by Rhys Bowen
Tension inside me had been building during the drive from Gilgil. Suspicions had been growing. Things needed explaining. And now this talk of leopards made me blurt out, “Why are we here, Darcy?”
He looked surprised. “I wanted to give you a special honeymoon, a honeymoon you’d always remember.”
“It must be horribly expensive to fly to Africa,” I said.
“One puts by money, here and there,” he replied with a shrug. He had put his suitcase on the bed and was already unpacking clothes, his back to me.
“So why was Freddie Blanchford terribly glad that you’d come?”
“We’re old pals. I expect he’s a bit lonely. It’s good to see a friendly face.”
“And he invites you now? Conveniently when you need a honeymoon?”
Darcy spun around, frowning. “Look, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition? He saw the wedding announcement in the Times, all right?”
“No, not all right,” I said. “I know you too well, Darcy O’Mara. There is something more to this. You have no clear honeymoon plans and then suddenly you announce to the Queen that we are going to Africa. Out of the blue. Just like that. If Freddie had invited us, why didn’t you tell me?” I went across to the dressing table and smoothed down my hair, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to control my words and sound calm and rational. I didn’t want this to be a hysterical outburst. “You know what I think? I think this is a trip that we couldn’t possibly afford unless someone paid for it. A honeymoon in Africa? Who does that apart from film stars and millionaires?”
I turned back to face him. “This is some kind of assignment for you, isn’t it? You were being sent here and you thought it was a brilliant idea to have me tag along.”
He came over to me and slipped his arms around my waist. “It wasn’t like that at all,” he said. “I really wanted a special honeymoon for you but to be frank I didn’t know how to pull it off. When this trip was suggested I thought it would be perfect.”
I was still standing like a statue, resisting his attempt to pull me toward him. “Ah, so you admit that it was an assignment for you. You’re out here on some kind of shady business, right?”
“Quite the opposite, actually,” Darcy said. “Not at all shady. If you really must know—and this must be strictly confidential, of course—I’m here on the trail of a jewel thief.”
Chapter 10
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9
AT DIDDY RUOCCO’S HOUSE IN THE HAPPY VALLEY
Well, we’ve arrived safely but frankly I don’t know what to think. I should have guessed it was too good to be true that Darcy had planned this dream honeymoon for us. Now part of me wants to be angry with him for deceiving me, but I have to remind myself that, whatever the reason, I am here in Kenya and that this is the trip of a lifetime.
I was still glaring at Darcy. “A jewel thief?” I asked.
Darcy put his fingers to his lips. “You never know who might be listening,” he said softly. “This is a close-knit community. I wouldn’t want word getting around why I’m actually here.” He went over and closed the windows, looking around first to see that nobody was hovering outside, listening.
“Why would a jewel thief come to Kenya?” I asked. “To steal ivory?”
“We’re dealing with much bigger game than ivory,” he said. “There have been several daring and spectacular burglaries in London in the past couple of years. Items missing from society parties—and the conclusion we have come to is that the thief has to be one of them.”
“A member of high society, you are saying?” I said. “But why Kenya?”
“It’s just a hunch. Scotland Yard has always felt that on every occasion the thief left the country almost immediately after the gems were stolen. Once a certain wealthy Arab who is known to trade high-value stones showed up in Baghdad right after the theft. And then the necklace appeared, with the stones suitably refashioned, in America. And this time a Mr. Van Horn, an Afrikaner, from South Africa, arrived in this part of the world a couple of days ago and is staying at the hotel in Gilgil, for a safari holiday, he claims.” He paused and wagged a finger at me knowingly. “Mr. Van Horn is in the diamond business. And the gem that was stolen this time was a fabulous diamond necklace.”
“I see.” I sank onto the edge of the bed. “So there has just been another jewel theft, then?”
He nodded. “The day before the royal garden party. A necklace with a priceless central diamond was stolen from an Indian maharani while she was at Glyndebourne for the opera festival.”
“Was she staying at Glyndebourne House? It should be easy to find out who else was staying there and whether one of them was on our flight.”
“She was staying there, but it was the day of one of the picnics. Everyone was out on the grounds. Hundreds of people. The maharani’s servant was distracted by some kind of commotion going on outside—someone a little too drunk on champagne, perhaps—and while she was looking out the window and not paying attention the jewel case was raided.”
“So someone sneaked into the room without her hearing them?”
“Apparently. She swears the door was locked, and she was looking out the window so nobody could have come in that way.”
“Do you think she was telling the truth? Maybe she was in league with the thief.”
Darcy shook his head. “She had been with the maharini all her life. The epitome of the loyal servant. And she spoke no English. And she was distraught when questioned.”
“I see.”
“Only the one necklace was taken—the one with the fabulous center stone—which makes it clear it was no ordinary thief. It was a thief who knew where there was a buyer for what he had stolen.”
“Crikey.” I sat, staring at the flickering flames of the fire, trying to digest all this information. “So you suspect that the thief was someone on our flight?”
“Most probably,” Darcy said. “It was the first flight to Africa after the burglary. It’s highly unlikely the thief would come by ship, which would take several weeks. And Mr. Van Horn would have no valid reason to stick around for several weeks.”
“Why didn’t you have the luggage of the passengers searched?” I asked.
Darcy grinned. “We did. At least, all the luggage of the Kenya passengers that was left on board the plane was searched during that overnight stay in Khartoum. Unfortunately not the hand luggage.”
“Couldn’t you search the actual passengers?”
“My dear girl, you can’t go around searching people without due cause and a search warrant. We are not Nazi Germany. Peeking at their bags was highly illegal, although customs is allowed to check baggage.”
“So how do you know that the culprit got off in Kisumu? He might have gone on to Rhodesia or South Africa.”
“Because Van Horn is here. And for that very reason our suspect is most likely staying in this area or Van Horn would have gone to Nairobi and stayed at the New Stanley Hotel.”
“Unless he wanted to put people off the scent,” I suggested. “But if he’s South African, why not have the burglar come down to South Africa to meet him?”
“Because he is well watched in South Africa, also because I suspect our thief wants it to look like a legitimate journey.”
“There weren’t too many people who disembarked from the train in Gilgil, were there? Only a handful. Ourselves. Mrs. Simpson . . .” I paused and chuckled. “I’d like to discover that she is a jewel thief as well as a gold digger but I think it’s highly unlikely. I can’t see her climbing up drainpipes in her haute couture.”
Darcy smiled too. “That leaves the Hartley twins, who have apparently never been out to Kenya before. So one asks oneself, why now?”
“Because Daddy has just inherited the title and wants to get to know them,” I said. “And apart from them there was Pansy Ragg and those older people. One of the men was decid
edly stout. I can’t see him climbing drainpipes either. But Pansy Ragg does like to buy expensive clothes. Could it be a woman?”
Darcy frowned. “I doubt it. Simply because of the risks taken in previous burglaries.”
“Well, that’s all the people who got off in Gilgil,” I pointed out. “I suppose our burglar could have gone on to Nairobi and then come back for a quick meeting with Mr. Van Horn. Or he could travel up to Nairobi for the meeting and then head home.”
“All possible,” Darcy said.
A question mark had been flying around my head, fighting with all the other information, for some time. Now the question took shape. “Darcy, why you? Why not send a real policeman, from Scotland Yard, over here. He’d have the authority to actually search and arrest.”
Darcy nodded. “You’re right. Why me? I suppose because I’ve done undercover jobs for them before. I’m a good observer and I have the perfect cover story. Nobody doubts I’m out here on my honeymoon.”
“But I don’t see how you can possibly keep tabs on all the suspects and Mr. Van Horn,” I said. “You’ve seen how difficult it is to get around. You can’t keep popping down to Gilgil.”
“Freddie’s taking care of that part,” he said. “He’s been thoroughly briefed by Scotland Yard and he is the law in these parts. He has his spies shadowing Van Horn. My job is to watch for interactions if Van Horn comes up to a party in the valley or one of the settlers decides to take a little jaunt down to Gilgil. Everyone knows everyone else’s business up here.”
Suddenly I jumped up, waving my arms excitedly. “Jocelyn Prettibone. We forgot all about him,” I said. “He went on to Nairobi, didn’t he? But he could be back. And he’s the sort of person other people overlook. Perfect for your thief.”
“You’re not wrong there,” Darcy said. “Plays the idiot. Everyone ignores him. Yes, you may be right. We’ll have to see if he comes back to the valley or if Van Horn takes a sudden trip to Nairobi.”
“So it’s a working holiday now,” I said. “You have your spying and I have mine.”
“Meaning what?” he asked sharply.
“The queen asked me to keep an eye on the Prince of Wales, in case Mrs. Simpson joined him, which she has. She’s terrified they will get married in secret and present her with a fait accompli.”
“You can hardly stop them if they do,” Darcy said.
“I know that. The queen just likes his activities reported back to her.”
“He’s been out here several times before, you know,” Darcy said. “On those occasions he had affairs with local women.”
“I don’t think the queen minded that as much, because they weren’t serious,” I said. “It’s the dreaded Simpson she fears because the woman has such a hold over him. If they really married could the king dissolve the marriage, I wonder? She could never be queen, could she?”
“I’ve no idea,” Darcy said, “and at this moment I don’t care. I don’t know about you but I’m tired and frightfully hungry and I want my bath and a drink. So let’s put other people’s business aside and remember that this is our honeymoon, all right?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” I said. “Shall we toss a coin for first bath?”
Chapter 11
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9
AT DIDDY RUOCCO’S HOUSE IN THE HAPPY VALLEY
It’s lovely here but I’m still coming to terms with the fact that we are on the trail of a jewel thief.
A half hour later we were clean, dressed in evening attire and making our way along the veranda to the main entrance. Having come from the warmth of a bath and a room with a fire I was horrified how cold it was outside. Icy breezes drifted down from the mountain and I was glad I had brought Mummy’s mink stole with me. She had insisted I take it. “As if I will ever have any use for such things again,” she had said dramatically. “The lonely widow woman. That’s how I shall be known from now on.”
“Which of your husbands has actually died, apart from Daddy?” I asked with a cheeky smile.
She gave a dramatic shrug. “Isn’t that enough? The widow of a duke. That’s what I am.”
I thought of her now as we walked along the creaking boards and I wrapped the mink stole more firmly around me. I should have brought her with us. I’d have given anything to see her interactions with the infamous Lady Idina Sackville . . . or whatever her last name was at present.
A Kikuyu servant had been standing guard at the front door and stepped forward to open it for us. “Memsabu is waiting for you in the back room by the fire,” he said and led the way through.
It was not a big room by the standards of one who has grown up in a castle, but it was an impressive room. The walls were paneled in a dark wood, the ceiling was high, with an enormous fan in the center, and the whole of one wall was composed of windows that during daylight must look out over a splendid view. A rising moon played with shadows across the lawns but no lights were visible in the inky distance.
I took all this in rapidly before Diddy rose from an armchair beside the fire. “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Come and get warm. You must be freezing. And you’ve brought a fur—how sensible of you. So many people come out here expecting Africa to be hot and steamy jungle. But we’re at eight thousand feet here and the cold comes down the mountainsides at night. Now, G and Ts all around? We’ve already had a couple but we don’t mind joining you, do we, Cyril.”
I was surprised as a man rose from the other armchair—since Freddie had told us she lived alone. He was small and wiry with a neat little blond mustache and round glasses that made him look like an owl. He bobbed his head too, birdlike. “You must be Lady Georgiana and Mr. O’Mara. How do you do,” he said. “I’m Cyril Prendergast. I’m also a guest of Diddy at the moment.”
“At the moment!” Diddy gave a loud laugh. “I can’t get rid of the fellow. He goes, then he turns up again, like a bad penny.”
“Well, your house is so jolly comfortable, darling Diddy,” Cyril said. “How can one resist, especially when you are so free with the spirits.” And he took a glass from the tray that one of the house servants was presenting.
“Cyril is a big-game hunter,” Diddy said.
This was the last occupation I would have predicted for him. He was immaculately turned out in a white tuxedo jacket and black bow tie with a purple silk handkerchief in his top pocket. I would have expected schoolmaster, accountant, even government tax collector. But big-game hunter? I couldn’t see him facing a large cat, let alone a lion.
“You make that sound very daring, Diddy,” Cyril said. “Actually what I do is lead safaris. Business was better in the twenties, of course, before everyone lost their money in the crash, but there are still enough people with money to burn and the desire to shoot something. I always pray it’s not an elephant or a buffalo. I do hate to send a client home in a pine box.”
He took a big gulp of his gin and tonic. I took a tentative sip of mine. It was jolly strong. I noticed that our hostess and Cyril knocked theirs back as if it was water they were drinking. Darcy, however, was also taking his time.
“Drink up, drink up,” Diddy said. “You must be jolly thirsty after all that travel today. All the way from Khartoum in an aeroplane, Cyril. Imagine that.”
Cyril gave a dramatic shudder. “I really can’t. Too frightening for words. I went up in a plane with Beryl once. Never again.”
“Beryl?” Darcy asked.
“Beryl Markham, of course. She’s taken up flying as well as horse training.”
“Oh right,” Darcy said. “Didn’t she once have an affair with one of the royal princes?”
“With all of them, darlings,” Cyril said, chuckling. “Except for that upright little Duke of York, who is quite the family man, one hears. But then he does stutter badly. So off-putting in bed when he tries to whisper sweet nothings.”
“And Queen Mary banished Beryl M
arkham, didn’t she?” Darcy was also grinning. “Must be quite a woman. I shall enjoy meeting her.”
I remembered I had heard some sort of gossip about Beryl and affairs with members of the royal family when I was too young to really take in what it meant. It crossed my mind to wonder whether the Prince of Wales might want to rekindle the relationship and thus make Mrs. Simpson jealous enough to leave him. One could only hope!
“And how was your flying experience?” Diddy asked.
“It was rather a bumpy flight,” I said.
“It always is,” Diddy responded. “You’re lucky the propellers didn’t clog with sand and dust. Then you would have had to put down somewhere in the Sudan, and God knows how long you would have been stuck there.”
I glanced at Darcy. He was studying his drink.
“And Diddy tells me you’re on your honeymoon. How splendid,” Cyril said. “I’ve never been married myself and poor old Diddy here is a widow.”
I looked across at her. She laughed again. “You make it sound so tragic, Cyril. I was married for six months . . . he was an Italian count. Giovanni Ruocco. His name sounded so glamorous that I was dazzled. But the stupid man had at least six affairs during that time. I was about to dump him when a rhino did the job for me. Best thing that could have happened. I got rid of the husband, kept the property and was overwhelmed with sympathy.” She took another swig of her gin. “Now I can focus on my horses. Cyril and I now lead a quiet and chaste life compared with the rest of the inhabitants of the valley. In fact I think we’re the only ones who aren’t cavorting with someone else’s mate.”
“Is it as bad as that?” I asked.
“Oh yes. The main sport around here isn’t polo. It’s musical beds,” Diddy said. “You’ll see if you’re invited to Idina’s. Or our next-door neighbor’s, for that matter.”
“Lord Cheriton?” Darcy asked, looking up from his drink.
“I still think of him as Bwana Hartley,” Diddy said. “Can’t get used to this newfound elevation to the peerage.”
