Appointment with Death (6 page)

Looking over the flat desert country, Sarah was at a loss as to where the rocky stronghold of Petra could be. Surely they could see for miles and miles all round them? There were no mountains, no hills anywhere. Were they, then, still many miles from their journey's end?

They reached the village of Ain Musa where the cars were to be left. Here horses were waiting for them—sorry-looking thin beasts. The inadequacy of her striped washing-frock disturbed Miss Pierce greatly. Lady Westholme was sensibly attired in riding breeches, not perhaps a particularly becoming style to her type of figure, but certainly practical.

The horses were led out of the village along a slippery path with loose stones. The ground fell away and the horses zig-zagged down. The sun was close on setting.

Sarah was very tired with the long, hot journey in the car. Her senses felt dazed. The ride was like a dream. It seemed to her afterwards that it was like the pit of Hell opening at one's feet. The way wound down—down
into the ground. The shapes of rock rose up round them—down, down into the bowels of the earth, through a labyrinth of red cliffs. They towered now on either side. Sarah felt stifled—menaced by the ever-narrowing gorge.

She thought confusedly to herself: ‘Down into the valley of death—down into the valley of death…'

On and on. It grew dark—the vivid red of the walls faded—and still on, winding in and out, imprisoned, lost in the bowels of the earth.

She thought: ‘It's fantastic and unbelievable…a dead city.'

And again like a refrain came the words: ‘
The valley of death
…'

Lanterns were lit now. The horses wound along through the narrow ways. Suddenly they came out into a wide space—the cliffs receded. Far ahead of them was a cluster of lights.

‘That is camp!' said the guide.

The horses quickened their pace a little—not very much—they were too starved and dispirited for that, but they showed just a shade of enthusiasm. Now the way ran along a gravelly water-bed. The lights grew nearer.

They could see a cluster of tents, a higher row up against the face of a cliff. Caves, too, hollowed out in the rock.

They were arriving. Bedouin servants came running out.

Sarah stared up at one of the caves. It held a sitting figure. What was it? An idol? A gigantic squatting image?

No, that was the flickering lights that made it loom so large. But it
must
be an idol of some kind, sitting there immovable, brooding over the place…

And then, suddenly her heart gave a leap of recognition.

Gone was the feeling of peace—of escape—that the desert had given her. She had been led from freedom back into captivity. She had ridden down into this dark winding valley and here, like an archpriestess of some forgotten cult, like a monstrous swollen female Buddha, sat Mrs Boynton…

Mrs Boynton was here, at Petra!

Sarah answered mechanically questions that were addressed to her. Would she have dinner straight away—it was ready—or would she like to wash first? Would she prefer to sleep in a tent or a cave?

Her answer to that came quickly. A tent. She flinched at the thought of a cave, the vision of that monstrous squatting figure recurred to her. (Why was it that something about the woman seemed hardly human?)

Finally she followed one of the native servants. He wore khaki breeches, much patched, and untidy puttees and a ragged coat very much the worse for wear. On his head the native headdress, the
cheffiyah
, its long folds protecting the neck and secured in place with a black silk twist fitting tightly to the crown of his head. Sarah admired the easy swing with which he walked—the careless proud carriage of his head. Only the European
part of his costume seemed tawdry and wrong. She thought: ‘Civilization
is
all wrong—
all
wrong! But for civilization there wouldn't be a Mrs Boynton! In savage tribes they'd probably have killed and eaten her years ago!'

She realized, half-humorously, that she was over-tired and on edge. A wash in hot water and a dusting of powder over her face and she felt herself again—cool, poised, and ashamed of her recent panic.

She passed a comb through her thick black hair, squinting sideways at her reflection in the wavering light of a small oil-lamp in a very inadequate glass.

Then she pushed aside the tent-flap and came out into the night prepared to descend to the big marquee below.

‘You—here?'

It was a low cry—dazed, incredulous.

She turned to look straight into Raymond Boynton's eyes. So amazed they were! And something in them held her silent and almost afraid. Such an unbelievable joy…It was as though he had seen a vision of Paradise—wondering, dazed, thankful, humble! Never, in all her life, was Sarah to forget that look. So might the damned look up and see Paradise…

He said again: ‘
You
…'

It did something to her—that low, vibrant tone. It made her heart turn over in her breast. It made her feel
shy, afraid, humble and yet suddenly arrogantly glad. She said quite simply: ‘Yes.'

He came nearer—still dazed—still only half believing.

Then suddenly he took her hand.

‘It
is
you,' he said. ‘You're real. I thought at first you were a ghost—because I'd been thinking about you so much.' He paused and then said, ‘I love you, you know…I have from the moment I saw you in the train. I know that now. And I want you to know it so that—so that you'll know it isn't me—the real me—who—who behaves so caddishly. You see I can't answer for myself even now. I might do–anything! I might pass you by or cut you, but I do want you to know that it isn't me—the real me—who is responsible for that. It's my nerves. I can't depend on them…When she tells me to do things—I do them! My nerves make me! You will understand, won't you? Despise me if you have to—'

She interrupted him. Her voice was low and unexpectedly sweet. ‘I won't despise you.'

‘All the same, I'm pretty despicable! I ought to—to be able to behave like a man.'

It was partly an echo of Gerard's advice, but more out of her own knowledge and hope that Sarah answered—and behind the sweetness of her voice there was a ring of certainty and conscious authority.

‘You will now.'

‘Shall I?' His voice was wistful. ‘Perhaps…'

‘You'll have courage now. I'm sure of it.'

He drew himself up—flung back his head.

‘Courage? Yes, that's all that's needed. Courage!'

Suddenly he bent his head, touched her hand with his lips. A minute later he had left her.

Sarah went down to the big marquee. She found her three fellow travelers there. They were sitting at table eating. The guide was explaining that there was another party here.

‘They came two days ago. Go day after tomorrow. Americans. The mother, very fat, very difficult get here! Carried in chair by bearers—they say very hard work—they get very hot—yes.'

Sarah gave a sudden spurt of laughter. Of course, take it properly, the whole thing was funny!

The fat dragoman looked at her gratefully. He was not finding his task too easy. Lady Westholme had contradicted him out of Baedeker three times that day and had now found fault with the type of bed provided. He was grateful to the one member of his party who seemed to be unaccountably in a good temper.

‘Ha!' said Lady Westholme. ‘I think these people
were at the Solomon. I recognized the old mother as we arrived here. I think I saw you talking to her at the hotel, Miss King.'

Sarah blushed guiltily, hoping Lady Westholme had not overheard much of that conversation.

‘Really, what possessed me!' she thought to herself in an agony.

In the meantime Lady Westholme had made a pronouncement. ‘Not interesting people at all. Very provincial,' she said.

Miss Pierce made eager sycophantish noises and Lady Westholme embarked on a history of various interesting and prominent Americans whom she had met recently.

The weather being so unusually hot for the time of year, an early start was arranged for the morrow.

The four assembled for breakfast at six o'clock. There were no signs of any of the Boynton family. After Lady Westholme had commented unfavourably on the absence of fruit, they consumed tea, tinned milk, and fried eggs in a generous allowance of fat flanked by extremely salt bacon.

Then they started forth, Lady Westholme and Dr Gerard discussing with animation on the part of the former the exact value of vitamins in diet and the proper nutrition of the working classes.

Then there was a sudden hail from the camp and
they halted to allow another person to join the party. It was Mr Jefferson Cope who hurried after them, his pleasant face flushed with the exertion of running.

‘Why, if you don't mind, I'd like to join your party this morning. Good morning, Miss King. Quite a surprise meeting you and Dr Gerard here. What do you think of it?'

He made a gesture indicating the fantastic red rocks that stretched in every direction.

‘I think it's rather wonderful and just a little horrible,' said Sarah. ‘I always thought of it as romantic and dream-like—the “rose-red city”. But it's much more
real
than that—it's as real as—as raw beef.'

‘And very much the colour of it,' agreed Mr Cope.

‘But it's marvelous, too,' admitted Sarah.

The party began to climb. Two Bedouin guides accompanied them. Tall men, with an easy carriage, they swung upward unconcernedly in their hobnailed boots completely foot-sure on the slippery slope. Difficulties soon began. Sarah had a good head for heights and so had Dr Gerard. But both Mr Cope and Lady Westholme were far from happy, and the unfortunate Miss Pierce had to be almost carried over the precipitous places, her eyes shut, her face green, while her voice rose ceaselessly in a perpetual wail.

‘I never could look down places. Never—from a child!'

Once she declared her intention of going back, but on turning to face the descent, her skin assumed an even greener tinge, and she reluctantly decided that to go on was the only thing to be done.

Dr Gerard was kind and reassuring. He went up behind her, holding a stick between her and the sheer drop like a balustrade and she confessed that the illusion of a rail did much to conquer the feeling of vertigo.

Sarah, panting a little, asked the dragoman, Mahmoud, who, in spite of his ample proportions, showed no signs of distress:

‘Don't you ever have trouble getting people up here? Elderly ones, I mean.'

‘Always—always we have trouble,' agreed Mahmoud serenely.

‘Do you always try and take them?'

Mahmoud shrugged his thick shoulders.

‘They like to come. They have paid money to see these things. They wish to see them. The Bedouin guides are very clever—very sure-footed—always they manage.'

They arrived at last at the summit. Sarah drew a deep breath.

All around and below stretched the blood-red rocks—a strange and unbelievable country unparalleled anywhere. Here in the exquisite pure morning air they stood like gods, surveying a baser world—a world of flaring violence.

Here was, as the guide told them, the ‘Place of Sacrifice'—the ‘High Place'. He showed them the trough cut in the flat rock at their feet.

Sarah strayed away from the rest, from the glib phrases that flowed so readily from the dragoman's tongue. She sat on a rock, pushed her hands through her thick black hair, and gazed down on the world at her feet. Presently she was aware of someone standing by her side. Dr Gerard's voice said:

‘You appreciate the appositeness of the devil's temptation in the New Testament. Satan took Our Lord up to the summit of a mountain and showed Him the world. “All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.” How much greater the temptation up on high to be a God of Material Power.'

Sarah assented, but her thoughts were so clearly elsewhere that Gerard observed her in some surprise.

‘You are pondering something very deeply,' he said.

‘Yes, I am.' She turned a perplexed face to him.

‘It's a wonderful idea—to have a place of sacrifice up here. I think sometimes, don't you, that a sacrifice is
necessary
…I mean, one can have too much regard for life. Death isn't really so important as we make out.'

‘If you feel that, Miss King, you should not have adopted our profession. To us, Death is and must always be—the Enemy.'

Sarah shivered.

‘Yes, I suppose you're right. And yet, so often death might solve a problem. It might mean, even, fuller life…'

‘It is expedient for us that one man should die for the people!' quoted Gerard gravely.

Sarah turned a startled face on him.

‘I didn't mean—' She broke off. Jefferson Cope was approaching them.

‘Now this is really a most remarkable spot,' he declared. ‘Most remarkable, and I'm only too pleased not to have missed it. I don't mind confessing that though Mrs Boynton is certainly a most remarkable woman—I greatly admire her pluck in being determined to come here—it does certainly complicate matters travelling with her. Her health is poor, and I suppose it naturally makes her a little inconsiderate of other people's feelings, but it does not seem to occur to her that her family might like occasionally to go on excursions without her. She's just so used to them clustering round her that I suppose she doesn't think—'

Mr Cope broke off. His nice kindly face looked a little disturbed and uncomfortable.

‘You know,' he said, ‘I heard a piece of information about Mrs Boynton that disturbed me greatly.'

Sarah was lost in her own thoughts again—Mr Cope's
voice just flowed pleasantly in her ears like the agreeable murmur of a remote stream, but Dr Gerard said:

‘Indeed? What was it?'

‘My informant was a lady I came across in the hotel at Tiberias. It concerned a servant girl who had been in Mrs Boynton's employ. The girl, I gather, was—had—'

Mr Cope paused, glanced delicately at Sarah and lowered his voice. ‘She was going to have a child. The old lady, it seemed, discovered this, but was apparently quite kind to the girl. Then a few weeks before the child was born she turned her out of the house.'

Dr Gerard's eyebrows went up.

‘Ah,' he said reflectively.

‘My informant seemed very positive of her facts. I don't know whether you agree with me, but that seems to me a very cruel and heartless thing to do. I cannot understand—'

Dr Gerard interrupted him.

‘You should try to. That incident, I have no doubt, gave Mrs Boynton a good deal of quiet enjoyment.'

Mr Cope turned a shocked face on him.

‘No, sir,' he said with emphasis. ‘That I cannot believe. Such an idea is quite inconceivable.'

Softly Dr Gerard quoted:

‘
So I returned and did consider all the oppressions done beneath the sun. And there was weeping and wailing from those that were oppressed and had no comfort; for with their
oppressors there was power, so that no one came to comfort them. Then I did praise the dead which are already dead, yea, more than the living which linger still in life; yea, he that is not is better than dead or living; for he doth not know of the evil that is wrought for ever on earth…
'

He broke off and said:

‘My dear sir, I have made a life's study of the strange things that go on in the human mind. It is no good turning one's face only to the fairer side of life. Below the decencies and conventions of everyday life, there lies a vast reservoir of strange things. There is such a thing, for instance, as delight in cruelty for its own sake. But when you have found that, there is something deeper still. The desire, profound and pitiful, to be appreciated. If that is thwarted, if through an unpleasing personality a human being is unable to get the response it needs, it turns to other methods—it must be
felt
—it must
count
—and so to innumerable strange perversions. The habit of cruelty, like any other habit, can be cultivated, can take hold of one—'

Mr Cope coughed. ‘I think, Dr Gerard, that you are slightly exaggerating. Really, the air up here is too wonderful…'

He edged away. Gerard smiled a little. He looked again at Sarah. She was frowning—her face was set in a youthful sternness. She looked, he thought, like a young judge delivering sentence…

He turned as Miss Pierce tripped unsteadily towards him.

‘We are going down now,' she fluttered. ‘Oh dear! I am sure I shall never manage it, but the guide says the way down is quite a different route and much easier. I do hope so, because from a child I never have been able to look down from heights…'

The descent was down the course of a waterfall. Although there were loose stones which were a possible source of danger to ankles, it presented no dizzy vistas.

The party arrived back at the camp weary but in good spirits and with an excellent appetite for a late lunch. It was past two o'clock.

The Boynton family was sitting round the big table in the marquee. They were just finishing their meal.

Lady Westholme addressed a gracious sentence to them in her most condescending manner.

‘Really a most interesting morning,' she said. ‘Petra is a wonderful spot.'

Carol, to whom the words seemed addressed, shot a quick look at her mother and murmured:

‘Oh, yes—yes, it is,' and relapsed into silence.

Lady Westholme, feeling she had done her duty, addressed herself to her food.

As they ate, the four discussed plans for the afternoon.

‘I think I shall rest most of the afternoon,' said Miss Pierce. ‘It is important, I think, not to do too much.'

‘I shall go for a walk and explore,' said Sarah. ‘What about you, Dr Gerard?'

‘I will go with you.'

Mrs Boynton dropped a spoon with a ringing clatter and everyone jumped.

‘I think,' said Lady Westholme, ‘that I shall follow your example, Miss Pierce. Perhaps half an hour with a book, then I shall lie down and take an hour's rest at least. After that, perhaps, a short stroll.'

Slowly, with the help of Lennox, old Mrs Boynton struggled to her feet. She stood for a moment and then spoke.

‘You'd better all go for a walk this afternoon,' she said with unexpected amiability.

It was, perhaps, slightly ludicrous to see the startled faces of her family.

‘But, Mother, what about you?'

‘I don't need any of you. I like sitting alone with my book. Jinny had better not go. She'll lie down and have a sleep.'

‘Mother, I'm not tired. I want to go with the others.'

‘You
are
tired. You've got a headache! You must be careful of yourself. Go and lie down and sleep. I know what's best for you.'

‘I—I—'

Her head thrown back, the girl stared rebelliously. Then her eyes dropped—faltered…

‘Silly child,' said Mrs Boynton. ‘Go to your tent.'

She stumped out of the marquee–the others followed.

‘Dear me,' said Miss Pierce. ‘What very peculiar people. Such a very odd colour—the mother. Quite purple. Heart, I should imagine. The heat must be very trying to her.'

Sarah thought: ‘She's letting them go free this afternoon. She knows Raymond wants to be with me. Why? Is it a trap?'

After lunch, when she had gone to her tent and had changed into a fresh linen dress, the thought still worried her. Since last night her feeling towards Raymond had swelled into a passion of protective tenderness. This, then, was love—this agony on another's behalf—this desire to avert, at all costs, pain from the beloved…Yes, she loved Raymond Boynton. It was St George and the Dragon reversed. It was she who was the rescuer and Raymond who was the chained victim.

And Mrs Boynton was the Dragon. A dragon whose sudden amiability was, to Sarah's suspicious mind, definitely sinister.

It was about a quarter-past three when Sarah strolled down to the marquee.

Lady Westholme was sitting on a chair. Despite the heat of the day she was still wearing her serviceable Harris tweed skirt. On her lap was the report of a Royal Commission. Dr Gerard was talking to Miss Pierce, who was standing by her tent holding a book entitled
The Love Quest
and described on its wrapper as a thrilling tale of passion and misunderstanding.

‘I don't think it's wise to lie down too soon after lunch,' explained Miss Pierce. ‘One's digestion, you know. Quite cool and pleasant in the shadow of the marquee. Oh dear, do you think that old lady is wise to sit in the sun up there?'