Michael Pearce - The Face in the Cemetery

‘Fricker Effendi? Certainly.’

He hesitated, however.

‘Is there some problem? My interest is of a departmental nature. I have already spoken to McKitterick Effendi about it.’

‘No, no … It’s just that, well, Fricker Effendi is no longer available.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ The official hesitated again. ‘As a matter of fact, I understand that you are holding him.’

‘I am holding him?’

‘Yes. He has been taken into internment.’

A little to Owen’s surprise, for he had not expected it so soon – indeed, he had not really expected it at all – he found next day on his desk the copy he had asked for of the mamur’s report on the German woman’s death. When he looked at it, however, he was less surprised. It was perfunctory in the extreme, merely reporting the death of a foreign national, female, and the discovery of her body in one of the graves of a local excavation.

The report had been sent, as was customary, to the Parquet, which was responsible, in Egypt, for investigating all deaths in suspicious circumstances, and a Parquet official had scrawled ‘Noted’ on the copy and initialled it before sending it on to Owen.

Owen wrote back asking to be kept informed of further action in the case.

He was out of the office for the next two days – taking more wretched people into internment – and when he returned he found a further communication from the Parquet. All it consisted of, however, was his own letter returned to him with, at the bottom of the page, in the same negligent handwriting as that on the mamur’s report, the words ‘Referred to the Department of Antiquities’.

Owen picked up the phone.

‘Why the Department of Antiquities?’ he demanded.

There was a little pause.

‘Wasn’t it something to do with an archaeological site?’ said the voice on the other end indifferently.

‘It was to do with a body. Found on one.’

‘The Department of Antiquities handles anything to do with desecration of sites –’

‘And the Parquet handles anything to do with bodies.’

‘Not old ones, not archaeological ones.’

‘This is a new one. Not archaeological.’

‘Are you sure? It was found –’

‘If you look at the report you will see that the mamur refers to the body of a German national. Were there German nationals in Egypt in Pharaoh’s time?’

There was another pause.

‘Perhaps it had better be looked into,’ said the man unwillingly.

‘Perhaps it had. And the Consulate notified.’

‘The German Consulate has been closed,’ said the man triumphantly.

‘But another Consulate will have taken on the job of looking after the interests of German nationals remaining in the country.’

There was an audible sigh.

‘Please continue to keep me informed,’ said Owen.

In the shops at least there were signs that there was a war on. The prices of all imported goods rose sharply. The rise in the price of petrol didn’t affect many people since there were still very few cars in Egypt and only the rich had them. But the rise in the price of paraffin was a different matter. The poor used paraffin for both heating and cooking (wood had been scarce in Egypt for years) and were hard hit.

The rise in the prices of imported goods Owen could understand, but those weren’t the only prices that rose. The cost of flour and sugar went up too and they were things that were produced locally. He had only just seen sugar cane growing in huge quantities down by Minya. He couldn’t understand it and nor could the ordinary Egyptian. The newspapers were full of complaints and charges of profiteering.

They were talking about this one evening in the Officers’ Mess at the Abbassiya Barracks. The regiment was leaving for Europe the following day and Owen had been invited for a farewell drink.

‘It’ll mean problems for you,’ said his friend, John, one of the Sirdar’s ADCs and someone who had been a useful contact at Army Headquarters.

‘Why him?’ asked one of the other officers.

‘Because the man in the street will become restive, and he’s the one who will have to keep order when we’ve gone.’

‘Thank you for pointing that out,’ said Owen. ‘However, in one way things should become easier: there’ll be fewer drunken soldiers around.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said someone, laughing, ‘but the Australians will be here instead. Or so the rumour goes. You might do better to come with us.’

There was a general laugh.

‘Where do you stand, actually, Gareth?’ asked John curiously. ‘You’re on secondment, aren’t you?’

Owen had served with the British Army in India before coming to Egypt.

‘It started as secondment,’ said Owen, ‘but then I applied for a transfer. And after that it became permanent.’

‘So, strictly speaking, you’re a civilian now?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yes, but with your experience –’ said John.

‘You were up on the North West Frontier, weren’t you?’ asked one of the other officers.

‘For a while, yes.’

‘Just the sort of man we need.’

The thought had occurred to Owen, too.

The Parquet official had obviously taken heed of Owen’s observation – perhaps it was the mention of the Consulate that had done it – for in the mail the next morning was a copy of the letter he had sent to the mamur at Minya. It asked him to supply further details of the ‘incident’ in the cat cemetery. In particular, it asked for details of any damage to the site – a thrust at Owen, this? – but also the cause of death.

McPhee’s mind, too, seemed to have been on the cat cemetery that morning – possibly because he and Owen were on their way to intern some other unfortunates – for, as they were passing the House of the Kadi, just after noon, he glanced at his watch and said:

‘Shall we go in? And have a look at the cats?’

‘Cats?’ said Owen.

‘Yes. They bring the offal just about now.’

They went through an ancient ornamental gateway into a beautiful old enclosed courtyard. Sure enough, a servant was just emerging from the Chief Justice’s house carrying a large bowl. He threw the contents on the ground and at once dozens of cats emerged from all corners of the courtyard and began to tuck in.

‘It used to be a garden,’ said McPhee. ‘The Sultan Baybars set it aside specifically for the use of cats. Over the centuries the garden was built on, but the custom of feeding the cats has survived. Only now, it’s the Kadi that does it.’

‘The Kadi feeds the cats?’

‘That’s right. I think the Prophet was fond of cats, or perhaps he said he was, once.’

They turned back and through the gateway.

‘I know this is Muslim,’ said McPhee, ‘but am I fanciful, do you think, to see a continuity from that cemetery in Minya? That was Pharaonic, of course, but often later practice has its roots in some earlier custom, and it would not be surprising. What do you think?’

Owen had absolutely no opinion on this at all and they continued on their way up the Darb el Asfar.

They had almost reached the Bab-el-Foutouh when McPhee said:

‘You know, Owen, about that business at Minya: there are a lot of things that trouble me. That poor woman, of course, and how she landed up there. Horrible! Just think of how her husband must feel! And then those brigands. You really would have thought that the local police would have eliminated them by now. And then those shots! Surely, arming the local ghaffirs is not a sensible way of dealing with such problems. I really do feel you should speak to someone.’

‘I have.’

He told McPhee about his conversation with McKitterick.

McPhee listened intently.