“Why?”
“That’s the Coptic Easter Monday. It’s also the day when the Moslems have a Moulid for some local saint or other. I think they do it just to be awkward. The problem is to keep the processions apart, because of course if they run into each other there’s all kinds of trouble, especially if things are a bit tense between them anyway. But that’s not till the twenty-fifth. You’ll have it all sorted out by then. I hope.”
CHAPTER 2
In deference to the susceptibilities of Moslem guests, the reception took the form of an English tea. The setting was appropriate. Once guests had been received and presented to the Consul-General’s wife, they passed out onto the beautiful Residency lawns. There, among the herbaceous borders, the great coloured splashes of bignonia, bougainvillaea and clerodendrons, the rose-gardens and the citrus grove, they were served with tiny cucumber sandwiches and cups of tea by immaculate white-turbanned waiters. No alcohol was served, and the redfaced, heavy-jowled senior army officers had to grit their teeth and wait for the hour of their release.
The arrangement suited the Member of Parliament for Warrington since he was a Nonconformist, a teetotaller and a Liberal, all three of which characteristics he assumed, correctly, to be rare in army officers, especially in Egypt, which he seemed to confuse with the land of Sodom and Gomorrah. He kept a stern eye open for evidence of possible depravity in any young officer who approached his niece and Owen was glad that he had decided to appear at the reception in mufti.
It also helped that Owen was Welsh. Wales was, of course, a stronghold of Liberalism and Nonconformity and, slightly uneasy among all this exoticism, John Postlethwaite fell back on the things he was familiar with, which included, he thought, Owen.
“I’ll want to see everything, mind,” he warned Owen. “No pulling the wool over my eyes.”
“I’ll want to see everything too, Captain Owen,” his niece said, “although, of course, they may not be the same things.”
“The accounts,” said John Postlethwaite.
“Egypt,” said his niece.
So far, Owen had not been able to make out Miss Postlethwaite. For one thing, he couldn’t see her, since she had disappeared almost entirely under a huge sunbonnet. She had none of the racy, quasi-emancipated slang of the other girls and he might have taken her altogether for a shrinking Nonconformist violet had he not once caught a very sharp eye appraising him carefully from under the bonnet.
“We might even be able to make a start on the accounts now,” he said, and led them over to an Egyptian he knew slightly who worked in the Ministry of Finance. The Egyptian took in the politics of the situation in a flash and moved smoothly into diplomatic conversation with the MP. Within seconds both were deep in technical matters.
“That’s the accounts taken care of,” said Jane Postlethwaite. “What about me?”
“What would you like to see?”
“Cairo,” said Jane. “You can start this evening.”
Mr. Postlethwaite looked up uneasily.
“We already have an engagement for this evening, my dear,” he protested.
“That is not an engagement,” said Jane. “It is merely something laid on by the hotel.”
“Nevertheless-”
“You can go to that, Uncle John. I shall be quite safe with Captain Owen.”
Both uncle and niece were captured shortly afterwards by the Consul-General’s wife and Owen was left alone for a moment with the Egyptian.
“What are you busy with just now?” asked Ramses Bey, who knew what Owen’s work was.
“Copts and Moslems.”
“As usual,” said Ramses, who was himself a Copt.
“Is it as usual?” asked Owen.
Ramses gave him a sideways glance.
“Well,” he said, “that’s an interesting question.”
“I was hoping you were going to tell me if there was anything that might be making it unusual.”
“I don’t think I shall be telling you anything,” said Ramses.
He stretched out a hand for a passing cucumber sandwich. The waiter lifted the tray towards him. Between them a sandwich fell to the ground. Before either could move, a dark shape darted between them, scooped up the sandwich and flew off to the far end of the garden where McPhee, the Assistant Commandant, was locked in conversation with a rather intense Egyptian.
“These damned hawks,” said Ramses. He caught sight of McPhee.
“Shall we rescue your colleague?” he suggested. “He looks as if he might need it.”
McPhee glanced up with relief as they approached.
“Just the man!” he said to Owen. “Sesostris Bey feels that not enough is being done to protect the Coptic community. Have you met? Captain Cadwallader-”
Owen winced. He tried to keep his middle name hidden under a bushel.
“-Owen,” McPhee concluded with relish. He had a soft spot for legendary Celtic names, however dubious the descendancy. “The Mamur Zapt.”
“The Mamur Zapt?” Sesostris looked at Owen sharply. “Yes, indeed.”
Both Copts were small, spare men and both wore modern European suits; but whereas Ramses dressed with elegance and even a touch of dash, Sesostris wore his with severe Coptic sobriety.
“Why do you feel that not enough is being done to protect the Coptic community?” asked Owen.
There was no hesitation about Sesostris. He plunged at once into a catalogue of grievances, wrongs which the Moslems had allegedly committed against the Copts. Most of them were trivial. A shop had been broken into here, stones thrown there. People had been jostled in the market or spat on on their way to church. A few incidents were more serious. Solitary individuals had been set upon by gangs of Moslem youths and beaten up. A prayer meeting had been disrupted. Owen made a mental note to check up on these. The list culminated, as he had half-expected it would, with the business about the dog.
“Ah! The dog! Yes,” he murmured. Over Sesostris’s shoulder he saw Ramses cock a quizzical eye.
“It is no light matter,” said Sesostris sharply. “We will not allow our dead to be insulted.”
“There may have been no insult,” said Owen.
“Ah yes,” said Sesostris. “I have heard of your theory.”
“I have no theory yet. I am merely checking possibilities.”
“Do not check too long,” said Sesostris.
Ramses placed a restraining hand on Sesostris’s sleeve.
“Surely Captain Owen is right to check,” he protested. “There has been far too much precipitate action between Copt and Moslem.”
“You would naturally think so.”
“Why would Ramses Bey naturally think so?” asked Owen.
“Because he has taken sides.”
“I work for the Government, if that’s what you mean.”
“Copts have always worked for the Government,” said Owen. “With their industry and talent it is a natural thing to do.”
“Whoever governs Egypt, we do,” said Ramses.
“No, you don’t!” said Sesostris, turning on him. “You merely think you do. It is our big mistake. By working with the Government we support it. We should work against it.”
“Should you?” asked Owen.
“Yes,” said Sesostris fiercely. “I know what you think, Captain Owen. You want what the British want. Power, and a quiet life. It is what every conqueror of Egypt has wanted. For two thousand years we Copts have worked with every government. And for two thousand years every government has been that of an invader. Perhaps it is time we changed our tactics.”
“Enjoy what you have,” said Owen, “or you might lose it.”
Sesostris smiled wintrily.
“Threaten the Moslems, Captain Owen, not me. Or your life may not be quiet.”
He walked off.
McPhee spluttered indignantly.
“Nasty fellow,” he said. Then he caught Ramses’s eye, went red in the face and began to apologize profusely.
Ramses laughed and patted McPhee’s arm.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re not the only one who finds him difficult.”