The Last Cut

Chapter 7

‘What is this?’ said Labiba Latifa.

‘The girl was throttled,’ said Owen.

‘And Suleiman is suspected?’

‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Mahmoud will be looking at date, time, place and motive, and will be checking a number of people against these. Suleiman is one of them.’

‘Why?’

‘Motive, primarily.’

‘But surely in Suleiman’s case that points the other way? What possible motive could Suleiman have for killing the girl he loved?’

‘Love is complex. He might have felt jealous.’

‘Of Omar Fayoum?’

‘Yes. Or angry.’

‘He certainly felt angry. But not at Leila. At about everyone else, I think: her father, Omar Fayoum, the women who had caused her to be circumcised. At everyone old. Suleiman is not a stupid boy, Captain Owen. He could see that it was not Leila’s fault, that it was all part of the pattern that women in this country are subjected to. He was angry at the pattern, Captain Owen, not at Leila.’

‘No doubt; but Mahmoud has to check all possibilities.’

‘Perhaps I can help? You mentioned dates. What dates had Mahmoud in mind?’

‘The 27 th of June.’

‘I will just look in my diary. Time?’

‘I cannot say precisely. An hour either side of six o’clock.’

‘Then I can help. He was with me.’

‘I am sure Mahmoud will be interested to know that.’

‘I can be precise,’ said Labiba, who was never anything other than precise, ‘because I remember the occasion well. It was just after Suleiman had first come to me. I wanted him to see that the issue was not just his alone but something wider, so I took him to a meeting of the Assembly.’

‘The National Assembly?’

‘Yes. I wanted him to meet Hussein Maktar and a few other people. Mohammed Jubbara, Ali Hamad el Sid, Al-Faqih Mas’udi-You know them, perhaps?’

Owen did. They were all Congressmen. And all Nationalists. ‘I would have thought their word counted for something.’

‘Your own, I am sure, would be sufficient,’ said Owen politely.

Labiba laughed drily.

‘If I know Mahmoud, none of our words will be sufficient. He will want to check all.’

‘As I say, he is merely checking possibilities.’

‘But why check this poor boy? He is shattered enough as it is.’

‘He has been spending a lot of time in the quarter, Madam Latifa. “Creeping around” is how they put it.’

‘Have you never been lovelorn, Captain Owen?’

‘Not to that extent.’

‘Ah, but you are English, Captain Owen. You do not like to show your feelings as we Egyptians do. But I have persuaded you, I hope, about poor Suleiman?’

‘It is not me you have to persuade, Mahmoud is in charge of the case.’

Ah, yes, but since I had spoken to you previously about Suleiman, I thought-Have you had a chance to have a word with him on that score? I am still worried about him-even more worried now that I know how she died. He will be very angry, I fear. I am afraid he may do something rash.’

‘That was not the occasion. I will, however, still try to see him.’

‘Please do. He means no harm. Yet he may do some.’

‘I will do my best. But the case is Mahmoud’s.’

‘Of course. I understand.’ She paused. ‘Have you spoken to Mahmoud lately?’

‘I spoke to him yesterday.’

‘Did you discuss with him-? You know I am interested in female circumcision.’

‘We did not, in fact, discuss that.’

There was a little silence.

‘You see, I felt there was a chance of him taking a line sympathetic to us.’

‘I am sure he would not wish to take a line unsympathetic to you.’

‘It is just that now that the case has become one of murder-’

‘I am afraid that on that Mahmoud will have to speak for himself.’

‘Of course. Of course. And you yourself, Captain Owen, you are still taking an interest?’

‘In the wider sense, certainly.’

Paul had convened another meeting, this time at the Consulate. Owen had assumed it was a continuation of the one on the gravedigger dispute but when he got there he was surprised to see Macrae and Ferguson. Paul was looking grave.

‘His Excellency has asked me to convene this meeting,’ he said. ‘It concerns a major complaint from the Khedive. We are to explore the circumstances and then draft a formal reply.’ There were two Ministers present, junior but Ministers. One of them was the man from the Department of Irrigation whom Owen had already met. The other was unfamiliar to him. He appeared to have something to do with the Khedive’s Office.

‘I understand,’ said Paul, ‘that the Khedive wishes the Consul-General to raise this directly with the British Foreign Secretary?’

‘That is correct, yes,’ said the man from the Khedive’s Office.

‘I would hope it needn’t go so far. Perhaps if our meeting this morning is able to give the Khedive satisfaction-?’

‘That would be desirable,’ said the Minister, ‘but it may not be enough. In view of the international implications.’

‘International implications?’ said Paul. ‘But-?’

‘We view this as inconsistent with Treaty Obligations. Not to mention as constituting a grave insult to His Royal Highness.’

‘I cannot tell you how desolate we all are at the Consulate-General,’ said Paul. ‘Nor how shocked and saddened we feel that such an incident should have occurred.’

‘Plunder and pillage,’ said the Minister.

‘Exactly!’ said Paul.

‘Of the Khedive’s own premises!’

‘Incredible!’ said Paul, shaking his head. ‘Mamur Zapt?’ Jesus! thought Owen, frantically racking his memory.

‘I understand you were there?’

‘Well-’

‘Not exactly there,’ put in Ferguson helpfully. ‘Nearby.’

‘I was hoping you would be able to tell us what happened.’

‘Well-’

‘The regulator burst,’ said Macrae. ‘We had to take action.’

‘Well, naturally,’ said the man from the Khedive’s Office. ‘We had to fill in the breach. So I sent my men out-’ Light at last began to dawn.

‘I cannot say how much I regret-’ began Macrae.

‘But the Khedive’s own palace! The Khedive’s own furniture!’

A dreadful mistake!’ said Paul.

‘It was a wee laddie!’ pleaded Macrae.

‘New out here!’ put in Ferguson.

‘Dew still wet!’ said Macrae.

‘Have him beheaded!’ said the Minister.

‘Well-’

Paul was the first to recover.

‘Certainly!’ he snapped.

Ferguson and Macrae gaped.

‘At once!’ said the Minister.

Paul rubbed his chin.

‘It would have to go to the Foreign Secretary. British.’

‘None of your weak liberal nonsense!’ warned the Minister. ‘The last thing I had in mind,’ said Paul.

Macrae found his voice.

‘But, man, ye cannae-’

‘Perhaps beheading would be too quick,’ said the Minister thoughtfully. ‘How about garotting?’

‘The very thought that was going through my mind!’ cried Paul.

‘Jesus, man!’ began Ferguson. ‘Ye-’

‘But too easy!’ said Paul.

‘There is that,’ acknowledged the Minister.

‘It would be over too quickly.’

‘Torture?’ suggested the Minister.

‘It needs to be lingering,’ said Paul, deep in thought. Suddenly he brightened. ‘I know!’ he said. ‘The glasshouse!’

‘Glass House?’ said the Minister, interested. ‘Well, that certainly sounds promising. Fried, you mean?’

‘It’s an old military punishment.’

Ah, well, they would know. Judging from our experience of them.’

‘Experts,’ said Paul. ‘Experts. But, look, there’s a problem here. If it goes to the Foreign Secretary he may not agree.’

‘Too liberal, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the Minister, ‘on second thoughts, it might be best if it were handled locally.’

‘Do you think that would satisfy the Khedive?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the Minister, ‘I think he would be very satisfied indeed. Glass House? Lingering? Oh, yes. Very satisfied.’

Macrae stayed behind after the Minister had left.

‘Look, man,’ he said to Paul, ‘I know you mean well, but I don’t trust those Army bastards-’

‘Army?’ said Paul. ‘Who’s talking about the Army? I’m thinking of him assisting the Consul-General’s wife in their greenhouse.’

Owen could hear the pad-pad of bare feet coming along the corridor. A moment later the constable appeared with Babikr in tow. He pushed him into Owen’s room and then took up position outside the door.

‘I shall be standing here, little dove,’ he said to Babikr, ‘and if there’s any trouble, I’ll come in and beat the hell out of you.’

It was plain, though, that there was going to be no trouble. Babikr, lost and forlorn, stood bewildered in front of Owen.

Owen asked him how things were.

‘Pretty well, Effendi,’ he replied mechanically.

And, indeed, they were probably not all bad. You got regular meals, you were free from the usual back-breaking work of the fellah, and you could spend the day chatting to the other prisoners.

Babikr liked a good chat; but so far he had said nothing about his attempt to blow up the Manufiya Regulator. Owen knew that because he had put a spy in the cell with him.

He had decided to try a different approach.

‘Your friends at the barrage are well,’ he said. Babikr nodded acknowledgement. ‘But they do not send you greetings. They will not come and see you. Why is that, Babikr?’

In fact, the workmen would have come and seen him but Owen had prevented them.

Babikr flinched slightly.

‘I do not know,’ he said.

‘It is because they do not understand you. They do not understand how you could have done a thing like this. Were you not one of them? Did you not work together? Had you not stood side by side when the sun was hot and the work hard? They thought they could count on you, Babikr. They thought they knew you.’

He waited. Babikr shuffled his feet unhappily.

‘But they did not know you, Babikr. They could not have known you if all the time you meditated such things. Can this be the Babikr we thought we knew, they ask? And they are bewildered. They cannot understand how this could be. They say, if we only knew why he had done this thing, then, perhaps, we could understand.’

Babikr stood there miserably, head lowered.

‘Why did you do it, Babikr?’

He waited, but Babikr did not reply.

‘That you did it is a bad thing. For that you must pay. But you must have had a reason, and if your friends knew that reason, then perhaps their hearts would not be so wounded. You had friends among them, Babikr. Can you not speak to them?’

‘No, I cannot,’ said Babikr in a low voice.

‘You have shamed them. They have to live with that shame. If they knew why you had done it, perhaps that would help them. Can you not help them, Babikr?’

Owen could see that the man was feeling the words keenly; but still he would not speak.

‘They say, perhaps it was against us that he acted. Perhaps in his heart he hated us. Perhaps we have done wrong things.’

‘No, no!’ said Babikr. ‘No!’

‘Or against Macrae Effendi. Or Ferguson Effendi.’

‘No.’

‘Then why, Babikr? No one does a thing like this without reason. Could you tell them the reason? You have left a hole in their hearts, Babikr. Could you not at least make easy the wound?’

‘I cannot,’ said the man, distressed.

‘Why not? I refuse to believe, Babikr, that you are unfeeling to your friends.’

‘Effendi, I am not. Believe me, I am not!’

‘Well, Babikr, I will tell them that. That, at least, they will be glad to know.’

‘Thank you, Effendi,’ said the man brokenly.

‘But cannot you tell them more?’

‘Believe me, Effendi, I cannot. I would, but-’

‘What is it that stops you?’

Babikr shook his head in misery.

‘Is it that you are not alone in this? That you think of others? That,’ said Owen with sudden inspiration, ‘you are perhaps bound to them?’

‘I have sworn an oath,’ said the man, in a low voice.

Owen considered for a moment. This was where it could go wrong.

‘Then I can understand you,’ he said at last, gently. ‘May I tell your friends that, Babikr? That you had sworn an oath?’

‘You may, Effendi. I would be glad if you would.’

‘I will. But, Babikr, some oaths are good, some bad. They will want to be sure that this was a good oath. What shall I tell them?’

‘Tell them I was beholden.’

‘Ah, it was something you owed?’

‘Yes, Effendi.’

‘To a man, or to men?’

Babikr looked him straight in the face and shook his head. Owen knew that, for the moment, he had taken it as far as he could.

He was still sitting there thinking it over when Yussef, his orderly, announced that there was someone who wished to see him. Owen knew from this that he was an ordinary Arab. Most others, that is to say, those who were not Arabs or who did not think of themselves as ordinary, described themselves as effendi. Effendi wishing to see Owen usually presented themselves directly to Nikos, the Mamur Zapt’s official clerk. The ordinary Arab, abashed by the huge facade of the Bab-el-Khalk, lingered out- side on the steps until he could pluck up enough courage to accost an orderly, who would, in lordly fashion, instruct him to wait outside the orderly room until his betters decided what to do with him.

The man, when Yussef brought him along, confirmed Owen’s assumption. Almost. He was not the lowest of the low for his dress was of good cloth. The white turban bound round his tarboosh, for example, was of cashmere. But he was wearing a turban and not the pot-like tarboosh by itself, which would have been the mark of the effendi; and he was wearing a galabeeyah not a suit.

Owen rose to greet him and led him across to the two cane-work chairs put beneath the window where there was a chance of catching a breath of air. The windows were shuttered against the sun but through the slats there occasionally crept a waft of something which was not entirely tepid.

Yussef hovered for a moment outside the door. Owen knew why. He was wondering whether the man merited coffee. Evidently he decided that he did, for a little later Owen heard the pad of returning feet and smelt the coffee. That in itself was significant, for Yussef’s judgement in these matters was usually fine. All the same there was something about the man that was slightly puzzling, something that Owen was not familiar with.

His name, he said, was Al-Sayyid Hannam, and he had come about his son.

‘You are Suleimans father?’

‘Yes.’ He sighed. And sometimes I wonder what I have done.’

All fathers do that.’

All fathers have hopes for their sons; and when they see themselves disappointed, they ask themselves why.’

‘Sometimes it is mere youthfulness.’

‘That is what I told myself. When this foolish business of the girl first came up.’

‘You knew about it?’

The man nodded.

‘Suleiman, since he came up to the city, has been staying with the family of a business friend of mine. When he learned what was happening he was troubled and spoke to me. I said: “Let it be. The boy is young. It will come to nothing.” But that was before I knew who or what she was.’

A water-carrier’s daughter?’

‘That would be bad enough. For I had set my hopes higher. I had sent my son to the city in the hope that he would do better than his father.’ He looked at Owen. ‘Not that I am complaining. God has smiled on me and I have prospered. But I work the land. Our family has always worked the land. Well, that is good; but it is hard work and a father always wants better for his boy. I had friends and they found him a place with the Water Board. It is a good job, I told him: water is a thing of the future as well as a thing of the past, and you will rise with the future.’

‘And so he has,’ said Owen, ‘if what he told me is true.’

‘I say nothing against him at work. It is when he is not at work that I am troubled.’

Owen was used to people discussing their family problems with him. Yussef did; his barber did; Nuri Pasha did; all Egyptians did. It was the principal subject of conversation, taking the place of the weather in England. He wondered, however, if Suleiman’s father knew where things had got to.

‘You have doubtless heard,’ he said, ‘what has befallen the girl?’

‘I have heard she is dead. Well, that is bad, and, although her father may not believe it of me, I grieve for him. I grieve for my son, too, for I cannot believe that his love was anything but honourable. Foolish, perhaps, but not dishonourable. All the same, mixed with my grief, is a certain relief.’

‘You have heard of what she died?’

The man nodded.

‘I have heard two things. The first is terrible, but must be as God wills. It is about the second that I have come.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘That the girl was strangled. And that my son is suspected.’

‘I would not go so far as that. The Parquet suspects all until they are proved innocent. That is how it is with your son. He is suspected neither more nor less.’

‘Nevertheless he is suspected? Well, my friend was right. It is time I came.’

‘There are powerful people who speak for him.’

The old man smiled.

‘But not as powerful as the Mamur Zapt.’

He had come in the time-honoured way to plead for his son. And in the time-honoured way he had gone to the Mamur Zapt, not for justice, for that was the prerogative of the Kadi, but for mercy, because that was the prerogative of power, and for centuries the Mamur Zapt had been the Khedive’s right-hand man, the man, after him, most powerful in the city. Things had, of course, changed; but many in the countryside were not yet aware of this.

‘The time for intercession is not yet,’ he said. ‘It may be that there will be no need of it. The Law has still to ask the questions.’

‘In the asking,’ said Suleiman’s father, ‘lies danger.’

‘The man who asks,’ said Owen, ‘is a man of honour. But perhaps it would be well to find another man of law who can watch over your son and advise him.’

‘I have already done that. It is not that. It is-’ he hesitated-‘that the questions could go deep.’

‘Why should they go deep?’

‘Because these things have roots. There is bad blood between me and the girl’s father.’

‘Why should that affect your son?’

‘It already has affected him. It was why the girl’s father spurned him. If there had not been bad blood, perhaps none of this would ever have happened. That is why I wonder what I have done.’

‘You should not blame yourself. One cannot trace these things to their infinite cause. All these things are past.’

‘I wish they were,’ said the old man. ‘I wish they were. It was never my intention-but sometimes these things return upon us.’

‘How came it that there was bad blood between you?’

‘We came from the same village. We worked fields next to each other. There was a dispute between us over water. I thought I was in the right, he thought he was. We went to a kadi, who ruled in my favour.’

The old man shrugged.

‘Bitter words were said. I was young and hot and enforced the law to the letter. It meant he went without water. He had to leave the village. It was the beginning for me.. Afterwards, I prospered so that now I own more land than the entire village used to hold. But for him, it seems, it was the end-’

‘It was as God decreed.’

‘But sometimes He works these things out to their infinite end and lets justice fall not on us but on our children. That is what I am afraid of.’

‘Who can read God’s pattern?’ said Owen.

The debate was not going well for the Government. The Minister had found himself unexpectedly under fire. He would certainly get his Supplementary Vote-the Government had an enormous majority in the Assembly-but things were proving stickier than he had expected.

‘This is a work of national importance,’ he said indignantly.

A man rose on the benches opposite.

‘No one doubts that,’ he said. ‘It is the cost of the proposals that we are disputing.’

Since it was unusual for the Opposition to want to reduce the cost of anything-they were normally in favour of increasing it-the Minister was slightly taken aback. He muttered something about technical reasons.

‘But that is precisely the point!’ said the man opposite. ‘We are being asked to take these technical arguments on trust. Has an independent opinion been sought?’

‘Tenders will be invited in the normal way,’ said the Minister.

‘But who has drawn up the specifications?’

‘The Department’s own advisers-’

‘British. And the contract will go to the British. Has consideration been given to asking independent consultants to draw up the specifications?’

‘That would increase the cost.’

‘It would probably reduce costs. The Department’s estimates are usually inflated. Why will not the Minister go outside the Department for advice? Outside the country, even? This is a very big contract and firms outside the country will be interested.’

‘They will have an opportunity of tendering.’

‘But on terms drawn up by the Department’s British advisers. That is what we are objecting to.’

It was the usual Nationalist tactic. They wanted the British out; and while they certainly didn’t want other countries in, internationalism was a handy stick to beat the Government with.

‘Those estimates are pared to the bone!’ whispered Macrae, beside Owen, indignantly. ‘That laddie doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Who is he?’

‘Mohammed Jubbara,’ whispered Owen. ‘He’s a big man in the Nationalist Party.’

The Minister was muttering something about The Time Factor.

‘This is an emergency,’ he proclaimed.

Someone else rose on the benches opposite.

‘Hamad el Sid,’ whispered Owen.

‘I hope the Government, in its eagerness to do a quick deal with foreign business interests, will think about the effect of its grandiose schemes on the poor.’

‘We are always thinking of the poor,’ said the Minister.

‘And how to grind them down further, I know,’ said Hamad el Sid.

The Minister affected shock. He turned to his colleagues on the benches behind him.

‘The schemes that Mr el Sid so disparages have increased the production of grain three times; the production of cotton five times; the production of-’

‘But at a price,’ interrupted Hamad el Sid, ‘in terms of the health of the poor. Is the Minister aware that the incidence of bilharzia and ankylostoma in the male population of Egypt is now eighty-five per cent? Would he care to put a figure-since he is so keen on figures-on the role of water-borne diseases over the last few years? And relate them to the public works of which he is so proud?’

It was almost, thought Owen, as if he had been talking to Cairns-Grant. Perhaps he had; or perhaps Cairns-Grant had been talking to him.

Macrae shifted restlessly.

‘Aye,’ he said, ‘but-’

The Nationalists shifted back again.

Was it true, a third man wanted to know-

‘Al-Faqih Mas’udi,’ whispered Owen.

‘-that the proposed new regulator will take up a substantial part of the remarkable gardens at the barrage. Gardens which were a source of pride and pleasure to so many ordinary citizens of Cairo-’

And so it went on. At one point Owen took Macrae and Ferguson out for a cup of coffee. In the corridor he saw Labiba Latifa. She waved a hand to him.

‘We’re having a meeting. Care to join us?’ she said.

‘Thanks. I’ve got my own,’ said Owen.

Back in the Chamber, Members were debating the effects of the Aswan Barrage on the Temple at Philae.

‘What has this got to do with replacing the Manufiya Regulator?’ pleaded the Minister despairingly.

At last it was over and the Supplementary Vote, despite the Minister’s travails, agreed. Macrae and Ferguson were jubilant. ‘That means we can get on with it?’

‘Heavens, no!’ said Owen. ‘Now it has to go to London.’

‘But-but-that will take years!’

‘Aye,’ said Owen.

A door opened and out popped Zeinab.

Owen was astounded. She had hitherto shown absolutely no interest in the workings of parliamentary democracy. Power was one thing and she was interested in that, but parliamentary democracy, especially in Egypt, quite another. She was a true daughter of her father. Nuri Pasha had once been a Minister; indeed, had hopes, though they were receding, of being one again. But he knew that this had nothing to do with so unreliable a thing as voting. It was a matter of securing the Khedive’s favour. That, in Zeinab’s view, was what Government was all about.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I have been at a meeting.’

That was another shaker. Women didn’t go to meetings in Egypt, certainly not at the National Assembly. Even if they were, as Zeinab was, dressed in black from head to foot and heavily veiled. Except that…

‘Labiba?’ he said.

Zeinab nodded.

‘Circumcision?’

‘Certainly not! In the Assembly? They would be shocked!’

‘I meant are you talking about circumcision? Is that the subject of the meeting?’

‘They would still be shocked. No, health. Sub-heading (very small letters): women’s health. That gets rid of the old dodderers, who would otherwise come to hear how their heart was getting on. It does, admittedly, attract some rather strange men, but Labiba is firm with them.’

‘Is she chairing?’

‘No, that Scotsman is. You know, the one who cuts you up.’

‘Cairns-Grant?’

‘Probably. He has a workman’s hands. But then he would.’

‘How’s the meeting going?’

‘It’s coming to an end soon. I thought I would leave early as the man next to me is getting too excited.’

‘I don’t blame him,’ said Owen, glancing along the corridor. No one was coming. He put his arm round her.

‘Not here!’ said Zeinab, alarmed.

The door of the committee room opened again and they quietly disengaged. Out came Mohammed Jubbara, Hamad el Sid and al-Faqih Mas’udi. Owen wasn’t sure whether they had seen. Behind them, close behind, was Suleiman. His eyes were burning.

Mas’udi stopped.

‘Can I get you an arabeah?’ he said to Zeinab.

‘No thank you. I have a word or two I want to say to the Mamur Zapt,’ she replied sweetly.

Mas’udi gave him a startled look.

Back at her apartment Zeinab did, indeed, have a word or two to say.

‘You have an unhealthy mind,’ she concluded severely, ‘in an over-healthy body.’

Out at the barrage little clumps of papyrus were spiralling in the sun. When they neared the barrage they wavered for a moment uncertainly and then accelerated in towards the piers. Just before they reached them, they were sucked downwards and lost in the grating.

In the shallows of the river’s edge two men were loading building water-skins on to a donkey. When they had finished, they led it up on to the bank. One of them put a large hamperlike wicker basket on top of the water-skins and then perched himself above that. The other man gave the donkey a thwack on the flank.

The noise startled the doves in the palms and they fluttered agitatedly. They were all right, thought Owen. It was the ones in the basket that needed to worry.

He followed the donkey up into the Gardens. There were fewer people there than on his previous visits; or perhaps it was that, with the sun now almost directly overhead, they had retreated into the shade.

Over towards the regulator, Ferguson was ominously busy with white tape and a measuring rod. He waved to Owen as he went past.

The workmen, as Owen had hoped, were having lunch. He squatted down beside them at the tray.

‘You here again?’

‘Babikr asked me to send you greetings.’

The men received them in silence. Although Owen had embroidered a little when he was talking to Babikr, he had probably reflected their feelings.

‘He asked me to tell you he had sworn an oath.’

The men looked up.

An oath, was it?’

It did not excuse, but did explain.

‘Yes. He said he was beholden.’

‘Ah!’

They went back to their eating.

‘I think better of him,’ said Owen, ‘but still I am worried.’

He knew they were listening.

‘Why is that?’ one of them said.

‘Well, what sort of oath is it that dare not declare itself?’

‘A bad oath,’ someone said.

‘That is exactly what I thought. And then I thought: where does a bad oath stop?’

‘It’s stopped so far as Babikr is concerned,’ said someone.

‘For the moment. But where does the man who exacted the oath want it to stop? Why cannot he come forward and tell us the extent of the oath?’

‘If it was a bad oath, perhaps he is afraid,’ volunteered someone.

‘That is what leaves me afraid,’ said Owen. ‘And so I ask: to whom has he sworn the oath? Is there one of you who could tell me?’

They shook their heads. That did not surprise Owen. Nor did it trouble him. No one would wish to do it openly, but they might well come later in private, whether as an individual or after the group had consulted among itself. As they had done before.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘if it has not stopped, further harm could befall. To Babikr. To us all.’

(T«5S’t?)

‘Yes,’ said Georgiades, ‘but you’ve never given me flowers.’

‘You don’t look like a flower person to me,’ said the gardener, inspecting him critically.

‘I’ve got a wife, haven’t I?’

The two had become great buddies. They were sitting on the edge of a gadwal drinking the gardener’s tea, which, with Eastern hospitality, he had also offered to Owen.

‘Perhaps I will give you flowers,’ said the gardener, relenting.

‘You gave some to Babikr,’ Georgiades pointed out.

‘Not to Babikr; for Babikr. For him to give to another.’

Ah, there’s a woman in it, is there? And not his wife. For his wife stays in the village.’ Georgiades shook his head sorrowfully. ‘That a man like you should encourage vice!’

‘I did not encourage vice,’ said the gardener, stung. ‘I merely gave him some flowers. For which he paid me ten milliemes.’

‘Without knowing who they were going to? They might have been going to the Lizard Man for all you know!’

‘They were not going to the Lizard Man!’

Are you sure? I wouldn’t rule it out. Babikr was a friend of the Lizard Man, wasn’t he?’

‘He had other friends as well.’

‘Up here in the city?’

‘Look,’ said the gardener, ‘I know who the flowers were for and it wasn’t the Lizard Man!’

‘Whisper it to me,’ challenged Georgiades, ‘and I’ll believe you.’

The gardener opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

Firmly.

‘If I tell you,’ he said, ‘the Lizard Man might hear me!’