O Jerusalem (40 page)

“No, just monomaniacal pashas, uncontrollable troops, disease, drought, and starvation,” I said, stabbing a piece of succulent roast beef on my fork and conveying it to my mouth.

“Yes. Still, that’s over, isn’t it? The Brits are here, there’s water and food. They’ve even taken over the care of the sick and wounded. Perhaps we can carve a few hours out of the week again for leisure.”

“Well, if you plan an underground outing in the near future, do keep me in mind.”

“I shall indeed. In fact, why not next week? We could organise a family picnic into Solomon’s Quarries. Some of the younger children have never been in there. It might take a few days to clear the entrance of debris and check the roof for rocks that have worked their way loose, but it would be great fun. Do you know, I can’t remember the last time we did anything just for the pleasure of it.” His sallow cheeks had taken on a degree of colour, and he looked younger than he had before.

“What are Solomon’s Quarries?”

“An enormous cave directly beneath the city—its entrance is near the Damascus Gate. It was actually once a quarry, one can still see the chisel marks and a few half-separated blocks, but it’s probably not, as tradition has it, the source of the Temple blocks. As I remember, the stone is too soft.”

It would have to be a very large cave indeed to stretch to the Cotton Bazaar, thus undermining half the city, but it was underground, and underground was where my interests lay.

“I should be very interested to see it. How far back does it reach?”

“I don’t remember the exact measurement, offhand. Perhaps one hundred fifty, even two hundred yards.”
My interest increased. Five or six hundred feet was a goodly distance in the tiny city.

“How does one enter it?”

“There used to be an iron gate, just east of the Damascus Gate. In fact, our store here at the Colony used to sell tickets for a franc. Not since the war, though. Just let me ask—O’Brien! Say, have you noticed any tourists going into the Cotton Grotto lately? No? I didn’t think so. We were just thinking of getting up a picnic down there. Miss Russell here—”

“What did you call it?” I interrupted urgently.

“Call what?” The intensity of my voice confused him. Several of our neighbours glanced over at me, but I paid them no mind.

“The cave. What did you just call it?”

“The grotto? Yes, that’s the other name for it. Less grand than Solomon’s Quarries, which is the name the tour books use. Locals go by the Arabic name. The Cotton Grotto.”

The arts are well established in a city only after sedentary culture has a long duration there
.

—THE
Muqaddimah
OF IBN KHALDÛN

he conversations around our end of the table began to founder around the bulk of my stunned silence, until I pulled myself together, closed my jaw, and made some inane comment such as, “How very nice.” Voices started up again, but I did not dare look down to the other end; I could feel Holmes’ eyes drilling into me, but there was nothing for it now. We had to get through dinner first.

Fortunately, the pudding course was being set before us, soon to be followed by cheese, and then we ladies would excuse ourselves. Ought I to escape then? Or might there be further information to be got across the dining table? No, that would not be wise; I had not only monopolised a partner who was not my own but drawn attention to myself in the process. Best not pursue it now, I decided, and, gathering patience to me as firmly as I could, I turned to the
small, nervous Belgian on my left. “What brings you to Jerusalem, Monsieur Lamartine?”

My patience was chafing me badly by the time we left the gentlemen to their cigars. I followed my hostess with a degree of apprehension; I have never been good at women’s conversation, for my mother died before I could learn the art of small talk with individuals who had no employment aside from needlework and children, and in addition I had not begun the evening with an image guaranteed to endear me to them. However, I need not have worried. In truth, I was impressed with these women, particularly the recently arrived Helen Bentwich, who had been active in the Land Army movement in Britain during the war. The war had changed us all, and although these ladies dutifully began with polite, shallow questions, we were very soon happily embroiled in three or four separate topics, the main two being Zionism’s relationship to Arab nationalism and the means of preserving the historical purity of the Old City in the face of future growth. It was with some reluctance that we rejoined the men. Who, it appeared, had been talking about cricket.

“Had a good chat, then, did you?” asked one jolly colonel, rising. “Settle the world’s problems with babies and dress fashions?”

I spoke up over the rumble of masculine chuckles. “Actually, we were discussing the Balfour agreement and the progress of the Paris peace talks. Any chance of another drop of coffee?”

I swayed over to the sideboard and took a cup of coffee from the hand of Lieutenant-Colonel William Gillette.

“Just black, thank you,” I told him, and when the voices had risen around us I murmured over the rim of my cup, “I imagine Mr Gillette would be much amused, were he to find that the character he played on stage was in turn impersonating him.” The original William Gillette was an American actor who had cobbled together
one of the first stage plays about Holmes, using bits of the Conan Doyle stories and adding a romantic interest. Holmes’ opinion of the production was what one might expect.

“I thought it only fair. What did the gentleman across from you say?”

“He said many things.” I smiled across the room at my young cavalry officer, grown shy when seeing me standing with a lieutenant-colonel.

“Russell.”

“Don’t ‘Russell’ me. If I tell you now you’ll flit out of here and I won’t see you for two days. I did the work; I’m not going to allow you to have all the fun.” I took my cup down from my face and turned my smile at an approaching man. “Governor Storrs, you must be quite pleased with the progress being made in the city—at least I hope you are. I was saying to Colonel Gillette here—do you know Lieutenant-Colonel William Gillette? Yes, he does look a bit like the actor, now that you mention it. What an amusing coincidence. I was saying to him not five minutes ago …”

Twenty minutes of politeness was all Holmes could abide. I had counted on that, allowing myself to be drawn into a silly conversation about rescuing Arab girls from the gutter (Mrs Major’s words, not mine) by teaching them needlework, because I knew that I would not be stuck there for the rest of the evening. The musical portion of the evening was about to begin. Brigadier-General Ronald Storrs, de facto governor of Palestine, had sat down to the piano to play “Vittoria” from
La Tosca
when Holmes loomed up between Mrs Major and one of my young officers, baring his teeth at me in a tight grimace that passed for a smile.

“You said earlier you would appreciate a ride back to town. I’m going now.”

“Thank you, Colonel. That’s very good of you.” I took my leave of my host and hostess, shook off two of my
more persistent admirers, and was nearing the door when the archaeological Jacob came into the vestibule.

“Are you leaving so soon, Miss Russell? What about our excursion into Solomon’s Quarries? How may I get in touch with you?”

“Er, I—”

“A message left at Government House always seems to reach one, have you not found, Miss Russell?” Holmes said smoothly.

“Yes. Yes, it seems to. I move about so much, you know. I may not even be in Jerusalem next week, but thanks awfully.” Before I could make an even greater fool of myself, Holmes dropped my cloak onto my shoulders and propelled me towards the door.

It was freezing in the car, and I wrapped my inadequate garments about me and shivered. The temperature emanating from Holmes was even colder.

“I had not intended that you make quite such a spectacle of yourself, Russell,” he said in a low, brittle voice as soon as the driver had pulled out of the compound. “This was a simple exercise in gathering information, not an eights-week ball.”

“That dress was your choice, Holmes, and in case you hadn’t noticed, there are probably three other English women under the age of forty in the entire city, and those are safely affianced. How could I help being a spectacle? As it is, they will certainly remember me, but not because I asked a lot of questions about tunnels under the city. Which sort of impression should you have preferred I make?”

He did listen to my words, and the temperature in the car gradually rose a few degrees. “Very well,” he said, “I see your point. Next time, I shall choose the frock with greater care; I should hate to be responsible for your having to spend another evening parading yourself in front of young men in that manner. I admit I had failed to visualise quite what the frock would look like with you inside it.”

I looked at him sharply, but there was not enough light to see his expression. His voice had said that as a flat statement, with neither innuendo nor even humour. Had another man said those words, I might at least have considered the possibility that he had noticed what I looked like, that he had appreciated—I sat up briskly. Enough of that. Too much flirtation, in fact, for one night. It was a good thing I was not staying here long, definitely not as Miss Russell: being the object of adoring gazes of young men in uniform was clearly a heady thing. Time to crawl back into my robe, turban, and
abayya
.

I must have sighed or made some noise.

“Cinderella home from the ball, eh, Russell?” He was, however, smiling when he said it.

I
t was after eleven o’clock, and the inn was again shut tight. A yawning boy answered our summons, handed us a small lamp, and stumbled away. At my door I wished Holmes a good night, and he peered at me in the meagre light as if I were mad.

“We have work to do, Russell.”

“God, Holmes. You told me that same thing at some unearthly hour this morning, and I’ve been slogging hard ever since. My skull aches, my shoulders ache, my hands are raw; don’t you ever sleep?”

“You’re young, Russell,” he said brutally. “You can sleep tomorrow.”

“Do you intend—? You do. We’re going back out.”

“Just let me get out of this absurd outfit. I should do the same, if I were you.” He ducked into his room, and I closed my own door and wedged it shut while I was changing back into the Arab boy. I fixed my turban, took the wedge from the door, and took a quick step back as it flew open to admit the Bedouin Holmes. He shut it quietly and we squatted together on the floor
with the oil lamp between us. Amazing, how comfortable that position had become.

“Tell me what your archaeological friend said,” he demanded.

“There are caves under the north end of the city, near the Damascus Gate. They’re called Solomon’s Quarries by the guide-books, but their other name, the one they’re known by to the locals, is the Cotton Grotto.”