The Gabriel Hounds (7 page)

‘Please—’ I said.

Hamid silenced the old man with a snapped word and a gesture. ‘Yes?’

‘Hamid,’ I said decisively, ‘this settles it, I insist on getting in. If I can’t see my great-aunt, I’ll see the doctor, if he’s here. If he isn’t, then someone must write his name and address down for me, and I’ll go and see him straight away. Tell him that. Tell him I insist. And if you like you can tell him that my family can make quite a bit of trouble if anything should happen to my great-aunt, and the family not be allowed to know about it.’ I added: ‘And for pity’s sake if there’s anyone at all in the place who
can
talk to us, we want to see them, and fast.’

‘I’ll tell him.’

How he did actually express my demands I have no idea, but after a further few minutes of wrangling the porter, filmed eyes turned up hideously to heaven and palms thrown up to disclaim all responsibility, pulled open the door at last and let us through.

Hamid gave the ghost of a wink at me as he stood back to let me pass him. ‘I told him you were exhausted with the walk from Sal’q and refused to wait outside in the sun. If we’d once let him shut the door I doubt if we’d ever have heard from him again.’

‘I’m sure we wouldn’t. For goodness’ sake come
with me, won’t you? I mean, something tells me I may not be welcome.’

‘I wouldn’t leave you for worlds,’ said Hamid comfortably, taking me by the elbow to steer me into the cool darkness. ‘I only hope that you find all is well with the Lady … and I may easily have been mistaken in what that old dervish was trying to say. Well, at least we are inside … That alone is something to tell my children’s children.’

Behind us the gate creaked shut, and there were the ominous sounds of the bolts being replaced. As my eyes adjusted themselves to the dimness I saw that we were not actually in a passage, but in a high barrel-roofed tunnel about fifteen feet long which ended in another heavy door. To either side of the tunnel was a smaller door. One of these was open, and in the dim light of a slit window in the inner wall I saw an ancient truckle-bed covered with tumbled blankets. The porter’s lodge, no doubt; perhaps originally a guardroom. The door opposite this was shut.

The old man opened the door at the tunnel’s end, letting in a shaft of bright light. We followed him into a big courtyard.

This would be the outer court of the original palace, the
midan
, where the Emir’s people would gather with gifts or petitions, and where his troops would show off their horsemanship with games and mock fights, or ride in to dismount after battle or the hunt. Under the archways on three sides were buildings which must have been stables and harness rooms and perhaps quarters for soldiers; on the fourth, to our left as we
entered, was a high wall beyond which I saw a glimpse of green. In its heyday, with the bustle of servants and the tramp of horses and rattle of arms, it would have been an impressive place. Now it was quiet and empty, but the scuffed dust showed recent evidence of beasts, and the place smelled of horses.

The porter did not pause here, but led us right-handed across the
midan
and in under the arcade, through another door which gave on a darkened passage. Through this his white robes shuffled dimly ahead. Vaguely I glimpsed passages going off to the left and right, and doors, some of them open on rooms where it was too dark to see anything; but in one of these some kind of skylight shed a glimmer on sacks and boxes and a stack of broken chairs. The passage took three right-angled turns through this labyrinth before it led us out into another courtyard, this time small, and little more than a light-well lined with arched grilles, and one blind wall against which was piled a stack of timber. As we passed I saw out of the corner of my eye a streak of movement which, when I looked sharply that way, had ceased. Nothing. But I knew it had been a rat.

Another corridor; more doors, some of them open and giving on dilapidated and dirty rooms. The whole place had the air of something deserted long since, and lived in only by rats and mice and spiders. Not a floor but was filthy, with gaps in the ornamental tiling; the wall mosaics were dim and battered, the window grilles broken, the lintels cracked. A heavy, dusty silence slept over everything like a grey blanket. I remember that as
we passed some crumbling wall a rusty nail fell from its socket with a clink that made me jump, and the rustle of plaster falling after it sounded like a puff of wind in dry leaves.

It was a far cry from the ‘enchanted palace’ that imagination – more powerful than reason – had led me to expect. I began to wonder with tightening nerves what I should find at the end of this quest. ‘Stark raving bonkers’ had been Charles’s verdict, and had seemed, as he delivered it, no more than faintly comic; but here, following the shuffling guide along yet another corridor with its dim and dwindling prospect of warped and gaping doors, its uneven floorings, its smell of years-old decay, I began, quite fervently, to wish I had not come. The thought of coming face to face with the combination of helplessness, senility, and perhaps sickness, which must live at the centre of all this decay like a spider in the middle of an old dusty cobweb, could fill me with nothing but dismay.

Suddenly we were out into another courtyard. I had completely lost my bearings by this time, but from the fact that beyond the roofs on the far side I could see crests of feathery green, I guessed we were somewhere towards the back of the palace.

This court was about fifty feet square, and at one time must have been as ornamental as the one where Charles and I had talked in Damascus; but now, like all else, it had fallen into disrepair. In its better days it had been floored with marble, with blue tiled arcades and pretty pillars and a pool at the centre. At the foot of each pillar stood a carved marble trough for flowering
plants. These were still full of soil, but now held only grass and some tightly clenched, greyish-looking buds. There was one spindly tamarisk hanging over the broken coping of the pool. Somewhere, a cicada purred gently. Grey thistles grew in the gaps of the pavement, and the pool was dry.

Under the arcade to one side was the usual deep alcove in the shadow where, up a single step, was the dais with seats on three sides. I would have distrusted any cushions that this place might produce, but I need not have worried; the seats were of unpadded marble. Here the porter indicated that we should sit, then, with another grotesque bout of yammering directed at Hamid, he turned and went. Silence came back, broken only by the churring of the cicada.

‘Smoke?’ asked Hamid, producing cigarettes. He lit mine for me and then wandered back into the sunlight of the courtyard, where he squatted down with his back against a pillar, absently narrowing his eyes against the brilliant sky where the trees beyond the wall waved their green feathers.

‘If she does not receive you, what will you do?’

‘Go away, I suppose, once I’ve seen the doctor.’

He turned his head. ‘I am sorry. You are distressed.’

I hesitated. ‘Not really. I hardly know her, and I’m pretty sure she won’t remember me. She spent most of her time out East till her husband died, and after that she only lived in England for about two years – that was when I was very small. She left fifteen years ago, for good, when I was seven. I haven’t seen her since the time she came to say goodbye. I’d hardly be surprised if
she just sent a message back now to say she can’t even remember my name. That is, if the dervish gets it right … I wonder if he can give a message at all? As a non-communicator he just about wins, wouldn’t you say? He ought to be at the Royal Court.’

‘But surely your Queen would not—? Ah, here he is,’ said Hamid, rising, ‘and praise be to Allah, he has brought someone with him.’

The ‘someone’ was a young man, a European, tall and thin and carelessly dressed, with light hair bleached to fair by the sun, and grey eyes. He had the slightly confused air of someone startled awake from sleep, and I suddenly remembered Great-Aunt Harriet’s alleged nocturnal habits. Perhaps the staff slept during daylight? He paused for a moment in the shadow before dismissing the porter with a gesture, then came forward into the sun. I saw him wince as if its fierce light worried him, as he approached slowly and with apparent reluctance over the broken pavement. He looked about twenty-four.

His voice was friendly enough, and what was more, English.

‘Good afternoon. I’m afraid I didn’t get your name. I gather from Jassim that you have an urgent message for Lady Harriet? Perhaps you could give your message to me?’

‘You’re English? Oh, good.’ I stood up. ‘It’s not exactly a message. My name’s Mansel, Christy Mansel, and Mrs. Boyd – “Lady Harriet” – is my great-aunt. I’m in Beirut on holiday, and someone told me that my great-aunt was still living up here at Dar
Ibrahim, so I came up to see her. I’m sure my people at home will be very glad to have news of her, so if she’ll spare me even a few minutes, I’d be very pleased.’

He looked surprised, and, I thought, guarded. ‘A great-niece? Christy, did you say? She never mentioned anyone of that name to me.’

‘Should she have?’ My voice was perhaps a little tart. ‘And you, Mr—er …? I take it you live here?’

‘Yes. My name’s Lethman, John Lethman. I – you might say I look after your great-aunt.’

‘You mean you’re the doctor?’

I must have sounded abrupt and surprised, because he looked rather taken aback. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m sorry, it was only because I suppose you look – I mean, I expected somebody older. The porter told my driver that “the doctor” wouldn’t allow anyone to see my great-aunt, that’s how I knew you were here. If he did mean you, that is?’

‘I suppose he did …’ He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, shook his head sharply as if to wake himself up, and gave me the flash of an embarrassed smile. His eyes still looked blurred and unfocused. They were grey, with wide, myopic-looking pupils. ‘I’m sorry, I’m still a bit stupid, I was asleep.’

‘Oh, goodness, I do apologise. When one’s madly sightseeing all day one tends to forget the siesta habit …
I’m
sorry, Mr Lethman. It was just that when the porter said “the doctor” was here I began to think my great-aunt must be ill. I mean – if you have to live here …?’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘we’d better clear this up. I’m not a
doctor really, unless you like to count half a course in psychological medicine—’ A quick look. ‘And don’t let that worry you, either, because I’m certainly not here in that capacity! Your great-aunt’s pretty fit, and all I actually do is keep an eye on the Arab servants and see to things generally, and provide her with a bit of company and conversation. I don’t “have” to live here at all in the sense you mean. All that happened was that I came here – to the Lebanon – to do some research for a paper I wanted to write, and I was marooned up here one day, driven to ground by one of the flash storms they have occasionally, and your great-aunt took me in, and somehow one thing led to another, and I stayed.’ His smile had something tentative about it, but oddly disarming, so that I thought I could supply the missing bits of the story quite easily. He added: ‘If you can think of a better place to write in, just tell me.’

I could think of a million better places to write in, among them almost any room almost anywhere within daily reach of people, but I didn’t say so. I asked: ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Nearly a year. I came last July.’

‘I see. Well, it’s a relief to know she’s all right. So I’ll be able to see her?’

He hesitated, apparently on the brink of saying something, then gave that odd little shake of the head again, and ran his hand back over his brow, almost as if he were smoothing away some physical discomfort like a headache. I saw Hamid watching him curiously.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘if you’ve something to tell me, go ahead. But let’s sit down, shall we?’

He followed me into the shade of the divan, and we sat down. I laced my fingers round one knee and turned to regard him. He still looked uncomfortable, though not in the physical sense; his long body looked relaxed enough, and his hands were slack on his knees. But there was a tight knot of worry between his brows.

‘How long since you heard from your great-aunt?’ he asked at length.

‘If you mean how long since I myself did, I never have. In fact I only remember seeing her about three times in my life, and the last time was when I was about seven, but my family hears from her now and again. There was a letter last year some time – just before Christmas, I think it was. She certainly wrote as if she were fairly fit and in her right – that is, fairly fit, But it didn’t bother much with news.’

I got the idea that he knew what I meant, but he didn’t smile. He was frowning down at his hands. ‘I only asked because—’ A pause, then he looked up suddenly. ‘Miss Mansel, how much do you and your family know about the way she lives here?’

‘I suppose we know very little, except the obvious things, that she’s perhaps getting a bit more eccentric as she gets older, and that she’s made her life out here for so long that it isn’t very likely she’ll ever want to move and come home again. You’ll have gathered that our family’s never been very strong on family ties and all that, and of course lately Great-Aunt Harriet’s had this thing about cutting all her ties with England home and beauty – that’s almost all her letters have been about, when she wrote at all. Don’t think the family
minded, they didn’t. What she does is her own affair. But since I came out here I’ve heard a bit more about her, and I gather that now it’s a pretty far-out kind of eccentricity … I mean, all this Lady Hester Stanhope imitation. Is it really true? Does she really live like that? Mr Lethman, she isn’t really bats, is she?’

‘No, oh no,’ he said quickly. He was looking immensely relieved. ‘I wondered if you knew about that. It wouldn’t be very easy to start explaining from scratch, but if you know the Stanhope story it makes it relatively simple. I won’t say your great-aunt deliberately set out to be a modern “Lady of the Lebanon”, but when she first settled here at Dar Ibrahim she did keep a bit of state, and various people made the comparison to her, and then she discovered that the old Stanhope legend was still very much alive among the country Arabs, and she herself got a good deal of benefit from it in the way of service and influence and – you know, the various by-products of celebrity. It was the locals who started calling her “Lady Harriet”, and it simply stuck. Your great-aunt was amused at first, I gather, and then she discovered it suited her to be a “character”, and in the way these things have, it gradually grew beyond the point where it could be stopped, and certainly beyond the point where she could treat it as a joke, even to herself. I don’t know if you can understand this?’