Chapter 19
T hey bid farewell to the consul and received his assurance that he would send a servant with Lord Langley’s reply as soon as he had it in hand. In turn, Melody and Rat graciously accepted his dinner invitation for that evening.
Melody and Rat showed Brett Rothnie’s address to Lahcen’s servant, who nodded his head and indicated that he knew the way. As the consul had said, Mr Rothnie’s home wasn’t far, and they arrived there within five minutes. While it wasn’t as grand as many of the houses in the Batha district, there was a charm about it that made Melody feel that anyone who lived in such a delightful house must be a good sort of man. She knew that it was an irrational thought but felt it nonetheless. Up until that morning, the missing operative had been a nameless, faceless abstraction. Now that they had a name and she was looking at his home, she imagined a somewhat absent-minded professor-type, bumbling around this cosy house, searching for spectacles that inevitably he would discover were on the top of his head and constantly misplacing items. Of course, it was hard to reconcile this image with the idea of a covert operative sneaking around in the shadows. Perhaps that was the point; it was an excellent disguise.
From what they knew, the man had been missing since sometime in mid-May, so several weeks at that point. Did Brett Rothnie have servants, and if he did, were they even still in residence at the house? Rat knocked at the door. There was no answer. Then he knocked again. They were almost about to give up and leave when the door was cracked open.
“What do you want?” a terse voice asked. It didn’t sound Moroccan, but it also didn’t sound British. It was impossible to see the woman attached to the voice, such was the gloom of the inside of the house.
“We would like to ask you about Mr Rothnie,” Melody said gently.
“He’s not here.”
“We know that,” Rat explained. “That is why we want to ask you a few questions. We are, well, we are friends of his, of a sort.”
The door cracked open a little more and the owner of the voice was revealed to be a middle-aged woman with dark hair and olive skin that suggested she might be Spanish or from somewhere else in southern Europe. She had a kind face and gentle eyes, even if they darted back and forth nervously at that moment.
“Might we come in?” Melody asked in the same soft voice.
For a moment, she thought the woman would refuse and shut the door in their faces, but after a moment, it was opened, and the woman stepped back to allow them to enter. She led them down the gloomy hallway and into a sitting room that had the comfortable charm that Melody would have expected based on its exterior. Walking into the room was like being transported to Britain, perhaps to a slightly cluttered yet welcoming parlour in a country vicarage. There was nothing in the room that indicated that it was many miles from Great Britain. Instead, from the quaint landscape paintings on the wall to the embroidered cushions on the couch, the room spoke to English rural homeliness.
“I am Melody Chesterton, and this is my brother, Matthew Sandworth,” Melody explained, holding out her hand.
“I am Olympia Rothnie, Brett’s wife,” the woman explained. At least now they understood why a wife wasn’t registered with the vice-consul’s office; she neither looked nor sounded British. “Won’t you take a seat? Can I get you some tea?” Olympia asked.
Rat and Melody indicated that they needed no refreshments and took a seat. Olympia Rothnie perched anxiously on the edge of a battered but comfortable-looking armchair. “How do you know Brett?” she asked.
Melody exchanged a look with Rat; they hadn’t discussed how to explain their interest in Brett Rothnie. Deciding to stick as close to the truth as possible, she explained, “Well, we do not know him. However, our friend, Conte Alessandro Foscari, is acquainted with your husband. The conte has been wrongly accused of murder and is imprisoned. We spoke with him yesterday, and he told us that he had intended to contact your husband but had been informed that he went missing some weeks ago.”
At this, Mrs Rothnie’s eyes filled with tears. Melody rose and rushed to her side. Kneeling next to the distraught woman, she said, “I am so sorry that we have upset you. We merely want to help. Do you have any idea what happened to your husband?”
“I will be alright in a moment. Let me just collect myself. Please, sit. I will be fine in a moment,” Mrs Rothnie promised them.
“Please, do not feel concerned on our behalf,” Rat assured her.
Olympia Rothnie took a couple of deep breaths and began her story. “My husband is a scholar of antiquities,” she explained. Rat wondered if she knew that was merely a cover story but made no comment. Olympia continued, “He had been quite distracted of late. Typically, Brett is such a placid, even- tempered man. I tried to get him to tell me what was bothering him, but he claimed it was nothing.”
Melody searched Olympia’s face; she didn’t seem to be dissembling. Was it possible that she had no idea about her husband’s true reason for being in Fes?
Deciding to probe that question further, Melody asked, “How long has your husband been in Morocco?”
Olympia considered the question. “I believe that he first came around 1906.” She then added, “I did not know him at the time. We have only been married three years.”
“You mentioned that Mr Rothnie is an antiquities scholar. What era does he study?” Rat asked.
“His area of interest is the early Islamic period in Morocco in the late seventh and early eighth centuries. This includes the Islamic conquest of Iberia. He travelled quite frequently between Morocco and Southern Europe for his work.”
Rat considered her words. This was undoubtedly a well-thought-out cover. “You mentioned that you have not been married long. You do not seem Moroccan, Mrs Rothnie. How did you meet?”
The woman smiled for the first time since they had arrived. “I am Greek. Brett was travelling to Constantinople to study the Ottoman-era archives. His travels there from Tangier took him through my country which is where we met. We married and travelled on together.”
This account did not seem in any way disingenuous. Rat considered the predicament they were in. They needed to learn what, if anything, Brett Rothnie discovered, but he couldn’t imagine how to raise the topic of rifling through the man’s papers without some kind of explanation of his covert work. He glanced over at Melody, but then realised that it was his decision alone to make. Choosing to reveal a covert operative’s identity was not something to be taken lightly. Yet, it was also quite possible that Brett Rothnie was no longer alive and perhaps his wife deserved to know the actual reason why that might be.
Finally, making a decision, Rat probed tentatively, “Mrs Rothnie, did it ever occur to you that your husband might be in Morocco for another, more secretive reason?”
Olympia stiffened at his words. Melody, who was still kneeling next to the woman, gently touched her arm. “Mrs. Rothnie, we are only trying to help uncover what has happened to your husband. Anything that you might know or even suspect could be useful information.”
Taking a deep breath, Olympia said, “I do not know precisely what Brett was up to, but I have suspected for some time that there was something going on. At first, I worried that he had taken a mistress, but that is not who my husband is. He would leave the house at odd hours, sometimes staying out all night. He seemed increasingly agitated just before he disappeared and was very secretive about his activities. Do you know what he might have been so worried about?”
“Mrs Rothnie, your husband worked for the British Government in a covert capacity,” Rat explained tentatively.
Whatever Olympia had expected them to say, this clearly wasn’t it. “No. He was an antiquities scholar,” she protested.
“This was nothing more than a story to explain his presence in Fes and perhaps certain activities he engaged in. Like taking lots of photos, for example, when I suspect he was instead gathering evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” she asked, perplexed.
“We are not entirely sure. However, our government is very concerned about the activities of our European neighbours in the region. It seems that there are worries that the French occupation of Fes could become a much larger issue, perhaps even a direct conflict between France and Germany which Britain might then get dragged into. I would imagine that if your husband had evidence that would in any way undermine France’s position, there are various factions who might want to suppress this information.”
“I do not understand what you are saying, Mr Sandworth.”
Rat apologised. Just saying the words out loud highlighted how confusing the situation was. However, he did know one thing, “May we enter your husband’s study and search through his papers?”
“I would let you, but he had the key with him when he disappeared.”
Melody knew that her brother always carried his small set of lockpicks with him. She replied, “I believe we will be able to open the door—with your permission, of course.” Olympia nodded her consent.
Melody and Rat stood to move to the study. Just then, Melody remembered one detail they hadn’t asked about. “Mrs Rothnie, when was the last time that you saw your husband?”
Olympia Rothnie considered the question, finally answering, “It was a Tuesday. I remember that because it is the day I always go to the souq to shop. Brett was here when I left. He told me that he was going out. I told him not to be home late because I was making his favourite meal. That was the last thing I ever said to him.” The woman began crying again.
An hour later, Rat and Melody left Brett Rothnie’s home. Rat had picked the lock to the study, and they had methodically gone through all his papers and photographs. To their frustration, they could find nothing obviously noteworthy. Whatever Brett had been hiding in his study didn’t seem to be there anymore or else was very well hidden. Olympia had watched them search in hopeful anticipation of some explanation of what had happened to her husband. Melody felt awful about having raised the woman’s hopes only to dash them.
They left the Rothnie home with the servant leading them back to Lahcen’s riad. Neither sibling said much for the walk, both lost in their thoughts. Up until now, all Melody had been concerned with was exonerating Alessandro. However, now that she had met Olympia, there was another pressing concern: discovering what had happened to Brett Rothnie and getting justice for the man, if indeed it turned out that he had been killed.
When they returned to the riad, they found an anxiously pacing Omar waiting in the courtyard. “Where have you been for so long?” he asked frantically.
“What has happened? Is it Alessandro?” Melody demanded, catching his anxiety.
“No, no, Lalla Melody. It is just that a servant has come from the palace and has been waiting for you for some time.”
A servant from the palace? What on earth could that mean? Melody and Rat looked at each other. Was this a good or a bad thing? Omar called for the servant to be brought to them. A young, heavily veiled woman was brought into the courtyard. Omar said something to her, and she replied in a soft voice.
Omar then turned to Melody and said, “You have been invited to the harem by Lalla Rabia, one of the Sultan’s wives. You are to return with her immediately.”
Melody was intrigued by the invitation but was dusty from their walk and hardly dressed appropriately to visit the palace. She expressed this to Omar and requested that the servant wait so she could wash and change. He repeated her words in Arabic, and the servant girl replied.
“She says that there is no need. Lalla Rabia invites you to visit the hammam with her. This is a great honour, Lalla Melody. You should not keep her waiting. Take the mule and the girl will lead the way.”
As uncomfortable as Melody was with the idea of visiting royalty without even washing her face, it seemed that she had no choice. Then she had a thought, “Is Lalla Fatima not joining us?”
Omar shook his head. “The servant was very clear that this invitation is only for the young British woman.” Seeing how wary Melody was of the situation, Omar assured her, “This can only be of benefit to our friend. The harem yields far more power than you might think.”
Melody wasn’t convinced that women who lived in a gilded prison, never able to see the world or be seen, could be considered power brokers. Still, an opportunity had presented itself, and, more to the point, there was no gracious way to turn down the invitation.