Michael Pearce - The Fig Tree Murder

‘He has given away our Tree!’

When Owen next visited the Tree he found not just the guard he had posted but also six other men.

‘Who are they?’

‘Friends,’ said Daniel, grinning.

They were all Copts. Copts tended to be small. These weren’t.

‘What are they doing here?’

‘Helping to protect the Tree. You said it needed protection.’

Owen had managed to arrive just before Sheikh Isa. The sheikh descended from his donkey and looked at the men. ‘Who are these men?’ he said.

‘My assistants,’ said Daniel.

‘What do you need assistants for?’

‘To hold the knives. See?’

The men produced daggers from their clothes and brandished them ostentatiously.

‘We’ll have no trouble!’ Owen warned.

‘Trouble? This is just in case anyone wants to carve their name. A knife is available at a fee. And without one, if that’s absolutely necessary.’

‘This is a Muslim tree,’ said Sheikh Isa.

‘You reckon?’ said one of the Copts.

‘The ownership is under dispute,’ said Owen, ‘and will be settled in the courts.’

‘So you don’t own it then?’ cried Sheikh Isa.

‘I certainly do,’ retorted Daniel. ‘And no Frenchman is going to take it away from me.’

‘Frenchman?’ said Sheikh Isa, bewildered.

‘The Tree was given to the Empress Eugenie,’ Owen explained. ‘Or so the French say.’

‘Frenchmen? Foreigners?’ said Sheikh Isa incredulously.

‘Catholics!’ spat Daniel. ‘They’re all Catholics!’

‘Christians? Not more Christians!’ cried Sheikh Isa.

‘They’re not taking my Tree away!’ said Daniel.

‘Take it away?’

‘No one’s taking it away,’ said Owen, intervening swiftly. ‘The French have just made a claim for it, that’s all. It will be settled in the courts.’

‘It will be settled on the battlefield!’ shouted Sheikh Isa. ‘Take it away? The desert will run with blood first!’

The next day, in addition to the guard and the six Copts, there were another six men.

‘Who are you?’ said Owen.

‘We are Sheikh Isa’s men. The Sons of Islam.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Looking after the Tree. The Catholics are coming to take it away. These Copt bastards are going to give it to them.’

‘I’m going to give it to you!’ said Daniel, getting to his feet.

‘Cut it out!’ snapped Owen. ‘Any nonsense from any of you and you’ll all be in the caracol! You!’ he said to the guard. ‘See there’s no trouble!’

‘What, me?’ said the guard. ‘On my own?’

The next day, in addition to the guard, the six Copts and the six Sons of Islam, there were three other guards.

‘Four men?’ said Garvin, the Commandant of Police, whose men they were. ‘For how long? How long did you say it was going to be before the case was decided?’

The village was got up as if for a festival. Banners were hung across the street, bunting festooned all the houses. Holy texts dangled from the windows.

‘What’s all this?’ said Owen to his friend the barber.

‘It’s the pilgrims,’ said the barber. Any day now they’ll start arriving.’

‘On their way to Birket-el-Hadj?’

‘That’s right. It’s where they all gather.’

Owen frowned. He had forgotten about the Mecca caravan.

‘They pass through here?’

‘And through the other villages. They come from all sides.’ Owen’s frown deepened. The last thing he could do with just at the moment was hordes of the devout converging on the neighbourhood.

‘When does the caravan leave?’

‘Oh, not for several weeks yet. It takes time for them all to assemble.’

Sheikh Isa stood at the door of his house.

‘Is there not joy in your heart, Englishman?’ he demanded, gesturing at all the decorations.

Not a lot, thought Owen. Out loud he said:

‘It is always a pleasure to see the signs of joy.’

‘There is joy in our hearts. For this is the time when the faithful gather to make the Great Journey.’

‘Happiness, indeed,’ said Owen, bowing his head politely.

‘We rejoice with them.’

‘Quite so!’

‘But mutedly.’

‘Mutedly?’ said Owen.

‘For three reasons.’

Owen tried to edge past.

‘First,’ said the sheikh determinedly, ‘because they are only on their outward way. Their hearts have not yet felt the holy touch. It is only on the return journey that their joy, and ours, knows no end.’

‘Joy, indeed!’

‘Second, however,’ said Sheikh Isa, ‘our joy is limited because we think of those who do not travel with them.’

‘Ah, the sadness!’ murmured Owen sympathetically.

‘Backsliders!’ shouted Sheikh Isa. ‘Backsliders, all of them! The faint of heart in the villages! The godless in the infidel towns! Snakes, vermin, worse than vermin; Christians! Worse than Christians; Copts!’

‘Yes, well-’

‘The third reason,’ said Sheikh Isa inexorably, ‘why our joy is muted is this: the caravan is no longer what it was. Each year the numbers are fewer.’

He looked accusingly at Owen.

‘They are going by train, perhaps,’ suggested Owen helpfully.

This was a mistake. Sheikh Isa glared at him.

‘That,’ he said harshly, ‘is where the error begins.’

Owen continued to edge away.

‘The world changes,’ he said, ‘and we must change with it.’

‘Not so!’ bellowed Sheikh Isa. ‘If we are tempted, do we have to fall? The railway is put there to tempt us; do we have to yield? The devil builds a city; do we have to go to it?’

‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ said Owen.

Sheikh Isa stared into the distance.

‘But what,’ he almost whispered, ‘if it comes to me? What if the railway creeps across the desert towards me? What if it enters the village and lures the hearts of the foolish people with gold? What if the devil’s houses reach out to touch my own? What do I do then?’

Owen’s offering to pay for Ja’affar’s treatment had made him a friend if not of the whole village, then very definitely of the barber and, as he went past, the barber hailed him and invited him to take tea. The chair was empty for the moment, no chins requiring shaving, no injuries, treatment and no penises, circumcision, and the barber was free to bustle about preparing tea for his cronies.

Owen joined the ring squatting on the ground. One of the ring was Ja’affar.

‘How’s it going, Ja’affar?’

‘Terribly. I’ll soon have to go back to work.’

‘Old man Zaghlul was round after him this morning,’ volunteered one of the others.

‘The old bastard! He’s worse than the Belgians!’ said Ja’afFar indignandy.

‘He’ll be in the village every day now for a bit. He’ll be keeping his eye on you!’

Owen settled back and let the tide of conversation flow over him.

‘I saw Zaghlul just now,’ said someone.

‘Yes, he’s talking to Sheikh Isa.’

‘What’s he talking about?’

‘It’ll be to do with the pilgrims.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s trying to sell them ostriches!’

‘No, no. Camels. Some of them will need new camels for the journey. He can get them from his friends in the desert.’

‘Those thieving Bedouin! I bet he makes a piastre or two!’

‘You know what? I’ve heard they sell them to the pilgrims here and then steal them back later.’

‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if that old man Zaghlul had a hand in both, the murderous old skinflint!’

‘What happens?’ asked Owen. ‘Does Sheikh Isa go over to the Birket-el-Hadj and take orders?’

‘More or less. He’s over there most days at this time of year and no doubt he keeps his ears open. If he gets to hear of someone wanting camels he lets Zaghlul know about it.’