Seven Dials - Anne Perry [93]
He heard the sound of laughter in the wind, a man’s voice and then a woman’s, and a stringed instrument, full of curious half tones. He took off his jacket; even at this hour the air was so warm, the cotton of his shirt was more than sufficient. He had worn it for dinner as a formality.
He gazed around, trying to imprint it all on his mind so he could tell Charlotte about it, the sounds that were so unlike England, the close, comfortable feel of the air on the skin, almost clammy, the heaviness of smell, sweet, close to stagnant at times, and of course always the flies. There was no cutting edge to the wind. It was languorous, hiding danger in ease, resentment behind smiling faces.
He thought of the wave after wave of peoples over the centuries who had come here as soldiers, religious conquerors, explorers, merchants, or settlers, each absorbed by the city, staying here and changing its nature.
Now it was the time of his own people, the English, unalterably foreign with their pale skins and Anglo-Saxon voices, their stiff backs and unshakable ideas of right and wrong. It was at once admirable and absurd. And above all it was monumentally inappropriate. This was an Egyptian city and they had no right here, except as they were invited.
He thought about Trenchard and his obvious love of the land and its people. Later, after their shopping, he had spoken a little of his life here. Apparently he had no close family in England anymore, and the woman he had loved, although not married, was Egyptian. He had spoken of her only briefly. She had been Muslim—in fact, the daughter of an imam, one of their holy men. She had died less than a year ago, in an accident that Trenchard had been unwilling to speak of, and naturally Pitt had not pressed him.
It was in some turmoil of emotions that he stood now, not yet ready to go to bed because he knew sleep would elude him. He could understand Ayesha so easily, the patriotism, the outrage at the way her people were robbed, the poverty and the unnecessary ignorance, and then in London with Ryerson, the torn loyalties.
But had it led her to murder? He still had not escaped the driving conclusion that it had. If not she, then who else?
In the morning he would continue learning what he could about Edwin Lovat. There must still be people here who had knowledge of him that would be more vibrant, more detailed and perhaps more honest than mere written records.
He turned away from the window and prepared to go to bed.
IT DID NOT take him long to discover exactly where Lovat had spent most of his time, and he was on his way there when he passed through the carpet bazaar. It was a baked-mud street perhaps forty feet wide, or more, and roofed over, three stories high, with vast wooden beams stretching from one side to the other and loosely filled over with more timber so the roof cast a barred and dappled shade on the ground. Everywhere there were awnings, over doorways, from windows, from poles like those set horizontally for flags.
Scores of people, almost entirely men, sat around with bales of cloth, rolled-up carpets, brassware, and magnificent hookah pipes emanating lazy smoke. There were many reds—scarlet, carmine, crimson, terra-cotta—and creams, warm earth shades, and black. Noise and color pressed in on every side in the heat.
Pitt was making his way down the middle of the street, trying to avoid looking as if he was there to buy, when there was a scuffle ahead of him, and voices raised in anger.
At first he thought it was merely a haggle over prices that had gotten out of hand, then he realized there were at least half a dozen men involved, and the tone was uglier than that of bystanders watching a squabble.
He stopped. If it was a real brawl he did not want to be caught up in it. He needed to make his way to the edge of the city and out to the village where the military camp was where Lovat had served. It was east, towards the nearest