Garment of Shadows (22 page)

It was the sort of question Holmes enjoyed, an opening to both knowledge and opinion: Raisuli as an upholder of the Faith, a Moroccan Robin Hood, in a land where brutality is expected and softness in a leader can be a fatal mistake. And yes, the same applied to that educated Berber gentleman who had just made us tea, the Emir Mohammed Abd el-Krim. As Holmes put it, “European soldiers have been known to commit suicide, rather than be taken prisoner by a Rifi.”

From the history of Sherif Raisuli, this husband of mine wandered off into the political hinterlands of our situation: the drive to war and Morocco’s long history of conflict; Arab and Berber; the conquest of Spain by Hannibal (a Berber). The building of Alhambra and Alcazar. Spain’s expulsion of the Moors, their return to the Rif mountains.

It had been a long day. My energies were at a low ebb, and the warmth of my companion’s back and the ceaseless rumble of his voice against my ear were soothing. I may not have followed all the details of his extended lecture, but I was not asleep. Although it did take a moment for his accusation to register.

“—and why do I go on when you are not listening?” he ended.

I sat up. “I am,” I protested. “To every word.”

“Then what was I saying?”

“You were talking about the six factions fighting over this one scrap of country,” I replied promptly. “Four of them are European: The French want peace and progress, the Spanish want revenge on the Moors, the Germans want iron, and the English want the status quo. Internally, there are two: Abd el-Krim wants a Republic, and Raisuli wants to be Sultan. And every faction has legal rights, a long history here, and a full complement of spies and informants. Did I miss anything?”

“Hmm. Mycroft, I suppose.”

“Mycroft is a nation unto himself.”

“True.”

“Holmes, have we today diverted even in the slightest the drive to war?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “The best any individual can hope for is to establish a degree of mutual respect between the principals.”

“In hopes that, when hell breaks loose, they remember they once shook hands?” I said dubiously.

“In hopes they remember that the other man was open to conversation.”

“Have you any reason to think Morocco will be more sensible than Palestine—or Europe?”

He did not reply. I shifted, to return circulation to my nether anatomy, then asked in a lower voice, “Holmes, what was that attack about?”

“Assassination.”

“Not abduction—or simple robbery?”

“The bullet missed the Resident General by inches. It was not a random shot.”

“How did they know where he would be?”

“More to the point, why did they choose here rather than one of a hundred other opportunities? The Maréchal does not exactly hide himself away.”

“Perhaps they’re unfamiliar with Fez?” I wondered.

“It’s possible. It does suggest that their information came from within the camp of Abd el-Krim, rather than Lyautey’s own.”

“I don’t know that I’d agree. It seems to me that any smart spy would take care not to use inside knowledge that could give him away.” Holmes gave a pleased nod, as if I had passed one of his little tests. “Though I agree, it’s probably a Rifi. Lyautey’s circle of intimates is small enough, he’d have spotted a spy long before this.”

“Not, as you say, if the man is sufficiently skilled. An effective spy is a man of the shadows. A person both seen and overlooked. Someone who knows much and says little. Those with information to sell are always such.”

“Sounds like Mahmoud.”

“Precisely.”

“Holmes! You don’t think—”

“That Mahmoud Hazr sells information? No. But he is missing, and someone set men to shoot at Lyautey. The two facts are related. We must find him.”

“How?”

His reply was oblique. “What were you thinking of, when Abd el-Krim suggested that we were asking the wrong people in Fez?”

“It occurred to me that yesterday, when you were making enquiries about Mahmoud, you were there as a foreigner. The Fez medina is a warren, all inter-connected and on top of itself. A beehive. I can’t believe that its people don’t know what’s going on in the next house.”

Interesting, that I knew this man well enough to tell thoughtful consideration from scepticism by the back of his neck.

“You propose that going undercover would result in information?” he asked after a time.

“I was thinking more of locating someone who had an ear in the market-place, who would yet speak freely with us.”

“And yet …”

When he did not complete his thought, I encouraged him with, “And yet what?”

He muttered an Arabic phrase that sounded like,
A nugget of truth often sleeps, deep in a tangled web of lies
.

“What a dreadfully mixed metaphor,” I complained. “Who said that?”

“I did.”

Interesting, too, that I knew this man well enough to be certain he would not answer further until he had chewed over all the possible considerations of whatever scenario I had inadvertently planted in his mind.

I sighed, and tried to make myself comfortable on the horse’s rump.

Afternoon wore on towards evening, and the narrow, wadi-side trail joined the wider track which led to the actual road. It was a relief, to have navigated the worst part of the journey before darkness made it life-threatening. It also meant that we no longer had to ride single-file.

To my surprise, rather than urge our mount up beside Lyautey, Holmes reined in and worked his off leg over the shaggy neck, dropping to the ground.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Let me get up with Idir, if you think we’re too heavy for this beast.”

“I need to make a few changes to my garments. Better to do so now, that I might become accustomed to them.”

“What is going on?” the Maréchal asked before I could.

“Mahmoud Hazr is neither a common nor a vulnerable person,” Holmes explained, his hands busy pulling at his turban. “If he was abducted by motorcar on Thursday night, it means that someone provided information, and that several men were available to lay a trap. Witnesses will have noticed where the motor went. Russell has kindly pointed out the obvious to me, that a person may not see far into the shadows while he stands in a bright light. When I made enquiries about Mahmoud, I was standing beneath a spot-light. I shall take more care, as I repeat my questions outside of the city.”

“If you wish people questioned, I need only give an order,” Lyautey pointed out.

“And you will receive answers every bit as helpful as those I received.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

“What do you propose?”

“I propose to become a creature of the twilight. Beginning here and now.”

He meant it literally: His hands were already at work, adjusting his turban to bear some subtle message I did not immediately see, patting the ground to transfer dust to his limbs and clothing, scuffing at his boots, cutting one boot-lace and knotting it, mended and frayed. It wasn’t until he had pulled a set of prayer beads from some inner recess that I was sure what he was after. With a sigh, I dug out the little pot of kohl and handed him that.

Lyautey remained baffled. “
Cher cousin
, what are you about?”

In response, Holmes began to recite, in flawless Arabic, an early Sura of the Qur’an, while his hands played over the worn beads.

“Is this why you haven’t shaved your beard?” I asked him.

He shifted into English. “Not specifically. I merely reflected that facial hair might come in useful. As often happens, I was correct.”

I shook my head, and turned to the Maréchal. “What do you see before you?”

“An Englishman in fancy dress.”

“But if you were motoring along and saw this figure beside the road saying his prayers, what would you think?”

The pale eyes grew wide: “A
marabout
!”

A holy man, one of Islam’s everyday saints: Educated or insane, a charlatan or a learned scholar of Qur’an and Hadith, a
marabout
could also be a wandering pilgrim. A less likely identity for Sherlock Holmes would be difficult to imagine. A nun perhaps. “You don’t need Idir, Holmes. I’ll go with you.”

“Russell, you must concentrate on Fez. You need to find the man who brought you to Miss Taylor—he might remember some detail about the motor. And perhaps those in the vicinity of the
funduq
have an idea what you and Mahmoud did, during those times when the boy was not with you. You have an advantage over me: Apart from one morning when you juggled a few oranges, there is no reason for the people there to remember your face, whereas Idir and I spent most of the day quartering the city, asking after Mahmoud.”

“But surely a mute child would be a fairly distinctive companion?” My protest was not about the child, but about the hard twinge of desperation I felt: I’d just got most of my life back, and now …

Holmes’ gentle response, too, was less argument than apology. “In the mountains, he may be known, but not in the
bled
, where even the Emir Mohammed bin Abd el-Krim can pass unrecognised.”

I looked at the boy, then at the setting sun. “You are placing a great deal of trust in the suggestion of a person with half her brain frozen solid.”

“Russell, I would trust you in any state short of catatonia.”

There was really no way to respond to that, except turn again towards Fez.

So we did, riding until the night wrapped around us.

When the bowl of light that was Fez came into view, everyone except Lyautey slipped to the ground. I held two sets of reins as Holmes tugged up his hood and pulled out his prayer beads. His eyes gleamed from the darkness beneath his hood, and his voice came with a cloud in the cold night air.

“My dear cousin,” he said, “be so good as to permit your men to guard you, if only for a few days. It would not serve your country—either of your countries—to have you lie in state in the Fez palace.”

“You may be right,” the Maréchal admitted.

Holmes turned to me. “Russell, I … That is …” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I require your note-book and a writing implement.”

I fished through my pockets for the crimson book and pencil. “Why do you need them?”

“Origami,” he replied.

Origami?

By the light of Lyautey’s electric torch, Holmes ripped out a couple of pages on which I had scribbled notes, returning those to me. Then he rubbed the pad of his thumb against the pencil for a moment before transferring the stain to his forehead, imitating the mark of habitual prayer. Pencil and book went into his garments. “It may take me until Wednesday night to work my way back to Fez. I shall circle the city walls. If I’ve heard nothing, I’ll make for Mequinez, then Moulay-Idriss. You’ll find me either on the road, or at the shrines. And, Russell?” On my name, his brisk recitation faltered. His left hand rose to grasp my shoulder, hard, and he leant forward to murmur in my ear, “Watch your back.”

“And you, Holmes.”

His eyes glittered in the torch-light for a moment longer, then he turned and scuffled off, his stiff gait a marked contrast to that of the amiable child at his heels. I had gathered sufficient memory to feel that it was a common thing, for me to watch his retreat and wonder if it would be the last time.

At least this particular holy man was armed.

With no small reluctance, I climbed back into the saddle and followed the Maréchal around the walls to the stables.

We turned the horses over to the grooms. It was a short walk to the nearest city gates, which were closed, but not for Maréchal Lyautey. One of the guards there fell in before him, carrying a lantern and a rifle. Neither were the city’s heavy internal barriers closed to us. Sleepy gatekeepers brought out bundles of Mediaeval-looking wooden keys and inserted them into heavy wooden locks, giving us passage. I waited for a momentary distraction—in this case, two young boys dashing towards home—and slipped away into a dark lane. The Maréchal’s voice briefly followed me; the soldier did not.

Holmes had been right: Protecting Lyautey was not my responsibility. Finding Mahmoud was.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

I
t was near the dark of the moon. The medina was a sea of shadows, the few open shops casting diffuse pools of yellow lamp-light against the damp cobblestones. In one respect, it was ideal—indeed, the ability to fade into the background was precisely why I had shed the good Maréchal. However, within minutes I knew it was a hopeless task, to trace my steps of Friday to the house where I woke with blood on my hands and a pounding inside my skull. I might wander all night and pass its very doorway a score of times, unknowing.

What I required was a very small and unobtrusive source of illumination, to light my way without drawing attention to myself.

I tugged my hood well up on my head, hoping it was enough to obscure any flash from my spectacles, and approached the next open storefront. It was, unusually for Fez, a shop of mixed goods, displaying a few sprouting onions and wilted greens, a teetering pyramid of mismatched tins with many dents but few labels, a bowl of straw-speckled eggs, rounds of bread that looked a day or three old, some copper bowls, a row of dusty glasses, and a few twists of paper spilling the deep orange of dried chilli peppers. The sort of place a desperate cook might turn for last-minute supplies—probably why it was still open.