Chapter 9
A hmed had assured them that he would get Mustafa to the vice-consul’s house and integrate him into the staff. Now that she had seen that all the servants were dressed indistinguishably from those back in London, Melody wondered how well Mustafa would be able to blend in. However, these concerns were assuaged somewhat when she noticed another young boy dressed in more appropriate local garb busy moving around the room silently and almost invisibly, picking up used glasses and plates.
Having made plans to return to speak to Sir Reginald the next day, the group had dispersed, with the consul excusing himself to go and greet other expatriates and local dignitaries. Alessandro had also disappeared to talk to a rather stern-looking older man, leaving Rat and Melody alone, sipping on champagne and feeling rather awkward.
As Melody glanced about them, wondering if they might just latch onto some other grouping of guests, she noticed Mustafa out of the corner of her eye. The child was dressed much as the other servant boy had been and was also discreetly sweeping up discarded glasses and serviettes. She caught his eye, and he nodded very slightly.
Seeing Mustafa reminded Melody of one of their goals for that evening: to see if they could identify Alessandro’s would-be attacker. As she glanced around the room, Melody looked for a man who matched the description that Mustafa had given them of the man with the knife in the Medina. The description of a tall, thin, fair man with a moustache was not very specific. There were quite a few men in the room who might fit that description.
Melody was curious about the seeming international gathering at the party. She had assumed that the guests would all be British, with perhaps some high-born Moroccans scattered amongst them. However, based on the melange of languages she heard spoken around her, it seemed that Monsieur Gaillard was not the only Frenchman present. She could also hear some distinctly Germanic accents. That was certainly unexpected. But then, why? The countries may be warmongering and flexing their muscles, but they were not actual enemies, at least not yet. There was one obviously Moroccan man dressed in a very ornate robe. Pointing him out to Rat, her brother replied that he believed the man was the local Pasha, the highest local official representative of the Sultan, who acted as a governor of sorts.
Rat then whispered in her ear, “The man he is talking with is the French consul. One might say that he is the real governor of the region.”
Casablanca was clearly a fascinating mix of European residents and visitors. Perhaps it was not surprising that they tended to socialise, even when their governments had more antagonistic relationships. After all, in London, European diplomats attended aristocratic soirees even when their countries were at odds.
After what felt like an eternity of lingering on the edge of groups, making small talk, dinner was called. Rat offered Melody his arm and led her into the large, ornate dining room. There was an empty seat to her right, and looking around the room, Melody realised that Alessandro was missing.
What she did notice was Fatima further down the table. The woman was holding court, capturing every man’s attention. This included Rat, who had been placed near her. Fatima flirted, laughed coyly, batted her eyelashes, and generally sought to dominate the conversation and all male attention. From what she could tell, Melody wasn’t the only female guest who was irritated by the charming Lalla Fatima. Melody caught one stout, middle-aged matron’s eye and the woman made a face that perfectly captured how Melody felt.
Deciding to ignore Fatima, Melody turned to the man to her left, who turned out to be a rather dull German. It was unclear what the man’s reason for being in Casablanca was because all he wanted to talk about were the various birds that he had seen since his arrival in Morocco and how different they were from those in his hometown.
Melody feigned interest in the birds of Morocco for a good five minutes before realising that the man didn’t require any more interaction from her than the occasional nod of her head and vague-sounding hum of interest. Melody had sat through enough boring society dinner parties that she was able to keep up the charade adequately while her attention wandered. She realised that Alessandro had not returned and wondered where he was. As she looked around the table, Melody locked eyes with a rather handsome man, who gave her a conspiratorial smile. It looked as if the old woman to his right was engaging him in a conversation as boring as the birds of Morocco.
Suddenly, Melody noticed that one of the footmen had entered the room and was whispering in Vice Consul Madden’s ear. He then rose and whispered to Sir Reginald, the French consul and then the Pasha. The four men then left the room. Melody performed another round of her perfunctory nodding and wondered what had happened.
Five minutes passed, and the soup course gave way to fish when Vice Consul Madden re-entered the room. This time, he crossed the room to where Rat sat and whispered something to him. Whatever had been said, Rat was evidently shocked and immediately rose to follow the vice-consul out.
It was unclear if the other guests were paying any attention to what was going on, but it seemed that Fatima was. She stopped flirting, stood, and made to follow Rat. Well, if Fatima was going, so was she, Melody thought. She laid her hand on the arm of the chatty German, made a brief apology for interrupting his narrative, and stood.
With two ladies and a gentleman making to leave the room, the guests had finally noticed that something was amiss. Vice Consul Madden said in an authoritative voice, “No need for alarm, Ladies and Gentlemen. Please resume your meal.” As he said this, he looked very pointedly at Melody, who ignored him and continued to follow Fatima out of the dining room.
The door closed behind them, and Fatima demanded, “Vice Consul Madden, what is going on?”
“There has been an incident,” the vice-consul explained.
“What kind of incident?”
“There has been a death,” Madden continued.
Melody’s heart caught in her throat; was it Alessandro? Was that why he was not at dinner?
Rat must have seen Melody’s face and rushed to explain, “Alessandro was found standing over the corpse. They are arresting him.”
Fatima asked the obvious question, “Who is dead?”
The vice consul looked a little sheepish, “We do not know the man’s identity. He was at the party uninvited, it seems.”
The whole thing was too absurd for words, and Melody couldn’t help but exclaim, “So, an unidentified man who was at the party without an invitation is found dead, and the Conte Foscari is suspected of killing him? Is this what you are telling me, Vice Consul Madden?”
The man turned, looking even more sheepish. “This is a difficult situation, Miss Chesterton. Perhaps we might go in here while I explain.” The man pointed to a door that turned out to lead to a study of sorts.
Once inside, Fatima took a seat, but Melody was too anxious to sit. The vice consul made sure to close the door behind them, then said, “The situation in Morocco is very fragile at the moment. The French consul does not want to do anything to inflame tensions in the region, and so is willing to defer to the Pasha’s authority. Unfortunately, the Pasha is adamant that his men take custody of Conte Foscari.”
This was insanity and Melody couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Is it not possible that the conte merely stumbled across the body?” she asked in exasperation. “Why would he kill an unknown man in the middle of a party?”
“That is what the Pasha hopes to establish,” the vice-consul explained as if talking with a slow, recalcitrant five-year-old.
Frustrated at the man’s patronising tone, Melody turned to Rat. “Say something. You cannot believe that Alessandro is guilty? Why would he murder a man, let alone a random one at a party?”
Vice Consul Madden perked up at this statement. “Actually, apparently, the victim was not quite so random. It seems that one of the servant boys had identified the dead man as someone who he claims had intended to attack Conte Foscari this afternoon in the Medina. I believe that you and Miss Chesterton were with them at the time,” the vice-consul said to Rat.
Melody’s heart sank; Mustafa must have noticed the man and pointed him out to Alessandro. Of course, this didn’t mean that the conte was necessarily guilty of killing him. However, it did complicate matters that Alessandro had prior knowledge of the murder victim.
“We need to speak with Conte Foscari,” Melody demanded.
“I am sorry, but that is not possible. The Pasha has removed the conte to a local prison. At least for the time being.”
At this, Fatima looked up, finally moved to action. “No! Not the Derb Moulay Cherif? This is ridiculous. The conte is a British citizen. Since when does that not count for something?”
Melody wondered the same thing. However, the vice-consul shook his head sadly. “Of course, under normal circumstances, the British Government would weigh in on such matters. However, these are challenging times. I have spoken to the French consul, and he has requested that Sir Reginald and I allow the Pasha to exercise his authority unimpeded.”
“And when they decide that he is guilty and move to behead Alessandro, will you still respect Moroccan authority?” Fatima asked in an acid tone.
Beheading? Surely not in this day and age. Melody looked anxiously at Rat. Perhaps the vice consul did not realise Alessandro’s role as a Secret Service Bureau operative. While Melody understood the importance of keeping his and Alessandro’s roles secret, surely this was one of the situations that trumped such discretion? Rat looked very serious but said nothing.
Suddenly, the door opened, and Sir Reginald entered. For a moment, Melody hoped that common sense would prevail and that the consul would intervene and insist that Alessandro be released.
However, that hope was shattered when the man shook his head sadly and said, “Very unfortunate. But you made the right call, Madden. The British Government cannot be seen to undermine French authority in the region. Tensions are high enough as they are. If the Pasha wants him, then we must respect Moroccan authority.”
“Even if they behead an innocent man?” Melody blurted out, infuriated at the bureaucrats.
The consul gave Melody a long, hard look and then turned to Rat. “Mr Sandworth, I am sure that you understand the delicate dance of foreign diplomacy in a way that a sheltered young woman cannot be expected to.”
Melody looked at Rat; would he defend her? She couldn’t remember when she had been as disappointed in someone as when she heard her brother say, “Of course I understand. As I am sure the conte does also.”
This really was the final straw. Melody stormed out of the study, slamming the door behind her.
Rat watched her go, entirely sympathetic to her feelings. Did he understand the delicate dance of foreign diplomacy? He did understand that the situation in Morocco was volatile and that his government would not want to do anything to inflame passions in the region further. If that meant that one of their operatives, even one of high birth, would have to spend an uncomfortable night in a Moroccan prison before everything got smoothed over, then perhaps it was for the best. He knew that Melody would understand once she had calmed down.
Rat looked at Sir Reginald’s determined expression and decided that there was no point in discussing this further until morning. He didn’t believe that Alessandro would be left to rot in jail just to appease a local Moroccan official. However, he knew that such things often had to play themselves out. If the Pasha wanted to take a stand, he must be allowed to, at least for the time being.
Turning to Fatima, Rat suggested that they take their leave. As he was about to leave the study, Rat turned back to the consul and reminded him, “We have an appointment at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning that I intend to be at. I will spend the time between now and then doing what I can to clear Conte Foscari’s name. I hope that his government will do similarly.”
The consul didn’t say anything, but he nodded in acknowledgement of Rat’s words. Fatima and Rat found Melody sitting on a chair outside of the study, still fuming.
“There is nothing more we can do for him here tonight,” Rat explained gently. Correctly anticipating Melody’s response, he continued, “That does not mean that we can do nothing. Let us gather up Mustafa and leave. I want to understand what Alessandro was doing anywhere near the man who tried to stab him.”
Melody rose, then turned to Fatima and asked, “Would Omar be able to help us at all?”
Fatima considered the question. “It is worth sending word to him. Once we return home, I will send Ahmed in the carriage to expedite the delivery of the message.”
“Will Omar return with Ahmed?” Rat asked.
Fatima laughed lightly. “No. It is best if Omar is not seen coming to Anfa. It is hard to imagine what rare book emergency I might have that would require his presence at this time of night. But do not worry. He will come, just not in my carriage.”
Melody could barely sit still for the carriage ride back to Fatima’s home. They had gathered up Mustafa but had agreed to wait until they arrived at Fatima’s home to question him. It seemed that the boy had been present when the Pasha’s men had arrested Alessandro, and the child seemed to be quite traumatised.
Arriving back at the house, they made their way to the salon with Mustafa in tow. A maid brought mint tea, of course, and Ahmed assured them he would be off immediately. Melody encouraged Mustafa to have some of the sweet tea. She had been raised to believe that a cup of tea could solve most ills and saw no reason that this would not apply to Moroccan mint tea as well as a cup of Darjeeling.
Mustafa took a few sips, then turned to Melody and said in a plaintive voice that broke her heart, “It was my fault, Madam. I fetched the Monsieur to tell him that I had seen the bad man. I had gone out to the garden at the cook’s command to pick more mint, and I had seen the man there. He did not see me but seemed to be in wait. For what, I do not know. I rushed inside to find Monsieur and told him that the bad man who tried to hurt him was in the garden. Monsieur led the way outside. I was stopped for a moment by a servant who asked me a question, and by the time I had returned to the garden, the bad man was lying on the ground with a knife in him. Monsieur bent over the man to see if he was still breathing, and at that moment, the Pasha’s men came upon us and arrested Monsieur. It is all my fault,” the boy repeated inconsolably.
“It is not your fault, Mustafa!” Melody assured him. Then she turned to Rat and Fatima. “Why would the Pasha’s men be roaming the garden? That seems quite the coincidence, does it not?”
“Indeed,” Fatima agreed. “I have never trusted that man. When the Sultan took the throne, after, well after you know what, he left this Pasha in place. I never thought it was a good idea.”
Melody had no idea what “you know what” referred to. Looking at Rat, she raised her eyebrows in query.
“Well, perhaps if you’d paid more attention on the drive here, you’d know what Fatima is talking about,” Rat complained. Nevertheless, he explained. “The current Sultan, Moulay Abdelhafid, well, he took over from his brother, Moulay Abdelaziz.”
“Took over?” Melody asked. “Do you mean that he deposed his own brother?”
Rat looked to Fatima. “Yes. the previous sultan was perceived as being too open and close to the Europeans, particularly the French, by the tribal leaders.” Fatima explained. “Morocco is still a very tribal country and the Berbers in particular, give their primary allegiance to their tribal leader. Abdelhafid allied himself with some of the more influential tribes, particularly the ones who were the most anti-European. This resulted in Abdelhafid taking the throne from his brother three years ago.”
“Taking the throne” seemed quite the euphemism as far as Melody was concerned. Nevertheless, she put this thought aside for the time being and asked, “So, the Pasha here in Casablanca is the same one who was in power during the previous sultan’s regime?”
Fatima nodded. Melody continued, “Why would he do that?”
“As I said, the tribal leaders are very powerful, and this Pasha is well-liked by many of the Berber leaders. His mother is a Berber, and there was a lot of pressure on the Sultan to leave the man in place. Still…” Fatima left the thought hanging.
“Still what?” Melody pressed.
The maid had returned with some dates and pastries, and Fatima used the opportunity to pour more tea and consider her next sentence. Finally, she replied, “Morocco is a complicated place. Allegiances can go back hundreds if not thousands of years. Even the Berbers are not a homogenous people. And then there is the fact that, even though he came to power by opposing his brother’s support of the European powers, our Sultan has discovered that it is far easier to oppose the French demands for military and economic concessions from the sidelines than it is from the throne.”
Melody wasn’t sure what this meant, and she had no idea how it all connected to the murder than evening and Alessandro’s arrest. Nevertheless, she was determined that she would grope her way through the morass of Moroccan politics and alliances and get Alessandro released from prison.
Mustafa’s eyes were drooping, and so they excused him and sent the boy off to bed. Then, turning to Rat, Melody stated in a tone that brooked no dissent, “Fatima and I will be accompanying you to talk to Sir Reginald tomorrow morning.”
It was unclear who was the most surprised by her statement, Rat or Melody herself. The truth was, whatever Melody’s personal distaste for Fatima, the woman had a deep and broad understanding of Moroccan history and politics. Certainly, she understood far more than either Melody or Rat did. If they had any chance of securing Alessandro’s release, they would need her help.