The Jerusalem Puzzle by Laurence O’Bryan

intersections where one busy and narrow lane crossed another, sharp-eyed Israeli soldiers with guns, watching us all.
    Finally we found the chapel. We almost missed it. There was a crowd gathered at the entrance to a lane directly opposite it. They had caught my eye. The Via Dolorosa was wider here, maybe twenty feet across, and the entrance to the chapel was between two high stone buildings in that distinctive Mamluk style, which features layers of alternating light and dark stone.
    The crowd on the opposite side of the street was made up mostly of Arab men, bareheaded or in keffiyehs, which flowed loosely over their shoulders. There was a camera crew filming it all.
    I approached the cameraman. ‘What’s going on?’ I said.
    He looked at me, spat on the ground and returned to his work.
    We went over to the chapel. It had an ancient grey wooden door, which looked as if it had been new when the Crusaders were here. The door was closed and there was a plaque above it. The plaque was in Greek. Another plaque, in polished brass, simply said
Chapel of Our Lady
.
    Was this the end of us chasing ghosts? I looked around. There was a group of blue-shirted policemen beyond the crowd. They were blocking the entrance to a laneway.
    ‘What about getting coffee? Look, there’s a place over there,’ I said. I pointed at an old-fashioned looking cafe back the way we’d come. It had a red plastic sign above its door and a menu stuck to its window.
    A few minutes later we were sipping thick black coffee in a quiet corner of the coffee shop. We couldn’t get a table near the window. The rest of the tables were full of tourists looking at maps or locals huddled over tea in glass cups or yoghurt drinks. ‘There’s a police station back near the Jaffa Gate,’ said Isabel. ‘In some place called the Qishle building. Maybe we can ask them if they know anything about Susan Hunter? I’m not sure we’re getting anywhere wandering around aimlessly.’ She sounded worried.
    ‘We’re not wandering around aimlessly. We’re seeing the sights.’
    ‘What did you think we were going to find here? Kaiser’s dead. He was probably just talking about this place.’
    ‘So what are all those people here for?’
    She looked at the menu.
    A nun in a black habit had come into the cafe. She must have been in her eighties. Her skin was creased, translucent, like the cover of a book that was about to fall apart. There were blue veins around her eyes. Her habit was made of rough faded wool, and her back was bowed.
    I overheard her ordering tea. Her accent was cut glass English. I stood up and went to her side.
    ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear you.’ I smiled. ‘Do you speak English?’
    She looked me up and down as if she was wondering what stupidity might come out of my mouth next.
    I put my hands up. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t want anything from you.’ I hesitated deliberately, then went on. ‘Well, not anything material.’
    Her eyes narrowed. I imagined she was wondering if I was one of those people who suffer from the Jerusalem syndrome when they get here, imagining they’re the Messiah, with the power to change the world.
    ‘It’s just that I was wondering what all those people were gathering for out there. Do you know?’
    She breathed in through her nose. Her nostrils pinched together. ‘Young man, I am not a news service.’ She looked down at the ground, as if to avoid speaking anymore. A waiter put a lidded paper cup in front of her.
    ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I need a little help.’
    ‘You’re a journalist, I suppose,’ she said.
    I opened my mouth to deny it, but decided not to.
    ‘I expect you want to know about the djinn they all claim has been released at that dig.’ She sniffed again, gazed piercingly into my eyes, as if she knew what I was thinking, even if I didn’t.
    ‘Well, I can offer you nothing about such superstitions.’ She clutched her tea with a claw-like hand, and shot