O Jerusalem

FIVE

ج

And Joshua the son of Nun secretly sent two men out of Shittim as spies, saying, “Go and look over the land.”

—

JOSHUA 2:1

Beersheva, the place of oath, the settlement whence Abraham and Isaac set out on their ominous journey into the hill city of Jerusalem for the father’s willing sacrifice of his beloved son. Before the guns of August had broken into their ages-old way of life in 1914, the residents were only slightly more numerous than in the days when Hagar and Ishmael had been turned out into the wilderness, and only marginally more technological. Now the town was an uncomfortable mixture of dust-coloured hovels older than the hills, a couple of modern buildings constructed by the Turks to demonstrate their determination to retain this border outpost, and a number of brisk, efficient structures the incoming army had thrown up to house its personnel.

Our destination was an ancient inn at the southern end of town, a single-storey mud-brick establishment of numerous rooms leaning shoulder-to-shoulder around a central courtyard. The instant we came onto the premises a shouted conversation began between Ali (increasing my respect for the hardness of his skull) and several men who appeared from nowhere to seize our mules and lead them off.

Halfway through the courtyard, an older man emerged from a doorway and swept up to Mahmoud, kissing him three times on his cheek to welcome him. He then took Ali’s hand, clasping it briefly to his chest, and greeted Holmes and me with less familiarity but equal enthusiasm. We stood in a cluster for some minutes before he noticed that Ali was not his usual vigorous self, and on hearing of our mishap at the check-point, he threw up his hands in horror, bemoaning Ali’s mistreatment at the hands of those sons of dogs soldiers (or such was Holmes’ translation of the epithets) and examining the admittedly alarming knot concealed by Ali’s kujfiyah. At Mahmoud’s firm suggestion the landlord finally whisked his shaky guest off to a bed.

The shouting contest continued unabated even in Ali’s absence, touching down occasionally on Mahmoud, who would grunt a monosyllabic answer that seemed to make no discernible impression on the questioner. They ignored Holmes and me completely, but led us all cheerfully towards the back corner of the inn. We were ushered in, the flimsy door was shut carefully behind us, and I soon was given the opportunity to add to my vocabulary the words for various vermin, as well as a few expressive adjectives.

The door flew open, crashing off its primitive hinges, and half a dozen lads staggered in carrying all our possessions aside from the livestock, which when deposited on the floor left us with only one room to move in, a room currently occupied by the snoring Ali. Mahmoud caught one of the boys by the shoulder, pointed to the tent sprawling massively sodden across the floor, and told him to take it up and spread it on the roof to dry. Out went the roomful of damp, smoky, goaty hair; the cheerful voices retreated, and were heard from the open window, until finally thumps and footsteps overhead told of the task being carried out.

Next through the doorway came a meal, a platter heaped with rice and hunks of tough mutton (a change from the tough goat’s meat we had eaten most nights) and a stack of bread, with mugs of laban and bowls of dates and dried figs. The lads dribbled water over the fingertips of our right hands from a long-spouted pot, stood there talking over our heads for a while, and then went off, politely propping the door back in the doorway as they left. The three of us ate, making balls of meat and rice from the platter and tossing them back into our throats. I was gaining confidence at eating with my less dextrous right hand, but Mahmoud, long practised in the technique of eating without chewing, finished first. He wiped his greasy fingers on his robe, went to check on Ali, whose stentorian snoring never paused, and then came back.

“He sleeps,” he said unnecessarily. “You remain here; I will return.” He wrestled himself out the door and left.

Holmes and I looked at each other, wrapped ourselves in our abayyas, and went to sleep on top of the baggage.

Ali woke us late in the afternoon, complaining mightily of a sore head and grousing at the cold food he had to eat. (I shuddered at the little footprints on the platter and averted my eyes.) Before long Mahmoud swept in.

“One hour,” he pronounced. Ali immediately stood up, deposited the platter and empty bowls outside the doorway, and he and Mahmoud began to turn out and reorganise our possessions. Two cups, a bowl, and the smallest brass coffee-pot, its handle snapped off under Charlie’s boots, were set to one side, and everything else was bundled neatly into a surprisingly small pile. When the tent was carried in a short time later, smelling of sunshine, it too was reduced to a snug roll in the corner.

Holmes and I sat on our heels out of the way and watched.

Our house restored to order, Mahmoud reached for his sheepskin coat. We made haste to do the same, and followed him out of the door.

The early evening air was sharp with the smoke of cook fires and the day’s warmth was fast departing, as it always does in the desert. We walked in a leisurely fashion through the mud-brick town, past two wells busy with women and a mosque in a park, through a whirl of children playing what appeared to be an Arabic variation on cricket, and ignored by soldiers and glanced at by the native residents. Finally we entered a large and very new-looking cemetery—a military cemetery, full of the dead from Britain and Australia and New Zealand, men who had died ensuring that this, the southernmost town of the ancient Israelites, should be the first town prised from Turkish hands.

In the smoky gloom of dusk, we strolled to the end of the sad, neat little park, and then turned to retrace our steps. On our way into the cemetery we had avoided a canvas-sided army lorry that stood near the entrance—hardly surprising that Ali gave it a wide berth, as its driver was behind the wheel with a glowing cigarette. The only surprising thing was that we had not been intercepted and thrown out on our ears the instant we appeared, four untidy Arab natives daring to defile a British military cemetery. Indeed, as we approached the lorry a second time, coming closer to it in the near darkness, the driver’s door opened. I braced myself for a quick fade into the twilight, but to my relief, instead of abuse, the head that came out merely said, “You’re alone,” and withdrew.

The motor spluttered and roared into life, the driver’s door slammed shut, and we had barely time to tumble after Mahmoud up and into the back of the lorry before it was in gear and moving.

We stayed behind the canvas, though the back flap revealed the town fading behind us. The check-point on the Gaza road slowed us briefly, but the sentries did not bother to look in the back. Soon we were bouncing down the pitted road, clinging to the sides in an attempt to take the edge off the worst of the jolts. The night became colder and the road got no better, for what seemed a long time, after which we turned abruptly to the right, and the road grew worse.

Ten minutes of this, and the lorry dived into a pothole, gave an alarming crack from somewhere in front, and the engine died.

Convinced that we had broken some vital part of the machinery, I just sat. Ali and Mahmoud, however, struggled to their feet and dropped over the back. Holmes and I followed, straightening up slowly to allow our vertebrae to ease back into line.

“As the Irishman said when he was run out of town on a rail,” Holmes commented, sotto voce, “ ‘Were it not for the honour, I’d rather have walked.’ ”

“Are we there, then?” I asked.

“So it would seem.”

The headlamps of the lorry illuminated a heap of mud bricks topped with rusted sheets of corrugated iron that I should have taken for derelict but for the well-fitting door that opened on noiseless hinges at Ali’s touch. The moment we stepped inside, the lorry lamps went out. Mahmoud shut the door behind us, I heard Ali in front of me move, and then another door opened, spilling light into the tight vestibule the four of us had crowded into.

The room beyond was a singular piece of architecture, long and low, with roughly plastered walls, a floor of packed earth, and lengths of unpeeled tree trunks holding up the iron roof. Squares of flattened petrol tins were nailed up in place of window shutters, the interior whitewash had long since flaked off the wall, and the entire structure appeared about to collapse into the earth, but looks were deceiving: The ramshackle building was warm compared with the out-of-doors, and not a chink of light had shown from the outside. The two long walls, twenty feet apart, ran parallel to each other for about fifty feet, at which point the left one halted and both walls turned ninety degrees to form an L. The building was heaped with stored goods—crates, bales, and canvas-wrapped shapes. There were no internal walls in sight.

However, my attention was not on the room but on the solitary figure it held, halfway down. He was a small round man—round of body, round of head, his knuckles dimpled into the flesh of his hands—dressed in unadorned khaki and seated on a camp chair. He did not look up at our entrance, merely continuing his task, which appeared to be holding something on a stick a few inches above a paraffin stove. A plate with a few round objects sat on a tea-chest at his left knee, and another heaped high was at his right, but the incongruity of the sight kept me from acknowledging what he was doing until my nose brought me the smell, evocative of my Oxford lodging-house with its mugs of cocoa and of Mrs Hudson’s kitchen in far-off Sussex: the man was toasting crumpets.

When he finished with the muffin on his toasting fork he removed it, laid down the fork, took up a knife and smeared the crisp round with butter from a tin, and then balanced it on top of the plate at his right. He pushed the plate a fraction of an inch towards Ali, who with Mahmoud had gone up to the man and dropped to his heels across the small stove from him. Ali took two muffins, passed one to Mahmoud, and as they began to eat, the man reached down for his fork and proceeded to spear it into another muffin.

Holmes and I made our way down the room to the scene of domesticity and source of meagre warmth, following a path through the stores and shrouded equipment. We ducked our heads around a hanging oil lamp, settled onto a rough bench, and waited.

When our host was satisfied with the current muffin, he buttered it, put it with his others, and then picked up the plate and handed it to Holmes.

“There’s honey in here somewhere,” were his introductory words to us. “I’ll find it if you like. I haven’t any jam, I’m afraid. I can’t bear the stuff any longer, not since they started providing it in the trenches every night before a big push. I was only in France six months, but I can’t even look at a bowl of jam now without smelling mud and urine and unburied bodies. If you will excuse the reference. Shall I go digging for the honey?”

We reassured him that buttered crumpets were sufficient, and set to demolishing our share of the crisp, buttery, delicious, and utterly English fare. Fortunately, the crumpets were solid enough evidence to restore a degree of reality to the setting.

The left-hand plate was soon empty, the right-hand one containing the toasted crumpets nearly so. The round man reached behind him for a kettle, set it over the flame, took a khaki handkerchief from his shirt pocket, dusted his hands, and folded it away.

“I must say,” he mused, sounding as if he were continuing a conversation, “I was intrigued when I received word that you were coming here, Mr Holmes. Particularly when your brother suggested that we might put you to use. You and Miss Russell, of course,” he added, with a small bow in my direction. “However, I will admit to a certain hesitation. After all, there is some difference between London and Palestine.”

“But I take it our two guides have set your mind at ease that we will not commit some glaring faux pas and do not actually require nursemaids to help us survive our time here,” Holmes said evenly, sounding more amused than perturbed.

“You have passed their little tests satisfactorily,” the man replied, his eyes crinkling in his round face. “You did not drop from exhaustion or limp with sore feet, you did not lose your tempers or put your hands on a scorpion, you retained the appearance of who you are dressed to be, and you saw through the façade of the letter in the safe. And, Miss Russell, you make lovely maps. By the way, do call me Joshua. Everyone does.”

“ ‘Sending spies into the land,’ ” I murmured in Hebrew, thinking how appropriate the word “spy” was here, since in Hebrew its root meaning is one who wanders about on foot. I had the blisters to testify that this was what we had been doing ever since we arrived.

“Quite right,” he said in English, sounding pleased.

“And do your spies gather information, or spread rumours?” I asked him. “Those of your biblical predecessor seemed to do something of both.”

“As with my predecessor, it is not always clear just what the purpose of my people might be. Perhaps, as you say, something of both, listening and speaking.” He showed us his yellow teeth in a smile.

“And now that we have proven ourselves minimally competent,” Holmes said, dragging the conversation back to the main matter, “you have what my brother, Mycroft, might call a ‘task’ for us.”

Joshua shook his head and looked mournfully across the steaming kettle at Mahmoud, then said something in Arabic. It sounded to me as if he were accusing Holmes of drinking uncooked coffee beans.

Holmes responded with a brief phrase of his own, which my ears translated as, “When the dogs bark at night, it is [foolish?] to look to the sheep the next morning.”

I could not see what this had to do with coffee beans, but Joshua seemed to think it a worthy retort, because he nodded briefly. “You may be right,” he said. “However, I think in this case we may delay long enough for a cup of tea.”

He walked around to a heap of canvas and brought out a wicker basket, which proved to contain a formal tea service that had probably been designed as a picnic fitting for the boot of a Rolls-Royce. From it he unpacked five delicate flowered cups and their saucers, then a matching china teapot, milk jug, and sugar bowl, arranging them all to his satisfaction in our midst. Milk came from a small corked bottle sitting on the ground near his feet, and was poured into the jug. He performed the entire ritual: warm the pot, spoon the tea leaves, add the boiling water, wait the requisite three minutes, and then pour the tea through a silver strainer. When we each had a cup in our hand, Joshua sipped his twice and then rested his saucer on his knee.

“The problem is,” he said, again with the air of picking up a conversation that had been briefly interrupted, “that if one is given only the mildest inkling of dogs at the sheepfold, it is difficult to justify turning out the entire house to stand defence. Particularly when the family has just spent the last few years eradicating the countryside of dogs, with all apparent success.”

Holmes raised a disapproving eyebrow and said sharply, “Five days ago three men were killed in the outskirts of Jaffa. This is success?”

“An unfortunate incident, with potentially far-reaching consequences, but an isolated occurrence. We have caught the men.” Ali grunted; Mahmoud put down his cup and took up his prayer beads, thumbing through them as Joshua continued. “It seems to have been a revenge killing. Yitzak was responsible for the jailing of three young Moslem Arabs last year, for beating up a Jewish boy who had made eyes at their sister. One of the lads died in jail last month, of the influenza. The two men who have been arrested were the dead boy’s uncles.”

“You would say then that it was a coincidence that Yitzak saw one of his attackers listening to a firebrand mullah the week before?”

“Not necessarily a coincidence. The mullah’s speech might easily have urged them to action. Tragic, and contributing to a state of mistrust, but nothing more, and certainly nothing to do with Yitzak’s… association with us. We can only be grateful that his wife and children were not at home. I do not believe they would have been let alone.

“There is, however, another matter.” He gazed down at the dregs in his cup as if unwilling to raise his eyes to the men across the stove from him. Ali eyed him warily; Mahmoud’s fingers slowed on the polished beads.

“Mikhail the Druse is dead,” Joshua said in a quiet voice, and then he did bring his eyes up, looking across at Mahmoud, whose face turned to stone. Ali’s cup fell, shattering into a thousand pieces of porcelain against the hard earthen floor, and he whirled to his feet and strode rapidly away from the light into the dark leg of the L. “He was shot,” Joshua continued implacably. “There is no certainty, but it appears to have happened two or three days ago. There are jackals in the wadi.”

“Who?” Mahmoud’s voice had gone hoarse.

Joshua shook his head. “It could have been some woman’s husband.”

“Mikhail loved women,” Mahmoud admitted slowly, his fingers wandering briefly to his scar. “And he was often in difficulties over them. ‘The cupboard is not locked against a man with the key.’ ” His heart was not in his aphorism, however, and it did not sound to me as if he believed much in a jealous husband.

“This was one of your men?” asked Holmes.

“Mikhail was mine, yes.”

“What was he working on?”

“I don’t know,” Joshua admitted. Mahmoud stared at him, and I heard a brief stir from Ali in the dark reaches of the building. “It’s true. There were rumours, out in the desert, of problems. Nothing substantial. He went out to listen.”

“For the sounds of dogs amongst the sheep?” Holmes suggested. He even made it sound as if such pastoral imagery were his daily fare.

“There were no dogs. I’d have heard them, if there were.”

“Something more silent, then. Wolves.”

Joshua sighed deeply, his jovial face looking more troubled than I should have thought possible. He put his hand into his breast pocket, drew out a pouch, and began to roll a cigarette. Recognising the signs, I settled myself for a longish story.

“I do not know how much you two know about our war here, so forgive me if I travel familiar ground, but our situation is a delicate one. I spent the first months of the war on the Western Front,” he began. “That war, as you undoubtedly are aware, consisted primarily of crouching in the mud a hundred yards from the enemy and occasionally, at immense cost of life, pushing his line back a few yards, or, conversely, of being pushed and losing a few yards of one’s own. Here, it was rather different. Other than the catastrophe in the Dardanelles and the constant loss of life from submarines, we contented ourselves with sitting in Cairo, gathering tit-bits of information and protecting the Suez Canal.

“Until Allenby came.” Joshua’s tone of voice when he said the name was not far from worship, although I thought this deceptively soft little man would not venerate another easily. “Allenby was given command in June of 1917. Four months later—four months!—we found ourselves crossing the Sinai into Palestine. We took Beersheva and then Gaza, and by God, we were standing in the gates of Jerusalem by Christmas. Nine months later, a year to the day after he’d begun this impossible task, he gathered up his rag-tag army of camels and colonials and pushed, and before we knew it we were in Damascus.

“It was a brilliant campaign—elegant, meticulous, sly, and inexorable. The Battle of Megiddo was a mighty victory, a beautiful thing to behold. In two stages a mere twelvemonth apart, Allenby had the country, and four hundred years of Turkish rule were broken.

“And now he’s stuck with it, and stuck with the job of keeping the country in one piece until they decide at the Paris talks how to cut it up. The French want it, the Arabs think it’s theirs, the Jews believe they were promised it, the British hold it, and General Allenby spends all the hours God gives him driving from Dan to Beersheva, calming arguments among the factions.”

“While you hear the rumour of distant wolves,” Holmes prompted.

“Who the wolves are I do not know, but yes, I believe I hear them. And I am quite certain, when we come close enough to hear their voices, we will find they speak Turkish.” Joshua was talking to Mahmoud now, and Mahmoud was listening attentively. “Not all of our enemy was taken, and by no means have all surrendered. Here as in Germany there are discontented young officers who blame their old régime for the losses during the war. They will be infuriated by the demands made by the Allies. The cost of their losing will be high indeed. A mistake, but what victor listens to counsel of generosity and reason when vengeance is at hand? We are looking here at the seeds of another war, with political ferment about to foam up around us and engulf us. Allenby believes we can salvage brotherhood; I will be satisfied if we can merely keep the upper hand. We will need it, soon enough.”

Holmes cut impatiently into this speech. “What do you wish us to do about the situation?”

“Do? I don’t want you to do anything.” The little round soldier was gone; in his place bristled a condescending and irritated military officer, putting a problematic subordinate in his place. “If we were in London, Mr Holmes, I might permit you to act, might even permit you to lead. However, may I remind you that this is not your home ground? Ali and Mahmoud are my men. Valuable men. I have few enough of those at the best of times, but in the last three months, between demobilisation and accidents, I am down to about half strength.”

“What accidents?” Holmes demanded sharply.

“Accidents. My men are tired, and peace has made them careless.” Holmes met his eyes, refusing to be dismissed. “One in a motorcar crash, the other went off a cliff.”

“And Yitzak with a knife, and Mikhail with a bullet. Do you normally lose a man on the average of one every three weeks?”

Joshua sat placidly, refusing to be drawn into an answer, but even I doubted that this was a standard rate of attrition. I also was beginning to think that Mycroft, whose job was accounting for odd fluctuations in the empire’s resources, had not been unjustified in offering us this little problem.

One thing I did not understand was why this rotund English spymaster was insisting that the deaths of his men were more irritating than worrying. Perhaps the bureaucratic passion for keeping face extended here as well. His next words seemed to confirm this.

“None of this is your concern, Mr Holmes. You are here—at my sufferance, understand, not due to any authority you might imagine your brother holds—because I want my two men to have someone watching their backs. Let me be brutally frank, Mr Holmes: you and Miss Russell are expendable. I have used better men than you, and I have even used men equally renowned. Were you to vanish, there is nothing to point to me. You are to regard yourself as a back-up, Mr Holmes. You and Miss Russell have proven that you can pass for Bedu under a cursory glance, and Ali and Mahmoud by themselves are vulnerable. Four men—if you will permit me, Miss Russell?— are safer from casual attack than two. And the two of you might be of some use in running messages or holding a rifle. Frankly, despite your brother’s influence, I should not send you if I had any others available. However, I haven’t anyone else, so I will use you, and trust you far enough to assume that you won’t get my men killed. More tea?” He held out the pot, as if his harsh insults had never been spoken. I retained my cup, but Holmes, looking more amused than angry, handed his over to be refilled.

“Tell me more about those insubstantial rumours,” Holmes suggested, as if he had heard nothing of what the man said. Joshua studied him, but was apparently satisfied, because after the tea had been poured and milked, he put away the pot and drew a map from another breast pocket. When the camp chair had been moved back he spread the map on the floor and sat on his heels like an Arab beside it, agile despite his bulk. Ali emerged from the shadows and stood behind us, looking on.

The map was of the southern half of the land, from Jaffa on the Mediterranean down to Akaba on the gulf and over nearly to the Egyptian border. Beersheva was roughly a third of the way down, surrounded by a great deal of emptiness. Joshua touched the map with the fingertips of his left hand, and then drew the side of the hand down the sheet towards himself as if brushing crumbs from its surface.

“The desert has been a place of retreat for the oppressed and a source of trouble for the authorities for thousands of years. Fanatics hid out here, establishing monasteries or raising armies; rebels retreated here to die the deaths of martyrs, or to regroup and gain strength. It seems a deadly place, empty and sterile, particularly in the summer, but the intensity of life here has spilled over onto human dreams and ideas.

“You ask what and where these rumours are, Mr Holmes. I wish it were so simple. What we hear are whispers and words. A man here”—he tapped the map near a city called Salt—“tells a story around the fire one night, a tale of Arab conquest that ends with the unbelievers dead and the city of Jerusalem closed to all but the Moslem. A woman at a well here”—his finger rested on Ramleh— “speaks of a man buying weapons. The wind has more substance, but it has voices as well, voices that Mahmoud and Ali are trained to hear. They will go about their business and listen; you will fetch water and do as they tell you.” The small uniformed figure paused to stare at Holmes again and, seeing no response, seemed satisfied that his point had been taken. He sat back and spoke to Mahmoud. “The anti-Jew speeches are escalating.”

“The imam in Hebron?” Mahmoud asked.

“And others.” Joshua turned to explain. “Until recently, Jew and Arab lived together in this country without severe problems. Not as family, necessarily, but neighbours. That is no longer the case, for many reasons. The Arab people fear what the Balfour and Sykes-Picot agreements might mean. They fear outsiders in general. They respect the British, and they revere General Allenby, but they need a focal point for their uncertainty, and the recent influx of Jews from Russia and Eastern Europe looks to be that. Unless something is done, the Jews will become the scapegoat. The imams and mullahs are encouraging it, those who are political.” The man ran a frustrated hand through his thin hair.

“The speeches are escalating, becoming more bloodthirsty every day. We’ve had several incidents of rock throwing, a Jewish shop burnt, wild rumours. The murders of Yitzak and his two men are the worst; had you not made it appear as if the poor man had fallen on his scythe and his two hired men fled with the petty cash from the kitchen, I have no doubt that we would have had a full-scale riot on our hands in Jaffa by mid-week.

“General Allenby does his best, but he’s only one man, and has only so much oil to pour on troubled waters. And there is so much misunderstanding—it’s difficult to know where to begin. When the fellah hears from his betters that the real meaning of the Balfour agreement is that his ten dry acres are to be cut in half and shared with a Jewish family from Russia, he believes that is what the government means by providing a ‘Jewish homeland.’ He does not know of the Paris peace talks, does not trust distant politicians to protect him. All he knows is that the Turkish yoke was on his neck for four hundred years; now it is off, he will fight to keep it off. ”

“Aurens used to say, ‘Semites have no half-tones in their register of vision,’ ” Mahmoud commented. The precision of the words sounded incongruous in his heavy accent.

“Colonel Lawrence being something of an expert himself in the matter of black-and-white truths,” Joshua noted drily.

“Still, it is true,” Mahmoud persisted. “This is an emotional people, not an intellectual one.” Not entirely true, I thought, given the record of Arabic scholarship, but I was not about to quibble.

“Tell me this, Mahmoud,” said Joshua, addressing his teacup. “Do you think this reaction could be a deliberate one, rather than strictly spontaneous?”

The simple question instantly galvanised the room: Holmes quivered to attention like a hunting dog on point, Ali straightened, and Mahmoud’s eyes went dark. Holmes broke the silence.

“That is a most intriguing suggestion. May I ask what brought it to mind?”

“A certain degree of similarity in the… one couldn’t call them ‘attacks,’ exactly, although some of them were. ‘Symptoms’ is how I think of them. Arabic pamphlets that bear a strong resemblance to one another. Identical rumours springing up at two or more far-flung places before they are heard in the intervening countryside. Slanted translations of British policy statements that give signs of having been planted. An unexpected sophistication in the times and places where rocks are thrown and speeches made, and a marked tendency of the ringleaders to disappear without a trace.”

“The trembling of a web,” Holmes said to himself. There was a look of intense gratification on the few square inches of face visible between kuffiyah and beard.

“A web?”

Holmes waved the question away impatiently. “Where is the centre of this activity?”

“This is a small country, Mr Holmes. If the roads were in good nick one could motor down the better part of it in a day, or ride it in a week. Most of the disruptions have been within the triangle formed by Jerusalem, Jaffa, and Haifa, but then most of the population is there as well. If there is a centre to the disturbances, I would guess it to be around Jerusalem, probably to the north of the city.”

Holmes controlled himself admirably, saying not a word against the idea of relying on a guess, which he regarded as a mental aberration, shockingly destructive to clean habits of thought. He merely mused as if to himself, “If conspiracy there is, who are the conspirators?”

Joshua took it as a question, and settled back in his camp chair for another lecture. “In Palestine, clearly there are three main parties: Christian, Jewish, and Moslem. I think for the time being we may leave aside the fringe minorities, the Druse, the Sufi Moslems, and so forth. And if we assume that the disturbances are aimed at increasing ferment and upsetting the status quo that the military government is struggling to maintain, then the Christians are unlikely to be the cause: under British rule, they will be in the best position they have held since the Crusaders were evicted in 1291. Jews are more usually targets than instigators, although there have been several staged reprisals against Moslems, but it would be hasty to assume that this is a Moslem conspiracy. There are several factions among the Jews, particularly recent immigrants, who see the traditional complacency of the native Jewish population as the main obstacle to establishing a Jewish homeland here. Jews whose families have been here for generations tend to keep their heads down and pray; radical immigrants, the Zionists from Russia and Europe, can be firebrands, anxious to unite their people beneath a sense of adversity. It is worth noting that, Yitzak’s farm aside, there have been no deaths or serious injuries in the post-war clashes.”

“Yet,” I muttered.

“This man Mikhail,” Holmes broke in. “Where did he die?”

It was clear that Holmes had not heard a word of Joshua’s peroration. The round spymaster scowled, and addressed himself to Mahmoud. “Mikhail was found halfway down the Wadi Estemoa. Two boys chasing a goat spotted him. Sheer chance he was found at all.”

Holmes had bent to run his eyes across the map, and when he found the river-bed in question he pointed it out to me.

“You have no idea what he was doing there?” he asked Joshua.

“As I said, I assume he was listening.”

“Was he robbed?”

“There was nothing in his bag but the basics: flour and coffee— already ground—a bottle of water, his tobacco, that sort of thing. No money, and his gun was missing, but the two Bedouin boys took those. Had I forced them to hand their loot over.” he added in explanation, “they would never report anything else they might find in the future, nor would their entire clan. Instead I gave the boys a small reward, and they admitted to taking the gun and the money, but swore they took nothing else. I believe them.”

“Was he from this area?”

“Mikhail? No. Despite his Christian name, he was a Druse, from the hills above Haifa. However, he knew the whole of Palestine intimately. He was a dragoman before the war, especially popular with the English and German tourists, I understand.” He caught himself. “But Mahmoud knows this, and you do not need to. You’re not investigating a murder, Mr Holmes. You are not investigating anything, in fact. You are here in a strictly subordinate rôle. Is that understood?”

“I hear you,” said Holmes ambiguously, although Joshua did not seem to take it that way. He relaxed, and when he spoke next it was with an air of admission.

“When I heard you were coming, I thought Whitehall had lost their minds. A man older than most of the commanders here, with no military background, and a girl, neither of whom knows the land or the language as well as they ought. Frankly, I refused. And was ordered to give you a fair trial, after which I might send you home if I wanted. When Mahmoud here approved, I thought he had been out in the sun too long. In my experience, Mahmoud does not approve of many. But he said you would do, and here you are. Good to have you with us, Mr Holmes, Miss Russell. I wish you luck.” He began to pack away the tea paraphernalia.

Holmes ignored the fact that we were being dismissed. “I assume you have buried the body. What have you done with his possessions?”

“I have them.”

“I need to see them.”

“There is nothing of interest there.”

“Still.”

Joshua wavered on the edge of anger for a few moments; then, controlling himself, he shrugged.

“His pack is not here. I kept it at headquarters in Beersheva.”

“Shall I come there?”

“That would not be wise.” He sighed theatrically. “If you insist on seeing it, I shall have it sent over. You won’t remove anything?”

“Not without notifying you. We also need to know precisely where he was found.”

Again Joshua hesitated, but gave in more quickly this time. He squatted next to the map and showed Mahmoud the watercourse, asking him, “Do you know the place where the wadi turns, and there are three large boulders in a heap with a small tamarisk on the hill above them?” Mahmoud thought for a moment, and nodded. “Mikhail was found behind the westernmost boulder. His pack was about ten feet away.”

“He was killed by a revolver?” Holmes asked.

“If so, it was not his own. He carried a small gun; this one was larger, possibly even a rifle. The scavengers had been at him, though, so it was not possible to determine what damage the shot had done in the first place. The bullet was not in him.”

“I see. Well, let us have his possessions tonight, if you can. We shall let you know what we find.” Holmes rose and began to button his long sheepskin coat.

It was quite obvious that Joshua was not accustomed to being dismissed by his men, and he did not know whether to impose the might of military discipline on Holmes or to overlook his response. With a somewhat forced return of joviality he decided on the latter. Practically slapping our backs, he began to bundle us towards the door.

“You’ll let me know if there is anything you need,” he said, meaning he was quite certain we would not ask.

“Actually,” I said. He stopped, looking at me quizzically. My three robed companions stopped as well. “Another tent,” I suggested firmly.

“Another tent?” Joshua made it sound as if we had lost any number of them along our profligate way.

“Yes,” I said. “Please.”

“No,” said Ali. “It will look suspicious, three tents with so few people.”

“Either a third tent,” I said flatly, “or Holmes moves in with you.” A woman’s determination was not a thing with which any of these males (other than Holmes) had much experience. One by one their eyes dropped, and again Joshua shrugged.

“Very well. Another tent. It’ll be a small one.”

“So much the better.”