The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (36 page)

Though I am not myself a Muslim, I must admit that I admired the Murrah leader. He allowed no deviation in his faith, not in himself and not among his people. He could not be a hypocrite of any form; indeed, his absolute honesty and unfailing devotion was among the most unswerving I have ever observed. I wondered why Ahmed al-Rasheed, who appeared so much the opposite of the old man, had chosen to travel with him.

Among al-Rasheed's traveling companions, two were servants and the third was a school friend of lesser rank among the Arab people but most likely as much wealth. He had the unlikely name of Khalid ibn Peterson, which presaged a story I was curious to hear. This Peterson probably had far more native ability than al-Rasheed, and less devotion to his vices—as is common among such friendships in England.

I watched idly, smoking my pipe, as the servants put up Rasheed's tent. It was a grand affair with at least three rooms, several brass chandeliers and tables and several chairs carved of fine wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A second tent was provided for the friend, much smaller but equally opulent with oil lamps and worked brass fittings.

Abdul Aziz, the young prince in his role as my squire, squatted in the shadows a bit behind me as we watched this luxury constructed in the midst of Bedouin austerity. “He does not respect his betters from the desert,” Abdul Aziz spat. “He tries to show he is superior
and he only proves his own foolishness. And he thinks he will eliminate me on the way—he is a fool, indeed.”

I took a deep pull on the pipe. “It is never a good idea to underestimate one's enemies,” I pointed out neutrally. “Though I would be interested in knowing why you find his furnishings foolish.”

“He is a fool because we will use every drop of all the water we can carry crossing the Empty Quarter,” the boy replied firmly. “We must rely on the camels, and even many of them have died on this trail. Everything they carry, every bit of weight, must be balanced against how long the camel can go without water. And if they are asked to carry too much they will die of thirst like any other beast. If the camels die, we die.”

“Hmm,” I said, gazing at the tent that was now finished and ready for occupancy. The blend in my pipe was excellently satisfying, and Abdul Aziz's assessment of the Rasheed fit my own. The boy certainly had more talent than many Royals through Europe. Indeed, the Foreign Office could do worse than wish that some of the Hapsburgs were so astute.

Shadows moved around the sand and Abdul Aziz slipped away before Rasheed's servant approached me. He bowed and touched his heart and forehead as if to a believer. “Please, sir, my master would like you to honour his poor tent as a guest at dinner tonight. He has heard that you are the great Sherlock Holmes of England. And as he has spent much of his life in that fair land, he considers it his true home and you a countryman of his.”

“I would be delighted to join your master at dinner,” I replied. “Let me change into something more appropriate and I shall be with him directly.”

The servant bowed again and scampered away. I ducked back into my tent with its serviceable hurricane lamp and took off the long white
thobe
I wore along with the native headdress. I was not attempting any deception by the guise, but the Arab robe is much cooler and more comfortable than woolen trousers and a starched
collar. People who live in harsh climes know best about how to make them most tolerable, and it would be senseless to ignore their collective wisdom. However, I dressed in one of three suits I had brought along, with a fresh shirt-front and collar, to represent the England that Ahmed al-Rasheed knew. Then I crossed the small space between our tents and was ushered into what appeared to be a city palace from the inside. I was seated on a carved chair softened by silk pillows while my host came out and greeted me effusively. Then he took the ewer of rosewater while a servant held a bowl beneath my hands. Al-Rasheed himself poured scented water so that I might wash, and did so so graciously that I wondered if I had misjudged him and he would prove to be a delightful companion. Al-Rasheed offered the towel to dry my hands, and then went through the entire ritual for his friend Peterson as well.

“It is so fortunate that we have some civilized company here,” he said. “Mr. Holmes, we are deeply honoured by your presence among us. Who in all the fair land of England has not read of your most brilliant service to the cause of justice? You are the last of King Arthur's knights among us, and your presence in my humble tent is a memory that I shall cherish all my life and into the next world as well. Especially since I heard
you
have in the next world . . .”

“Thank you, sir, though I fear you overstate the case. The papers have made far more of my inquiries than is appropriate. My putative death suits the mission I am on. And it is I who am honoured to meet you, a prince of the reigning House of Rasheed. And you as well, sir,” I nodded in the direction of Peterson.

“This is Khalid ibn Peterson, a friend of mine from our earliest days in school,” al-Rasheed said.

“Peterson?” I asked blandly. “That is not an Arab name.”

“No indeed, sir,” Peterson said. And as I looked at him closely in the light it was evident that his was a mixed heritage. He had the dark eyes of Arabia and the profile, but his skin was too light for this desert sun by half and what hair showed under his keffiyah was auburn, something between the deep near-black of the Arabs and
what I would expect was his father's blonde. Unlike al-Rasheed, he wore his
thobe
as if it were the dress of a king, and from his movement and his face I could see clearly that he was slim and well muscled and had not fallen victim to the indulgences of food and drink and sloth.

“My father came to Arabia as a student of Sir Richard Burton and one of his party. His name was George Peterson and his father, my late grandfather, was Richard Peterson, Lord Phillipsbourne,” Peterson said in unaccented English. “My father studied Arabic in Oxford, and also the True Faith, but it remained merely an intellectual exercise for him until he came to Arabia to further his knowledge of the region. As I understand it, my grandfather was quite proud of his talent for languages and foreign cultures and hoped that some day George would be appointed Ambassador to Egypt or the Ottomans.

“But my grandfather was not so pleased when his only son went off to Arabia with the great adventurer Sir Richard Burton. My father has always had a great passion for the truth, and for discovering things for himself. He left Burton's party to study with a great scholar of Islamic law in Jedda, and became so convinced by his teacher and what he had learned that he converted to the Faith of the Prophet in his second year here. He had to give up a great fortune in England, as his family quite disapproved and disinherited him.

“My father was so highly regarded by his teacher that he was brought to Mecca as a great jurist and introduced to the leading imams of that holy place. One of these leaders, the great poet Isa ibn Khalid, was so very impressed by the young Englishman that the poet arranged a match with his daughter. My mother was the greatest prize in Mecca, as famed for her piety and learning as for her beauty. Her father was one of the great imams of the Holy Places as well as a distinguished poet, and quite wealthy besides. Therefore, I grew up in a good Arab home with all the advantages of education and property. But what I hold most dear and for which
I have the greatest gratitude is that both my parents and my grand-parents were people of great wisdom and deep faith. After my three uncles died in battle, my grandfather adopted my father as his son, and now that my grandfather is so old, my father stands to inherit the whole.”

“But George Peterson did inherit from the Petersons,” I said, remembering the papers. “He was the only male heir of direct lineage, and a very old codicil in some ancestor's will insisted that the property belong only to a direct descendant. The courts upheld the decision even though much of the family was horrified.”

Khalid smiled. “Yes. I am my father's second son. My brother will inherit what is here and will take his place as one of the great scholars of the Shari'a. And I will be sent in exile to hold our land and house in England. For that reason I was sent to school there, to learn the workings of English law as thoroughly as my brother learns the Islamic. He is my brother and I love him, and I honour his place in the family as my elder, but I do wish that our fortunes were reversed.”

“While I wish I could live in England forever,” al-Rasheed sighed. “But there are advantages to being here as well. Anyway, it should be time for dinner. Would you care for a drink, Mr. Holmes? I have some very acceptable brandy and a decent Scotch.”

Both Peterson and I took water while al-Rasheed poured himself a generous whiskey. “I understand that my friend Khalid does not drink because he is Muslim and wishes to avoid the appearance of sin. Though he did like his beer in England. But you, Mr. Holmes, you are not Muslim. Why do you prefer water to good Scotch?”

“My body is not accustomed to this climate, Your Highness, and alcohol dehydrates one rapidly. Perhaps for one who is more used to desert conditions it is not a concern, but since the Empty Quarter is known to be the most arid place on Earth I think it best to refrain.”

Al-Rasheed nodded and put his own glass aside. Servants arrived
bearing platters of lamb and rice and vegetables, which they set on the largest brass table directly in front of me. Then they brought china and silver and large serving spoons, which is much a Western affectation here. The Bedouin eat with their hands from the central dish, so the ceremonial washing of hands is a sanitary procedure as well as a welcoming gesture. The food was excellent, and I was sorry that Watson was not there to sample it. He is fond of mutton and this was delicious.

As we ate, the conversation turned towards Mr. Peterson's coming marriage, which had been arranged by his parents. “Khalid seems to have gotten religion since we have returned,” al-Rasheed sighed. “At school he was too serious by half, and took a first in Law. He never went out with us drinking and at the bawdy houses he always married the girl.”

“It is easy enough and an old tradition,” Peterson protested. “And I always divorced them before I left. Besides, none of the girls even know what I said since it was in Arabic. It made no difference to any of them.”

“Yes, but it made a difference to you,” al-Rasheed said with a grin that could very easily become a sneer.

“Excuse me, but how is it possible to marry anyone for a few hours?” I asked, both curious and hoping to divert what appeared to be a long-standing argument.

Peterson waved his hand as if brushing off a fly. “In order to marry, according to Muslim rite, a man need only say ‘I marry thee' to a woman three times. The divorce is the same, he merely has to repeat ‘I divorce thee' three times and it counts as a legal divorce. It is the common custom here for men who do not have true wives with them to enter a temporary marriage for a set period of time so they can enjoy the comforts of home.”

These simple marriage customs seemed all too dangerous to me. While I myself found the idea simply foreign and strange, some men who have great weakness for the fair sex could find themselves married dozens of times. Watson, for example, would have married
before he was out of public school, had the opportunity been so easy!

And yet it was such customs that kept these people primitive. If something as sacred as marriage can be entered with no more than the muttering of a few words, if Church and State both are not required to be present to sanction the union and all forms of ceremony are not established, then there is little public recognition for the most civilizing institution known. Indeed, marriage is known to civilize men, and the Arabs remain utterly wild with their constant raiding and incessant tribal wars.

“I always thought the English ladies much more intelligent,” al-Rasheed broke in. “They only provide what a man needs most and make no commitment for more than an hour, while the temporary wives here are expected to cook and wash and take care of the household as well. And though they are usually paid a reasonable sum upon the divorce, it is not so much as the ladies at Doll's make in a single week.”

“But the employees of this establishment, they must pay for their own room and board and clothes and expenses all the time,” I pointed out. “While I suppose a temporary wife is supported in all these things.”

Khalid nodded and he smiled. “Just so. They are often given valuable gifts as well, clothes and jewelry and carpets, that they keep along with the payment.”

“Still, those unfortunates who have been forced to work in bawdy houses are rendered unmarriageable in the true sense, and when they grow older they are left to charity if they have not been prudent,” I remarked, thinking of the poor unfortunates in charitable establishments throughout my native land.

Even al-Rasheed blinked with surprise. “Unmarriageable?” he asked. “Why would a temporary wife be any more unmarriageable than any other divorced woman? Sometimes a second or third wife who is older, a fine cook and a good housekeeper, can make a household run far more smoothly. What does it matter if she is no longer beautiful?”

I had also forgotten that Muslim men were permitted four wives as well. Watson is very fortunate that he has never come to Arabia, for to have four wives a man must support all of them and treat them equally well. Upon reflection, it is no wonder that most Arab men marry only one wife at a time.

Khalid Peterson shook his head. “You must forgive my friend,” he said to me. “He is worried about marrying a young and fiery-tempered Bedouin girl who can't do anything but milk camels and shake carpets. Even Ahmed must serve his family as I have served mine, though it is to neither of our liking.”

Al-Rasheed shot Peterson a hard look, and I began to wonder if the word “friend” did describe their relationship. Perhaps Peterson had been sent with al-Rasheed as his keeper at school, and had kept the role when they both returned. Certainly there was little warmth between them.