Mr Postlethwaite. ‘At least you know who’s responsible for what.’
Jane Postlethwaite appeared in the doorway.
‘I hope you’ve not been pitching into Captain Owen, Uncle,’ she said.
‘A bit,’ said John Postlethwaite, exaggerating. Owen suspected that he liked to play the role of the hard man with his niece; and that she was not deceived in the least.
‘I’ve pitched into the Departments,’ he said with relish. He winked at Owen. ‘Now they’ll know what to expect if they try to pull the wool over my eyes.’
‘Get them on the run,’ advised Jane Postlethwaite. ‘That’s half the battle.’
Owen was a little surprised at this display of administrative savoir-faire but then realized that she was probably repeating one of her uncle’s maxims. Mr Postlethwaite endorsed it anyway.
‘That’s right,’ he said.
His niece laid a hand on his arm.
‘Now, Uncle,’ she said, ‘you’d better get back to your memos. Once you’ve got them on the run, keep them on the run.’
‘And that’s true, too,’ said John Postlethwaite, going happily off up the stairs.
Jane Postlethwaite led them into a small room which the hotel manager had made available. The shutters had been closed, which kept the room fairly cool; but the air was lukewarm and inert and the fans useless, so after a while she pushed the shutters right open and they sat by the window.
‘It is fortunate for us that you were watching, Miss Postlethwaite,’ said Mahmoud, ‘and that you’re such a good observer.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t really watching him particularly, you know. It was just that I couldn’t help noticing him. He was so striking. So big, and so—rapt.’
‘Did you notice him towards the end of the dance? Just before he collapsed?’
‘Yes. He was bounding about and I kept thinking: Surely he can’t keep this up, not with all those knives and things sticking in him. But he did. He kept jumping away. Then he seemed to falter. There was a man near him and I thought he had bumped into him, because he, the Zikr, I mean, seemed to stumble. And then all his strength seemed to go out of him and he just slumped down. I think his fatigue had just caught up with him. Other Zikr were collapsing, too, at that point.’
‘The man who was standing near him, the one he bumped into or might have bumped into, was he another Zikr?’
‘Oh no. He was one of—the audience, I suppose I should say, one of the onlookers, anyway. He had sort of strayed into the ring, been drawn in, I suppose, like so many others. There were lots of them, you know, ordinary people. They pressed forward during the dancing and then they began to join in. It was very infectious. I felt quite like joining in myself. Only I thought Captain Owen would not approve of me.’
She gave Owen a look which he considered afterwards he could only describe as arch.
Mahmoud, however, was concentrating.
‘This particular onlooker, the one the Zikr nearly bumped into, was he joining in?’
‘No. He was just standing there. That is why I noticed him. I thought he was, well, you know, a bit dazed or something, bowled over by it all. I was afraid he would get in the way. And then, when the Zikr stumbled, I thought he had got in the way.’
‘Could you describe him for us, Miss Postlethwaite?’ Mahmoud asked. ‘What was he wearing, for instance?’
‘Oh, ordinary clothes.’
‘Ordinary Western clothes or ordinary Egyptian clothes?’
‘How silly I am. Of course. Ordinary Egyptian clothes. A long gown. A—galabeah, is it?’
‘You’re picking up our language well, Miss Postle-thwaite,’ said Mahmoud encouragingly. ‘Galabeah is quite right. A blue one?’
‘No. Darker than that. Grey? Black?’
‘Are you sure about that, Miss Postlethwaite?’ Owen interposed.
‘Well, not absolutely. It was dark by then and hard to see in the light. It was just that in comparison with the others his seemed dark.’
‘Did you see what kind of turban he was wearing?’
‘I am afraid not. I’m sorry. One turban is much like another to me. Darkish, anyway. Like his gown.’
Owen exchanged surreptitious glances with Mahmoud. It was early yet but he was already beginning to have a sinking feeling.
‘Anything else, Miss Postlethwaite?’ asked Mahmoud.
‘Not really. I saw him only fleetingly.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Thirty, forty—’
‘You saw his face?’
‘I must have,’ said Jane, concentrating. After a moment or two she shook her head. ‘I don’t remember it at all clearly, I’m afraid.’
‘Hands?’
‘Hands?’ said Jane, startled.
‘Sometimes they are distinctive.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane, looking at him with interest. ‘Yes, they are. Well, I did see his hands, but there was nothing distinctive about them. It was just—’
She broke off and thought for a moment. ‘I don’t remember his hands,’ she said at last, ‘but I do remember hers.’
‘Hers?’
‘The woman’s.’
‘What woman’s?’
‘Don’t you know?’ said Jane, surprised. ‘Oh, I see, you’re testing me. The woman he was with.’
Mahmoud recovered first.
‘Tell us about this woman, please, Miss Postlethwaite,’ he asked.
‘Right,’ said Jane obediently. ‘Well, we were in a sort of enclosure, you know, masked off by ropes. During the dancing this woman came right up beside me, outside the enclosure—I was at the very end of the row, next to the rope, there was a carpet hung over it too, which made it into a sort of wall—and put her hand on the rope just in front of me. That’s why I saw it in the first place. But then, of course, I noticed it. She had such lovely hand painting. Lots of Egyptian women do, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud, ‘although it’s going out now, or so my mother says.’
‘Does she herself hand-paint?’ asked Jane.
‘No!’ said Mahmoud, immensely amused at the thought of his rather Westernized mother engaging in the traditional Egyptian arts. ‘It’s not confined to the poorer classes but it’s certainly most common there. You find it generally where the old customs are strongest.’
‘Such beautiful patterns!’ said Jane enthusiastically
‘In general?’ asked Mahmoud. ‘Or just in the case of the woman you saw beside the enclosure?’
‘Both!’ said Jane. ‘But I noticed the woman because I thought her patterns were especially lovely. She didn’t paint the whole palm, you know, not like they usually do, she just sort of sketched it in and then echoed it around the knuckles and nails. But what really caught my eye were her wrists. She had a most intricate pattern around them, all in delicate blue, not the usual blue of the poorer women, and not that rich orangey-red you often see. It ran round her wrist in a series of hooks and crosses all linked together, like a sort of painted bracelet.’
‘Crosses?’ said Owen. He was quite sure about the sinking feeling now.
‘Yes. Small square ones.