The Face in the Cemetery. Michael Pearce
‘A German, actually.’
‘A German!’
‘Yes. McKitterick thinks very highly of him.’
‘German! But, Owen, we are at war! Are you seriously telling me that we are allowing an independent army, fifty thousand strong, to roam the countryside under the command of a German?!’
Despite Owen’s attempts to straighten him out, over the next few days McPhee kept returning to the matter.
‘Yes, I know, Owen. I realize that, strictly speaking, he was not in charge. But, surely, it is very likely that, having written the report, and it having been received in such glowing terms, he would be given responsibility for implementing it. And if he was responsible for implementing it, then –
‘Yes, I realize that even if he was given responsibility for implementing it, he wouldn’t be able to do anything now because he is in an internment camp. But there may be others in the Ministry – the Minister himself –
‘No, I am not bonkers! Look, the report was accepted, wasn’t it? And implemented. That means there must be support for it inside the Ministry. I really do feel –’
Then one morning he stuck his head triumphantly in at the door.
‘Owen, I have been looking at the Departmental Handbook, and do you know how many Germans there are in senior posts in the Ministry of the Interior?’
‘No.’
‘Six!’
McPhee came right into the room.
‘Doesn’t that say something about the Minister’s sympathies? Six! How do you explain that?’
It was, in fact, a little on the high side for a single Ministry. There were plenty of foreigners scattered around the Ministries, but not usually such a concentration of one nationality.
‘Owen, I really do feel –’
McKitterick came into the bar, ordered a beer, collected a newspaper from the rack and then went and sat down by himself. Owen gave it a moment or two and then went across.
‘I read that report,’ he said. ‘The one your man did on the ghaffirs. You’re right. It was a good piece of work.’
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ McKitterick nodded him into the chair opposite. ‘Went into everything. We were able to implement it pretty much as it stood.’
‘No one asked any questions? Apart from me?’
McKitterick smiled.
‘No one. Apart from you.’
‘Ah, well. Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’ He took a sip from his glass. ‘You were able to get straight on with it, then?’
‘Yes. And just as well we did. This internment thing is hitting us pretty hard.’
‘I’m sure. You’ve had rather a number of posts affected, haven’t you?’
‘Six’.
McKitterick looked at him.
‘Is that another thing that’s bothering you?’
‘Not any more,’ said Owen, smiling amiably.
McKitterick drained his glass.
‘Germans are damned efficient,’ he said. ‘They know what they’re doing and they work hard. They’ve given themselves to this country and worked their guts out for it. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s all there is to it.’
And that, thought Owen, would have been the Khedive’s view, too. Desperate to modernize Egypt’s creaking medieval systems, he had recruited far and wide, believing that this was the quickest way of gaining access to the technical and management know-how that more developed countries possessed. The result was that his administration was one of the most international in the world, employing experts of almost every nationality, some drawn to Egypt by the lure of higher pay, others simply by the satisfaction of helping to put a developing country on its feet.
For the most part they worked together harmoniously; and now he was extremely angry that a particular group of people in his service should be singled out by the British in this way. They were his servants, not Britain’s; and, like McKitterick, as far as he was concerned, if they served him with efficiency and loyalty, that should have been that.
But on this, as on most things, there was little he could do if the British wished it otherwise. Partly in recognition of this, he had just taken himself off in high dudgeon to Constantinople.
In Owen’s mail the next day was yet another communication from the Parquet. This time it was a copy of the mamur at Minya’s response to the Parquet letter. Clearly taken aback by the speed of the Parquet’s reply, and sensing that it implied an importance to the case which he had hitherto not suspected, he had himself responded with unusual celerity.
He listed, as requested, various instances of damage to the walls of the grave, which he attributed to ‘Mustapha’s foot’, and confessed to the disturbance and displacement of sundry feline corpses, which had come about in the course of the removal of the woman’s body. Otherwise, God be praised, the site was essentially ‘as Pharaoh left it’.
As for the woman herself, the cause of death, according to the hakim, was poisoning by arsenic. After deliberation and much consultation with the husband, the husband’s family, and the village at large, the mamur had come to the conclusion that the poison had been self-administered. The woman had always been the odd one out.
The Parquet official had written ‘Noted’ on the letter and then, in bold, triumphant script: ‘Case closed’.
Moved to wrath, Owen wrote back inquiring how, if it was a case of suicide, the mamur could be so confident that the woman had lingered long enough to bandage herself tightly from head to foot, take herself to the grave, and climb in.
Paul rang up to propose a game of tennis.
‘It’ll have to be singles,’ he said, ‘now that John and Peter have gone.’
John had left with the regiment a couple of days ago. Peter, who was with another regiment, had gone the week before. Cairo seemed to be emptying.
They met that afternoon, about five, when the heat had gone out of the sun, played a couple of sets and then went to the bar. The bar was almost empty. What people there were at the Gezira were not playing golf or tennis. Owen wondered what they would do for cricket now that the regiments were gone.
‘They’ll be all right when the Australians come,’ said Paul.
‘They’re definitely coming, are they?’
‘Oh, yes. And soon. The Sirdar won’t release his regiments until he’s sure of replacements. Not with the Turks on the Canal.’
The other side of the Suez Canal was Ottoman ground and for some time there had been rumours of an increasing concentration of troops on that side. Turkey had not yet come into the war and whose side it would come in on was still in doubt. Not that of the British, most people suspected.
Owen told Paul that he had been thinking about his own position.
‘They need experienced officers,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the experience. It seems wrong not to use it.’
‘I’ve been wondering the same thing,’ said Paul. ‘Not that I’ve had your training or experience, of course. Still, I’ve been wondering whether I ought to volunteer. I’ve got so far as to think I’ll have a word with Kitchener when he gets back.’
‘You might have a word with him about me, too.’
‘I will. But do you know what I think he’s going to say to me? “You’re more use here,” that’s what he’ll say.’
He looked at Owen.
‘And