by M. M. Kaye
She accompanied the remark with a high-pitched tinkling laugh; but her face as she bent to pick up the broken pieces was white and frightened, and Victoria, stooping to help her, saw that her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
A light clicked on in the dining-room behind them, and a warm yellow glow fell across the verandah from the windows and the open door. And instantly it was evening no longer, but dusk: the garden shadowy with nightfall and the sky already sprinkled with pale stars.
Lisa deposited the bits of broken glass on the tray and said: ‘Would you tell your aunt that it was an accident, and that we’re so sorry? Oh, and she did say something about a picnic on the twenty-ninth. It was arranged before – before anything happened of course, so it may not be on. Would you ask her to let me know about it, because I’m afraid we must rush. Drew, you’re coming over to collect those papers, aren’t you? You’d better stay to supper as it’s so late. It’s only ourselves and Ken Brandon. He’s rather in a state, poor boy, and it might take his mind off things if we had some bridge.’
Drew said firmly: ‘No thank you, Lisa. An evening spent coping with an adolescent who is “in a state” is not in my line. Besides, I must get back.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ said Gilly feelingly. ‘Good night, Victoria.’ He nodded absently at her and followed his wife down the steps and out into the violet dusk.
Victoria watched them go, and then turned to look at Mr Stratton, who had not moved. She was unaware that at that moment her face was as white and as frightened as Lisa’s had been – or Gilly’s. But Drew, looking down at it, was unaccountably disturbed.
He said abruptly: ‘You’re scared, aren’t you.’
‘A – a little,’ admitted Victoria. And having admitted it was immediately aware of a diminution of that fear.
‘Of what?’
‘I don’t know. The house – the things that have happened in it. But you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?’
‘Not in this one,’ said Drew grimly. ‘That is, if you’re referring to the poltergeist.’
‘I don’t either. It all sounds too——’
She hesitated, wrinkling her brows, and Drew said: ‘Too unghostly?’
‘I was going to say, “too planned”; as though someone had worked it all out very carefully to a – a sort of pattern. I think that is what is frightening.’
‘Why? Because you think that no African would have planned something like this and carried it through? If that’s what you think, you’re wrong. It’s just the sort of tortuous scheme that would appeal to them. But there’s nothing to be afraid of now, for if there ever was a plan, or a pattern, Mrs DeBrett’s death completed it. It’s finished.’
He had spoken with complete confidence, but almost before the words were out of his mouth he realized with a sudden sense of shock that he did not believe them. How could anyone assert with confidence that Alice’s death had put an end to the things that had happened at Flamingo, while her killer was still at large? It is only the first killing that is difficult. Greg had said that only yesterday …
A bird fluttered among the hanging creepers at the verandah edge, and Drew saw Victoria start at the sound and bite hard on her under-lip; and was surprised to find himself suddenly and savagely angry. With Em for bringing the girl out here. With Eden for permitting it. With Greg and Gilly and Lisa for frightening her. And most of all with himself – for caring whether they did or not!
11
Breakfast was barely over on the following morning when young Mr Hennessy and his police askaris descended upon Flamingo.
Em interviewed them briefly on the verandah and dismissed them to the kitchen quarters and the labour lines in charge of Eden, there to pursue their enquiries into the disappearance of Kamau and a pair of scarlet dungarees.
An hour later Gilly had appeared with a batch of files, and she retired with him into the office, having refused her niece’s offer of assistance.
Victoria, left to her own devices, fetched a hat and went out to explore the garden, and she had been following a narrow path that wound through bushes of bougainvillaea, plumbago and orange trumpet flower when she came suddenly upon a stranger. A middle-aged woman in a green cotton dress who wore a battered wide-brimmed double terai hat jammed down over a riot of grey curls, and who appeared to have lost something, for she was bending down and peering anxiously about her.
‘Can I help?’ enquired Victoria.
The woman jumped violently, and said in a breathless voice: ‘Oh dear, how you startled me! I believe there’s a puff adder in there. They are such dangerous creatures. You must be Victoria. I used to know your parents – oh, years ago. You wouldn’t remember me. I’m Mabel Brandon. Our place, Brandonmead, is just over there——’ She gestured vaguely to the west with one hand and began to move on down the path, still talking, so that Victoria had perforce to follow her:
‘We have a sort of mutual right-of-way between Flamingo and our land,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘It saves us going miles by road. There’s a track that runs right round this side of the lake across at least a dozen estates. I believe it used to be a game track once. There was any amount of big game in the valley when we first came here. Rhino and lion and buffalo, and even elephant. But of course they’re gone now. Just as well really. It would have made farming impossible. Of course lions still come over sometimes from the Masai territory, though they get killed off very quickly. I believe one was seen at Crater Lake only last year. We must take you there. Em said something about a picnic. But she will have cancelled that of course.’
Mrs Brandon had quickened her steps as she talked and now she was walking quite briskly. Almost as though she did not want Victoria to linger among the bushes and was hurrying her away from them, talking trivialities to distract her attention from the fact.
The path took a sharp downward curve and came out upon a long belt of open ground, where a narrow trolley line ran parallel with the shamba and carried the heavy piles of maize and vegetables and bananas up to the higher ground where the Flamingo lorries were loaded. Mrs Brandon paused irresolutely and murmured something about running up to see Gilly.
‘He won’t be there,’ volunteered Victoria. ‘He’s up at the house with Aunt Em.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Brandon doubtfully. ‘Well perhaps I might call in there: just for a minute or two. No, don’t let’s go back that way——’ She left the path and struck upwards again, following the trolley line, and they came out among a grove of acacias, one of which was being cut up and converted into charcoal.
Mrs Brandon sat down on the fallen trunk, and removing her hat, fanned her hot face with it and enquired conversationally if Victoria was glad to be back in Kenya, and how did she find Em? ‘Personally,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘I don’t think that she is looking at all well. But then all this has been a terrible blow to her. And now I hear that one of her boys has run off. Kamau.’ She paused expectantly, but receiving no reply went on to ask what Mr Gilbert had made of Wambui’s story.
‘What story?’ asked Victoria innocently.
Mrs Brandon’s pleasant face flushed and she shifted uncomfortably. But she was not to be deflected. ‘The one she told Lisa. That it was Em who had killed Alice. Quite ridiculous of course, but – well, it does raise a question, doesn’t it? I was never quite sure that Em really liked Alice. And Africans are so quick to spot these things. They’re very observant. If Kamau thought that Em disliked her, that might have put the idea into his head – that Em killed her. It would have seemed quite natural to him. The wish being father to the thought. If – if you see what I mean.’
‘No,’ said Victoria, ‘I’m afraid I don’t. Mr Gilbert says it’s quite obvious that Kamau thought he saw her do it.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’ protested Mrs Brandon.
‘Of course it is,’ said Victoria cheerfully. ‘But Mr Gilbert thinks it was someone wearing the sort of clothes and hat that Aunt Em wears. He says it would have been the best possible disguise, as eve
n a smaller person or a thinner one could have worn it, since no one would have looked twice.’
‘A thin person,’ repeated Mabel stupidly. And suddenly sat bolt upright, struck by the same thought that had struck Greg Gilbert. ‘The cushion! So that was why— ! Oh no, it isn’t possible. It isn’t!’
‘What isn’t possible?’ enquired Victoria, puzzled.
‘Prints,’ said Mabel confusedly. ‘It wasn’t a plain one. It——’ She seemed suddenly to recollect herself, and stopped short, biting her lip, and presently smiled a little stiffly and said: ‘It’s difficult to know what to think, isn’t it? One does not like to think that one’s own servants may be under suspicion, and Em’s have always been so staunch. It must be heartbreaking for her. For of course it must be one of the Flamingo servants. It could be no one else. What does Greg intend to do about it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Victoria with perfect truth, and firmly changing the subject, enquired: ‘What are those odd looking mud heaps with smoke coming out of them?’
‘Charcoal,’ said Mabel briefly. ‘Does Em think——’
‘Charcoal? But it’s mud and turf!’
‘The charcoal is inside,’ explained Mabel patiently. ‘When a tree dies we cut it up into lengths and then put mud all over it in a huge mound – all those trenches are where the earth and turf were dug out – and when it’s covered a slow fire is started at one end which burns away for weeks, and when that’s out the charcoal is ready. They’re really sort of home-made kilns. Does your aunt think that whoever murdered Alice was really wearing a pair of her dungarees? I mean, surely she must know if a pair is missing? It wouldn’t be easy to steal them.’
Victoria gave it up. ‘But there is a pair missing,’ she said, resigning herself. ‘And Aunt Em says it would have been quite easy for anyone who wanted a pair to take them off the washing line. I had a look this morning, and it would. In fact you could have had one yourself today if you’d felt like it. That path you were on passes it quite close.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Brandon, momentarily disconcerted. ‘Yes, I suppose it would be possible. It’s very careless of Em to have her lines where she can’t see them. It encourages pilfering. But the hat – is one of her hats missing too?’
‘I don’t think so. But one floppy hat would look exactly like another in the dusk, wouldn’t it?’
Mrs Brandon’s gaze fell on the wide-brimmed double terai she held, and she dropped it as though it had stung her, and then stooped hurriedly and picked it up. She jammed it back on her dishevelled curls and stood up, and said in a rather breathless voice: ‘It’s dreadfully hot here, isn’t it? All those kilns— Shall we go back to the house? Em may have finished with the office work by now, and I should like some shandy.’
She led the way between the acacia trees, and across a waste of parched grass strewn with rough lava boulders towards a green belt of trees and bamboos that screened the gardens; and on arrival at the house went off to telephone her husband.
Victoria departed in search of cold drinks and discovered Eden in the dining-room similarly employed – though he appeared to favour something stronger than shandy.
‘Hullo, Vicky. What’ll you have? Scotch or rye. Or what about a gin and ginger? You’d better get down to some steady drinking, because the odds are once again heavily in favour of a bread-and-cheese luncheon. The entire household staff are having hysterics over the question of Gran’s pants. What a party!’
Victoria laughed and said: ‘I’ve got Mrs Brandon here. She’s telephoning her husband to fetch her. She says she’d like some shandy, and I’ll have some too. Is there any ice?’
‘Lots. I’ve just collected a bowl from the ’fridge. Also some beer, so you’re in luck. I presume Mabel is here with the object of collecting all the latest dope. Has she been cross-questioning you?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Victoria ruefully. ‘I tried to dodge it, but it wasn’t any use. She’s madly curious.’
‘She’s scared stiff!’ corrected Eden, mixing beer and ginger beer in a jug.
‘Scared? But why?’
‘Because her darling son had a juvenile crush on my wife,’ said Eden.
‘But that’s no reason——’ began Victoria, bewildered.
‘No?’ Eden added ice cubes, and filling a tankard, pushed it across to Victoria. ‘You don’t know Mabel! She’s nuts about her ewe lamb, and it’s my guess that she’s been bitten with the crazy notion that Alice having repulsed him, he may have seen red and gone for her, preferring to see her dead rather than lost to him. All very dramatic and Othello-ish, and utterly ridiculous! I don’t say that Ken mightn’t have done that. In fact he’s precisely the type of hysterical young ass who from time to time figures in the Sunday papers as having waylaid his ex-love, and bashed her with his own (and identifiable!) spanner, because she’d thrown him over. But what Mabel hasn’t the sense to realize is that if he’d done it, he’d have shot himself five minutes later! Unless of course he had some totally different and entirely unsuspected reason for wanting Alice out of the way, which is absurd. If only one could put that to Mabel it would save her making an ass of herself. But of course one can’t.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Victoria with some heat. ‘Because “it’s not done”, I suppose!’
‘No, darling. Because I, personally, do not fancy having my eyes scratched out. Just you try hinting to Mabel that she has even allowed such a possibility to cross her mind. She’d deny it with her last breath and never forgive you for having suggested it. But it’s there all right – panicking about in her sub-conscious, if nowhere else. Nothing else will explain why she has taken to thinking up excuses for haunting the place and asking endless questions, and generally behaving like a flustered hen. Darling Mabel. The best thing we can do for her is to add a double brandy to her shandy.’
He mixed himself a stiff John Collins and lifted his glass to Victoria. ‘Well, here’s to you, darling. Don’t let any of this get you down. You’re too sweet to get involved in such a miserable business. Keep out of it, Vicky.’
Was there, or was there not, a note of warning in his voice? something more than the mere wish to save her from distress? The uncomfortable thought darted swiftly through Victoria’s mind like a small fish glimpsed in deep water, and perhaps it had shown in her face, for Eden set down his glass, and crossing to her, put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes:
‘I can’t bear the idea of you getting mixed up in our troubles – in any troubles. And if only I were still strong-minded and self-sacrificing, instead of being weak-willed and abominably selfish, I’d insist on your leaving. But I’m not going to, because you are the one bright diamond in my present pile of coke.’
He smiled down at her, and once again, as it had on the previous day, Victoria’s heart seemed to check and miss a beat. His hands tightened on her shoulders and the moment seemed to stretch out interminably.
‘Oh, Vicky,’ said Eden with a break in his voice, ‘what a fool I’ve been!’
He released her abruptly, and picking up his glass and the jug of shandy, said: ‘There’s Mabel. Let’s go and drink outside.’
He turned away and walked out on to the verandah, and Victoria, following more slowly, found Em and Gilly emerging from the hall door.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Markham enthusiastically, observing the tankard in her hand. ‘Liquor! Just what I stand in need of after devoting an entire hour to the subject of milk (a dreary beverage and one I never touch). Would there be anything stronger than beer in the offing, Eden?’
‘You’ll find all the usual things on the sideboard in the dining-room,’ said Eden. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks, I will. What about you, Em?’
‘Nothing, thank you. I dislike drinking at midday,’ said Em grumpily, plumping herself down in a wicker chair.
‘You don’t know what you miss!’ said Gilly blithely, and disappeared into the dining-room.
Mabel accepted a tankard of shandy and sat down
on a long wicker divan that stood against the wall, its back formed by a row of three boldly patterned cushions – the fourth being presumably still in the possession of the police. She subjected her hostess to a worried scrutiny, and said anxiously: ‘You don’t look at all well, Em. You ought to get Dr North to give you a tonic.’
‘Thank you, Mabel, I have no desire to fill my stomach with useless nostrums. I am merely tired, that is all. Tired of office work and silly questions and having the police permanently on the premises upsetting my servants. Is young Hennessy still here, Eden?’
‘No,’ said Eden. ‘Having thrown the cook-house into hysterics he has retired to write up a report, and we shall probably have Greg here as soon as he’s read it.’
‘Did he get anything out of the servants?’
‘Nothing but indignant denials and a suggestion that the dogs are responsible. Oh, and several missing dish-cloths that turned up in one of the huts. One of the totos had evidently been making a collection of them. No sign of your dungarees, however.’
‘Where are the dogs today?’ enquired Mabel, bending to peer along the verandah as though she expected to find them concealed under the chairs.
‘Locked up,’ said Eden. ‘And they can stay there! They don’t take to police on the premises, any more than Gran does.’
‘Sensible animals,’ observed Em morosely. ‘Gilly, here’s your wife. Get her a drink. Good morning, Lisa. What is it now?’
Gilly, who had emerged from the dining-room with a glass in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other, returned to fetch a second glass as Lisa came up the steps looking cool and spruce and pretty in a full skirted dress of pale blue poplin patterned with daisies. He returned with a gin and lime for his wife, and Lisa said: ‘I only came over to ask about the picnic. I suppose you are postponing it?’
‘What picnic?’ enquired Em. ‘Oh, yes. I remember. We were going to take an all-day picnic tomorrow to show Victoria something of the Valley. No, I see no reason why we should postpone it. It will do us all good to get away from the house for a day – and from the police! Mabel, you and Hector were coming, weren’t you? And Ken. Then that’s settled. Where shall we go?’
