I took out the tiny handkerchief-wrapped object, dropped into a squat on the floor, and opened the cloth parcel out on the floorboards. I picked up the little glass vase to examine it, rubbing the encrustations cautiously away, but the neck had a crack in it, and part of it came away in my fingers. A pity.
Still, it had spoken its message to me, even in pieces.
“This is a Roman phial, Holmes. Probably third or fourth century.”
“Yes?”
“So what was it doing among the rubbish being cleared from a Mediaeval bazaar?”
He sat down on his low pallet, a difficult manoeuvre while wearing rigid knee-high boots. “You are the historian here, Russell. What would you suggest it was doing there?”
I set the two pieces on the scrap of dirty linen and made myself comfortable on the floor. “This poor little thing was jerked forwards in time sixteen hundred years or so, and I should say it happened no earlier than the last couple of nights. Someone is clearing out an underground chamber.”
“Good. Oh, very good, Russell.”
I opened my mouth to begin the analysis of the someone’s character that I had constructed while I was working, but before I could say anything he stood up and pulled on his hat and belt.
“I shall have a car call for you at seven o’clock. It is now”—he patted his various pockets until he found the one he wanted, dipped in with his fingers, and brought out a silver watch on a chain—“three forty-five. That may even allow you time for a brief nap, although I suggest that you plan to devote considerable attention to the state of your fingernails.”
I held up my hands and looked at them. The nails were in a lamentable state, it was true, but if anything they added to the verisimilitude of my disguise.
“Why?”
“Because we are dining, of course,” he said in surprise, snapping his stick briskly under one arm. “At the American Colony. Not formal dress, of course. After all, there has been a war on.”
“Oh, no, Holmes, you can’t mean—”
He opened the door. “I left a frock in your room. If there is any other thing I’ve forgotten, ask Suleiman the cook to arrange it. I shall see you at seven.”
I did seriously consider an outright refusal of his peremptory summons; I wanted nothing but to strip off my turban and collapse onto my gently rustling bed. However, curiosity got the better of me—that and the challenge, which had not been voiced but which I knew had been made.
My fingernails, however, defeated me. In the end, after a hasty consultation of my Arab-English dictionary, I went through the room shared by Ali, Mahmoud, and most of our baggage (the men were not there; the door was unlocked) and called down the outside stairs to Suleiman the cook that I needed a pair of women’s gloves, quickly, and to send a boy out into the bazaar for them.
My hair, too, was in a sorry state, but I eventually combed it back into a sleek knot and examined myself critically in the mottled glass Holmes had brought to my cubicle along with frock, stockings, shoes, hairpins, earrings, and all the accoutrements of female preparation. He knew the routine, give him that: He’d even thought to include a small bottle of expensive scent, which I used rather more liberally than was my wont. Cold water does not actually cleanse.
Still, I thought I might pass, if I did not forget myself and drop to my haunches or let loose with a florid Arabic curse. The frock was of an outdated fashion, perhaps more appropriate here than in London, with a high neck, long sleeves, and low hem. It was a nicely made garment, in a dark maroon fabric with touches of white that clung and moved and distracted the eye from the tint of my skin, which no amount of rice powder would lighten.
I examined my reflection and had to wonder uneasily if Holmes had intended for me to look quite so … exotic. The young woman looking back at me seemed, shall I say, sensuous—loose, even, like some Eurasian temptress in a bad novel. On the whole, I thought perhaps the effect was accidental; had he been deliberately aiming at the effect, he would probably have included a bottle of hair-rinse to make my blonde hair colour seem artificial.
A selection of gloves arrived, and shortly thereafter Ali and Mahmoud came up the stairs. They stood in the doorway, frankly staring at me, but I absolutely refused to blush. Instead, I turned to them for their opinion.
“What do you think, the white gloves or the lacy ones?”
Ali just gawped. Mahmoud examined the two choices, and his lips twitched. I chose the long lacy ones, which, as they were more difficult to get on and off, might excusably be retained during dinner.
With no more self-consciousness than a pair of cats the two men watched me complete my toilette, tug the gloves into place, and check my hairpins. Finally Ali said, “There is a motorcar in the road.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” I asked in irritation, catching up the evening cloak and pushing past them to reach the external stairway—it was dark now, and outside there would be less chance of observers to remark on the inn’s bizarre guest. I was picking my cautious way down the stairs when I heard Mahmoud’s voice from above me.
“Is your hair the colour that is called ’strawberry blonde?” he asked.
I stopped. “I suppose so,” I answered. When no other enquiries followed, I shrugged my shoulders and continued down the stairs, but before I reached the cobbles, a strange noise filled the dirty little yard: a man’s voice, a tenor, singing. It took a moment for the words to register, by which time a second voice, a baritone, had joined in. “I danced with the girl with the strawberry curls,’” they sang, “‘and the band played on.…’” The old tune followed me out the gates, and as I was being handed into the car by the driver the words dissolved into laughter. I shook my head. It was like living with a pair of adolescent boys. And Holmes was at times no better.
We drove out through the gap in the city wall next to the Jaffa Gate, the hole cut in 1898 to enable the Kaiser to ride his white horse into the city. I had seen a photograph somewhere of the occasion, the German emperor dressed in white silk, preceded by brass bands and Arab horsemen, with his ladies following behind in the comfort of their touring car. Once inside, of course, there would have been no place for the motorcar or the bands to go—our inn was at the very farthest reaches of automotive traffic, short of a motorcycle, in this labyrinthine city. Symbolism, however, especially in Jerusalem, is all—which explained as well the contrasting entrance Allenby had chosen to make nineteen years later when he seized the city from the Kaiser’s allies. The general walked up the hill in his dusty boots, surrounded by men in the same battle-worn khaki uniforms as himself, all pageantry aside as he addressed himself to the gathered representatives of the city before returning to the business of freeing the remainder of Palestine. Symbolism, indeed.
The American Colony, north of the Old City, was precisely what it sounded like: a family of Americans who had come over in the 1880s and stayed to do good work through increasingly evil times. Their main house, originally built by a Turkish pasha for his several wives, was a two-storey stone block surrounding a private courtyard garden, strongly Eastern in its character. The night was cold; nonetheless I surrendered my cloak and followed a young man, who despite his accent and skin tone seemed more family than servant, through rooms that combined the high, airy arches of the Orient with the heavy furniture and grass-plumes-in-brass-pots motif of Victorian decorating, into the courtyard that sparkled with hanging lamps and glowing braziers, made even more festive by the delicate play of a fountain. My hostess quite obviously had no idea who I was, but received me graciously and introduced me to all the men nearby. And most of the people in the garden were men, many of them officers with red tags marking them as being on the staff of General Allenby, with a very few wives and not one unattached woman other than the daughters of the house and myself. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he would appear at all, or if I was to be abandoned here to my own resources, having no idea whatsoever why I was here or what I was to do, and feeling fairly certain that my host
s were asking each other the same questions about this unescorted and slightly dubious young woman they had in their midst. I had to pull myself together and make a good show of it, but it was impossible not to feel uncomfortable. I cursed to myself, and resolved to give Holmes hell when he finally appeared to rescue me.
My sour reflections were broken into by a handsome young cavalry officer who came to stand in front of me and ask, “May I refresh your glass, Miss Russell?”
“I beg your pardon?”
His confident moustache seemed to droop a bit at my response. “Er, your glass? I wondered if you might not care for another drop. Perhaps, well, there are other things to drink. If you like, that is.”
I took a deep breath, exhaled, put my problems to one side, lowered my chin, and raised my eyes to his. “I’d adore another refreshment,” I purred at him, and watched his pink face turn pinker and his moustache positively bristle with pleasure.
The glass he brought back might not have qualified as strong drink, precisely, but at least it was neither sweet nor fruity. I swallowed, and decided that if I had to play the role dictated by this dress and the extreme earrings Holmes had left for me, I was going to do it with all my heart. If Holmes wanted a nineteen-year-old not-quite-a-lady, that is exactly what he would get.
When Holmes finally arrived, ten minutes before the dinner bell, it would have been difficult to say which of us was the more taken aback at the other’s companions: Holmes took in my collection of handsome and attentive young officers with a sharply raised eyebrow, and I finally felt myself blush under the glance of the man at his side. Neither of the new arrivals greeted me, which on Holmes’ part I took to mean that I was not supposed to know him. His companion simply did not recognise me.
The two newcomers were taken the rounds by our pleased hostess, introduced by rank to those they did not know (of course, Holmes knew very few of them, and none knew him) until they made it to my circle of junior officers, who stood so rigidly to attention that they might have been made of stone. The general’s permission to be at ease had little effect on their spines, or their tongues. The introductions finally came around to me.
“And this is Miss Mary Russell, General, a visitor here. Miss Russell, General Allenby.” On hearing my name the general’s brows flew up; our handshake was delayed by a ferocious bout of coughing which necessitated the application of a large handkerchief to the lower half of his face. A glass of water was brought, the general’s back was very tentatively patted, until eventually, eyes wet and dancing, he reached out and grasped my hand.
“Terribly sorry, Miss, er, Russell.” His face contorted as if he were stifling another spasm of coughing. “Dust, you know. Awfully dusty country.” Allenby was having a difficult time controlling his mouth, so I thought it only kind to turn to Holmes and proffer my dainty, lace-wrapped hand.
“This is Lieutenant-Colonel William Gillette,” our hostess hastened to say. “He is new here himself. Miss Mary Russell,” she said, sounding very uncertain of the meaning of all these odd undercurrents that were suddenly stirring the placid waters of her dinner party. Holmes bowed briefly over my hand.
“Delighted, I’m sure,” he murmured.
“Colonel.” I tipped my head a fraction.
“Pray don’t let me interrupt your conversation,” he said drily.
“Oh, no, please join us.”
“Perhaps later. I am told you have an interest in archaeology.”
“I do,” I said obediently. “An absolute passion for the subject.”
“Perhaps we may discuss it after dinner?”
“I shall look forward to the pleasure.”
“Thank you. Charming frock.” His eyes skimmed over me, perfectly in character. I felt the young men around me stir, though none of them could possibly object to the impertinence of a man wearing the uniform of a superior officer, and he knew it. I, however, was a girl buoyed by a roomful of admiring and admirable men, and I did not have to take it from him.
“What, this old thing?” I said with heavy emphasis, and quite deliberately ran my hand down my rib cage to my hip. “It’s scarcely decent.” His eyes went dark and he turned away abruptly. I tucked my hands through two nearby elbows and sparkled at my admirers. “Shall we have another little drink before dinner, boys?”
There were signs of a hasty rearrangement of places at the dinner table, and I found myself thoroughly closed in by men older than my junior officers. I toyed with the idea of continuing my flirtation, but only for a minute; it would have been cruel to my hostess. So, I allowed the high neck of my dress to be demure rather than provocative, and subsided into polite conversation.
To my right was an elderly and slightly deaf legal gentleman who slurped his soup and seemed quite unaware of the conventions of dinner talk, because he never did turn from the colleague on his right to speak with me. This left the gentleman on my other side with a double burden. Fortunately, the man across the table from me noticed my predicament, and made an effort to include me in his talk with his neighbours.
I had noticed the man earlier in the courtyard. He seemed to be a member of the family, although of very different ethnic inheritance, being Levantine in appearance. He was in his middle fifties, I thought, slightly younger than Holmes, calm and even tempered, the sort of man who listens carefully and whose remarks are invariably intelligent, even wise. He and his companion, the legal secretary Norman Bentwich (whose Camel Corps had been responsible for bringing the Nile waters of prophecy to Jerusalem) were talking about the projected building of a grand hotel in the New City, and with Holmes’ hint about archaeology in mind—his sole clue as to my direction of enquiry—I asked about the problems of disturbing archaeological sites in the preparation of building sites.
The man, understandably enough, seemed mildly taken aback at my question. “You are interested in building, or in archaeology, Miss—?”
“Russell. Oh, archaeology, definitely. I think had I been a man I should have liked nothing better than to spend my life grubbing about underground, excavating the lives of our ancestors and discovering tombs and tunnels and things.”
I had hooked him with my first cast. He reached out to shift a candlestick to one side so as to see me more clearly. “Not buried treasure, Miss Russell? That’s a much more usual interest among amateur archaeologists. Some of whom, may I say, are women.”
“Oh, yes? How interesting. But I’m not particularly concerned with gold and such. I much prefer the objects of daily life, bead necklaces and pots and carved stone kitchen gods and such. I found a tiny Roman perfume phial in the soil the other day—broken, of course, but so much more real than the jewels of the aristocracy.”
Everyone in Jerusalem, it soon became apparent, is passionate about the artefacts of the past, and we quickly had an active little discussion group going over the soup and the fish. Our hostess glanced down at us, relieved if a bit puzzled. Holmes, seated to General Allenby’s left, threw the occasional brooding look down to our end of the table. The subject flew south with a remark about the excavation of tombs in Egypt, but I ruthlessly dragged it home again.
“Tombs are so jolly, don’t you think?” I asked brightly. “I do so love dark and closed-in places. I should think there must be plenty of them hereabouts, come to think of it.”
“Well,” said the man to the left of the dark man, “you’ve certainly asked the right man about that. Jacob, tell her about your discovery of Hezekiah’s Tunnel.”
I hadn’t just caught a fish with my random cast; I’d struck gold. “You’re not that boy?”
“It was a very long time ago.”
“But you were that boy. You and your friend waded through the tunnel.”
“Swam through, more like. And I’m afraid Sampson was a broken reed—he became frightened of the darkness in the tunnel and ran back home. We were supposed to meet halfway, but he never appeared, and in the end I emerged down at the Pool of Siloam, completely terrifying the poor women doing their laundry
there when I came out of the hole. They thought I was an afreet; I was fortunate to get away with a few bruises.”
“I was just saying to—a friend the other day how I should love to go through Hezekiah’s Tunnel.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it appealing to a young lady, Miss Russell. It’s an extremely dirty and uncomfortable sort of adventure. Just the thing for a young boy.” The people near us who were listening chuckled, and I wondered briefly how he, and they, might react were I to describe how I had spent my day; however, I merely returned his smile. He added, “I found out later it’s actually a rather dangerous sort of stunt. The water at the Virgin’s Pool has a nasty habit of rising without warning and filling the tunnel to the top.”
“Are there many such tunnels in Jerusalem?”
“Tunnels like that, no. Most of the tunnels in the Old City are either much newer subterranean aqueducts, or buried chambers.”
“Aqueducts.”
“Such as the one Herod built to bring water from the reservoir at Bethlehem. Now, that’s quite an interesting engineering feat. Not as impressive as the Siloam tunnel, perhaps, but good solid work. Of course, most of it’s redundant now, with the new British pipes. What a godsend that has been. Why, last summer—”
“Are they empty?” I interrupted.
“Sorry?”
“The old underground aqueducts. Are they still flowing, or empty?”
He sat back and pursed his lips. “Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea. We all used to be so interested in that sort of thing, the whole town would come to see when something exciting was dug up, but somehow after the last few years, we just haven’t gotten back to it yet. It’s a bit like a hobby, you know, with the tourists looking on, but there just hasn’t been the time or the energy. It was very bad here, you know, towards the end.”
“So I understand.”
“Of course, we didn’t have bombs raining down on us as you had in London.” I had spent very little time in the city during the war, but I did not disabuse him of the picture.