Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [169]
‘Yes. Arrange it,’ said Jerott. He had enough instinctive courtesy left to thank the foul little man as he ought before he got out, and strode to the suite used by Marthe, and hammered on the door with the butt of his knife till it cracked.
She was singing. He had never heard any expression of happiness from her before, much less this joyous uplifting of voice, light and free. He drowned it with his hammering, and when he stopped, it had halted, too.
The servant opened the door. Jerott looked past her and saw Marthe standing looking at him, dressed for supper, with a string of beryls in her pleated hair, and one of her few fine dresses with funnelled bodice and wide taffeta farthingale in a blue which echoed her eyes.
He wondered, his heart sick, what had happened to the over-dress he had torn, in the crazed half-dark of the tekke, where they had filled his cup over and over, because otherwise she could not shake him free. ‘I love you,’ she had said, before she had led him from the room. And then, dull contempt in her voice, Take your sops, Mr Blyth, and go back to the schoolroom.… ‘Send the woman away,’ said Jerott.
The servant looked round. ‘No,’ said Marthe. She was not singing now. ‘I prefer her to stay.’
‘Get out,’ said Jerott quite pleasantly to the negress, and with a quick flash of her eyes, she drew her dress together and, ducking under his arm, scuttled out of the door. Jerott walked in, and slamming the door shut, locked it. Finding he still had his knife in his hand, he put that away and looked up. ‘I take it,’ he said evenly, ‘that you are working for Gabriel?’
‘Ah,’ said Marthe. She was a little pale, but otherwise quite composed. ‘You have found that Mr Crawford’s little assassination was ineffective after all.’ She sat down, where she was, on a low stool, folded her hands and, looking at him, fetched a sigh. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am not working for Gabriel. I have told you. I am nobody’s servant. You may believe it or not, as you wish.’
Jerott, still standing, did not stir. ‘But you will agree that you knew before we left Mehedia that the Peppercorn was an English ship, and therefore would never be found at Aleppo?’
‘Yes. I knew that,’ said Marthe. ‘I am sorry. But there was no question of killing Gabriel first at that time; and as it happens, he is still alive; so the child has been in no danger. No harm has been done.’
‘No harm …!’ said Jerott; and then, controlling his voice, went on. ‘But it would have made no difference if Gabriel had been killed, would it? After all, you must have believed for quite some time, as we did, that he was dead. But you and your uncle had business at Aleppo, and you made sure you would get there, whatever happened … whatever misery anyone else … whatever prolonged misery a child of two might still have to suffer.’
‘Every element in life has its due importance,’ said Marthe. ‘Some greater, some less. As it happens, no time has been lost. I can tell you precisely where the child is. You will find him at the House of the Nightingales in Constantinople.’
Jerott laughed. ‘There is a widespread and sudden compulsion to set out for Constantinople: are the clouds raining Lancashire egg-pies and peacocks?’ he said. ‘Pierre Gilles begs me to accompany him; the Attaché cannot wait to get me on my way, at least as far as Chios. I wonder who is waiting at Constantinople, apart from the other victims of this farcical pilgrimage?’
‘I cannot help it,’ said Marthe. ‘The child is there. I received the information here in Aleppo, and I know it is true.’
‘Not at Chios?’ said Jerott. ‘Be careful. The Peppercorn calls at Chios, you know: not at the Sublime Porte.’
‘I know. He and the Syrian woman landed at Chios and then … Look,’ said Marthe. ‘There is presumably no reason why you should believe me, but equally there is no reason why you shouldn’t at least go to Chios and inquire for yourself. Any number of independent witnesses, I am sure, will have