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The Fig Tree Murder
Michael Pearce
From the award-winning Michael Pearce, comes a delightful murder mystery set in Egypt in 1908. A body is found on the tracks of a new electric railway and the Mamur Zapt is called in to investigate.Cairo, 1908. It’s called the Tree of the Virgin, a site of religious interest, perilously close to the construction site of the new electric railway. Sinister power groups are jostling for position, but who dumped the body of the humble villager on the track?When the Mamur Zapt begins to pick his way through the local and national power structures, he has to ask, what is the significance of the Fig Tree? Does it matter that the caravans for Mecca gather only a mile or so away? And what of the ostrich that passed in the night?
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1997
Copyright © Michael Pearce 1996
Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
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Source ISBN: 9780008259365
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2017 ISBN: 9780007485451
Version: 2017-09-05
Praise for Michael Pearce (#ulink_b78b22ac-b55b-55a1-8cf7-721fd92e0ee3)
This series continues to be the most delightful in current detective fiction’
GERALD KAUFMAN, Scotsman
‘Pearce … takes apart ancient history and reassembles it with beguiling wit and colour’
JOHN COLEMAN, Sunday Times
‘Irresistible fun’
Time Out
‘The Mamur Zapt’s sly, irreverent humour continues to refresh the parts others seldom reach’
Observer
Contents
Cover (#u37eb8ccd-05dd-5e2d-b890-c16a0559589d)
Title Page (#u27cfffc7-7ed5-5560-b28b-81222ae49a17)
Copyright (#u55fc3d2a-42db-595a-ba65-792e26d195a5)
Praise for Michael Pearce (#u43e6f831-953a-5d07-9c91-9d44c1e19d78)
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Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Michael Pearce (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#ulink_7e297448-2af3-5745-814b-5e668d6f99dd)
‘It’s called the Tree of the Virgin,’ said McPhee.
‘Virgin?’ said Owen.
‘After the Holy Mother,’ said McPhee severely.
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a sycamore, actually. Not, of course, a sycamore as we know it. Our sycamore is a sort of maple. The Egyptian sycamore is a species of fig.’
‘Fascinating!’
He glanced at his watch.
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me—’
‘You will call in on it?’
‘I certainly will.’
He certainly wouldn’t. For he was going to Heliopolis and getting there was difficult enough anyway. The new ‘city’ was five miles north of Cairo and beyond the reach of trams. A road was being built from the British barracks at Abbasiya but was not completed yet. Even if it had been, there would still have been problems. Arabeah, the city’s universal horse-drawn cab? Five miles? In this heat? The Effendi must be mocking. That left Cairo’s normal mode of transport, the donkey. Owen was not enthusiastic.
Consulted, McPhee had suggested the new electric railway.
‘It’s not finished yet.’
‘It’s out to Matariya. You wouldn’t have far to walk. Why don’t you ask them if they’ve got a buggy going out to the end of the line?’
‘Buggy?’ said the man at the Pont de Limoun. ‘Of course. Effendi! At once!’
Well, not quite at once. Second thoughts crossed the man’s face.
‘Tomorrow, that is. Bokra. Yes, tomorrow, definitely!’
‘Why not this afternoon?’
‘Impossible, Effendi. Some difficulties at the end of the line. Something to do with an ostrich, I believe.’
Owen shrugged and turned away.
A moment later the man came running after him.
‘Effendi! Effendi! A thousand pardons! I had not realized that you were the Mamur Zapt!’
Another man, more senior, was rushing after him.
‘A buggy, Effendi? To the end of the line? At once!’
‘I thought there were some difficulties?’
‘There are. Effendi, there are! In fact, we would be most glad of your help.’
‘I don’t know that I’ve a lot to contribute on ostriches,’ said Owen uneasily.
The man gave him a strange look.
‘Ostriches?’
‘Wasn’t it something to do with an ostrich?’
‘Not as far as I know. There’s a bit of trouble up there between the labourers and the villagers. And a man’s been killed.’
The man was lying huddled across the very last stretch of track that had been completed. Around him was a large crowd consisting equally of labourers and villagers, not, Owen was relieved to see, at each other’s throats. Among them was a foreigner in a helmet, who looked up with relief as Owen approached.
‘Monsieur le Mamur Zapt?’
‘Oui.’
He looked down at the man.
‘How did he get here?’
‘I don’t know. We found him here this morning.’
‘This morning!’
It was already noon.
‘I know! I’ve tried to get him moved, but—’
‘He’s not being moved!’ said one of the labourers flatly.
‘Just to one side. Then we could get on with—’
‘He’s not being moved!’
‘It’s taken all morning!’
‘That’s not my fault,’ said the labourer.
One of the villagers plucked at Owen’s arm.
‘Effendi, the heat—’
Owen knew what he was thinking. In Egypt, bodies deteriorated rapidly. They were usually buried the next day. The body would have to be prepared, arrangements made.
A man pushed through the crowd. He wore the white turban of the religious sheikh. He walked up to the man and stood looking down at him.
‘Pick him up!’ he said.
‘He stays where he is!’ said the leader of the labourers.
The sheikh stared him hard in the face.
‘God must be given his due!’ he said harshly.
The workman shuffled his feet uneasily but held his ground.
