Chapter 2.
Augustus Claphoussen
“So, what brings you to the Kingdom of Morocco, Wrinklebottom?” asked Augustus Claphoussen as he refilled Lord Wrinklebottom's wine glass. “Business? Pleasure?”
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“Oh, a mixture of both,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom and sipped a little from the delicately cut crystal wineglass. “I have one or two business interests I may attend to if the opportunity arises, but I'm also fond of the desert and the mountains and hope to have some time to enjoy them while I am here.”
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“An adventurer, eh?” laughed Claphoussen. “We have had a few through here in recent years. Not all of them return, mind you. Some have grand romantic notions of the desert and the nomadic way of life. Living in a tent and sleeping under the stars, but very few seem to find the reality matches their dreams and often leave disappointed. Some don't leave at all. No doubt their bones are scattered out there somewhere in the desert.”
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“It can be a harsh land,” agreed Lord Wrinklebottom, “but Balderthump and I have some experience in these climes and I'm confident we've come well-equipped. I am sure we will not only survive, but thrive and enjoy the experience.”
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“I hope so, I hope so,” replied Claphoussen. He held up his wineglass to the light and admired the ruby colour of the silky liquid it contained. “Mind you, be careful if the locals catch you enjoying a glass of this,” he added, nodding at the wine glass. “Against their religion you know and some of the more extreme would slit your throat if they caught you at it.”
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“Yes, yes, I'm aware,” advised Lord Wrinklebottom chuckling to himself. “Balderthump and I found that out the hard way many years ago. We are now somewhat more aware of the local customs and sensibilities, aren't we Balderthump?” Lord Wrinklebottom turned towards Balderthump who stood impassively at the foot of the table, resplendent in his black dinner suit, bowler hat and white gloves.
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“Indeed, m'lord. A very close call it was, if I remember correctly.”
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“Too close, Balderthump, much too close,” reminisced Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“Well, no need to worry here,” laughed Claphoussen, gesturing around the courtyard. “Most are happy enough to allow foreigners to do as they please. Within the walls of our own riads, anyway.”
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“And most appreciative I am of that,” smiled Lord Wrinklebottom raising his own glass. “A fine drop you have served. It would be a shame not to be able to enjoy it in the peace of your own home.”
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“Indeed,” murmured Claphoussen taking another sip, “but you’re too kind, too kind.”
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“Not at all, old man! And such a lovely place you have here too,” observed Lord Wrinklebottom waving a hand at the magnificent surroundings.
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They were seated at an elegantly set dining table within a courtyard, open to the sky. Arched colonnades surrounded the courtyard on all sides, and light and dark tiles created an ornate pattern across the floor. A small fountain bubbled in the centre. A carefully shaped lemon tree laden with fruit provided a delightful contrast of green and yellow against the rich blue of the tiles on the walls behind.
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“Oh yes, I quite like it,” replied Claphoussen. “A nice respite from the hustle of the streets outside, and a secure place for business, and pleasure.”
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“And what business are you in, if you don't mind me asking?” queried Lord Wrinklebottom as a robed attendant cleared the table after their first course.
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“Ah, I do a little here and there and look after one or two matters on behalf of some old friends,” replied Claphoussen rather vaguely. “How did you enjoy the Nile frog by the way?”
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“Delicious, absolutely delicious,” beamed Lord Wrinklebottom. “Takes me back quite a few years.”
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“Excellent, glad you enjoyed them, Wrinklebottom. A little hard to obtain here in Morocco you know, but I developed quite a taste for them while I was in Egypt some time back. Most tasty, especially when lightly fried.”
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“Oh yes, yes indeed. Quite delectable,” murmured Lord Wrinklebottom and belched politely into his linen table napkin.
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“I understand old Gotbladder gave you my details?” asked Claphoussen changing the topic.
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“Yes, he did indeed,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom. “He advised you might be a useful contact for me here in Casablanca.”
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“Well, I try to help out friends when I get the opportunity,” nodded Claphoussen, “and old Bertie is a good one. I’m most pleased with his decision to take up his current post. A most admirable undertaking he is engaged in.”
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“Quite,” agreed Lord Wrinklebottom. “Did he by chance mention to you anything about my plans here in Morocco?” Lord Wrinklebottom asked tentatively, not certain of how far he could safely divulge the real purpose of his visit.
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“A little, a little,” nodded Claphoussen. “But it's not something we should discuss here and now.”
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..........​
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And so it transpired, after a delicious second course of roasted desert antelope haunch with courgette and potatoes, followed by a rich selection of honey-sweetened pastries, Claphoussen dismissed the staff and he, Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump retired with glasses of port, to the lounges under the arches.
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“So, sir Bertie tells me you are interested in the Society of the Blue Camel?” began Claphoussen.
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“Er, pardon?” Lord Wrinklebottom looked up from his glass of port a little bewildered.
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“The Society of the Blue Camel.”
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“Never heard of it,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom. “Why would he say that?”
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“Sir Bertie tells me you're interested in the slave trade. Around here that means you're interested in the Society of the Blue Camel. It also means you’re not too intent on living a long and peaceful life. They're not people to be treated lightly.”
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“Oh,” said Lord Wrinklebottom after a short pause, and still just a little mystified. He squinted at the ruby port through his round gold-rimmed spectacles.
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“Do tell us more about this Society, Mr Claphoussen,” encouraged Balderthump politely.
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“The Society?” Claphoussen looked around the courtyard as if he expected to see someone lurking in the shadows listening to every word. “Well, the Society of the Blue Camel is what it has become known as, but I'm not sure if it has an official name. One or two of us who tend to act as the eyes and ears of Sir Bertie in Morocco have made some discrete enquiries into some of the unsavoury characters we suspect of being involved in the trade. They seem to spend a lot of time visiting shops or houses that have some kind of blue camel symbol outside. Hence the Society of the Blue Camel.”
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Claphoussen paused a moment to admire and taste his own glass of ruby port. “It would seem,” he went on, “the common link between these somewhat unsavoury characters is a fellow called Ibn Katjun-Em, a Berber warlord with his home on the east side of the Atlas Mountains. He occasionally makes a visit to Marrakech. We've never seen or heard of him coming as far as Casablanca, but he seems to have plenty of minions doing his bidding around here.”
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“And this Ibn Katjun-Em fellow, he trades in slaves?” asked Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“Amongst other things,” replied Claphoussen, “but they seem to be his main line. It's not illegal to trade slaves here you know, Wrinklebottom.”
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“No, indeed not, but barbaric nonetheless.”
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“Quite,” agreed Claphoussen.
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“So the Society relies on Ibn Katjun-Em to supply slaves, sir?” asked Balderthump.
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“It would seem so. The Society seems to be focused on the delivery of slaves to the local markets and beyond. Ibn Katjun-Em is the source, as far as we can tell. If Sir Bertie wants to tackle the slave trade in these parts, he will need to hunt him down.”
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“Hmm,” muttered Lord Wrinklebottom taking another slow sip of his port. “So, if one were interested in finding out more about the Society and Ibn Katjun-Em, where would one start?” he asked in a slightly disinterested tone.
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“Best not to start at all, is my recommendation, Wrinklebottom.” Claphoussen's tone was a clear warning. “But,” he continued after a short pause, “if one were so inclined, it might be fruitful to begin at the docks and see if one could pick up the trail there.”
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“Working backwards you mean?”
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“Exactly. It is probable that at least some of the slaves sold in the markets of Marrakech are shipped from here. Casablanca is the closest port after all. Failing that, one could make straight for Marrakech, but that would be more difficult without some kind of introduction.”
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“Hmm. That does make some sense, I guess. Still, I can't say I'm inclined to stick my head in the lion's jaws so to speak.”
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“Very wise,” agreed Claphoussen.
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Lord Wrinklebottom leaned back into his lounge and pondered his port for a moment. “So, tell me about your time in Egypt,” he said, changing the topic. And so they exchanged tales of adventure and calamity from their pasts late into the night.
