Scorpion Sunset (43 page)

She returned upstairs, entered the countess's suite, and looked around. How long would it be before she succeeded in cajoling the count to house her in similar quarters? Recalling his instructions, she went to the cupboard and found the strongbox. The key was in the lock, she lifted the lid in preparation to take the countess's jewellery.

While stowing away the pieces in their original boxes, she amused herself by imagining her future. Should her father, John, Mrs Butler, or Angela write to the consulate, Count D'Souza would have long gone and all the new consul would be able to do was confirm the outbreak of smallpox. She doubted that the count's replacement would contact the convent, but if he should consider it, the fifth letter she'd penned, a copy of the one she'd sent to her father, left in the consulate's file on the convent, should deter anyone from making further enquiries.

As for Maud Smith, she might be a housekeeper now – albeit one with her own lady's maid – but her future beckoned as bright and glittering as the jewels she was packing. There'd have to be period of mourning of course. But the count enjoyed the private moments they shared.

She knew, because she'd had extensive experience of similar private moments with many other men. The count was taking her to Lisbon. No one knew her there, so there'd be no risk of encountering any gossip about her past. A few more months and then, what could be more natural than that the bereaved count should turn to his beautiful young widowed housekeeper for consolation.

Six months, a year at the outside, and wedding bells would be ringing for Maud Smith and Count D'Souza. Maud Mason née Perry was dead and buried in a common unmarked grave. She'd make sure her ghost never rose to trouble her again.

Not while Maud Smith, soon to become Countess D'Souza, remained very much alive.

Chapter Twenty-nine

British Relief Force, Baghdad

13
^th
April 1917

‘Take cover!' Peter yelled as a grenade was thrown from a heavily shrouded harem window on the top floor of a private house. It landed a few feet away from the gallows his men were constructing to hang fifteen looters Perry had arrested on his march into the town.

Most of the sappers clamped their hands over their heads and dropped to the ground but Private Hawkins dived forward, snatched the grenade, and lobbed it back into the building. Seconds later the front of the house blasted outwards and both men and street were covered inches deep in dust and debris.

‘Anyone hurt?' Peter rose to his feet and dusted himself off, trying not to think about what he'd been lying in.

‘I think something hit me, sir.'

Hawkins emerged from a ragged pile of splintered wood. Blood streamed through his hair and dripped down on to his face, neck, and uniform.

‘I saw medics enter that building half an hour ago.' Peter pointed across the street. ‘Let's get you seen to. Sergeant, carry on. You're in charge.'

‘Sir.' The sergeant snapped to attention then started shouting at the men. ‘Get a move on, you lazy beggars. Do you expect these looters to hang themselves …'

Peter helped Hawkins across the street and into the building. The noise was ear-shattering. Michael and David were standing in the hall, shooting at a tide of rats that raced squealing towards them, pouring out of a narrow corridor.

David waved at Peter. ‘Be with you in a moment,' he shouted. ‘The orderlies are herding these beggars towards us. The entire bloody building is filthy, unsanitary, and infested.'

When David finished emptying his gun, he reloaded and holstered it. An Arab ran through the front door shouting in German. To Peter's surprise, David answered him in the same language after telling Michael to stop shooting.

‘I don't care if every stupid rat we've killed is your most beloved and cherished pet. I'm the senior officer here and I've given the order to shoot as many rats as we can get in our gun sights. And for your information,' David pulled at the insignia on his collar. ‘This is a British uniform. The Turks and Germans left last night. We're in charge now and,' David switched to English. ‘I've passed a death sentence on all rats in the city. No appeal, no reprieve. Singh?'

David's orderly emerged from a second corridor.

‘Is there a clean room in this place?' David asked.

‘No, sir.'

‘Bring me a chair and a medical kit, and take them outside. These stupid bloody rats haven't yet realised that this is an execution chamber.' David shot at and killed another rat before walking out.

Peter helped Hawkins who was having trouble standing, onto a marble bench in the courtyard. ‘Joined the medics?' he asked when Michael sat beside them.

‘I carry a gun and don't often get chance to use it. That rat hunt was fun.'

Peter looked back through the door at the tiled walls and floors of the hall. ‘What was this building?'

‘Haven't a clue,' David shrugged. ‘Arabs were burning papers in the garden when we got here but they ran off when they saw us. I think they must have disturbed a few rats' nests and the creatures ran inside to join their chums who'd already taken up residence.'

Singh arrived with the chair. David helped Hawkins on to it and examined his head. ‘The good news is nothing's broken. The bad you'll need a few stitches. Singh, I need my bag. Make sure there's catgut and disinfectant in it.'

‘That'll teach you to play ball with grenades, Hawkins.' Peter reached for his cigarettes.

‘I didn't think, sir.'

Peter lit three cigarettes and passed one to Michael and another to Hawkins. He held up the packet to David who shook his head. ‘Your “not thinking”, Hawkins, probably saved at least a dozen of our men from injury if not death.' Peter took his notebook from his pocket and scribbled a reminder to put Hawkins up for a medal.

Michael read the note over Peter's shoulder. ‘Can I have the full story?'

‘In return for what?' Peter raised his eyebrows.

‘Jug of raki.'

‘You're on.'

‘Excuse me, Major Knight, sir,' a runner arrived and addressed David, ‘we've found a hospital.'

‘A nice big clean one, I hope.'

‘A large one, sir.'

Something in the runner's voice made David look up from his stitching. ‘It's filthy?'

‘It's full of patients, sir. Mainly cholera and typhoid cases. Looks like most of the staff have succumbed.'

‘Singh, muster the medics and orderlies from wherever they're hiding, we're on the move again.' David fastened the last stitch in Hawkins's head and eyed Peter. ‘Tell me again, why did we fight to take this forsaken, verminous, insanitary city?'

‘Because a politician overdosed on the
Arabian Nights
when he was a child and wanted to see “the golden minarets shine and glitter in the setting sun”?' Michael suggested.

‘I see no golden minarets.'

‘You obviously haven't looked in the right place – yet,' Michael rose from the bench.

‘Can't wait for my first night off to look for them.' David returned his instruments to his bag.

‘If you find any
Arabian Nights
splendours, let me know, Michael.' Peter helped Hawkins to his feet.

‘You'll be the first I'll tell,' Michael volunteered.

‘As you're the one with the least work to do, you can look for them,' David shot two more rats before picking up his doctors' bag and leaving.

Turkish Prison Camp

May 1917

‘It feels as though summer's brought a taste of heaven with it. Just wandering around the garden breathing in the scents of apple and cherry blossom and feeling the warmth of the sun on my face is absolute bliss.' John checked for protruding nails before sitting alongside Rebeka and Hasmik on a wooden bench Grace had inexpertly patched together from the branches of a tree that had blown over in a winter storm.

‘None of your patients need you?' Rebeka asked.

‘Not for five minutes. If I'm fortunate maybe even ten.'

‘Or half an hour.'

‘That's probably too much to hope for.' He reached for her hand. Crabbe and Yana Gulbenkian were walking around the perimeter, arm in arm, heads bent, immersed in deep and earnest conversation.

‘They are planning their future together,' Rebeka explained. ‘Reverend Spooner agreed to marry them as soon as the relevant permissions come through from your army.'

‘You do know I'll marry you the minute my divorce comes through.' John meshed his fingers into hers.

‘I know.' She watched Hasmik run over to Bowditch and Grace. Grace had brought out the doll he was whittling for her. He'd made a reasonable job of the head and torso, but the dolls' arms and legs were somewhat mismatched, with the left side limbs twice the size of the ones on the right.

‘If it doesn't come soon enough for this little one to be born with married parents, I'll insist on Mason being on the birth certificate.' He laid his hand on her abdomen.

‘Don't,' she moved his hand away. ‘Not here, where everyone can see you.'

‘They're going to find out soon enough. You're nicely plump.'

‘Fat, you mean.' She leaned against him. ‘I really don't care about us not being married. I love you.'

‘You couldn't possibly love me as much as I love you and we'll both love this little one when he or she arrives.'

‘It's not a “one”, it's a boy.'

‘Or girl. We have to think of names. I'll be happy with anything you chose.'

‘Really?' She was surprised.

‘You'll be the one doing the work so you should pick the name. We could call him or her after your father or mother. They must have been incredible parents to make you the woman you are.'

‘My father's name was Erik.'

John repeated it. ‘Erik Mason, that's an excellent solid name. Your mother?'

‘Elen.'

‘That's beautiful.'

‘So we've settled on names.'

‘Only for our first two children.'

‘You want more?'

‘Dozens more.' He faltered when he recalled saying the exact same words to Maud. He dismissed the memory from his mind, then slipped his arm around Rebeka's shoulders and sat back, closing his eyes and turning his face to the sun. The sound of marching feet echoed from the gate. He opened his eyes. ‘What's happening?' he asked Crabbe when he walked up with Yana.

‘New influx of guards. I talked to one of the younger ones.'

‘And?'

‘And?' Crabbe teased.

‘Something must have happened to make you grin like the Cheshire cat in
Alice in Wonderland
.'

Whoops echoed across the garden from the officer's quarters.

‘The war's over?' John sat up.

‘One thing at a time, Mason. We've taken Baghdad.'

‘As of when?'

‘Last week apparently. That's why we have new guards. The Turks have pulled back half their army. With luck this is the beginning of the end in Mesopotamia. Now the War Office can concentrate on taking the Western Front.'

‘Hopefully sometime soon.' John drew Rebeka even closer to him. ‘And then we can all go home.'

Baghdad

May 1917

‘Baghdad nightlife, here we come,' David finished shaving and splashed cologne on to his chin and cheeks.

‘Hoping to attract the mosquitoes?' Peter asked.

‘You never know, there might be a stunning belly dancer prepared to throw herself at me.'

‘I'll tell Georgie.'

‘Do and I'll tell Angela you went out on the town to look for loose women. Did you know that John worked here?'

‘Here? You mean Baghdad here?'

‘I mean hospital here. Apparently he arrived heading a medical escort of sick British POWs. One of the orderlies who was working here at the time told me. The German doctors fled with the Turks, so when we took over this place, cholera and typhoid cases included, there were only nurses and orderlies managing the facility. But to be fair they didn't try to wreck the place or destroy any of the medical supplies or instruments.'

‘Did the orderly say how John looked?'

‘Apparently he'd been driven into the ground. Once he'd been reassured that his patients would be attended to, he slept for days. But that's John.'

They left David's room and walked out into the courtyard which was packed with scores of locals sitting patiently waiting for medical attention.

‘I feel guilty walking away from them,' David confessed.

‘You've been on duty for months without a break.'

‘That's war for you. No matter how hard we work or how many of us are on duty the queues of patients never get any shorter. As for the locals, they don't need medical attention, only a good scouring and clean-up of their living conditions. I've seen more infected flea, bedbug, rat, sand fly and mosquito bites, and impetigo than any doctor should in several lifetimes.'

‘Forget them for the next couple of hours.' They walked out of the gates of the hospital and turned into the street.

‘And all the sores, abscesses …'

‘Enough disgusting medical talk,' Peter pleaded.

‘You want to go down here?' David halted at the entrance to a narrow alleyway.

‘Do you?'

‘It looks interesting. Just look at those second-floor balconies, they're touching to form a roof over the street. Do you think the houses have moved since they were built?'

‘Perhaps they wanted to kiss.'

‘You're a romantic idiot, Peter Smythe.'

‘You would be if you had a wife like mine – and a son.'

David sniffed Peter's breath. ‘Have you been drinking?'

‘Only the medicinal brandy my doctor recommends to keep germs at bay.' Peter continued walking on the main thoroughfare which was only marginally wider than the narrow lane they'd looked down.