and sounding very bad-tempered, Great-Aunt Harriet’s bell shattered the silence once more. Farther away, but still obviously at large, the watchdogs bayed. The girl started, so violently that the things on the tray clashed and rattled.
‘Saved by the bell,’ I said. ‘You were saying?’
‘No. No. I must go!’ Then, almost fiercely, as I made a move to follow and open the main gate for her: ‘Leave it! I can manage, I can manage!’
The gate shut behind her. I stared thoughtfully after her. Saved by the bell, indeed. I thought I could add the score. Whether or not John Lethman had a stake in Great-Aunt Harriet, I was sure that Halide had a stake in John Lethman. And I wasn’t sure how that added up for Great-Aunt Harriet. I went back to the bookshelf.
It would be nice to be able to record that I was the kind of person who would pick up the Dostoevsky or the Huxley or even
The Golden Bough
and curl up with it for a glorious evening’s read. But when eventually Mr Lethman came for me as he had promised, he found me a few chapters into
The Tiger in the Smoke
, and half-wishing I had chosen something less exciting for a night in the deserted wing of a ruined palace.
He was armed, not with an oil lamp, but with an enormous and very powerful electric torch.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
He led me back to the courtyard where Hamid and I had waited, but there we turned right, away from the main gate, the way I had seen him go to Great-Aunt Harriet. The place was vast, far bigger even than I had imagined. We seemed to walk for ever up corridors, round corners, up steps, down steps, and across atleast two more small courts, in the first of which a trickle of water showed that all the wells had not dried. As we traversed the second I heard, from behind a closed door, a scratching sound followed by a deep whining yelp that made me jump.
‘It’s all right, I told you I’d shut them up.’ He shone the torch momentarily towards the door, and in the gap at its foot I saw the gleam of a dog’s damp nose snuffing at the air. ‘Sofi! Star! Quiet there! Watch your step, Miss Mansel, the threshold’s broken here. This is the Prince’s Garden.’
I don’t know quite what I had expected, something at least as grand as the Seraglio Garden, but in fact the Prince’s Garden was very small. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, and I caught a glimpse in the torchlight of a low wall which might contain a pool, but the garden seemed to be little more than an oblong yard with one or two troughs of flowers and some small symmetrical trees in tubs. John Lethman shone the torch straight down on the cracked slabs of the footway, but he could have saved himself the trouble, for, from an open doorway about half-way along the side of the garden, light was spilling out between two small tubbed trees. It was only the dim orange light from a lamp like the one in my own room, but in the heavy darkness it seemed very bright.
He paused in the doorway to stand aside for me. His voice sounded different all at once, tight, wary, deferential.
‘I’ve brought Miss Mansel, Lady Harriet.’
I went past him into the room.
5
There came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christable saw the lady’s eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby …
S. T. Coleridge:
Christabel
T HE Prince’s Divan was enormous, and in it prevailed what I can only call a luxurious squalor. The floor was of coloured marble, strewn here and there with Persian rugs, all very dirty; the walls were patterned with intricate mosaics, each panel framing in fretted stone a recess which must once have held a statue or lamp, but which was now empty except for an accumulation of rubbish – cartons, papers, books, medicine bottles, candle-stubs. In the centre of the floor the fountain had been roughly boarded over and now did duty as a table where stood a large tray of greyish silver holding a pile of plates and the remains of a recent meal. Beside this, on the floor, was
‘Saved by the bell,’ I said. ‘You were saying?’
‘No. No. I must go!’ Then, almost fiercely, as I made a move to follow and open the main gate for her: ‘Leave it! I can manage, I can manage!’
The gate shut behind her. I stared thoughtfully after her. Saved by the bell, indeed. I thought I could add the score. Whether or not John Lethman had a stake in Great-Aunt Harriet, I was sure that Halide had a stake in John Lethman. And I wasn’t sure how that added up for Great-Aunt Harriet. I went back to the bookshelf.
It would be nice to be able to record that I was the kind of person who would pick up the Dostoevsky or the Huxley or even
The Golden Bough
and curl up with it for a glorious evening’s read. But when eventually Mr Lethman came for me as he had promised, he found me a few chapters into
The Tiger in the Smoke
, and half-wishing I had chosen something less exciting for a night in the deserted wing of a ruined palace.
He was armed, not with an oil lamp, but with an enormous and very powerful electric torch.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
He led me back to the courtyard where Hamid and I had waited, but there we turned right, away from the main gate, the way I had seen him go to Great-Aunt Harriet. The place was vast, far bigger even than I had imagined. We seemed to walk for ever up corridors, round corners, up steps, down steps, and across atleast two more small courts, in the first of which a trickle of water showed that all the wells had not dried. As we traversed the second I heard, from behind a closed door, a scratching sound followed by a deep whining yelp that made me jump.
‘It’s all right, I told you I’d shut them up.’ He shone the torch momentarily towards the door, and in the gap at its foot I saw the gleam of a dog’s damp nose snuffing at the air. ‘Sofi! Star! Quiet there! Watch your step, Miss Mansel, the threshold’s broken here. This is the Prince’s Garden.’
I don’t know quite what I had expected, something at least as grand as the Seraglio Garden, but in fact the Prince’s Garden was very small. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, and I caught a glimpse in the torchlight of a low wall which might contain a pool, but the garden seemed to be little more than an oblong yard with one or two troughs of flowers and some small symmetrical trees in tubs. John Lethman shone the torch straight down on the cracked slabs of the footway, but he could have saved himself the trouble, for, from an open doorway about half-way along the side of the garden, light was spilling out between two small tubbed trees. It was only the dim orange light from a lamp like the one in my own room, but in the heavy darkness it seemed very bright.
He paused in the doorway to stand aside for me. His voice sounded different all at once, tight, wary, deferential.
‘I’ve brought Miss Mansel, Lady Harriet.’
I went past him into the room.
5
There came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christable saw the lady’s eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby …
S. T. Coleridge:
Christabel
T HE Prince’s Divan was enormous, and in it prevailed what I can only call a luxurious squalor. The floor was of coloured marble, strewn here and there with Persian rugs, all very dirty; the walls were patterned with intricate mosaics, each panel framing in fretted stone a recess which must once have held a statue or lamp, but which was now empty except for an accumulation of rubbish – cartons, papers, books, medicine bottles, candle-stubs. In the centre of the floor the fountain had been roughly boarded over and now did duty as a table where stood a large tray of greyish silver holding a pile of plates and the remains of a recent meal. Beside this, on the floor, was
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