things will be better; Cairo, perhaps, or Alexandria. For that you need money. If you do what I say, you will be given money. And all I ask is that from time to time you carry a message.”

  ‘Well, I thought about it, I thought long and hard. It was true I needed money. I could see no other way of getting away from this place. My family…they would not be so bad if we were in another place, a bigger place, where there were more people, where they would not be all.

  ‘We had to get away. Things were becoming harder all the time. For her. I could see it, I knew it. We had to get away. I had brought her to this place, it was I who had done this to her. I had to do something. And all it was, was taking a message. So in the end I took the message.’

  ‘And other messages.’

  ‘And other messages, yes.’

  ‘And did you get paid?’

  ‘Not enough. Not enough to be able to leave this place.’

  ‘The mudir would give you the message, you would come back here to the factory. And then?’

  ‘I would wait for her,’ said Hanafi, looking nervously towards the Cat Woman.

  She gave a little, mirthless smile.

  ‘How did you know when to come?’ Mahmoud asked her.

  ‘He would tie a cloth to a tree,’ said the woman, ‘and I would see it on my way back from the village. I came to the village often.’

  ‘To steal?’

  ‘That is so,’ she agreed.

  ‘And then she would guide you?’ Mahmoud said to Hanafi.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you know where to find them?’ Mahmoud asked the woman.

  She shrugged.

  ‘Are you with them?’

  ‘No, I go my way, they go theirs. But I know where to find them.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’ Mahmoud said to Hanafi.

  ‘They move all the time.’

  ‘So you contacted her. How did you do that? The first time?’

  ‘There were people in the village.’

  ‘They would put out food for me,’ said the Cat Woman.

  ‘I knew that she knew the sugar cane,’ said Hanafi, ‘and would be able to find the brigands.’

  ‘And so, with her help, you went between the mudir and the brigands,’ Mahmoud said to Hanafi, ‘and took their messages. You will say this in a court of law?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hanafi quietly.

  ‘Good. Another time I shall ask you about the messages. But now there is something else I wish to ask you about. You know, I think, what it is.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hanafi.

  ‘Shall I help you? You wished to get away and could not. You were tied to this place. And she was tied to you, and you to her. And your family knew this, and could see only one way out.’

  ‘No!’ said Hanafi. ‘No! It is not true what you are saying!’

  ‘Did not your mother buy the poison?’

  ***

  ‘It is true that she bought poison,’ whispered Hanafi, after a moment. ‘But that was for the cats. It was not for my wife. How could it be? They had lived long together in one house without harming each other. Why should one suddenly wish to kill the other?’

  ‘I can think of many reasons,’ said Mahmoud. ‘First, although they had lived long together, they had not lived well together. Second, a mother is always jealous for her son and if she feels a wife is harming her son, she may feel wrath towards her. Your wife had borne you no son. Doubtless your mother urged you to set her aside or marry another woman, and, doubtless, too, you refused. So what was to be done? Third, you had chosen your wife from another people, whose ways were not as your ways. Between your wife and your mother there was argument. She did not own your mother’s authority in the way that she felt she should. Well, I can think of other reasons, but these are enough.’

  ‘They are not enough. My mother would not have done it. It is true that they did not live well together, that there was difference and much argument. True, yes, that we had no child and that my family wished me to divorce her. But all this was nothing if I deemed it so.’

  ‘Now, is that true?’ said Mahmoud quietly.

  ‘Yes!’ said Hanafi defiantly. ‘I am the eldest son and in the household it is as I command.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Mahmoud, shaking his head.

  Hanafi flushed.

  ‘It is so!’ he insisted.

  ‘I think not.’

  The Cat Woman laughed.

  Hanafi looked at her angrily.

  ‘Your mother, I think, gives the word in the household,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘On small things: on the day-to-day of the household, yes. But not on big things. Over the piano, for instance—there I commanded. And it was so on this. She does not go against my word.’

  ‘But in that case,’ said Mahmoud, ‘you have to explain how it is that she did go against your word.’

  Hanafi stood gasping like a fish.

  ‘She was seen,’ said Owen, ‘with the bandages.’

  ‘Or perhaps,’ said Mahmoud, ‘she didn’t go against your word?’

  ***

  Hanafi stood there for a long time. Out in the middle of the yard, the heat was intense. The Cat Woman crouched by the wall. Like a coiled spring, Owen thought suddenly. He moved round to where he could intercept her. Schneider had come to the door of the factory and stood watching them curiously.

  ‘It was not like that,’ said Hanafi at last.

  ‘What was it like, then?’

  ‘One day I came home from the factory,’ said Hanafi. He was almost inaudible, ‘and found her sick. She was crying. She said she was a burden to me, and that there was no way out, that our attempt to make a life together had failed, and that she was only making things worse for me. And so she had tried to end it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By taking poison. There were some pills I took when I had headaches. She thought if she took enough of them then that would do it. But it didn’t. And then she took something else which made her feel sick. But sick only, nothing more.

  ‘And I said: “God be praised!” But she said, no, there was no other way and, and that she would try again. I remonstrated with her, I pleaded with her, I spoke of us and all we had meant to each other. But she wept and said it was of no use, that we had tried to be together but that the world would not have it so, that the world was too strong for us.

  ‘I argued with her, of course I argued with her. Again and again. But I could not reach her. Always in the past, when she had been depressed, I had been able to reach her, but this time I could not.

  ‘And I knew she would do it. She was always stronger than I was. So I said: “You shall not do this alone. If we cannot live together, at least we can die together.” At first she would not have it. This time it was she who argued. But for once I was firm.’

  ‘And?’ said Mahmoud.

  Hanafi swallowed.

  ‘I spoke to my mother. I said: “She has decided to end it.” And I told my mother to get poison and put it in her bowl. Only in her bowl, for I knew that if I told my mother it was for both of us, she would not do it. But I meant to see that I took it too.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She did as I commanded. And got
the poison and one day she put it in the food. And Hilde ate.’

  ‘But you did not?’

  ‘I did eat!’ said Hanafi brokenly. ‘But not enough. I saw her suffering and rushed to her. I could not bear to see her suffer. And then I tried to eat the rest but my mother took away the bowl and would not give it to me.’

  ‘So she died,’ said Mahmoud, ‘and you did not.’

  ‘I did not mean it so. I would not have had it so. I looked for some other means to kill myself but my brothers held me. And then I fell into a daze. I could not think or speak. I lay as one dead. I lay like that for hours.’

  ‘And meanwhile your mother saw to it all?’

  ‘Not in the way I would have wanted,’ said Hanafi hoarsely.

  ‘The bandages?’

  Hanafi nodded.

  ‘And the place,’ he said. ‘She should have lain with her own people.’

  ‘She should not have lain alone,’ said the Cat Woman.

  ‘I should have died,’ said Hanafi, sobbing. ‘I wished to.’

  ***

  They took Hanafi back with them to Minya. At the mudiriya they got out and Owen handed Hanafi over to the friendly constable he had met on the waterfront.

  Then they went in to see the mudir.

  ‘You?’ he said, his eyes almost starting out of his head when he saw Owen. ‘You?’

  Mahmoud hustled the mamur in at the door.

  ‘You stupid bastard!’ roared the mudir. ‘You’ve got it wrong!’

  ‘He certainly has,’ said Owen. ‘And so have you.’

  ‘This man said he had lost you,’ said the mudir, with a swift attempt at recovery. “Lost!” I said. I don’t mind telling you, Effendi, I hit the roof. “Lost!” I said. “You can’t lose an effendi! Least of all, the Mamur Zapt!”’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Owen.

  ‘This foolish fellow! But, Effendi, don’t judge him too harshly. He’s hopeless in the sugar cane.’

  ‘That’s right, boss,’ said the mamur hastily. ‘Don’t know my ass from my tits.’

  ‘An accident,’ said the mudir. ‘Pure accident! I was going to send out a search party. We had just spoken about it, hadn’t we?’

  ‘That’s right, boss.’

  ‘“Get on to it straightaway!” I said. “Or else—”’

  ‘“—you’ll feel the toe of my boot,”’ said the mamur mechanically.

  ‘That’s it!’ said the mudir, beaming. ‘Effendi, how can I express—’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Owen. ‘We know all.’

  ‘We have Hanafi,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘Hanafi!’ said the mudir, his beam fading. ‘A man of no account—’

  ‘And therefore fit for your purpose,’ said Owen. ‘He went between you and the brigands; and you could always disown him if he got caught. Did he carry the money too?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘The money the brigands gave you for the guns.’

  ‘Effendi, I told you there were no guns—’

  ‘I have seen them. And been on the wrong end of them.’

  ‘Effendi—’

  ‘I know how they were picked up from the end of the jetty. I know, too, how the notes that went with the delivery were switched. And I know, too, who at the other end, in the Ministry, drew them up. I have writing in his hand. It matches the writing on the false consignment note. You did this together, as you had always done things together. But as always the first idea came from him. When Fricker Effendi presented his report he saw very quickly how it could be turned to advantage. Monetary advantage. For you and for him.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kitchener was not coming back.

  As always, the Mamur Zapt, Head of the Khedive’s Secret Police and one who moved in the highest of places, was the last to hear it. The news was halfway round the bazaars by the time it reached the British Administration and even then it reached Owen only via Zeinab.

  ‘Have you heard?’ she said excitedly as he came through the door. ‘Al-Lurd is going.’

  Owen did not think this was likely.

  ‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘He is to join the cabinet of the King’s favourites.’ ‘Cabinet’ was not quite the same as Cabinet and His Majesty’s Ministers would hardly designate themselves as the King’s favourites; nevertheless, this began to sound more plausible.

  ‘In what capacity?’ asked Owen cautiously.

  ‘He is to command all the King’s armies.’

  ‘Secretary for War?’

  ‘War, certainly. I don’t know about Secretary. I think he’s higher than that.’

  Even then Owen was not entirely convinced.

  ‘Where did you hear this?’

  ‘Leila told me. Fawzi was there and she had heard it too. And then Nazli came in—’

  There could no longer be any doubt.

  The British Consul-General, the man who had been the real ruler of Egypt, had gone.

  ***

  Cairo was buzzing with the news. The next morning, as soon as he stepped out on to the street, the water seller accosted him with it. The people buying newspapers at the kiosk were talking about it. The old lady who sold oranges from a heap in the road called it out to him as he passed, the donkey-boys squatting round the large tray of a pavement café looked up at him and asked his views.

  Arabeah drivers at a nearby rank clustered round him and asked what difference it would make to Egypt, and the policeman on traffic duty held up the traffic—which at that hour in the morning amounted only to a surprised water-cart spraying the sand to keep the dust down and two camels carrying firewood to the hotels, which ignored him anyway—to discuss it with him.

  At the tables outside the cafés it was being bandied around among the office effendis taking their early-morning coffee; and when he entered the orderly room at the Bab-el-Khalk it was the first thing the orderlies said:

  ‘What about this, then, Effendi?’

  At the bar in the Sporting Club that lunch-time it was the sole topic of conversation.

  ‘Just when I’d got him trained,’ complained Paul. ‘How could they do a thing like this without consulting me?’

  It hung in the air at every meeting; and this was particularly true of the meeting he attended late that afternoon.

  It was the first meeting of the committee that Cavendish had spoken about and which he had now set up. It included, as well as Cavendish himself and Owen, Paul, representing the British Administration, two staff officers from the Army, and also two archaeologists, one of whom Owen did not know but who appeared to have done a lot of travelling in Mesopotamia, the other, the bumptious Lawrence. Owen did not think they were there because of Cavendish’s interest in archaeology.

  When Owen arrived, they were talking about the imminent entry into the war, on the German side, of Turkey, which they all seemed to take for granted. What was worrying the Army was the possibility that Turkey might take advantage of Kitchener’s departure and time its declaration of war to coincide with an invasion across the Suez Canal.

  ‘But surely you’re prepared?’ said Paul.

  ‘Of course we’re prepared!’ snapped one of the officers. ‘But is everyone else?’

  ‘What kinds of civil preparation are you thinking of?’

  ‘Well, the disarmament of the population, for a start.’

  ‘Daggers? Clubs?’

  ‘Guns,’ said the other officer. ‘If what we hear is true.’

  ‘What do you hear?’

  ‘That there’s an illicit native army operating behind our lines.’

  ‘I think you can discount that possibility,’ said Owen.

  ‘But can we? Are you sure?’

  ‘Captain Owen has been looking into this very matter,’ said Cavendish.

  ‘So we understand. But how f
ar has he got?’

  ‘There is no army,’ said Owen.

  ‘But there has been a considerable leakage of guns?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is very worrying.’

  ‘Not very. But it is part of a wider picture that has been causing me some concern.’

  He told them about the issuing of guns to the ghaffirs.

  ‘Ghaffirs?’ said one of the officers incredulously.

  ‘Guns?’ said the other officer. ‘New service rifles?’

  ‘What sort of numbers are we talking about?’ asked the archaeologist whom Owen did not know.

  ‘Ghaffirs. Fifty thousand. Not that many guns yet.’

  ‘Fifty thousand! Bloody hell!’ said the officers simultaneously.

  ‘I agree that it is cause for concern,’ said Owen, ‘and therefore I have some proposals to put before you. I think we should call the guns in.’

  ‘Too bloody right!’

  ‘Fifty thousand!’

  ‘It would mean overruling the Minister,’ said Paul.

  ‘Well, isn’t that unfortunate!’

  ‘Look, there’s a war on, isn’t there?’

  ‘I can see Mr Trevelyan’s point,’ said Cavendish thoughtfully. ‘It would draw attention to the ambiguity of the British position in Egypt. Which might not be a good idea just at the moment.’

  ‘And therefore I am suggesting that the call-in takes a particular form,’ said Owen, ‘one that will not require us to overrule the Minister or even change policy. The Ministry accepts that a number of guns have gone missing. What I suggest is that, in order to establish exactly how many, we require all the guns that have so far been issued to be checked in at local control points. Since the Ministry bears some of the responsibility for the loss of the guns, it can hardly object.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘The guns will be held until the process of checking and counting is completed.’