They Came to Baghdad by Agatha Christie Page A

the Bishop of Llangow.”
    Victoria rallied.
    â€œDid she really?” she inquired with the correct trace of light amusement.
    â€œGot it wrong, I suppose?”
    Victoria smiled.
    â€œAmericans are bound to get some of our names wrong. It does sound a little like Llangow. My uncle,” said Victoria improvising rapidly, “is the Bishop of Languao?”
    â€œLanguao?”
    â€œYes—in the Pacific Archipelago. He’s a Colonial Bishop, of course.”
    â€œOh, a Colonial Bishop,” said Mrs. Cardew Trench, her voice falling at least three semitones.
    As Victoria had anticipated: Mrs. Cardew Trench was magnificently unaware of Colonial Bishops.
    â€œThat explains it,” she added.
    Victoria thought with pride that it explained it very well for a spur of the moment plunge!
    â€œAnd what are you doing out here?” asked Mrs. Cardew Trench with that inexorable geniality that conceals natural curiosity of disposition.
    â€œLooking for a young man I talked to for a few moments in a public square in London,” was hardly an answer that Victoria could give. She said, remembering the newspaper paragraph she had read, and her statement to Mrs. Clipp:
    â€œI’m joining my uncle, Dr. Pauncefoot Jones.”
    â€œOh, so that’s who you are.” Mrs. Cardew Trench was clearly delighted at having “placed” Victoria. “He’s a charming little man, though a bit absentminded—still I suppose that’s only to be expected. Heard him lecture last year in London—excellent delivery—couldn’t understand a word of what it was all about, though. Yes, he passed through Baghdad about a fortnight ago. I think he mentioned some girls were coming out later in the season.”
    Hurriedly, having established her status, Victoria chipped in with a question.
    â€œDo you know if Dr. Rathbone is out here?” she asked.
    â€œJust come out,” said Mrs. Cardew Trench. “I believe they’ve asked him to give a lecture at the Institute next Thursday. On ‘World Relationships and Brotherhood’—or something like that. All nonsense if you ask me. The more you try to get people together, the more suspicious they get of each other. All this poetry and music and translating Shakespeare and Wordsworth into Arabic and Chinese and Hindustani. ‘A primrose by the river’s brim,’ etc…what’s the good of that to people who’ve never seen a primrose?”
    â€œWhere is he staying, do you know?”
    â€œAt the Babylonian Palace Hotel, I believe. But his headquarters are up near the Museum. The Olive Branch—ridiculous name. Full of young women in slacks with unwashed necks and spectacles.”
    â€œI know his secretary slightly,” said Victoria.
    â€œOh yes, whatshisname Edward Thingummy—nice boy—too good for that long-haired racket—did well in the war, I hear. Still a job’s a job, I suppose. Nice-looking boy—those earnest young women are quite fluttered by him, I fancy.”
    A pang of devastating jealousy pierced Victoria.
    â€œThe Olive Branch,” she said. “Where did you say it was?”
    â€œUp past the turning to the second bridge. One of the turnings off Rashid Street—tucked away rather. Not far from the Copper Bazaar.”
    â€œAnd how’s Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones?” continued Mrs. Cardew Trench. “Coming out soon? I hear she’s been in poor health?”
    But having got the information she wanted, Victoria was taking no more risks in invention. She glanced at her wristwatch and uttered an exclamation.
    â€œOh dear—I promised to wake Mrs. Clipp at half past six and help her to prepare for the journey. I must fly.”
    The excuse was true enough, though Victoria had substituted half past six for seven o’clock. She hurried upstairs quite exhilarated. Tomorrow she would get in touch with Edward at the Olive Branch. Earnest young