‘There are a hundred mosques in Baghdad, I believe,’ I said.
‘More,’ said Ahmad, striding on.
‘A hundred and twenty?’ I said. ‘What do you think?’
‘More.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ After an interval he turned and gave me a half smile, saying very carefully, ‘The more the merrier.’
Jarvis looked at me and gave something approaching a grin. He was a little better, I thought, for having spoken of his experience at Kut. I had asked him if he would like to come along to the next meeting of the Baghdad Railway Club. He might help the Arab who served us there. There’d be some decent grub on the go, and he’d see a film show into the bargain. Well, he’d leapt at the idea.
We now came to the square that Jarvis had driven me to in his Ford van. This time there was no market and no sentry either. Instead, a collection of Arabs kicked their heels at the gates of the compound. It was dustier than our own, and bleached of colour. Half the flowers were dead; there was a single palm tree, like a star on a stick. An oil-daubed corporal who was playing about with a petrol generator directed us to what had been the apartment of Captain Boyd. ‘You’ll find his servant there,’ he said, and so it proved. The servant’s name was Farhan, and he occupied a wide, dusty, dark room. He had apparently been doing absolutely nothing when we arrived; he was, perhaps, bored to tears. Anyhow, he seemed very glad of some company, and brought through from another room a spirit stove and assorted tea things. After the formalities had been completed, with much laughter on the part of Farhan – who almost sang as he spoke – and none at all from our man, Ahmad, the interrogation could begin.
I said to Ahmad, ‘Ask him about Captain Boyd’s movements around the city. Where did he like to go? Who did he visit?’
Ahmad spoke to the man, who seemed nervous but anxious to please. Presently Ahmad reported, ‘He went often to the home of the British.’
‘The home of the British is Britain‚’ said Jarvis‚ sounding like a man coming out of a dream.
‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘Does he mean the British Residency?’
So Ahmad tried that on the fellow, but apparently there was no advance on ‘the home of the British’.
I said, ‘Ask him whether Captain Boyd had any visitors in his last days.’
After an interval of Arab conversation, or what looked a lot like Arab argument, Ahmad reported, ‘A man came the day before the last day of Boy Captain.’ (Which was what Farhan called Boyd.)
‘What was his name?’
The question was put; Ahmad turned back. ‘He doesn’t know. He has not a notion.’
This was not the time for Ahmad to be trying out his English phrases. I said, ‘Then what did he look like? He was a soldier I suppose. What sort? Tommy? Sepoy? Officer?’
The argument was renewed; it ended with Farhan smiling and gesturing to his chest.
Ahmad faced me again. ‘The man was a British soldier, a man who truly has religion here – in his heart.’
‘What does that mean?’ I asked Ahmad, and I thought, since it was the kind of poetic thing an Arab would be likely to say, that he would know. But he didn’t. He shook his head.
Jarvis was frowning. ‘What religion?’ he said. ‘Christian?’
The question was put.
‘Christian religion,’ confirmed Ahmad.
‘We all have the Christian religion in our hearts,’ I said. ‘Well, we don’t . . . But we’re all supposed to. Ninety per cent of the Tommies would call themselves Christian.’
Farhan was now distributing glasses of tea, talking ten to the dozen, and very politely as I believed, but unfortunately in Arabic. After nodding and smiling at him for a while, I tried a different line of questioning via Ahmad, asking whether there were any evidences of Boyd left about in the place, but the empty room was not promising, and Ahmad got from Farhan the information that the room had been cleared out by ‘the many men who came’.
I asked, ‘Was the man with religion in his heart one of those?’ and it seemed that he was not. He had come before the ‘many’ who, I was pretty sure – after further talk – had been a body of men no more sinister than the investigating red caps, the military police team based at the Hotel.
‘He makes nice tea,’ Jarvis said at length, and it was true, the syrupy stuff was delicious. I said to Ahmad, ‘Can you tell him the tea tastes excellent?’
But Ahmad had no intention of doing any such thing.
‘Arabian people clever,’ he said, scowling at me.
‘Yes,’ I said, wondering what the hell he was driving at, ‘you’re all very clever.’