Anne Herries - The Sheikh

‘Oh, do please keep in touch,’ Jane begged as she said goodbye the next morning. ‘It has been so nice having you as a friend, Chloe. I wish you were staying for the whole of the cruise. But I suppose you can’t wait to get off to wherever it is you’re going.’

Chloe promised she would write and tell Jane where they went and what they saw.

‘It may be ages before I can post a letter,’ she said. ‘We are going to be travelling to the more remote villages as soon as the professor can arrange transport. We are on a research trip, not a holiday. I have to take dictation and help the professor find what he is looking for—which could mean lots of reading and walking.’

‘You poor thing,’ Jane said, looking at her in horror. She had never worked in her life and hoped she never would. ‘I hope it won’t be too terrible for you. Aunt Vera says that some of these places can be very primitive. Do be careful what you eat, Chloe. My aunt was awfully ill once when she stayed in Morocco.’

‘Miss Ramsbottom carries a lot of emergency kit,’ Chloe assured her. ‘My friends know all about travelling in the region so we should be safe enough.’

‘Well, goodbye—and do keep in touch.’

There were several people leaving the ship that morning. Chloe saw Brent Harwood with the other members of the film crew, all of whom she knew only by sight. None of them had been particularly talkative, though apparently they had taken a few shots of the captain and his crew.

She noticed Philip Armand—or whatever his name really was—being met by a man who saluted him and took the briefcase he was carrying off to what looked like an expensive French car. He glanced back at the ship just before he got into the back seat, inclining his head to her but not smiling. She thought he looked angry again, and wondered what had upset him this time.

What a very odd man he was! He could be so charming and friendly when he chose, and the next withdrawn, as cold as ice. She wondered what made a man like that, and decided that he must have an awful lot on his mind.

‘Well, here we are then,’ Professor Hicks said to her. ‘All your goodbyes finished, Chloe?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m looking forward to our adventure.’

‘Adventure?’ He nodded and looked pleased. ‘Yes, I suppose it is a kind of adventure. Some of my research can seem dull, especially to a young woman like yourself, I dare say—but meeting people and seeing new places is always exciting.’

Chloe and Amelia Ramsbottom sat at the back of the rather crowded bus that was to take them to their hotel. It was quite new and provided by one of the Spanish-built hotels that had begun to appear in the last few years.

‘When we first came here there were no buses and hardly any cars,’ Amelia confided to her as the bus reached its capacity load and lurched off down the bumpy road. ‘I remember we hired a kind of dogcart pulled by one tired old horse—and in Morocco we had to ride on donkeys. Camels when we went into the desert, of course.’

‘How brave you were to accompany the professor on his early trips,’ Chloe said. ‘Of course things have changed a lot since the war, haven’t they?’

‘Oh, yes, a great deal, everyone is beginning to catch on to the idea of foreign travel. I dare say it will be as popular for ordinary people to holiday in places like Spain and Portugal as it has been for the rich on the French Riviera one day.’

‘Do you think we shall travel by camel this time?’

‘I certainly hope not,’ Amelia said. ‘Charles will have a vehicle of some sort. Do you drive at all, Chloe?’

‘Yes, though I haven’t had much experience. I couldn’t afford a car, but Daddy did arrange for me to learn. He thought it might come in useful.’

‘I dare say it might. The professor drives, but I’m afraid I don’t.’

Chloe was excited by what she saw as they drove along a very bumpy, dusty road. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, which seemed to make the brilliant white of the houses seem even brighter, and the flowers spilling out from gardens, pots and hanging boxes were a riot of colour. There was a definite style to the arches and domes, giving it the flavour of the East that she had expected, for even though it was a Spanish protectorate Cetua still had that Moorish feel.

Now and then she caught sight of beautiful villas and gardens behind high walls and wondered about the people who lived there, but there were also small houses that seemed to be made of either stone or mud bricks and some looked to be in danger of tumbling down. They passed children standing by the roadside, many of whom were barefooted and dressed in little better than rags. There were also beggars with sores or missing limbs, traders who held up their wares as the bus passed, and men leading a string of camels into town.

The bus made slow progress through the town itself, which was crowded with carts, donkeys, people and motor vehicles. Chloe hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the modern ways of the West seemed to have begun to influence this ancient world and the hotel they were taken to had been built since the war.

From the hot, dirty street they entered a cool courtyard, which was paved with a beautiful mosaic of jewel-coloured tiles, and had a fountain playing in its centre. Terracotta pots held a variety of fleshy green plants with spiky leaves or trailing fronds, and two large palm trees stood at either side of the lobby entrance.

Inside it was a mixture of Moorish taste with some Art Deco influences in the furnishings. They were greeted politely by the hotel manager himself, but the language Chloe thought was being used most often was not Spanish, as she had expected, but French. She was glad that she had taken it to a higher level at school. However, it was not long before she became aware of a heated argument, taking place in English between a rather pretty young woman and one of the desk clerks.

‘But it is absolutely impossible for me to manage in that perfectly dreadful little room!’ the woman cried in a sharp voice. ‘Brent promised me a suite and I really must have it.’

‘But, Angela darling, they don’t have a suite available,’ a man dressed in a crumpled white suit was telling her. He looked hot and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Clearly he was at a loss what to do in the circumstances. ‘Brent has the only one and he—’

‘Then he must give it to me,’ she said and pulled a face. ‘I only came to this awful country because he promised me it would all be lovely and that I could have everything I wanted.’

Chloe was unable to hear any more of the argument, because a smiling, white-robed porter was picking up her bags and beckoning her to follow. She did so, though she was curious about the woman, whose face seemed familiar. She was almost certain she was a film star. Oh, why couldn’t she think of her name? He had called her Angela… Yes, of course, that was it! Angela Russell. She had been in several silent films, most of them supposedly set in exotic locations.

‘What on earth was that fuss about just now?’ Amelia asked as they paused at the end of the landing.

‘Oh, I think that was Angela Russell, the film star,’ Chloe said. ‘I’ve seen some of her films, though I don’t think she has made one for a while—at least I haven’t seen it. She seemed to be upset about the room they have given her. I think she wanted a suite or something.’

Amelia gave a snort of disgust.

‘This hotel is a palace compared to some we’ve stayed in. A woman like that has no business travelling at all if she is going to make a fuss over every little thing. One has to expect some discomfort when one leaves home.’

Chloe smiled, but thought that everyone couldn’t be as confident as the intrepid Miss Ramsbottom. She had thought the filmstar rather lovely and had sympathised if she didn’t like her room.