Death in Kenya

by M. M. Kaye

  Em’s voice failed suddenly and she covered her face with her hands as though to blot out the horror that her own words had conjured up: the picture of Alice standing helpless and appalled in the dusk, too stunned with shock to scream or run. A strong shudder shook her bulky body and presently she lifted a ravaged face and staring, haunted eyes, and spoke in a voice that was barely more than a hoarse whisper:

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of bad things in my time. Men who were mauled by lions or trampled by buffalo or rhino. And – and there was Gus Abbott too. But they were men. I suppose that made it different. It’s silly to feel like this. But – but she couldn’t bear wounds and blood. I used to tell her that she shouldn’t mind. But when I saw her that night, I minded too. I minded…’

  Eden said: ‘Don’t, Gran! Please——!’ His face was as drawn and ravaged as her own, and, for a moment only, ugly with remembered horror. The sight of it seemed to act on Em like a douche of cold water, and she straightened her bowed shoulders with a palpable effort and said remorsefully: ‘Forgive me, dear. I’m behaving very badly. But then this is all so absurd. I wish I knew why Kamau should have said such a thing. Perhaps Wambui made it up?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Greg. ‘I can usually tell when I’m being spun a yarn. I’d say she was speaking the truth. But was Kamau?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Drew, abruptly and positively.

  There was a simultaneous gasp from at least four throats, and Em shrank back in her chair and stared at him in horrified disbelief.

  Mr Stratton viewed his audience with undisguised impatience and said: ‘There’s no need to look at me as though I’d gone off my head. The thing stands out a mile. Of course he was speaking the truth – or what he thought was the truth. Just take a look at Em. She’s a nice, bright splash of colour, isn’t she? And she’s been dressing like that ever since I was in rompers! Eden has already pointed out that the distance between the bushes and the spot where Alice was killed is rather more than fifty yards, and it was getting dark. So all that Kamau saw was someone wearing the sort of hat and clothes she wears, and naturally he thought it was Em. Bet you any money you like I’m right!’

  ‘No takers,’ said Greg with a wry smile. ‘I ought to have seen it myself.’

  ‘But why?’ demanded Eden vehemently. ‘Why should anyone try and pin it on Gran, when she’s the very last person who’d be likely to do it?’

  Drew shrugged and said: ‘Perhaps that was why. Because no one would credit it.’

  ‘No,’ said Greg slowly. ‘I imagine that the reason was even simpler than that. Anyone, male or female, could wear that sort of outfit and get away with it, because no one would give them a second look. It also provided an excuse for being seen in the gardens at that hour, for if anyone happened to see the wearer, they’d take it for granted that it was Em. It was the perfect disguise. And that of course is the answer to the riddle of the verandah cushion!’

  ‘How do you work that out?’ demanded Em, thereby temporarily depriving Mr Gilbert of his composure.

  ‘Well … er … I thought – padding?’ he suggested cautiously.

  Em looked bewildered but Lisa unexpectedly went off into a gale of giggles, and Em, turning to look at her, remarked coldly that they would all like to share in the joke: any joke.

  ‘I’m s-sorry,’ gasped Lisa, wavering helplessly between relief and hysteria. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t laugh, but it’s so f-funny! He means your b-b-bosom! A man wouldn’t have one, but you have! Ha, ha, ha, ha!’

  Instinctively and simultaneously every eye was focused upon Em’s imposing frontage, and the next minute they were all laughing as helplessly as Lisa – and for much the same reason. Only Em, like Queen Victoria, declined to be amused, and announced austerely that she saw nothing to laugh at.

  ‘You wouldn’t, darling. You’re behind it!’ said Eden, and collapsed into renewed mirth.

  Em folded her hands in her lap and waited with a dignified display of patience for the laughter to subside.

  ‘I apologize,’ said Greg, mopping his streaming eyes and recovering himself. ‘On behalf of us all. Extremely silly and unnecessary, but for some reason it’s done me a power of good. Seriously, Em, that cushion worried me. But it’s quite obvious that whoever impersonated you was too slim to be convincing, and needed a bit of – well, building up. Hence the cushion. Now what about those clothes? How many pairs of those red overalls have you got, and have you lost any recently?’

  Victoria gave a startled gasp and Em said grimly: ‘I never thought of that! I should have four pairs of them, but one can’t be found.’

  ‘Could it have been missing for some time?’

  Em shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I wouldn’t have noticed, and I don’t suppose Zacharia would have done either until an occasion like this morning, when three pairs happened to be in the wash at once.’

  ‘Supposing someone wanted to steal a pair, would it have been easy or difficult? For an outsider, for instance.’

  ‘I should say only too easy. All the washing is hung up on the lines behind the kitchen, and anyone could remove something from a line if they waited for the right moment. The odd thing does occasionally vanish – generally dish-cloths. But Zach ought to have noticed something like a pair of my dungarees. Except that he’s getting old – like me.’

  Mr Gilbert frowned thoughtfully at the small notebook that lay open on his knee, and presently said: ‘By the way, in spite of what you said on the subject of alibis, I think you may turn out to have a cast-iron one after all. Can you remember what you were playing on the piano that evening?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Em, her face suddenly bleak. ‘I was playing Toroni’s concerto. The Rift Valley Concerto. There isn’t any record of that. Not any longer.’

  ‘So I understand. It was broken by the poltergeist, wasn’t it? And I also seem to remember that there was only the one record, and that it isn’t on sale, or available to the general public. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes. He had it made for me in New York. But then none of my servants would know the difference between one tune and another, I’m afraid.’

  Greg said: ‘That’s where you’re wrong. The average African has a better ear for music than one would imagine, and that particular piece not only had a good many tribal tunes and rhythms incorporated into it, but I gather that Toroni composed it here at Flamingo, on your piano; and that you yourself have played it pretty frequently of late. Anyway, three of your servants say that you were playing “Bwana Toroni’s songs”. So you see it’s not such a bad alibi after all. We shall have to check it of course, for form’s sake: cable New York and make sure that you couldn’t have got hold of a duplicate, and that sort of thing. And if their answer clears you, then the thing is buttoned as far as you are concerned.’

  ‘I rather think that it’s buttoned without that,’ remarked Gilly unexpectedly. ‘In fact you can save yourself the expense of a cable, and the F.B.I. a headache.’

  ‘How’s that?’ demanded Greg, turning quickly to face him.

  Gilly abandoned the pose of disinterested spectator, and strolled forward, his hands in his pockets.

  He said: ‘Drew’ll tell you that I met him at the gate in the hedge just after he’d seen Alice off, and we both heard Em playing that thing. He pushed off, but I didn’t. I sat on the concrete block just outside the gate for a goodish while. Until it was dark.’

  ‘You what?’ demanded Greg incredulously. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before? You mean that you were there after seven? Surely you must have heard something. A cry, or——’

  Gilly cut him short. ‘I didn’t hear anything! You forget that the knoll is away to the right, and there are trees and bamboos and heaven knows what between it and the gate. But there is a fairly clear line between the gate and the house, and I could hear the piano. I sat there for quite a time, listening to Em tackling that piece. I know it a damn sight better than she does; every bar and every note of it! And you can take it from me that it wouldn’t make
any difference if you discovered that there were half a million of those records in existence, and all of them in Kenya!’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Greg tersely.

  ‘Why? Because I’m enough of a musician to tell the difference between Em’s rendering of the concerto, and Toroni’s. That’s why!’

  Gilly transferred his gaze from Greg’s relieved face to Em’s tight-lipped, rigid mouth and basilisk stare, and laughed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Em. I know that touches you on the raw. But let’s face it, you’re a pretty poor performer when it comes to the piano, while Toroni was in a class by himself. And if you think I couldn’t go into the witness box and swear to the difference between your playing of the concerto and his – and be believed – you’re even less of a musician than I take you for. Well?’

  The fury died out of Em’s face but she continued to eye him with considerable hauteur, and after staring at him in disdainful silence for a full minute, she said coldly: ‘As both Greg and Eden seem to think that I could do with an alibi, I shall not argue with you.’

  ‘It may be a useful thing to have handy,’ observed Greg, and added briskly. ‘And now the next thing is to go after that missing pair of overalls.’

  ‘You are not going after them tonight,’ snapped Em. ‘At least, not in this house. I don’t care what you do in the grounds. Or anywhere else! But I have had quite enough alarms and excursions for one day, and I propose to have an early supper and go to bed. Good night.’

  She heaved herself up out of her chair and withdrew with the dignity of a Dowager Empress concluding an audience, leaving a somewhat conscience-stricken silence behind her. It was broken by Eden, who opened a bottle of soda water with an irritable violence that sent it frothing over the matting, and informed Gilly that this time he really had put his foot in it.

  ‘If there is one thing that Gran is vain about,’ said Eden, ‘it’s her playing. You may have given her a cast-iron alibi, but she won’t thank you for it. She’d probably have preferred to stand trial! So if you find yourself queueing up at the Labour Exchange in the near future, you’ll know why. You’d better get yourself a drink while the going’s good. It’s probably the last you’ll get on the house.’

  ‘Rot!’ said Gilly. He giggled light-heartedly, and taking advantage of the offer, poured himself out a double whisky, gulped it down neat, and refilled his glass. ‘Your grandmother may have been a tolerable amateur pianist in the days of her youth – though personally, I doubt it. But though her appreciation of good music is still Grade A, her performance, when compared to someone like Toroni’s, is on a par with a pianola’s. As for booting me out, phooey! Bet you she gives me a rise! After all, what’s injured pride compared to a stretched neck?’

  ‘Point is,’ said Eden, ‘that as she’ll never believe in the possibility of the latter, she will have plenty of indignation to spare for the former.’

  ‘You underrate her intelligence,’ grinned Gilly. ‘Skoal! She may be a vain old peacock, but she’s no fool. Sheerest stroke of luck that I didn’t trot straight back to the house that evening. Very nearly did! But I’d had just about enough of Hector and Mabel for one day, and I didn’t want to run into them; so I stayed where I was and listened to Em massacring that concerto. Stroke of luck!’

  Greg slid the notebook into his pocket and said: ‘Look, Eden, do you think I could have a word with Majiri and Zacharia without running into Em again – about those dungarees? I shall have to send Bill Hennessy down tomorrow to go into the question in more detail of course. That’ll turn his hair white!’

  ‘As long as you steer clear of the cook,’ said Eden, ‘I don’t care who you see. But cheese and biscuits for supper on top of all this would be the last straw. All right, come on.’ They departed, leaving Victoria to the society of the Markhams and Mr Stratton.

  The sun had set and the gardens were no longer gaily coloured and noisy with bird song, but cool and green and quiet, and a bat swooped out from under the eaves and flitted along the silent verandah.

  Lisa stood up and said in a bright, brittle voice: ‘So it was all a storm in a teacup. I can’t imagine why Greg should have insisted on our coming over with him. So embarrassing! And quite unnecessary, as it happened.’

  Gilly poured himself out a third whisky and observed dispassionately that it provided an interesting and unexpected sidelight on his wife’s character to find that she could refer to a brutal murder as a storm in a teacup, and that she knew quite well why Greg had brought them over. ‘Or you should know. After all, you were the one who started this hare. Besides, you were quite prepared to believe that she’d done it. Don’t tell me you weren’t!’

  Lisa said indignantly: ‘Gilly, I do wish you wouldn’t talk such arrant nonsense. Drew and I know you well enough to know when you’re joking, but Miss Caryll might take you seriously.’

  ‘And how right Miss Caryll would be! You also produced a very, very neat little theory as to why Em should have done it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Gilly, be quiet!’ Lisa rounded on her husband, her eyes brilliant with anger.

  ‘And a damned good theory, too, if I may say so,’ said Gilly, ignoring her. ‘Except for one small but vital point that you have overlooked.’

  ‘Gilly!’ Lisa’s voice was imploring, and she dragged at his arm. ‘It’s getting late. Let’s go home.’

  ‘Pipe down, Lisa. Drew’s interested; aren’t you Drew? Interesting case – very. Drew doesn’t believe that any stray Mau Mau thug did this, any more’n I do – or Greg, or Em. Much as they’d like to believe it, Lisa my love. But they don’t know what I know.’

  He began to giggle, and Drew said: ‘What do you know, Gilly?’ But the question had been asked too sharply, and the slightly vacuous expression that whisky had brought to Gilly’s face was replaced by wariness and a trace of malice.

  ‘We aren’t discussing me,’ said Gilly. ‘Discussin’ Lisa’s theory about Em. Em and Alice. We all think that Em was fond of Alice – in a patronizing Protect-the-Weak the poor-kid-can’t-help-it sort of way. But suppose we were wrong? Supposing that underneath all that surface affection she hated her guts? That it was all an act, and she was really jealous of her – because of Eden, or because one day she would be mistress of Flamingo? It’s no secret that Em’s nuts about Eden and dotty on the subject of Flamingo. She’d do anything for either of them – even murder! That was Lisa’s theory. And mark you, granting the premise, perfectly feasible. I don’t suppose that Em has ever heard that song about You can’t chop your momma up in Massachusetts, but she’d be quite capable of chopping up a granddaughter-in-law in Kenya if she judged it to be necessary. Law unto herself; that’s Em! All the same, Lisa doesn’t notice things…’

  ‘What sort of things?’ This time Drew’s voice was deceptively casual.

  ‘Oh – this and that. Or maybe she does? She’s a sly little thing, Lisa. All women are sly. Ever noticed that, Drew? You will – you will! Take Mabel, for instance … asked if she could take a couple of pineapples home on Tuesday evening, just after Alice left, and went off to pick ’em. Lisa never noticed that she came back without any. And shall I tell you why? Because Lisa had been out too. Down to the shamba, she says, to get some tomatoes. Though what she wanted ’em for is anybody’s guess – we had roast duck and cauliflower for supper. She thinks I don’t notice things, but I do!’

  Lisa made no comment, but Victoria saw her eyes widen in surprise and become fixed and intent. Gilly wagged his head sagely and helped himself to yet another drink, and Drew said curtly: ‘Haven’t you had enough of that?’

  ‘Enough of what?’ demanded Gilly. ‘Women – or Em’s whisky? If the former, certainly. But no one can have too much of Em’s whisky. First because it’s good, and secon’ly because it’s Em’s; on the house! Prosit!’

  He took a deep gulp, and lowered his voice to a confidential undertone: ‘Ever struck you, Drew, that all the time Greg was talking about alibis for Em, he hadn’t noticed that no one else has one either? Yo
u, for instance. You say you went off home when you left me. Did you? Mabel says she was picking pineapples. Oh yeah? Hector walked home by the path that runs along the top of the shambas – so he says. Eden’s supposed to have been driving around somewhere, and Lisa’s wandering round the tomato patch. But is there an alibi in the bunch? Not on your life!’

  Drew said amiably: ‘That’s quite a point. We might start with you. Can you prove one?’

  Gilly looked startled. ‘Prove what?’

  ‘That you sat on that lump of concrete for half an hour or so and didn’t hear a thing?’

  Gilly put down his empty glass hurriedly. ‘Here! Who says I didn’t hear anything? I heard Em playing – I heard that damned concerto of Toroni’s.’

  ‘That’s what you say. But Em had already told us what it was that she had been playing, and the evidence of three of her servants confirmed it. You might have decided to use that information as an alibi for yourself. Or you might still have heard it, but from a good deal nearer! See what I mean? So if I were you I’d lay off all these heavy hints that various people are in need of alibis. Because the obvious inference is that they must each have had a reason for wishing Alice dead, and that you know it. Which is dangerous bunkum.’

  ‘But I do——’ began Gilly. And stopped. He made a nervous grab at his glass, and then changed his mind and pushed it away so violently that it toppled off the table and splintered into pieces on the verandah floor.

  Lisa said briskly and with a trace of satisfaction in her voice: ‘Now look what you’ve done! That’s one of Em’s crystal set, and she won’t be a bit pleased. Or do you think that if we just tiptoe away and leave her to find it she’ll put it down to the poltergeist?’