Ishaq looked up at last. “I think Lieutenant Lovat was sickened by the fire as well,” he observed, his voice quite level now. “It wasn’t long after that when he got ill. Fever of some sort, they said. Seemed to be a bit of it in the camp. He was shipped home. Never saw him again.”
“Did his friends stay?” Pitt asked.
“No,” Ishaq replied softly. “They all went, for different reasons. Don’t know what happened to them. Sent somewhere else, I expect. The British Empire is very big. Perhaps India? They can sail past Suez and down that new canal to half the earth, can’t they.” That was a statement, not a question. There was no lift in his voice to imply doubt.
“Yes,” Pitt murmured, hoping profoundly that he would find at least one of them in London, not have to conduct questions by telegraph through some deputed official. And Ishaq was right-half the world was accessible to Britain through that genius of negotiation and engineering, the Suez Canal. Thinking of the critical importance of it to the economy and the rule of law to the entire empire, and all that meant, it was inconceivable that Britain could ever give back complete autonomy to Egypt. Cotton was only a tiny part of it. How had Ayesha Zakhari ever imagined she could succeed? The hostage of economic dependence was far too precious to yield.
Pitt felt a weight of darkness descend on him as if he were trying to untangle an impenetrable knot, and every thread he pulled only bound it tighter.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said aloud, inclining his head to Ishaq. “Your food and your conversation have both enriched me. I am in your debt.”
Ishaq was pleased; the evidence of it was something indefinable in his expression, the angle of his body, now only dimly seen in the waning candlelight.
They stayed only a few minutes longer, then left with repeated thanks.
Back on the path by the water’s edge, the surface now a pale glimmer reflecting no more than the odd ripple of starlight, it was difficult to see where they were going, and Pitt realized how tired he was. His body ached not only from sitting on the ground but from the bruises gained in the incident in the carpet bazaar, and his head pounded from being hit by the police. Now, more than anything else at all, even a perfect solution to Lovat’s death which would exonerate both Ryerson and Ayesha, he wanted to lie down on something soft and sink into a long, profound sleep.
He followed Avram, almost as much by sound of footfall on the dry earth as by sight, for another mile at least, before just about bumping into him when they came to a large solitary hut well away from the water. They were offered hospitality, at a price Avram paid on the promise from Pitt that he would yield up his share when they returned to Alexandria and San Stefano. At the rate he was spending, Pitt would be obliged to ask Trenchard to forward him more funds, and reclaim them from the consulate, and eventually from Narraway.
THE NEXT MORNING was cooler than before. It had a luminous, silvery clarity away from the city, and lying between the vast inland water to the south of Alexandria, and the Mahmudiya Canal leading towards the Nile itself, the reflections of light early in the day were of extraordinary beauty. The dark silhouette of camels with their silent, lurching gait was more like a dream than a reality.
Today Pitt would go to the military authorities of the post where Lovat had served. After a breakfast of fruit, dates, bread, and thick black coffee which came in a cup barely larger than a thimble, he set off. Avram accompanied him, although this time his presence was unnecessary. Pitt had the strong feeling he came largely in order not to allow Pitt the chance of escaping without fulfilling his financial obligations. Avram would not have put it so insultingly, but he was caring for his investment.
It took nearly an hour of argument and abrasive persuasion before Pitt found himself with a thin, mahogany-skinned officer of very apparent short temper and dislike of curious civilians. They stood side by side on a small shaded veranda looking onto the sun-baked drill yard. Another soldier had been left outside to wait.
“Special Branch?” Colonel Margason said with distaste. “Some kind of special police. Good God! What is the world coming to? Never thought London would stoop to that.” He glared at Pitt. “Well, what do you want? I don’t know any scandal about anyone, and if I did I should deal with it to a man’s face, not go whispering about it behind his back.”
Pitt was tired, aching, and covered with mosquito bites. There was hardly a part of him which did not hurt in one way or another.
“Then if I am unfortunate enough to be detailed to catch a spy in your command, I shall know not to expect any help from you… sir,” he said testily, and saw Margason flush with annoyance. “However,” he went on, “it is on behalf of a man murdered in London that I am enquiring. His death appears to have an Egyptian connection, and the only one we are aware of is his service at this post, some twelve years ago. It would be pleasant to be able to clear his character of any slurs that his defense in court may come up with, as soon as they are made, rather than simply denying them blindly, which too often is not believed.”
Margason grunted. Dislike was set even harder between them, but Pitt’s argument was undeniable, and whatever he felt about Pitt, he would defend the honor of his regiment. “What was his name?” he demanded.
“Edwin Lovat,” Pitt replied, sitting down carefully on one of the chairs, as if he intended to remain as long as was necessary to get all he wanted, to the last word. Actually, the seat was hard and not particularly comfortable. It caught him in exactly the same places as the ground had yesterday evening, not to mention where he had slept on a straw palliasse through the night.
“Lovat,” Margason repeated thoughtfully, and still standing. “Before my time in command, but I’ll see what I can do. General Garrick was in charge then. Gone home. Find him in London, I imagine.” He smiled sarcastically. “Could have saved yourself a journey. Or didn’t you think of looking at any records? Heaven help Special Branch if you’re typical.”
“We do not take one man’s opinion, unsubstantiated, Colonel Margason,” Pitt said as levelly as he could. “Nor are we relying on military information alone. The man was murdered in extraordinary circumstances, and a senior minister in the government is implicated. We cannot afford to leave any possibility unexamined.”
Margason grunted again, and kept his eyes on the bare, foot-pounded yard with its surrounding sand and earth-colored buildings. “Don’t read that type of thing in the newspapers. Haven’t got time. More to do out here.” He grunted a little at the blazing sun outside. “Lot of unrest. More than they think in London, sitting in their offices. One really bad incident and it could all blow.”
“I’ve seen it,” Pitt agreed. “Nasty incident in the carpet bazaar yesterday. English officer fortunate not to be killed.”
Margason’s mouth pulled tight. “There’s bound to be. Gordon was murdered in Khartoum, and we still haven’t settled that. Damned Mahdi is dead, but that means little. Dervishes all over the place. Bloody madmen!” His voice trembled very slightly. “Kill the whole lot of us if we gave them the chance. And you come here asking about the reputation of one soldier who served in Alexandria twelve years ago and got himself killed in London. Good God, man, aren’t you competent to keep a damned cabinet minister out of it without coming traipsing out here to waste my time with questions?”
“I would waste less of it if you would tell me about Lovat,” Pitt replied. “Haven’t you got an officer who remembers him with more detail, and more honesty, than the written records of his service? The woman accused is someone he knew when he was here.”
“Really? He jilted her and she kept a grudge all those years? Remarkable. Did he rape her?” Margason sounded contemptuous, but not personally offended. Pitt was not even sure whether the man’s disgust was for Lovat or his victim.