They came to Baghdad - Agatha Christie [30]
Now, somewhat dazed, Victoria, her head reeling slightly under the effect of a double whisky authoritatively pressed upon her by Marcus, was standing in a high whitewashed room containing a large brass bedstead, a very sophisticated dressing-table of newest French design, an aged Victorian wardrobe, and two vivid plush chairs. Her modest baggage reposed at her feet and a very old man with a yellow face and white whiskers had grinned and nodded at her as he placed towels in the bathroom and asked her if she would like the water made hot for a bath.
‘How long would it take?’
‘Twenty minutes, half an hour. I go and do it now.’
With a fatherly smile he withdrew. Victoria sat down on the bed and passed an experimental hand over her hair. It felt clogged with dust and her face was sore and gritty. She looked at herself in the glass. The dust had changed her hair from black to a strange reddish brown. She pulled aside a corner of the curtain and looked out on to a wide balcony which gave on the river. But there was nothing to be seen of the Tigris but a thick yellow haze. A prey to deep depression, Victoria said to herself: ‘What a hateful place.’
Then rousing herself, she stepped across the landing and tapped on Mrs Clipp’s door. Prolonged and active ministrations would be required of her here before she could attend to her own cleansing and rehabilitation.
II
After a bath, lunch and a prolonged nap, Victoria stepped out from her bedroom on to the balcony and gazed with approval across the Tigris. The dust-storm had subsided. Instead of a yellow haze, a pale clear light was appearing. Across the river was a delicate silhouette of palm trees and irregularly placed houses.
Voices came up to Victoria from the garden below. She stepped to the edge of the balcony and looked over.
Mrs Hamilton Clipp, that indefatigable talker and friendly soul, had struck up an acquaintanceship with an Englishwoman – one of those weather-beaten Englishwomen of indeterminate age who can always be found in any foreign city.
‘– and whatever I’d have done without her, I really don’t know,’ Mrs Clipp was saying. ‘She’s just the sweetest girl you can imagine. And very well connected. A niece of the Bishop of Llangow.’
‘Bishop of who?’
‘Why, Llangow, I think it was.’
‘Nonsense, there’s no such person,’ said the other.
Victoria frowned. She recognized the type of County Englishwoman who is unlikely to be taken in by the mention of spurious Bishops.
‘Why, then, perhaps I got the name wrong,’ Mrs Clipp said doubtfully.
‘But,’ she resumed, ‘she certainly is a very charming and competent girl.’
The other said ‘Ha!’ in a non-committal manner.
Victoria resolved to give this lady as wide a berth as possible. Something told her that inventing stories to satisfy that kind of woman was no easy job.
Victoria went back into her room, sat on the bed, and gave herself up to speculation on her present position.
She was staying at the Tio Hotel, which was, she was fairly sure, not at all inexpensive. She had four pounds seventeen shillings in her possession. She had eaten a hearty lunch for which she had not yet paid and for which Mrs Clipp was under no obligation to pay. Travelling expenses to Baghdad were what Mrs Clipp had offered. The bargain was completed. Victoria had got to Baghdad. Mrs Hamilton Clipp had received the skilled attention of a Bishop’s niece, an ex-hospital nurse, and competent secretary. All that was over, to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. Mrs Hamilton Clipp would depart on the evening train to Kirkuk – and that was that. Victoria toyed hopefully with the idea that Mrs Clipp might press upon her a parting present in the form of hard cash, but abandoned it reluctantly as unlikely. Mrs Clipp could have no idea that Victoria was in really dire financial straits.
What then must Victoria do? The answer came immediately. Find Edward, of course.
With a sense of annoyance she realized that she was quite unaware of Edward’s last name. Edward – Baghdad. Very much, Victoria reflected,