Of course it was not certain either that Zoser had done it or that, if he had done it, he had done it for sectarian reasons. But it had all the signs of a sectarian killing. Mahmoud had been unable to uncover anything of a personal nature which might have prompted the attack. Indeed, so far he had not been able to discover any previous relationship at all between Zoser and the Zikr. And, unfortunately, sectarian attacks were not at all uncommon. Cairo was a city of many nationalities and many different systems of belief. There were large communities of Greeks, Armenians, Jews, Turks, Levantines, Italians, French and English, as well as the more indigenous Copts, Arabs, Berbers from the south and Negroes. And each community, Cairo being Cairo, had at least two rival sects. Owen found it hard to keep track of all of them. But keep track he had to, for the sects were always at odds with each other and sometimes their differences spilled over into killings. What one tended to get, too, was not just sect against sect, but a fundamentalist sect of one religion against a fundamentalist sect of another, Christian against Moslem, another Coptic sect against-Zikr?
A sudden crash of cymbals pulled him back to the present. At regular, but otherwise apparently arbitrary points during the service an acolyte would emerge from a recess, face the congregation and clash the cymbals violently together. Then he would retire. Owen suspected that it was to make sure that nobody fell asleep. There was some danger of this since hardly anyone present could understand a word. The service was conducted throughout in traditional Coptic, a language found only in churches and a few schools, and which very few even of the Copts understood. They habitually spoke Egyptian Arabic.
There was another mighty crash and a priest began walking through the congregation swinging a censer and laying his hand on the head of anyone who offered. Among those who offered was Zoser.
People began to stir and Owen got the impression that the service was approaching its end. The priest completed his circuit and disappeared behind the altar screen, leaving in his wake a long trail of incense which gradually mounted into the roof and lost itself among the ostrich eggs and silver censers suspended there. There was a final reading, mercifully brief, and a last clash of cymbals; and then from behind the altar screen came a procession of priests and acolytes and small boys holding lighted tapers and carrying a large picture. They paraded round the church showing the picture to all parts of the congregation. Then they, too, retreated behind the altar screen with a last puff of smoke and the chanting came to an end.
Outside, he joined up with Mahmoud and waited for the two women. They came up the steps with a Coptic woman in a long black gown and veil. As they stepped out into the sunshine Mena Iskander’s reticule slipped and fell on the ground. She walked on without noticing. The Coptic woman hesitated, then picked up the reticule and hurried after Mena. Mena thanked her profusely, taking her impetuously by both hands. The woman’s sleeves fell back and there was the hand-painting.
The ladies parted. The Coptic woman went to one side and stood waiting for her husband, who was delayed in the church. Mena and Jane came towards them.
“Brilliant!” said Owen.
“Mrs. Iskander,” said Mahmoud, “you are remarkable!”
Mena Iskander looked bashfully at the ground. She was not used to receiving compliments from men in public.
“Did you see?” she asked.
Owen looked at Jane Postlethwaite. She nodded.
Zoser came hurrying out of the church and joined his wife. From under her huge hat and the light grey veil she had thoughtfully donned for the occasion Jane Postlethwaite regarded them steadily.
When they had returned Mena Iskander to her amused husband they went with Jane Postlethwaite back to her hotel, where Owen earned unmerited credit for his morning’s occupation.
“Copts,” said John Postlethwaite. “They would be a sort of Nonconformist here, would they?”
“Sort of,” said Owen.
Paul, who had accompanied John Postlethwaite to an Anglican service, gave Owen an approving glance.
“That’s more like it, Gareth. Keep it up. The Pyramids tomorrow. Yes? Please?”
Their credit was increased, in John Postlethwaite’s eyes, when they ordered coffee. Most of the British in the hotel were drinking something stronger. Mahmoud, of course, as a Moslem, did not drink alcohol, and Owen, who habitually took on protective colouring, fell into line without thinking.
They took it on the terrace where there was more air and a slight breeze ruffled Jane Postlethwaite’s sleeves.
“Get what you wanted?” Owen asked.
Mahmoud looked at Jane Postlethwaite.
“She had touched up her hands,” said Jane Postlethwaite, “but the pattern was the same.”
“It was the woman you saw?”
“Yes.”
“You would be prepared to swear to that?”
“I would,” said Jane Postlethwaite firmly.
“And Zoser?”
“He was the man I saw.”
Mahmoud sat back with a little sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Miss Postlethwaite,” he said. “There was always the chance that you might not.”
Jane Postlethwaite sipped her coffee meditatively.
“When so much depends upon it,” she said, “it seems wrong to be so certain.”
“But if you were certain-?”
“I know,” she said, “I should say so. Well, I am prepared to say so.”
“A man’s life was taken,” Mahmoud pointed out.
“Yes. That is why I am prepared to testify.”
Owen felt that things were moving a little too fast.
“That may not be necessary, Miss Postlethwaite,” he said smoothly.
The British community would not be very happy about the involvement of one of its ladies in a public trial. Nor, it occurred to him, in the special circumstances of John Postlethwaite’s visit, was the Consul-General likely to be overjoyed.
Jane Postlethwaite looked puzzled.
“Don’t you want me to give evidence?” she demanded.
“Well, it’s not quite that-”
“Yes,” said Mahmoud.
Jane Postlethwaite looked uncertainly from one to the other.
“It may prove distressing for you, Miss Postlethwaite,” said Owen.
“And you would like to spare me?”
“Of course.”
Jane Postlethwaite looked down into her lap. Then she raised her head.
“Captain Owen,” she said, “do you think that proper?”
“Well…
“When so much is at stake?”
“Well…”
“Captain Owen, why do you wish to spare me?”
“Because… because… he fumbled.
“Because I am a pretty girl?”
There was no answer to that one.
“Or because I am British?”
“Both.”
Jane Postlethwaite rose from the table in a fury.
“That is not right, Captain Owen,” she said icily. “That is not right.”
As she reached the door, she turned.
“If you wish me to give evidence, Mr. el-Zaki,” she said, “I certainly shall.”
“Sorry!” said Mahmoud.
“Christ!” said Owen.
They walked a little way in silence. It was the hottest part of the day, and apart from them there was nothing moving in the streets. Even the donkeys were lying down.
“It’s not much,” said Mahmoud.
“Not much?”
Mahmoud, however, was thinking of the case.
“It’s not much to go on. A positive identification, yes, but only by one person.”
Owen allowed his mind to drain back.
“Any corroborative evidence?”
“Hardly,” Mahmoud admitted.
“It’s not strong,” said Owen.
That was another thing; if it was Jane Postlethwaite’s word against Zoser’s, the court would almost certainly convict. But it would look bad. The word of a European against the word of an Egyptian. It would be OK if there was other evidence. But to convict on her word alone! The Nationalist papers would pick it up. They might make quite a thing of it. They’d do it deliberately to embarrass the Government. And, my God, they would certainly succeed if it came out that she was Postlethwaite’s niece.