by M. M. Kaye
As he himself had done … In the face of that statement there was nothing for Victoria to do but write an unhysterical letter accepting the inevitable and agreeing that his decision was the right one. She had saved her pride, and probably salved Eden’s conscience, by doing so; if either of those things were worth doing.
Helen had been relieved and had not attempted to disguise the fact. ‘I never think that marriages between cousins are a good idea,’ she said. ‘Inbreeding never did anyone any good.’
Em had written from Kenya. She had quite obviously accepted Eden’s view that the break was mutual, and the letter had been charming and deeply regretful, and had ended with the hope that they might both think better of it. But on the same morning as its arrival The Times and the Telegraph had published the announcement of Eden’s engagement to Alice Laxton, and less than a month later they had been married.
Oh, the agony of those days! The tearing, wrenching pain of loss. The shock of casually opening an illustrated paper at the hairdressers and being confronted with a full page photograph of Eden and his bride leaving St George’s, Hanover Square. Eden, grave and unsmiling, and as heart-breakingly handsome as every woman’s dream of Prince Charming. And Alice, an anonymous figure in white satin whose bridal veil had blown across her face and partially obscured it.
‘Better looking than Robert Taylor or any of those,’ said the hairdresser’s assistant, peering over her shoulder. ‘Ought to be on the films, he ought. It’s a waste. Don’t think much of her, do you? Can’t think how she got him. Money, I expect. The papers say she’s got any amount of it. Wish I had! What about just a touch of brilliantine, Miss Caryll?’
Any amount of money … Had that been why Eden had married her? No, he could not be so despicable! Not Eden. But Flamingo, she knew, had been losing money of late, and Eden had expensive tastes. Em had spoilt him. It would be nice to be able to think that he only married Alice Laxton for her money, for then she could despise him and be sorry for his wife, and apply salve to her own hurt pride. But what did hurt pride matter in comparison to the pain in her heart? I won’t think of him any more, decided Victoria. I won’t let myself think of any of this again.
It had not been easy to keep that vow, but hard work had helped, and at last there came a time when memory did not rise and mock her whenever she was tired or off-guard. She had not thought of the past, or of Eden, for months before Helen died, and afterwards she had been able to read his letter of condolence, and reply to it, as though he had meant no more to her than the writers of a dozen other such letters. She had sold the house and taken a secretarial post in London. And then that unexpected letter had arrived from Kenya.
It was not the sort of letter than Em had ever written before, and there was an odd and disturbing suggestion of urgency about it. The same urgency that Helen had sometimes betrayed when she had wanted to do something, or to see someone, and had been afraid that she would not have time to do it before she died. A fear that was both harrowing and pitiful. But there was something else there too. Something that Victoria could not quite put her finger on, and which disturbed her even more.
The letter had contained only one reference to the past: ‘You know that I would never have suggested your coming if I had not been quite sure that you and Eden could meet as friends. And I know that you will like his wife. Alice is such a dear girl, but we are neither of us strong, and I fear that I am getting old. I need help.’
Em had provisionally booked a passage for her on an air liner leaving for Nairobi on the twenty-third of the month. Which meant that she would have to decide at once, as the company would not keep the reservation for long. Was that why Em had done it? So that she would be forced to make up her mind quickly, and could not waver and hesitate? Was Em, too, afraid of dying too soon, and aware, as Helen had been, that it was later than she had thought?
England had been enduring an exceptionally cold and wet spell that year, and Victoria, clinging to a strap in a crowded bus on her way to work, the letter in her pocket, had looked out over the damp, bedraggled hat of a stout woman in a wet mackintosh, to the damp, bedraggled London streets that streamed past the rain spotted windows, and thought of the Rift Valley——
The enormous sun-drenched spaces where the cattle grazed and the herds of zebra and gazelle roamed at will under the blue cloud shadows that drifted by as idly as sailing ships on a summer sea. It would be wonderful to see it again. It would be like going home. And Flamingo would be a home to her. Aunt Emily had said so. Aunt Emily needed her, and it was so comforting to be needed again. As for Eden, he was happily married, and Alice was ‘such a dear girl’. The past was over and done with. She need not think of it.
* * *
The stewardess of the air liner said: ‘Fasten your safety belts please,’ and Mrs Brocas-Gill said: ‘Wake up dear. We’re going down to land. Are you feeling all right? You’re looking very pale.’
‘No,’ said Victoria a trifle breathlessly. ‘No. I’m all right thank you. It’s just that——’
The plane tilted on one shining wing and the ground rushed up to meet it. And then they were skimming low over roof-tops and trees and grass and bumping down a long runway, and Victoria was thinking frantically and desperately and futilely: I shouldn’t have come! I shouldn’t have come! What shall I do when I see Eden? It isn’t all over – it won’t ever be all over! I shouldn’t have come …
4
The sun was blindingly bright on the white walls of the Airport, and there seemed to be a great many people meeting the plane. But there was no sign of Lady Emily. Or of Eden.
A small stout man with a red face and a bald head, wearing a singularly crumpled suit and, somewhat surprisingly, a revolver in an enormous leather holster, waved a white panama enthusiastically from beyond the barrier and yelled a welcome to someone called ‘Pet’.
‘There’s Oswin,’ said Mrs Brocas-Gill.
‘You’re late!’ shouted Mr Brocas-Gill, stating the obvious. ‘Expected you yesterday.’
He embraced his wife and was introduced to Victoria. ‘Bless my soul!’ said Mr Brocas-Gill. ‘Jack Caryll’s girl. I remember your father when— Why, dammit, I remember you! Skinny little thing in plaits. Used to ride a zebra. Glad to see you back.’
He relieved his wife of a dressing-case and an overnight bag and trotted beside them into the comparative coolness of the Airport building:
‘Who are you stayin’ with? Oh, Em. Hmm. Isn’t here, is she? Can’t understand it! Bad business. Just shows that it doesn’t do to get too complacent. Who’s meetin’ you?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Victoria uncertainly.
‘Oh well, they’re sure to send someone. We’ll keep an eye on you for the moment. Hi! Pet——!’ He plunged off in pursuit of his wife who had departed to greet a friend.
Left alone Victoria looked about her a little desperately, searching for a familiar face, until her attention was arrested by a man who had just entered the hall and was standing scanning the newly arrived passengers as though he were looking for someone.
He was a tall, slim, sunburnt man in the early thirties, who carried his inches with a peculiar lounging grace that somehow suggested the popular conception of a cowboy. An effect that was heightened by the fact that he, like Oswin Brocas-Gill, wore a belt that supported a revolver. But there the cowboy resemblance ended, for the cut of the carelessly careful coat, in contrast to Oswin’s crumpled attire, spoke almost offensively of Savile Row, while his shoes were undoubtedly handmade – though not in Kenya.
It was not, however, his personal appearance that had caught Victoria’s attention, but the fact that he was now observing her with interest and a distinct suggestion of distaste. Men were apt to look at Victoria with interest. They had been doing so in increasing numbers since somewhere around her sixteenth birthday, so there was nothing new in that. What was new was the distaste. No man had ever previously regarded her with the coldly critical lack of approval that was in the blue gaze of th
e gentleman by the doorway, and Victoria involuntarily glanced down to assure herself that she was not showing six inches of petticoat or wearing odd stockings. She was engaged in this apprehensive survey when he crossed the hall and spoke to her:
‘Are you Miss Caryll?’
It was an agreeable voice – or would have been agreeable if it had not been for her conviction that for some reason its owner disapproved of her.
‘Y-yes,’ said Victoria, disconcerted by that disapproval and annoyed to find herself stammering.
The man reached out and calmly possessed himself of the small suitcase she held. ‘My name’s Stratton. Lady Emily asked me to meet you. You’d better give me your passport and entry permit and all the rest of it, and I’ll get someone to deal with it. Got any money on you?’
‘A little,’ said Victoria.
‘You’ll have to get it changed into local currency.’
He held out his hand and Victoria found herself meekly surrendering her bag.
‘Stay here. You’d better sit on that sofa,’ said Mr Stratton, and left her.
Victoria took his advice and sat staring after his retreating back with a mixture of indignation and relief. She could not imagine why Aunt Emily should have sent this disapproving stranger to meet her, but at least it was not Eden.
She had not realized that she could feel like this. So shaken and unsure of herself and so afraid of being hurt. Well, it was entirely her own fault. She had refused to face facts while there was still time, and now it was too late. She leaned back on the sofa and rested her head against the wall behind it, unaware that she was looking exceedingly pale and shaken.
A stout figure bore down upon her, exuding an overpowering wave of expensive scent, and Mrs Brocas-Gill was with her once more, breathing heavily as though she had been running.
‘Ah, I see you’ve heard,’ said Mrs Brocas-Gill, panting a little. ‘What an appalling reception for you. Too dreadful!’
Victoria struggled to her feet, endeavouring to collect her scattered thoughts, and said: ‘Aunt Emily’s sent someone to meet me. A Mr Stratton.’
‘Oh, Drew,’ said Mrs Brocas-Gill. ‘I wonder she didn’t send Gilly Markham. He’s her manager, you know. I was telling you about him. I should have thought he was the obvious person to – but then I don’t suppose any of the Flamingo people could get away today. Too ghastly for you, my dear. Oh, there you are Oswin. Isn’t it too dreadful?’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ said Mr Brocas-Gill, thrusting passports and permits into his wife’s hands. ‘Don’t let’s go over all that again. Hullo, Drew. What are you doing here? Oh, you’re collecting Jack’s girl, are you? Splendid. Splendid! Was going to keep an eye on her myself until someone turned up. Knew Em wouldn’t be here, of course. You’ll be all right with Drew, m’dear. We shall be seeing you. Come on, Pet! Damned if I’m going to hang around here all day!’
He seized his wife’s arm and hurried her away, and Mr Stratton piloted Victoria into the customs shed and said: ‘Here’s the rest of your luggage. Have you got the keys? You may have to open them.’
Five minutes later she was out in the bright sunlight again and being driven away from the Airport through an area of ugly slums and unattractive bazaars.
There was nothing in these mean, crowded streets that was in any way familiar to Victoria, or that struck any chord of memory. And as they left the town behind, and eucalyptus trees and vivid masses of bougainvillaea replaced the squalid huts and shop fronts, she caught glimpses between the green trees of neat, white, red-roofed houses – primly British and more suggestive of Welwyn Garden City than Darkest Africa – that could not have been here when she had last driven through Nairobi over sixteen years ago.
Mr Stratton spoke at last, breaking a silence that had lasted since they left the Airport:
‘I take it that you didn’t get your Aunt’s cable? She was afraid you might not. That’s why she asked me to call in at the Airport, in case you were on the plane.’
‘In case I was? I don’t understand. What cable?’
‘I gather she sent one care of your bank, as she thought you might be spending the last few days with friends.’
‘I was,’ admitted Victoria, bewildered. ‘But why did she cable? Didn’t she want me to come?’
‘Well, hardly, at a time like this. After all, it’s a fairly nasty mess to land you into.’
‘What mess?’ demanded Victoria. ‘Is Aunt Em ill?’
Mr Stratton’s head came round with a jerk and the car swerved on the road as though his hands had twitched at the wheel. He said incredulously: ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know? But surely the Brocas-Gills— Look, wasn’t it in the home papers?’
‘Wasn’t what in the home papers?’ Victoria’s eyes were wide with apprehension. ‘Aunt Em … Eden! He isn’t——’
‘No,’ said Mr Stratton shortly. ‘He’s all right. It’s his wife. She was murdered three days ago. I’m sorry. I thought you’d know. It was on the B.B.C., and it must have been in the home papers.’
‘No,’ said Victoria unsteadily. ‘I mean – I didn’t listen to the news. There was so much to do. And I – I missed the papers. How did it happen? Tell me about it, please. I’d rather hear now. Before I meet … Aunt Emily.’
She had hesitated for a moment before speaking her aunt’s name, as though she might have intended to use another one, and Mr Stratton, who was at no time unobservant, did not miss it. He turned his head and looked at her, and there was once again, and unmistakably, dislike in the hard line of his mouth and the cold glance of his normally bland blue eyes.
He looked away again and said curtly: ‘Alice – Mrs DeBrett – was murdered in the garden of your aunt’s house. Someone killed her with a panga – a heavy knife that the Africans use for chopping wood and cutting grass. Your aunt found her. It can’t have been a pleasant sight, and though she’s bearing up pretty well she was in no state to drive over a hundred miles into Nairobi and back in order to meet you. And neither was Eden. What with the shock, and the police and press swarming all over the place, they’ve both had a pretty bad time of it. And in any case the funeral’s this morning.’
Victoria did not speak, and presently he glanced at her again and suffered a momentary pang of compunction at the sight of her white face. She looked a good deal younger than he had expected her to be, yet she must be at least twenty-four if she had been engaged to Eden DeBrett before he had married Alice. Quite old enough to appreciate the feelings of his wife, who could hardly be expected to welcome the idea of her husband’s ex-fiancée as a permanent fixture in the home.
Drew had liked Alice, and he had been sorry for her. And remembering her haggard, defenceless face and haunted eyes, he took a poor view of Miss Caryll, whose arrival seemed to him vulgar and tactless, if not intentionally cruel.
Victoria spoke at last, and in a voice that was barely audible above the hum of the engine:
‘I thought it was all over. The Emergency, I mean. Mrs Brocas-Gill said it was. But if the Mau Mau are still murdering people——’
‘I see no reason to suppose that it was a Mau Mau killing,’ said Drew shortly. ‘It merely makes a better headline in the press that way.’
‘Then who——?’
‘God knows! A maniac. Or someone with a fancied grievance. You never can tell what goes on in an African’s head. And there have apparently been a lot of odd and unpleasant happenings at Flamingo lately.’
‘I knew there was something wrong,’ said Victoria in a whisper, and once again Drew’s head turned sharply.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It – it was Aunt Em’s letter. She wrote and asked me if I would come out. She said she was getting too old to do without someone to help her, and that Eden wasn’t – and she would rather have someone who belonged, than a stranger. My mother was her only sister you see, and they were fond of each other. But there was something in the way she wrote. As if she had something on her mind that was – Oh, I don’t know �
� But it was an odd letter. A rather frightening one.’
‘Frightening in what way?’
‘Well – perhaps not frightening. Uncomfortable. She sounded as though she really did need me. Badly. And she’d always been very good to me. My father didn’t leave much money, and I know Aunt Em helped with the school bills. So I came.’
‘Was that your only reason?’
‘No,’ said Victoria. She looked up at the blue sky and the blaze of sunlight, and thought of the London rain and fog, and of her longing to live once more under that hot sun and that wide sky. Her lovely mouth curved in the ghost of a smile, and she said softly: ‘No. There were other reasons.’
‘So I inferred,’ said Mr Stratton unpleasantly.
Victoria turned to look at him in surprise, puzzled by his evident hostility, and after a moment or two she said a little diffidently: ‘What did you mean about odd and unpleasant things happening at Flamingo? What sort of things?’
‘Some person or persons unknown has been smashing up your aunt’s possessions in a manner usually associated with poltergeists – or ham-handed housemaids.’
‘A p-poltergeist! You can’t believe that!’
‘I don’t. I’ll start believing in evil spirits only when someone has eliminated all possibility of the evil human element; and not before! Your aunt must have been mad not to send for the police at once, but she’s been fighting a rear-guard action with the authorities over her Kikuyu servants for the last five years, and I suppose she wasn’t going to give Greg or the D.C. a chance of having them all up and grilling them again, and jailing a handful under suspicion. Trouble is, she’s an obstinate old lady, and once she decides on a course of action she sticks to it. She says now that she realized it must be the work of one of her house servants, but that whoever it was must be acting under orders – or threats.’
