IRichard found Dr. Pauncefoot Jones in the excavations1 squatting2 by theside of his foreman and tapping gently with a small pick at a section ofwall.
Dr. Pauncefoot Jones greeted his colleague in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Hallo Richard my boy, so you’ve turned up. I had an idea you were ar-riving on Tuesday. I don’t know why.”
“This is Tuesday,” said Richard.
“Is it really now?” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones without interest. “Just comedown here and see what you think of this. Perfectly3 good walls coming outalready and we’re only down three feet. Seems to me there are a fewtraces of paint here. Come and see what you think. It looks very promisingto me.”
Richard leapt down into the trench4 and the two archaeologists enjoyedthemselves in a highly technical manner for about a quarter of an hour.
“By the way,” said Richard, “I’ve brought a girl.”
“Oh have you? What sort of girl?”
“She says she’s your niece.”
“My niece?” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones brought his mind back with a strugglefrom his contemplation of mudbrick walls. “I don’t think I have a niece,”
he said doubtfully, as though he might have had one and forgotten abouther.
“She’s coming out to work with you here, I gathered.”
“Oh.” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones’ face cleared. “Of course. That will be Veron-ica.”
“Victoria, I think she said.”
“Yes, yes, Victoria. Emerson wrote to me about her from Cambridge. Avery able girl, I understand. An anthropologist5. Can’t think why anyonewants to be an anthropologist, can you?”
“I heard you had some anthropologist girl coming out.”
“There’s nothing in her line so far. Of course we’re only just beginning.
Actually I understood she wasn’t coming out for another fortnight or so,but I didn’t read her letter very carefully, and then I mislaid it, so I didn’treally remember what she said. My wife arrives next week—or the weekafter—now what have I done with her letter?—and I rather thought Vene-tia was coming out with her—but of course I may have got it all wrong.
Well, well, I dare say we can make her useful. There’s a lot of pottery6 com-ing up.”
“There’s nothing odd about her, is there?”
“Odd?” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones peered at him. “In what way?”
“Well, she hasn’t had a nervous breakdown7 or anything?”
“Emerson did say, I remember, that she had been working very hard.
Diploma or degree or something, but I don’t think he said anything abouta breakdown. Why?”
“Well, I picked up her up at the side of the road, wandering about all byherself. It was on that little Tell as a matter of fact that you come to abouta mile before you turn off the road—”
“I remember,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones. “You know I once picked up abit of Nuzu ware8 on that Tell. Extraordinary really, to find it so far south.”
Richard refused to be diverted to archaeological topics and went onfirmly:
“She told me the most extraordinary story. Said she’d gone to have herhair shampooed, and they chloroformed her and kidnapped her and car-ried her off to Mandali and imprisoned9 her in a house and she’d escapedin the middle of the night — the most preposterous10 rigmarole you everheard.”
Dr. Pauncefoot Jones shook his head.
“Doesn’t sound at all probable,” he said. “Country’s perfectly quiet andwell-policed. It’s never been safer.”
“Exactly. She’d obviously made the whole thing up. That’s why I asked ifshe’d had a breakdown. She must be one of those hysterical11 girls who saycurates are in love with them, or that doctors assault them. She may giveus a lot of trouble.”
“Oh, I expect she’ll calm down,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones optimistically.
“Where is she now?”
“I left her to have a wash and brush up.” He hesitated. “She hasn’t gotany luggage of any kind with her.”
“Hasn’t she? That really is awkward. You don’t think she’ll expect me tolend her pyjamas12? I’ve only got two pairs and one of them is badly torn.”
“She’ll have to do the best she can until the lorry goes in next week. Imust say I wonder what she can have been up to—all alone and out in theblue.”
“Girls are amazing nowadays,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones vaguely13. “Turnup all over the place. Great nuisance when you want to get on with things.
This place is far enough out, you’d think, to be free of visitors, but you’d besurprised how cars and people turn up when you can least do with them.
Dear me, the men have stopped work. It must be lunchtime. We’d bettergo back to the house.”
II
Victoria, waiting in some trepidation14, found Dr. Pauncefoot Jones wildlyfar from her imaginings. He was a small rotund man with a semi-baldhead and a twinkling eye. To her utter amazement15 he came towards herwith outstretched hands.
“Well, well, Venetia—I mean Victoria,” he said. “This is quite a surprise.
Got it into my head you weren’t arriving until next month. But I’m de-lighted to see you. Delighted. How’s Emerson? Not troubled too much byasthma, I hope?”
Victoria rallied her scattered16 senses and said cautiously that the asthmahadn’t been too bad.
“Wraps his throat up too much,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones. “Great mis-take. I told him so. All these academic fellows who stick around universit-ies get far too absorbed in their health. Shouldn’t think about it—that’s theway to keep fit. Well, I hope you’ll settle down—my wife will be out nextweek—or the week after—she’s been seedy, you know. I really must findher letter. Richard tells me your luggage has gone astray. How are you go-ing to manage? Can’t very well send the lorry in before next week?”
“I expect I can manage until then,” said Victoria. “In fact I shall have to.”
Dr. Pauncefoot Jones chuckled17.
“Richard and I can’t lend you much. Toothbrush will be all right. Thereare a dozen of them in our stores—and cotton wool if that’s any good toyou and—let me see—talcum powder—and some spare socks and hander-chiefs. Not much else, I’m afraid.”
“I shall be all right,” said Victoria and smiled happily.
“No signs of a cemetery18 for you,” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones warned her.
“Some nice walls coming up—and quantities of potsherds from the fartrenches. Might get some joins. We’ll keep you busy somehow or other. Iforget if you do photography?”
“I know something about it,” said Victoria cautiously, relieved by a men-tion of something that she did actually have a working knowledge of.
“Good, good. You can develop negatives? I’m old-fashioned—use platesstill. The darkroom is rather primitive19. You young people who are used toall the gadgets20, often find these primitive conditions rather upsetting.”
“I shan’t mind,” said Victoria.
From the Expedition’s stores, she selected a toothbrush, toothpaste, asponge and some talcum powder.
Her head was still in a whirl as she tried to understand exactly what herposition was. Clearly she was being mistaken for a girl called VenetiaSomeone who was coming out to join the Expedition and who was an an-thropologist. Victoria didn’t even know what an anthropologist was. Ifthere was a dictionary somewhere about, she must look it up. The othergirl was presumably not arriving for at least another week. Very wellthen, for a week—or until such time as the car or lorry went into Baghdad,Victoria would be Venetia Thingummy, keeping her end up as best shecould. She had no fears for Dr. Pauncefoot Jones who seemed delightfullyvague, but she was nervous of Richard Baker21. She disliked the speculativeway he looked at her, and she had an idea that unless she was careful hewould soon see through her pretences22. Fortunately she had been, for abrief period, a secretary typist at the Archaeological Institute in London,and she had a smattering of phrases and odds23 and ends that would be use-ful now. But she would have to be very careful not to make any real slip.
Luckily, thought Victoria, men were always so superior about women thatany slip she did make would be treated less as a suspicious circumstancethan as a proof of how ridiculously addlepated all women were!
This interval24 would give her a respite25 which, she felt, she badly needed.
For, from the point of view of the Olive Branch, her complete disappear-ance would be very disconcerting. She had escaped from her prison, butwhat had happened to her afterwards would be very hard to trace.
Richard’s car had not passed through Mandali so that nobody could guessshe was now at Tell Aswad. No, from their point of view, Victoria wouldseem to have vanished into thin air. They might conclude, very possiblythey would conclude, that she was dead. That she had strayed into thedesert and died of exhaustion26.
Well, let them think so. Regrettably, of course, Edward would think so,too! Very well, Edward must lump it. In any case he would not have tolump it long. Just when he was torturing himself with remorse27 for havingtold her to cultivate Catherine’s society—there she would be—suddenly re-stored to him—back from the dead—only a blonde instead of a brunette.
That brought her back to the mystery of why They (whoever they were)had dyed her hair. There must, Victoria thought, be some reason—but shecould not for the life of her understand what the reason could be. As itwas, she was soon going to look very peculiar28 when her hair started grow-ing out black at the roots. A phony platinum29 blonde, with no face powderand no lipstick30! Could any girl be more unfortunately placed? Never mind,thought Victoria, I’m alive, aren’t I? And I don’t see at all why I shouldn’tenjoy myself a good deal—at any rate for a week. It was really great fun tobe on an archaeological expedition and see what it was like. If only shecould keep her end up and not give herself away.
She did not find her role altogether easy. References to people, to public-ations, to styles of architecture and categories of pottery had to be dealtwith cautiously. Fortunately a good listener is always appreciated. Vic-toria was an excellent listener to the two men, and warily31 feeling her way,she began to pick up the jargon32 fairly easily.
Surreptitiously, she read furiously when she was alone in the house.
There was a good library of archaeological publications. Victoria wasquick to pick up a smattering of the subject. Unexpectedly, she found thelife quite enchanting33. Tea brought to her in the early morning, then out onthe Dig. Helping34 Richard with camera work. Piecing together and stickingup pottery. Watching the men at work, appreciating the skill and delicacyof the pick men—enjoying the songs and laughter of the little boys whoran to empty their baskets of earth on the dump. She mastered the peri-ods, realized the various levels where digging was going on, and familiar-ized herself with the work of the previous season. The only thing shedreaded was that burials might turn up. Nothing that she read gave herany idea of what would be expected of her as a working anthropologist!
“If we do get bones or a grave,” said Victoria to herself, “I shall have tohave a frightful35 cold—no, a severe bilious36 attack—and take to my bed.”
But no graves did appear. Instead, the walls of a palace were slowly ex-cavated. Victoria was fascinated and had no occasion to show any aptitudeor special skill.
Richard Baker still looked at her quizzically sometimes and she sensedhis unspoken criticism, but his manner was pleasant and friendly, and hewas genuinely amused by her enthusiasm.
“It’s all new to you coming out from England,” he said one day. “I re-member how thrilled I was my first season.”
“How long ago was that?”
He smiled.
“Rather a long time. Fifteen—no, sixteen years ago.”
“You must know this country very well.”
“Oh, it’s not only been here. Syria—and Persia as well.”
“You talk Arabic very well, don’t you. If you were dressed as one couldyou pass as an Arab?”
He shook his head.
“Oh no—that takes some doing. I doubt if any Englishman has ever beenable to pass as an Arab—for any length of time, that is.”
“Lawrence?”
“I don’t think Lawrence ever passed as an Arab. No, the only man Iknow who is practically indistinguishable from the native product is a fel-low who was actually born out in these parts. His father was Consul38 atKashgar and other wild spots. He talked all kinds of outlandish dialects asa child and, I believe, kept them up later.”
“What happened to him?”
“I lost sight of him after we left school. We were at school together.
Fakir, we used to call him, because he could sit perfectly still and go into aqueer sort of trance. I don’t know what he’s doing now—though actually Icould make a pretty good guess.”
“You never saw him after school?”
“Strangely enough, I ran into him only the other day—at Basrah, it was.
Rather a queer business altogether.”
“Queer?”
“Yes. I didn’t recognize him. He was got up as an Arab, keffiyah andstriped robe and an old army coat. He had a string of those amber39 beadsthey carry sometimes and he was clicking it through his fingers in the or-thodox way—only, you see, he was actually using army code. Morse. Hewas clicking out a message—to me!”
“What did it say?”
“My name—or nickname, rather—and his, and then a signal to stand by,expecting trouble.”
“And was there trouble?”
“Yes. As he got up and started out of the door, a quiet inconspicuouscommercial traveller sort of fellow tugged41 out a revolver. I knocked hisarm up—and Carmichael got away.
“Carmichael?”
He switched his head round quickly at her tone.
“That was his real name. Why—do you know him?”
Victoria thought to herself—How odd it would sound if I said: “He diedin my bed.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I knew him.”
“Knew him? Why—is he—”
Victoria nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s dead.”
“When did he die?”
“In Baghdad. In the Tio Hotel.” She added quickly, “It was—hushed up.
Nobody knows.”
He nodded his head slowly.
“I see. It was that kind of business. But you—” He looked at her. “Howdid you know?”
“I got mixed up in it—by accident.”
He gave her a long considering look.
Victoria asked suddenly:
“Your nickname at school wasn’t Lucifer, was it?”
He looked surprised.
“Lucifer, no? I was called Owl—because I always had to wear shinyglasses.”
“You don’t know anyone who is called Lucifer—in Basrah?”
Richard shook his head.
“Lucifer, Son of the Morning—the fallen Angel.”
He added: “Or an old- fashioned wax match. Its merit if I rememberrightly, was that it didn’t go out in a wind.”
He watched her closely as he spoke37, but Victoria was frowning.
“I wish you’d tell me,” she said presently, “exactly what happened atBasrah.”
“I have told you.”
“No. I mean where were you when all this occurred?”
“Oh I see. Actually it was in the waiting room of the Consulate42. I waswaiting to see Clayton, the Consul.”
“And who else was there? This commercial traveller person and Carmi-chael? Anyone else?”
“There were a couple of others, a thin dark Frenchman or Syrian, andan old man—a Persian, I should say.”
“And the commercial traveller got the revolver out and you stoppedhim, and Carmichael got out—how?”
“He turned first towards the Consul’s office. It’s at the other end of a pas-sage with a garden—”
She interrupted.
“I know. I stayed there for a day or two. As a matter of fact, it was justafter you left.”
“It was, was it?” Once again he watched her narrowly—but Victoria wasunaware of it. She was seeing the long passage at the Consulate, but withthe door open at the other end—opening on to green trees and sunlight.
“Well, as I was saying, Carmichael headed that way first. Then hewheeled round and dashed the other way into the street. That’s the last Isaw of him.”
“What about the commercial traveller?”
Richard shrugged43 his shoulders.
“I understand he told some garbled44 story about having been attackedand robbed by a man the night before and fancying he had recognized hisassailant in the Arab in the Consulate. I didn’t hear much more about itbecause I flew on to Kuwait.”
“Who was staying at the Consulate just then?” Victoria asked.
“A fellow called Crosbie—one of the oil people. Nobody else. Oh yes, Ibelieve there was someone else down from Baghdad, but I didn’t meethim. Can’t remember his name.”
“Crosbie,” thought Victoria. She remembered Captain Crosbie, his shortstocky figure, his staccato conversation. A very ordinary person. A decentsoul without much finesse45 about him. And Crosbie had been back in Bagh-dad the night when Carmichael came to the Tio. Could it be because hehad seen Crosbie at the other end of the passage, silhouetted46 against thesunlight, that Carmichael had turned so suddenly and made for the streetinstead of attempting to reach the Consul General’s office?
She had been thinking this out in some absorption. She started ratherguiltily when she looked up to find Richard Baker watching her with closeattention.
“Why do you want to know all this?” he asked.
“I’m just interested.”
“Any more questions?”
Victoria asked:
“Do you know anybody called Lefarge?”
“No—I can’t say I do. Man or woman?”
“I don’t know.”
She was wondering about Crosbie. Crosbie? Lucifer?
Did Lucifer equal Crosbie?
III
That evening, when Victoria had said good night to the two men andgone to bed, Richard said to Dr. Pauncefoot Jones:
“I wonder if I might have a look at that letter from Emerson. I’d like tosee just exactly what he said about this girl.”
“Of course, my dear fellow, of course. It’s somewhere lying around. Imade some notes on the back of it, I remember. He spoke very highly ofVeronica, if I remember rightly—said she was terrifically keen. She seemsto me a charming girl—quite charming. Very plucky47 the way she’s madeso little fuss about the loss of her luggage. Most girls would have insistedon being motored into Baghdad the very next day to buy a new outfit48.
She’s what I call a sporting girl. By the way, how was it that she came tolose her luggage?”
“She was chloroformed, kidnapped, and imprisoned in a native house,”
said Richard impassively.
“Dear, dear, yes so you told me. I remember now. All most improbable.
Reminds me—now what does it remind me of?—ah! yes, Elizabeth Can-ning, of course. You remember she turned up with a most impossible storyafter being missing a fortnight. Very interesting conflict of evidence —about some gypsies, if it’s the right case I’m thinking of. And she was sucha plain girl, it didn’t seem likely there could be a man in the case. Nowlittle Victoria—Veronica—I never can get her name right—she’s a remark-ably pretty little thing. Quite likely there is a man in her case.”
“She’d be better looking if she didn’t dye her hair,” said Richard drily.
“Does she dye it? Indeed. How knowledgeable49 you are in these matters.”
“About Emerson’s letter, sir—”
“Of course—of course—I’ve no idea where I put it. But look anywhereyou choose—I’m anxious to find it anyway because of those notes I madeon the back—and a sketch50 of that coiled wire bead40.”
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1
excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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anthropologist
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| n.人类学家，人类学者 | |
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pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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gadgets
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| n.小机械，小器具（ gadget的名词复数 ） | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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platinum
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| n.白金 | |
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lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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knowledgeable
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| adj.知识渊博的；有见识的 | |
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50
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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