They came to Baghdad - Agatha Christie [78]
Dishes filled with grain, gold earrings saved up for a dowry, bone needles, querns and mortars, little figurines and amulets. All the everyday life and fears and hopes of a community of unimportant simple people.
‘That’s what I find so fascinating,’ said Victoria to Richard. ‘You see, I always used to think that archaeology was just Royal graves and palaces.
‘Kings of Babylon,’ she added, with a strange little smile. ‘But what I like so much about all this is that it’s the ordinary everyday people – people like me. My St Anthony who finds things for me when I lose them – and a lucky china pig I’ve got – and an awfully nice mixing bowl, blue inside and white out, that I used to make cakes in. It got broken and the new one I bought wasn’t a bit the same. I can understand why these people mended up their favourite bowls or dishes so carefully with bitumen. Life’s all the same really, isn’t it – then or now?’
She was thinking of these things as she watched the visitors ascending the side of the Tell. Richard went to greet them, Victoria following behind him.
They were two Frenchmen, interested in archaeology, who were making a tour through Syria and Iraq. After civil greetings, Victoria took them round the excavations, reciting parrot wise what was going on, but being unable to resist, being Victoria, adding sundry embellishments of her own, just, as she put it to herself, to make it more exciting.
She noticed that the second man was a very bad colour, and that he dragged himself along without much interest. Presently he said, if Mademoiselle would excuse him, he would retire to the house. He had not felt well since early that morning – and the sun was making him worse.
He departed in the direction of the Expedition House, and the other, in suitably lowered tones explained that, unfortunately, it was his estomac. The Baghdad tummy they called it, did they not? He should not really have come out today.
The tour was completed, the Frenchman remained talking to Victoria, finally Fidos was called and Dr Pauncefoot Jones, with a determined air of hospitality suggested the guests should have tea before departing.
To this, however, the Frenchman demurred. They must not delay their departure until it was dark or they would never find the way. Richard Baker said immediately that this was quite right. The sick friend was retrieved from the house and the car rushed off at top speed.
‘I suppose that’s just the beginning,’ grunted Dr Pauncefoot Jones. ‘We shall have visitors every day now.’
He took a large flap of Arab bread and covered it thickly with apricot jam.
Richard went to his room after tea. He had letters to answer, and others to write in preparation for going into Baghdad on the following day.
Suddenly he frowned. Not a man of particular neatness to the outward view, he yet had a way of arranging his clothes and his papers that never varied. Now he saw at once that every drawer had been disturbed. It was not the servants, of that he was sure. It must be, then, that sick visitor who had made a pretext to go down to the house, had coolly ransacked through his belongings. Nothing was missing, he assured himself of that. His money was untouched. What, then, had they been looking for? His face grew grave as he considered the implications.
He went to the Antika Room and looked into the drawer which held the seals and seal impressions. He gave a grim smile – nothing had been touched or removed. He went into the living-room. Dr Pauncefoot Jones was out in the courtyard with the foreman. Only Victoria was there, curled up with a book.
Richard said, without preamble, ‘Somebody’s been searching my room.’
Victoria looked up, astonished.
‘But why? And who?’
‘It wasn’t you?’
‘Me?’ Victoria was indignant. ‘Of course not? Why should I want to pry among your things?’
He gave her a hard stare. Then he said:
‘It must have been that damned stranger – the one who shammed sick and came down to the house.’
‘Did he steal something?’
‘No,