Death of an Effendi. Michael Pearce
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.
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