Chapter 18
T he following morning, Lahcen sent his servant to the consul’s residence. The man returned while everyone was breakfasting with a note inviting Mr Sandworth to wait on Consul James MacLeod at his convenience. Rat had composed his telegram, encrypted it, and then destroyed the original message. He was eager to send it to Lord Langley and asked if the servant could take him immediately.
Rat wiped his mouth, rose from the low couch, and, on the spur of the moment, asked Melody, “Would you like to accompany me?” It occurred to him that the vice-consul might be a valuable source of information on the political machinations playing out in Fes. One of the many skills he had come to appreciate his sister possessed was the ability to put people at ease such that an interview felt more like a casual conversation.
Melody was pleasantly surprised by the invitation and immediately agreed to accompany Rat. Her travelling clothes had been laundered and, while a little worse for wear after their trek across Morocco, were sufficient for such a meeting. More to the point, while it had been appropriate to wear her caftan to visit the Sultan, it seemed far less so to visit the British vice-consul. Without the need to change her outfit, Melody was ready to go immediately. She acknowledged her pleasure in the offer with a slight tilt of her chin before rising to join Rat and the servant.
Fatima looked at them quizzically, but she kept any questions she had, particularly about her exclusion from their party, to herself. As it happened, Rat had considered inviting her. However, his next thought was that she was a French citizen, and despite his faith in her loyalty to Alessandro, the vice-consul might be less inclined to a candid conversation with her present.
Lahcen had assured Rat that the walk to the vice-consul’s residence in the Batha district would take no more than thirty minutes on foot. Given that neither he nor Melody were eager to get back on the mules any sooner than they had to, they indicated their willingness to walk.
They followed the servant as he wound his way through the Medina. Looking at the stalls that lined the narrow alleyways, Melody wondered whether they had been this way previously. After walking for perhaps fifteen minutes, she noticed that the narrow alleyways began to be replaced by wider, uncovered streets. Slowly, the frenetic energy of the part of the Medina where they were staying began to wane. As they passed through a gate, the feeling of the city changed quite suddenly as a more European style of architecture emerged.
Even the jasmine-scented air felt cooler as they entered the Batha district. There were fewer people, donkeys, and street vendors, and the neighbourhood felt much less chaotic. Within a few minutes, Melody guessed that they were not far from the vice-consul’s residence, as the now whitewashed buildings began to look far more ornate and expensive. Perhaps most noticeable were the windows in these buildings, suggesting that the inhabitants were foreigners who were not keen to hide their womenfolk away.
At the end of the street, the servant halted outside a building whose architectural theme seemed to be understated elegance. It sat behind a beautiful, peaceful courtyard with two fountains surrounded by lush orange trees laden with plump fruit. A highly polished brass plate on the wall announced that they had arrived at their destination.
Melody was pleasantly surprised to find that Consul MacLeod’s staff were wearing their native Moroccan costumes rather than mirroring the attempt by the vice-consul in Casablanca to anglicise his servants as much as he could. Rat introduced them both, and it seemed that they were expected. They were shown into a light, airy drawing room that, while it would not be mistaken for a room in a riad, nevertheless had enough Moroccan pieces to seem exotic in an expensive, polished way. There was a large Berber rug on the floor, leather ottomans scattered about the room and a low table with a mosaic top that was not unlike the ones they had encountered in the riads they had stayed in.
The servant who had answered the door accompanied them into the drawing room and then left, returning five minutes later with a tea tray. As he poured the tea into porcelain teacups, Melody was relieved to see that it was Darjeeling and not more mint tea. Melody had never thought that any people could drink tea more frequently than the British, but it seemed that Moroccans could. While she quite enjoyed the beverage, it was nice to have something else for a change.
Melody and Rat sipped their tea and nibbled on jam tarts that were as British as could be. They had only been waiting a few minutes more when the door opened, and a tall, distinguished-looking man who was probably in his mid-forties entered the room. He had a neatly clipped moustache above a mouth that curled into a welcoming smile.
“Mr Sandworth, welcome,” the consul said in a mild Scottish accent. He crossed the room with an extended hand.
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Consul MacLeod,” Rat replied. “I would like to introduce you to my sister, Miss Melody Chesterton.”
The greetings were followed by small talk. The consul had not returned to British shores in some years and was happy to chitchat and hear whatever society gossip Rat and Melody had to share. So happy, in fact, that Rat worried there would be no occasion to talk of weightier matters.
He was starting to wonder how he could change the course of the conversation when the vice-consul asked, “Is the telegram you wish to send somehow connected with Conte Foscari’s current sojourn in the Sultan’s palace?”
That was an interesting way to phrase Alessandro’s imprisonment, Rat thought but didn’t express. Instead, he replied, “Yes. My sister and I made the acquaintance of Conte Foscari in Venice and then accompanied him to Morocco.”
“Not an easy journey, let alone for a well-bred young woman,” the consul observed. “What inspired you to make the trip?”
Melody watched MacLeod closely. It had been evident in Casablanca that the consul, Sir Reginald, knew something of Alessandro’s covert role. Was it safe to assume that Consul MacLeod was similarly well-informed?
It seemed that Rat had been thinking along the same lines. “Consul MacLeod, how aware are you of why Conte Foscari was in Morocco?”
The consul didn’t answer immediately, instead stroking his moustache and choosing his words carefully. “Sir Reginald sent me a telegram when the conte was taken into custody by the Pasha, bringing me up-to-date on all things pertaining to the arrest. Can I take it that you share the conte’s line of work, Mr Sandworth?”
“Indeed,” Rat replied. “May I ask what you know about our other missing colleague?”
“Very little. I was unaware of his mission in Morocco until Sir Reginald sent the telegram about the conte. It seems that I was not considered important enough to be trusted with that information.” The man’s tone as he said this made quite clear what he thought of such an omission. “Of course, the British community in Fes is small enough that I knew the man quite well. However, like the rest of the hoi polloi, I believed him to be nothing more than an antiquities scholar.”
Melody thought about the coincidence of Alessandro being arrested for murder just as he arrived in Morocco to investigate the other operative’s disappearance. “What else can you tell us about the man?”
The consul’s surprise at being asked this by a young woman was obvious. He glanced briefly at Rat but then answered, “His name, or the name I know him by, is Brett Rothnie. Seemed a nice enough fellow, a little scatterbrained at times, but that’s what you expect these scholarly types to be, isn’t it? Always seemed to have a camera bag slung over his shoulder. I asked him about it once, and he said that he never knew when he might stumble across an item or a place he wanted to document for his work. It was a vague but plausible explanation. Of course, now I realise that he might have had other reasons for wanting to document things.”
“Is he married?” Rat asked.
The consul shook his head. “Well, I don’t believe so anyway. If there’s a Mrs Rothnie, I never met her. It is common practice for British residents to register with my office when they arrive. It’s hard for us to help them if we don’t know that they’re here. I can have my private secretary look through the records. We should have an address for the man as well, if that would be helpful.”
Rat indicated it would be, and the consul rose and left the room for a few minutes, returning with a sheet of paper. “I confirmed there is no wife on record, but I do have an address. It isn’t far from here, in fact.” He passed the paper to Rat, who pulled out a pocket notebook and copied it down.
There was one more question that Rat wished to ask the consul. “Why do you believe that the Sultan had Conte Foscari brought to Fes? From what we have heard, it is unusual enough that a foreigner of his rank would be taken into custody by the local Pasha, let alone then brought here.”
Consul MacLeod raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes a little. “Abdelhafid finds himself caught between a rock and a hard place,” he said, referring to the Sultan with an informality that surprised Rat. “The man overthrew his brother on the grounds that he was too cosy with the foreign powers, yet here he is allowing the French to occupy Fes. This has caused him some heartburn recently when he felt French pressure at the end of last month to remove the Grand Vizier, Madani El Glaoui, from his position. El Glaoui had been a key supporter when Abdelhafid sought to overthrow his brother.”
The consul seemed to be choosing his next words carefully. “El Glaoui is a reformer, an idealistic true believer in Moroccan independence. He believed that he had supported a like-minded man in Abdelhafid only to be greatly disappointed when the Sultan seemed to reverse his position and allow the French to assert such authority here.”
Rat thought about this explanation. “What was El Glaoui’s position on the Berber rebellion in April then? He must have felt quite torn, given his own views about foreign influence.”
“Indeed, particularly as his family are Berbers. However, in the end, he was driven by loyalty to the Sultan and a real belief that the rebels were playing into French hands by weakening the Sultan’s position and providing the French justification for intervention. He personally led troops against the Berber rebellion.”
Melody was having a hard time following the political machinations. Now, she remembered why she had tuned out so much of the similar conversation on the journey to Casablanca. There was only one part of this that concerned her. “As my brother asked initially, what does any of this have to do with Alessandro, Conte Foscari, being arrested and brought to Fes?”
The consul grimaced. “I think after the French occupation, Abdelhafid wanted to prove his independence to the rebellious Berber tribes. Foscari’s arrest was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate this. That he wasn’t French or Spanish, I am sure, made the situation even more perfect.”
“Because he could be seen not kowtowing to foreigners while not actually alienating any of the countries that have real power in Morocco?” Rat guessed.
“Indeed.”
Melody thought about all they had learned about the combustible situation in Morocco and asked, “If Mr Rothnie had discovered some information that might affect the balance of power here, which country do you think most likely to want to prevent that information from seeing the light of day?”
“Take your pick. It depends on what Rothnie found, assuming he found something. Even factions within our own government have conflicting views on what is in Britain’s best interests here. I have been in this business for long enough that I do not discount anything.”
As shocking as this statement was, it made it even more urgent that they get word to Lord Langley. Rat retrieved what he had written for the telegram from his jacket pocket.
Consul MacLeod took the letter, looked it over and observed, “There is nothing in this letter that seems urgent enough to send by telegraph. I will assume it is in code, Mr Sandworth.” Rat neither confirmed nor denied the statement, and the consul rose and left the room to have his secretary send the telegram. At the door, he turned and said, “As it happens, I am having a gathering here tonight to formally welcome Colonel Henri Gouraud who arrived recently to run the region, taking over from General Paul-Charles Moinier who led the French occupation of Fes.”
Seeing the surprise on his guests’ faces, the consul explained, “Britain’s position on France’s involvement remains cautiously neutral. France is our ally, and we need to be supportive of her government officials abroad. However, this might be a good opportunity if you wish to meet some of the personalities involved in the political maelstrom that is Fes at the moment. We dine at eight o’clock.” With that, the consul left the room.
“Should we wait for a reply?” Melody asked.
“There is not much point. It is only nine o’clock in the morning here and so eight o’clock in London. It will be some time before Lord Langley receives this telegram and even longer before he is able to learn what we need to know. I am sure that the consul will send us the reply immediately. He clearly knows the urgency of the request.”