The Ghost Feeler (26 page)

In the evening Medford absently fingered the ultramodern reviews – three months old, and already so stale to the touch – then tossed them aside, flung himself on a divan and dreamed. Almodham must spend a lot of time in dreaming; that was it. Then, just as he felt himself sinking down into torpor, he would be off on one of these dashes across the desert in quest of unknown ruins. Not such a bad life.

Gosling appeared with Turkish coffee in a cup cased in filigree.

‘Are there any horses in the stable?' Medford suddenly asked.

‘Horses? Only what you might call pack-horses, sir. Mr Almodham has the two best saddle-horses with him.'

‘I was thinking I might ride out to meet him.'

Gosling considered. ‘So you might, sir.'

‘Do you know which way he went?'

‘Not rightly, sir. The caid's man was to guide them.'

‘Them? Who went with him?'

‘Just one of our men, sir. They've got the two thoroughbreds. There's a third but he's lame.' Gosling paused. ‘Do you know the trails, sir? Excuse me, but I don't think I ever saw you here before.'

‘No,' Medford acquiesced, ‘I've never been here before.'

‘Oh, then' – Gosling's gesture added: ‘In that case, even the best thoroughbred wouldn't help you.'

‘I suppose he may still turn up tonight?'

‘Oh, easily, sir. I expect to see you both breakfasting here tomorrow morning,' said Gosling cheerfully.

Medford sipped his coffee. ‘You said you'd never seen me here before. How long have you been here yourself?'

Gosling answered instantly, as though the figures were never long out of his memory: ‘Eleven years and seven months altogether, sir.'

‘Nearly twelve years! That's a longish time.'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘And I don't suppose you often get away?'

Gosling was moving off with the tray. He halted, turned back, and said with sudden emphasis: ‘I've never once been away. Not since Mr Almodham first brought me here.'

‘Good Lord! Not a single holiday?'

‘Not one, sir.'

‘But Mr Almodham goes off occasionally. I met him at Luxor last year.'

‘Just so, sir. But when he's here he needs me for himself; and when he's away he needs me to watch over the others. So you see –'

‘Yes, I see. But it must seem to you devilish long.'

‘It seems long, sir.'

‘But the others? You mean they're not – wholly trustworthy?'

‘Well, sir, they're just Arabs,' said Gosling with careless contempt.

‘I see. And not a single old reliable among them?'

‘The term isn't in their language, sir.'

Medford was busy lighting his cigar. When he looked up he found that Gosling still stood a few feet off.

‘It wasn't as if it 'adn't been a promise, you know, sir,' he said, almost passionately.

‘A promise?'

‘To let me 'ave my holiday, sir. A promise – agine and agine.'

‘And the time never came?'

‘No, sir. The days just drifted by –'

‘Ah. They would, here. Don't sit up for me,' Medford added. ‘I think I shall wait for Mr Almodham.'

Gosling's stare widened. ‘Here, sir? Here in the court?'

The young man nodded, and the servant stood still regarding him, turned by the moonlight to a white spectral figure, the unquiet ghost of a patient butler who might have died without his holiday.

‘Down here in this court all night, sir? It's a lonely spot. I couldn't 'ear you if you was to call. You're best in bed, sir. The air's bad. You might bring your fever on again.'

Medford laughed and stretched himself in his long chair. ‘Decidedly,' he thought, ‘the fellow needs a change.' Aloud he remarked: ‘Oh, I'm all right. It's you who are nervous, Gosling. When Mr Almodham comes back I mean to put in a word for you. You shall have your holiday.'

Gosling still stood motionless. For a minute he did not speak. ‘You would, sir, you would?' He gasped it out on a high cracked note, and the last word ran into a laugh – a brief shrill cackle, the laugh of one long unused to such indulgences.

‘Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.' He was gone.

‘You do boil my drinking water, always?' Medford questioned, his hand clasping the glass without lifting it.

The tone was amicable, almost confidential; Medford felt that since his rash promise to secure a holiday for Gosling he and Gosling were on terms of real friendship.

‘Boil it? Always, sir. Naturally.' Gosling spoke with a slight note of reproach, as though Medford's question implied a slur – unconscious, he hoped – on their newly established relation. He scrutinized Medford with his astonished eyes, in which a genuine concern showed itself through the glaze of professional indifference.

‘Because, you know, my bath this morning –'

Gosling was in the act of receiving from the hands of a gliding Arab a fragrant dish of
kuskus
. Under his breath he whispered to the native: ‘You damned aboriginy, you, can't you even 'old a dish steady? Ugh!' The Arab vanished before the imprecation, and Gosling, with a calm deliberate hand, set the dish before Medford. ‘All alike, they are.' Fastidiously he wiped a trail of grease from his linen sleeve.

‘Because, you know, my bath this morning simply stank,' said Medford, plunging fork and spoon into the dish.

‘Your bath, sir?' Gosling stressed the word. Astonishment, to the exclusion of all other emotion, again filled his eyes as he rested them on Medford. ‘Now, I wouldn't 'ave 'ad that 'appen for the world,' he said self-reproachfully.

‘There's only the one well here, eh? The one in the court?'

Gosling aroused himself from absorbed consideration of the visitor's complaint. ‘Yes, sir; only the one.'

‘What sort of well is it? Where does the water come from?'

‘Oh, it's just a cistern, sir. Rain water. There's never been any other here. Not that I ever knew it to fail; but at this season sometimes it does turn queer. Ask any o' them Arabs, sir; they'll tell you. Liars as they are, they won't trouble to lie about that.'

Medford was cautiously tasting the water in his glass. ‘This seems all right,' he pronounced.

Sincere satisfaction was depicted on Gosling's countenance. ‘I seen to its being boiled myself, sir. I always do. I 'ope that Perrier'll turn up tomorrow, sir.'

‘Oh, tomorrow' – Medford shrugged, taking a second helping. ‘Tomorrow I may not be here to drink it.'

‘What – going away, sir?'

Medford, wheeling around abruptly, caught a new and incomprehensible look in Gosling's eyes. The man had seemed to feel a sort of dog-like affection for him; had wanted, Medford could have sworn, to keep him on, persuade him to patience and delay; yet now, Medford could equally have sworn, there was relief in his look, satisfaction, almost, in his voice.

‘So soon, sir?'

‘Well, this is the fifth day since my arrival. And as there's no news yet of Mr Almodham, and you say he may very well have forgotten all about my coming –'

‘Oh, I don't say that, sir; not forgotten! Only, when one of those old piles of stones takes 'old of him, he does forget about the time, sir. That's what I meant. The days drift by – 'e's in a dream. Very likely he thinks you're just due now, sir.' A small thin smile sharpened the lustreless gravity of Gosling's features. It was the first time that Medford had seen him smile.

‘Oh, I understand. But still –' Medford paused. Through the spell of inertia laid on him by the drowsy place and its easeful comforts his instinct of alertness was struggling back. ‘It's odd–'

‘What's odd?' Gosling echoed unexpectedly, setting the dried dates and figs on the table.

‘Everything,' said Medford.

He leaned back in his chair and glanced up through the arch at the lofty sky from which noon was pouring down in cataracts of blue and gold. Almodham was out there somewhere under that canopy of fire, perhaps, as the servant said, absorbed in his dream. The land was full of spells.

‘Coffee, sir?' Gosling reminded him. Medford took it.

‘It's odd that you say you don't trust any of these fellows – these Arabs – and yet that you don't seem to feel worried at Mr Almodham's being off God knows where, all alone with them.'

Gosling received this attentively, impartially; he saw the point. ‘Well, sir, no – you wouldn't understand. It's the very thing that can't be taught, when to trust 'em and when not. It's 'ow their interests lie, of course, sir; and their religion, as they call it.' His contempt was unlimited. ‘But even to begin to understand why I'm not worried about Mr Almodham, you'd 'ave to 'ave lived among them, sir, and you'd 'ave to speak their language.'

‘But I –' Medford began. He pulled himself up short and bent above his coffee.

‘Yes, sir?'

‘But I've travelled among them more or less.'

‘Oh, travelled!' Even Gosling's intonation could hardly conciliate respect with derision in his reception of this boast.

‘This makes the fifth day, though,' Medford continued argumentatively. The midday heat lay heavy even on the shaded side of the court, and the sinews of his will were weakening.

‘I can understand, sir, a gentleman like you 'aving other engagements – being pressed for time, as it were,' Gosling reasonably conceded.

He cleared the table, committed its freight to a pair of Arab arms that just showed and vanished, and finally took himself off while Medford sank into the divan. A land of dreams ...

The afternoon hung over the place like a great velarium of cloth-of-gold stretched across the battlements and drooping down in ever slacker folds upon the heavy-headed palms. When at length the gold turned to violet, and the west to a bow of crystal clasping the dark sands, Medford shook off his sleep and wandered out. But this time, instead of mounting to the roof, he took another direction.

He was surprised to find how little he knew of the place after five days of loitering and waiting. Perhaps this was to be his last evening alone in it. He passed out of the court by a vaulted stone passage which led to another walled enclosure. At his approach two of three Arabs who had been squatting there rose and melted out of sight. It was as if the solid masonry had received them.

Beyond, Medford heard a stamping of hoofs, the stir of a stable at nightfall. He went under another archway and found himself among horses and mules. In the fading light an Arab was rubbing down one of the horses, a powerful young chestnut. He too seemed to vanish; but Medford caught him by the sleeve.

‘Go on with your work,' he said in Arabic.

The man, who was young and muscular, with a lean Bedouin face, stopped and looked at him.

‘I didn't know your Excellency spoke our language.'

‘Oh, yes,' said Medford.

The man was silent, one hand on the horse's restless neck, the other thrust into his woollen girdle. He and Medford examined each other in the faint light.

‘Is that the horse that's lame?' Medford asked.

‘Lame?' The Arab's eyes ran down the animal's legs. ‘Oh, yes; lame,' he answered vaguely.

Medford stooped and felt the horse's knees and fetlocks. ‘He seems pretty fit. Couldn't he carry me for a canter this evening if I felt like it?'

The Arab considered; he was evidently perplexed by the weight of responsibility which the question placed on him.

‘Your Excellency would like to go for a ride this evening?'

‘Oh, just a fancy. I might or I might not.' Medford lit a cigarette and offered one to the groom, whose white teeth flashed his gratification. Over the shared match they drew nearer and the Arab's diffidence seemed to lessen.

‘Is this one of Mr Almodham's own mounts?' Medford asked.

‘Yes, sir, it's his favourite,' said the groom, his hand passing proudly down the horse's bright shoulder.

‘His favourite? Yet he didn't take him on this long expedition?'

The Arab fell silent and stared at the ground.

‘Weren't you surprised at that?' Medford queried.

The man's gesture declared that it was not his business to be surprised.

The two remained without speaking while the quick blue night descended.

At length Medford said carelessly: ‘Where do you suppose your master is at this moment?'

The moon, unperceived in the radiant fall of day, had now suddenly possessed the world, and a broad white beam lay full on the Arab's white smock, his brown face and the turban of camel's hair knotted above it. His agitated eyeballs glistened like jewels.