The Fig Tree Murder. Michael Pearce
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HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1997
Copyright © Michael Pearce 1996
Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
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Source ISBN: 9780008259365
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2017 ISBN: 9780007485451
Version: 2017-09-05
This series continues to be the most delightful in current detective fiction’
GERALD KAUFMAN, Scotsman
‘Pearce … takes apart ancient history and reassembles it with beguiling wit and colour’
JOHN COLEMAN, Sunday Times
‘Irresistible fun’
Time Out
‘The Mamur Zapt’s sly, irreverent humour continues to refresh the parts others seldom reach’
Observer
Contents
‘It’s called the Tree of the Virgin,’ said McPhee.
‘Virgin?’ said Owen.
‘After the Holy Mother,’ said McPhee severely.
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a sycamore, actually. Not, of course, a sycamore as we know it. Our sycamore is a sort of maple. The Egyptian sycamore is a species of fig.’
‘Fascinating!’
He glanced at his watch.
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me—’
‘You will call in on it?’
‘I certainly will.’
He certainly wouldn’t. For he was going to Heliopolis and getting there was difficult enough anyway. The new ‘city’ was five miles north of Cairo and beyond the reach of trams. A road was being built from the British barracks at Abbasiya but was not completed yet. Even if it had been, there would still have been problems. Arabeah, the city’s universal horse-drawn cab? Five miles? In this heat? The Effendi must be mocking. That left Cairo’s normal mode of transport, the donkey. Owen was not enthusiastic.
Consulted, McPhee had suggested the new electric railway.
‘It’s not finished yet.’
‘It’s out to Matariya. You wouldn’t have far to walk. Why don’t you ask them if they’ve got a buggy going out to the end of the line?’
‘Buggy?’ said the man at the Pont de Limoun. ‘Of course. Effendi! At once!’
Well, not quite at once. Second thoughts crossed the man’s face.
‘Tomorrow, that is. Bokra. Yes, tomorrow, definitely!’
‘Why not this afternoon?’
‘Impossible, Effendi. Some difficulties at the end of the line. Something to do with an ostrich, I believe.’
Owen shrugged and turned away.
A moment later the man came running after him.
‘Effendi! Effendi! A thousand pardons! I had not realized that you were the Mamur Zapt!’
Another man, more senior, was rushing after him.
‘A