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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 authorâs 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
âItâs called the Tree of the Virgin,â said McPhee.
âVirgin?â said Owen.
âAfter the Holy Mother,â said McPhee severely.
âOh.â
âItâs 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.â
âFascinating!â
He glanced at his watch.
âWell, if youâll excuse meââ
âYou will call in on it?â
âI certainly will.â
He certainly wouldnât. For he was going to Heliopolis and getting there was difficult enough anyway. The new âcityâ 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 cityâs universal horse-drawn cab? Five miles? In this heat? The Effendi must be mocking. That left Cairoâs normal mode of transport, the donkey. Owen was not enthusiastic.
Consulted, McPhee had suggested the new electric railway.
âItâs not finished yet.â
âItâs out to Matariya. You wouldnât have far to walk. Why donât you ask them if theyâve got a buggy going out to the end of the line?â
âBuggy?â said the man at the Pont de Limoun. âOf course. Effendi! At once!â
Well, not quite at once. Second thoughts crossed the manâs face.
âTomorrow, that is. Bokra. Yes, tomorrow, definitely!â
âWhy not this afternoon?â
âImpossible, Effendi. Some difficulties at the end of the line. Something to do with an ostrich, I believe.â
Owen shrugged and turned away.
A moment later the man came running after him.
âEffendi! Effendi! A thousand pardons! I had not realized that you were the Mamur Zapt!â
Another man, more senior, was rushing after him.
âA buggy, Effendi? To the end of the line? At once!â
âI thought there were some difficulties?â
âThere are. Effendi, there are! In fact, we would be most glad of your help.â
âI donât know that Iâve a lot to contribute on ostriches,â said Owen uneasily.
The man gave him a strange look.
âOstriches?â
âWasnât it something to do with an ostrich?â
âNot as far as I know. Thereâs a bit of trouble up there between the labourers and the villagers. And a manâs been killed.â
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 otherâs throats. Among them was a foreigner in a helmet, who looked up with relief as Owen approached.
âMonsieur le Mamur Zapt?â
âOui.â
He looked down at the man.
âHow did he get here?â
âI donât know. We found him here this morning.â
âThis morning!â
It was already noon.
âI know! Iâve tried to get him moved, butââ
âHeâs not being moved!â said one of the labourers flatly.
âJust to one side. Then we could get on withââ
âHeâs not being moved!â
âItâs taken all morning!â
âThatâs not my fault,â said the labourer.