Chapter 8.
The Old Red House
“I say, Balderthump,” said Lord Wrinklebottom stretching out on the comfortable couch under the archways of the riad, “I'm finding this Moroccan way of life quite civilised.”
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“Indeed, m’lord,” replied Balderthump from the table in the centre of the courtyard where he was busy sorting out paperwork and managing the finances of the journey.
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“I suppose you couldn't find another pot of that delicious tea, could you, Balderthump? I'm absolutely famished.”
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“Of course, m’lord.” Balderthump left his work on the table and rose to fetch another pot of tea. He returned a few moments later.
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“Another pot of Snorting Dragon Guangxi Osmanthus tea, m'lord,” he announced.
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“Eh?!” Lord Wrinklebottom started from the gentle slumber he had slipped into while he waited. “Oh, yes, yes. Thank you, Balderthump, excellent. Anywhere on the table there will do. Bless old Claphoussen.”
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Balderthump placed the fresh pot of tea on the low table in front of the couch Lord Wrinklebottom was lying on and returned to his work on the table.
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“I must say, Balderthump,” Lord Wrinklebottom continued after sitting up and taking a sip of the delightfully light and refreshing tea, “I felt thoroughly uncomfortable leaving the café this morning.”
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“Indeed, m’lord?” Balderthump was still focused on the work in front of him.
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“Yes, indeed,” Balderthump replied Lord Wrinklebottom a little annoyed at Balderthump's lack of attention. “It seemed like every person in that café was staring at us as we left.”
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“Perhaps they were, m’lord.”
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“No perhaps about it, Balderthump! They were!”
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“Yes, m’lord.”
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“Uncivilised barbarians, Balderthump, that’s what they are! Completely uncivilised. That is no way to treat a stranger.”
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“Indeed not, m’lord,” agreed Balderthump putting away the last of the papers on the table. “Perhaps the subject of your enquiries raised their interest, m'lord?”
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“My enquiries, Balderthump? How could that be? I was most discrete in my enquiries.”
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“Perhaps it's a cultural thing, m'lord,” murmured Balderthump.
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Some time later, and after Lord Wrinklebottom had indulged in another short nap on the couch, Izem returned from the markets with supplies for lunch and the evening's meal.
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“How was your outing this morning, m’lord?” he enquired politely.
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“A little hot and tiring if the truth be told,” sighed Lord Wrinklebottom and slumped back in the couch.
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“An excellent promenade, thank you Izem,” replied Balderthump more tactfully. “Wonderful things to see and experience, the like of which are never seen in London.”
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“I am very glad you enjoyed the outing,” smiled Izem. “I shall see to the preparation of lunch.” He turned to go towards the kitchen when Balderthump interrupted him.
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“Perhaps you could assist me before you go Izem?” asked Balderthump politely.
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“Of course.” Izem swept his arm in front of him quite theatrically and gave a slight bow. “How may I help you?”
Balderthump recounted a somewhat imaginative story of their adventures of the morning focusing on the episode at the café but not mentioning slaves or the sign of the blue camel.
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“And then the young waiter said, ‘Tittarte tazaguagte takdimte’,” finished Balderthump. “Do you have any idea what he meant?”
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Izem looked puzzled for a moment, then his face clouded over a little. “Tittarte tazaguagte takdimte,” he repeated. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”
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“Yes, quite sure,” confirmed Balderthump. Izem looked troubled. Lord Wrinklebottom who had been observing the conversation from the couch got up and came over to hear what Izem had to say. “Well?” prompted Balderthump politely as Izem continued to hesitate.
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Izem lowered his voice. “M’lord,” he began, and turned towards Lord Wrinklebottom. “There are many bad men in this city.”
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“Yes, yes Izem, we are aware of that,” assured Lord Wrinklebottom. “We are capable of looking after ourselves.”
Izem sighed and turned back to Balderthump. “The phrase means ‘the old red house’,” he went on, “which is in itself nothing. But those of a less-savoury disposition in the city know what that means.” He paused again.
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“And?” prompted Lord Wrinklebottom somewhat impatiently.
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“The old red house is where the Society of the Blue Camel operate from,” he blurted out finally. “It is not a good place to go. Trouble will find you there. I implore you not to go there.”
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He turned and made his way quickly to the kitchen as if to avoid any further discussion on the matter.
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The gentle tinkling of the bell again signalled lunch. Izem joined them in the shade of the colonnade, and while there was some polite conversation, the old red house was not mentioned. When the delicious camel tajine had been eaten and they had retired again to the comfort of the lounges with a hot Moroccan mint tea, Izem finally broached the subject.
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“You are serious about finding the Society of the Blue Camel?” he enquired with a little trepidation, as if fearing the answer.
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“Of course old chap, of course,” confirmed Lord Wrinklebottom looking up from his tea. “Claphoussen has given you some indication of why we're here. We cannot make progress unless we follow the trail.”
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“You speak the truth,” agreed Izem. “But I fear the trail will lead you to a place you do not want to go.”
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“The trail already leads many innocent people to somewhere they don't want to go,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom a little piously. “We know there are risks, but the cause is worth it.”
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“As you say,” agreed Izem, clearly still uncomfortable. “If you insist however, I will see you are led to where you want to go. But it is not something for today. I shall make arrangements and you will go tomorrow.” He rose, set his teacup down with a gesture of finality, crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the kitchen area.
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The morning found them once again walking the back streets of Marrakech. “Keep an eye on him, Balderthump,” urged Lord Wrinklebottom. “I'm dashed if I can keep up with the little blighter.” He pushed his way past a group of women inspecting produce on a streetside stall.
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“I can still see him, m’lord,” replied Balderthump calmly. “The young chap with the maroon fez and white robe.”
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“Yes, yes,” puffed Lord Wrinklebottom. “Don't let him lead us up the garden path.”
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“Of course not, m’lord.” Balderthump was unperturbed. “He has no reason to lose us, he is just young and enthusiastic.”
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“Hmmph!” responded Lord Wrinklebottom, unconvinced. “You obtained funds as instructed, Balderthump?”
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“Indeed, m’lord. We have ready access to a generous number of benduqis, the local gold coin, which I am informed is the currency of trade for deals such as the ones we are planning.”
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“Good. Well, let’s get on. Keep an eye on that young scallywag.”
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“Of course, m’lord.”
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“Teapot master?”
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Lord Wrinklebottom jumped at the sound of the vaguely familiar voice in his ear. A familiar, scruffy looking old man with a straggling, dirty beard thrust a heavy brass teapot into Lord Wrinklebottom's face. Lord Wrinklebottom drew back from the man.
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“I say, my good fellow, do you mind!”
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“Fine teapot master, very fine,” cackled the old man. His crooked smile again displayed his yellowed teeth. “Make very good mint tea, master.”
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“No, thank you, my good man. Haven’t I seen you before?”
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The old man stepped closer. “Very cheap master, very, very cheap. And magical,” he hissed in a hushed tone.
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“No thank you,” repeated Lord Wrinklebottom in a firm voice. “Where is Balderthump?!”
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The old man once more grabbed his arm. “Magic teapot,” he hissed again. “Magic, I say. It will help you in time of greatest need.”
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“No!” shouted Lord Wrinklebottom, shaking his arm loose from the old man's tight grip and looking around to find where Balderthump had gone. “I do not want your teapot!”
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Lord Wrinklebottom pushed through the crowd, searching for Balderthump's black bowler hat. He could only hope Balderthump was still following the young boy.
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“Very, very good teapot master!” shouted the old man after him. “Special price for you. There is magic in the pot master, magic!”
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“Dash it all, Balderthump,” puffed Lord Wrinklebottom as he caught up with Balderthump, “how did that confounded teapot salesman find me again?! And where has that young lad gone now?”
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“His persistence is admirable indeed, m’lord,” replied Balderthump. “Our young guide is down the next alley on our right. He will not leave us behind.”
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Just as Balderthump had predicted, around the corner, the young boy, no more than twelve years old, waited impatiently for his slow charges to catch up.
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The alleyway was much quieter than the street they had left. Not a soul was about. Rubbish left by desert storms and careless passers-by lay in the corners here and there. The city walls loomed up ahead and the alleyway came to a dead end.
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“There!” exclaimed Lord Wrinklebottom. “I told you he’d lead us up the garden path.”
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“Not yet, m’lord,” soothed Balderthump. “See.”
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The young lad in the maroon fez and white robe beckoned from an even narrower alley running parallel to the wall.
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“Come, m’lord,” urged Balderthump.
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They entered the alleyway and after a few steps their destination was clear. On the left, built up against the high city wall, was a crumbling, dusty red, mud-brick building. Hardy desert weeds sprouted from broken tiles in the roof. A door which had once been painted blue, but which had lost most of its paint many years ago, hung crookedly from one hinge. Blank holes in the walls spoke of upstairs rooms, now empty and derelict. The young lad pointed cautiously to the blue door.
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Balderthump nodded. The young lad held out his hand, and on receiving a few coins from Balderthump, brushed past them and ran quickly back up the alley.
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“Not too enthusiastic to stay around,” muttered Lord Wrinklebottom. “He’s gone like the devil was after him.”
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“No matter, m’lord. This looks like what we are looking for.” He examined the building and the blue door for a moment.
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“We might as well go in, Balderthump.” Lord Wrinklebottom puffed out his chest and straightened his jacket and top hat. “Let’s get started.”
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“Of course, m’lord.” Balderthump led the way to the blue door. It was partly ajar and he peered into the darkness inside. “It looks like we are in the right place,” he said softly, pointing to a small blue camel painted on the door lintel.
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Lord Wrinklebottom rapped sharply on the door. The sound echoed eerily within the old building. There was no answer. They strained their ears trying to pick up on the slightest sound coming from within. But there was nothing. Balderthump rapped on the door again. After another minute with no response, Balderthump pushed and the door gave enough for them to squeeze through into the dark room beyond.
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“I say, Balderthump,” complained Lord Wrinklebottom, blinking furiously. “I can't see a thing.”
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“It is rather dark, m’lord,” agreed Balderthump, “but I am starting to be able to see the way forward.” He took a tentative step forward, feeling with his foot before he put his weight on it. “Ah yes, I can see a way through here.”
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As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness inside, they could see a faint path across the floor, between piles of rubble and fallen tiles. Balderthump led the way cautiously. A scuttling sound to their right caused them to freeze. Lord Wrinklebottom grabbed Balderthump's arm. “Look out!” he cried.
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