The Lighthearted Quest (37 page)

“Yes?”

“Don't you see that one reason why I didn't answer the letters was all that absolute
beastliness
about Grove? I couldn't know how you'd all feel about that. But none of us but him knew a thing about it—I
swear
that.”

“Nor did any of us know a thing about it—it never got into the English papers at all.”

“Didn't it? How extraordinary. Oh, well, I suppose Torrens must have fixed that.”

“So
that's
the name that begins with Tor! Good-oh—another point cleared up,” said Julia with satisfaction. “He's your boss, is he?”

“Well, he was starting to work up this show out here just about the time that Grove got copped; we others were pretty fed up with smuggling, with
that
label tied on to us, and didn't know what on earth to do with the boat—I had a third share in her, of course. But he thought it might be handy to have a yacht for this sort of job, with someone who could sail her, and knew the coast, so he bought us out and re-registered her.
How
he got onto me, I really can't think, for we were lying pretty doggo.”

“Purcell, I should imagine,” said Julia.

He turned to stare at her.

“I believe you're right. I never thought of that.” He paused. “But how do
you
know Purcell?”

“Oh, just a regular client. It's the nicest bar in Tangier.”

“That isn't why you suggested what you did,” he said suspiciously. “Nice bars aren't the same thing as—well, contacts.”

“Aren't they? I should have thought they made the very
best kind of contact,” said Julia. “Anyhow, I contacted Edina there this evening.”

“Edina? What on earth is
she
doing out here?”

“She flew out to see how I was. Some people quite minded my nearly being killed.”

“Julia, don't be idiotic! I told you I hated having to leave you there on the floor. What do you think I should have done?”

“Socked Mr. B. Torrens one over the head and told him to go to hell, and then succoured me,” said Julia readily.

“Nonsense! Angus Ross-shire was there to succour you, I saw him—and your Yank. You had plenty of succour, and I had a job to finish. So put a sock in it,” the young man said firmly.

Julia was pleased; this stout-heartedness was new in Colin, who used to be unduly nervous and sensitive. She was all the more touched when he pulled her to him and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Oh, darling, there never was anyone like you, for all your monstrousness—and there never will be,” he murmured in her ear. Then, in the manner of men, he let her go, reached for the torch, and looked at his watch. “God! It's half-past one! I must go. I wonder where the devil those other tombs can be, with the stuff in.”

“I bet I can find them—there are three or four half-right from this, a bit downhill; but don't make a noise, because of Fernando.”

“Who the devil is he?”

“The foreman at the site—my watch-dog! He's asleep in a tomb a bit above this.”

“Damnation! He's bound to hear my chaps.”

“I tell you what—when we've found the place I'll go up and sit outside his cubby-hole, and if he does hear anything I'll tell him it's me, and keep him occupied. Come on.”

They crept out—Julia led the way downhill and to the right, where sure enough the light of her torch presently
revealed, in three tombs, the rich gleam of velvet studded with silver, stowed in the niches intended for dead Phoenicians. She began to laugh softly.

“What is it?”

“The whole thing. It's so funny. Never mind—cancel laugh! How do you summon your merry men?”

“Whistle,” said Colin, putting two fingers to his lips. She snatched his hand away.

“You can't do that, idiot—or not till I've fixed Fernando; but whatever I do he'll hear a whistle. Try my torch—press the button and flash it.”

The young man did so, and an answering wink of light presently appeared below them.

“That seems all right—I expect they'll come up. Now you buzz off and muzzle your infernal watch-dog.”

“Yes, but how do I see you again? There's masses more to talk about. When do you get back from your cruise?”

“This evening, probably. Where are you staying?”

“The Espagnola.”

“Oh, I know. Is Edina there too? I'm not all that keen on seeing her just yet, till I know more where we are.”

“No, she's at the Minzah—on expense account!”

“God Almighty, what a girl! Well look, J. dear, I'll come round and see you.”

“I'll be at the site all day—I'm a wage-slave! But I can be in after supper. No, I can't—I'm dining with Angus on the yacht tonight. Oh, dear, what can we do?”

“Wait till tomorrow night. I'll leave word with Purcell, one way or the other—how's that?”

“Fine.” As she spoke a sound of feet was audible on the slope close below them.

“Here they come! Breeze off!” said Colin hastily.

Julia moved away uphill, and sat down outside Fernando's gîte. A thin veil of cloud was obscuring the moon, but she could just distinguish figures with objects on their shoulders
moving down towards the lagoon, and then she heard the splash of oars. Fernando's snores came steadily and undisturbed to her where she sat, and continued to do so while again, and yet again, shadowy figures crept up the slope, and descended it bowed under gleaming burdens. She sat there, happy, quiet—still moved and warmed by the recent presence of Colin, and his evident affection; darling creature, he hadn't changed a bit!—or only for the better. She waited till she saw port and starboard lights run up on the
Finetta's
rigging, and heard the groan of the winch and the rattle of the chain as the anchor came up; then she went back to her tomb, crept into the Professor's flea-bag, and went to sleep. When she woke in the morning the lagoon was empty.

Julia slept so well in her tomb—“Like the dead, really,” she observed to Professor Carnforth when following her example he came up to her with coffee and rolls—that on hearing that he proposed to open one of the coffins on the spot that afternoon she insisted on returning to the site then, perfectly refreshed after a bath, a couple of hours snoozing, and lunch. By the time she arrived the coffin had been brought down to the shed; Carnforth, ingenious man, had purchased a hammock from one of the ships' chandlers in the port, in which it could be slung down the steep slope between the rocks without injury. It now lay on an improvised table in the little courtyard, and Mme La Besse, Julia and Fernando crowded round, seething with curiosity and pressed from behind by all eight Berbers, who breathed heavily down their necks, as the lid was raised. Carnforth, who was experienced as well as ingenious, had arranged with the archaeological section of the Administration to have two
sergents de ville
of the Zone Police sent out, whom he posted himself at the tomb to mount guard while he was busy with the coffin, lest the well-informed local villagers should attempt a daylight raid. “No one came near you last night?” he had asked Julia when he went up to relieve her. “Not a soul,” she told him blandly.

The “funerary furniture”, as archaeologists call it, fully came up to Julia's ignorant but eager expectations as the Professor, with infinite care, lifted out object after object and laid them on cotton-wool in a large cardboard dressbox. Two small terra-cotta figurines of deities—one was Ashtaroth, serpent-entwined. A tiny amulet, to ward off evil spirits; a hand-mirror with an exquisite design on the back; a minute delicate cosmetic-box. “Poor love, she used rouge,” Julia said, turning it in her hands and noting the faint trace of colour
within. At last came the jewellery. Clearly the dust within this coffin was that of a woman, for out came a pair of ear-rings, crescent moons hung on slender chains; a fine gold bracelet, to fit the narrowest of wrists; a couple of rings. Finally, after much blowing into the coffin, and soft sweepings with an old shaving-brush, the Professor lifted out a magnificent necklace.

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Mme La Besse. “That was worth the trouble!”

“Do let me try it on,” said Julia, opening her flap-jack and propping it against the coffin-lid; she held the jewel round her own throat and peered into the tiny mirror. “Suit me a treat,” she said. The Professor laughed.

He decided that all the remaining coffins should be taken back to Tangier that same afternoon, and placed in safety in the Museum. The hammock was called into play again to bring them down, and Julia, accompanied by one of the police sergeants, was kept busy driving the Chrysler in and out with these unwonted passengers, dead Phoenicians, in the back. She tore to and fro at a shameless pace, with dinner on the
Frivolity
in view; besides if possible she wanted a word with Purcell—the rendezvous was to be at the Bar. In the end she had no time to change—clean stockings, fresh sandals, a hurried wash and face-do, and she spun off in a taxi.

Only Purcell was there. “Beaten them to it, thank goodness!” she exclaimed, dropping into a chair.

“You look exhausted,” the man said. “I think you should have a whisky.”

“Yes, I will. Thank you. But let him get it”—she said, as the new Moor appeared. “I want to speak to you.”

Purcell at once came to her table.

“I've seen him!” she said, her face alight.

“Excellent. Where?”

“In a tomb!” she brought out triumphantly. But the gleam in the half-caste's face told its own story. “Oh, you know that too! There's no surprising you,” she said, with a
moue.

“Indeed I am surprised, for how in the world came
you
there, at such an hour?”

“Oh, I was guarding one of our tombs, full of lovely coffins, and he came in by mistake.”

“This was rather imprudent, if you will forgive me for saying so—you should surely have been in bed, after your accident.”

“No, I slept very well, except while he was there. Oh, such jewellery!—we opened one of the coffins this afternoon.”

Purcell ignored the coffins.

“Did you meet the other?”

“Cold-blooded fish Torrens? No, and I don't want to!”

“He is very nice,” the half-caste said, smiling.

Julia in her turn ignored this statement.

“Listen, dear Mr. Purcell—tell me something quickly, before the others come. It
was
you who put him onto Colin, after all the stink about Grove, wasn't it?”

“Did your cousin tell you this?” Purcell asked.

“No—I told him! But it's true, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is true.”

She looked at him in silence for a moment. Then—

“Well look—now that the whole thing seems to be in process of being broken wide open, can't you indulge me a little, and tell me just
where
you come in?”

He gave one of his rare laughs.

“Since you will quite certainly find it out for yourself if I don't, yes, I will. I have for a considerable time—shall we say acted in concert with?—the British Intelligence people. After all, I am a British subject.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I was born in Edinburgh—or rather Leith. And when that most disagreeable character Grove got caught I was sorry for the other three boys, who were perfectly innocent; I guessed most of their capital was in their boat, but the ill-repute round her name made her unusable for ordinary harmless smuggling.”

“Was Grove in her from the start?” Julia asked.

“No, he only joined them about two years ago—tools ready to his dirty hand!” Purcell said bitterly. “He bought out one of the others, who was short of cash, and re-registered the yacht in his own name; then he started picking up drugs here or in Ceuta and ran them to Marseilles, where he was spotted somehow—and Interpol and the local Sûreté got to work. He was caught here. But I knew that Major Torrens was starting this new enterprise just then, and was on the look-out for a boat, and someone to sail her who knew the coast; your cousin was far the most competent of the lot, so I recommended him. He's a born sailor.”

“How did you know that?” the girl asked.

“I was born in a port, and I have been at sea myself; I heard them talking—and also I made enquiries. That is how it happened, Miss Probyn.” He paused, and suddenly laughed again.

“What's funny?” Julia enquired.

“Well, when this was arranged, it was necessary to cause all three of them to disappear rather suddenly. The Major had the other two shipped home, but the Sûreté here, which is headed by an Englishman, are still looking for
‘ce jeune brigand Monro
', while in fact he is in the pay of the British Government.”

Julia's laughter at this revelation was still resounding through the bar when the door opened to admit the Duke, Edina and Mr. Reeder—it was so loud and hearty that it startled them.

“Goodness, Julia, what is it?” Edina asked.

“Mr. Purcell was telling me a funny story,” said Julia, dabbing at her eyes. “Angus, I do apologise for not having changed, but I was terrified of being late.”

“What have you been doing to make you late, beautiful and dear Julia?”

“Chauffeuring the dead.”

“My dear child, what
can
you mean?” Angus asked.

“Yes, literally. Phoenician corpses. I've brought in six; the dust of ages is in my hair.”

“It suits it,” said Angus, kissing the top of her head. “Everything suits you—even plaster! But please amplify this extraordinary statement of yours. Why do corpses, even Phoenician ones, require ‘carriage-exercise', as my grandmother used to call it?”

Julia's account of the unrifled tomb, the Egyptian coffins, the business of getting them down and the jewellery in the one so far opened kept the party going all through drinks, and during a good part of dinner on the
Frivolity,
to which they chugged across the harbour in a neat fast launch. Angus and his fellow tax-dodgers did themselves quite well, Julia thought, as a smart steward in a white jacket handed round excellent food, and the other dodgers were, as he had said, pleasant harmless people enough; but she could not help recognising in all of them a certain rather pitiful nostalgia for a less comfortable, perhaps, but more
directed
way of life. The one they led was entirely pointless except, in the Duke's case anyhow, to rescue enough money from penal taxation to educate his children and preserve the property on which his family had lived for seven centuries. Beastly war; and beastly social revolution, Julia thought to herself, remembering Murphy and his fellow-dockers and their private plane to Belfast. What values were
they
upholding to compare with the learning, the benevolence, the unpaid public service and the patronage of the arts which even she had seen obtaining at the Castle? “Prizefights”, “the pictures”, and “the telly”—the very names, so completely ignoring their classical origins, betrayed a sordid lowering of the standards which humanity had held in esteem for centuries past.