“Can I watch?”
Rick laughed. “From a distance. It won’t be a pretty sight.”
“Are you guys going to hunt treasure together?”
“Hunky hunts treasure, Splint. I document underwater archaeological sites. Those are two very different things, but we’re going to attempt to work on this shipwreck together. If I can keep the old buzzard from blasting holes in the wreckage and turning the seafloor into something that looks like a field full of exploded land mines, I’ll be happy.”
“And if I can get my hands on enough gold and silver to make the venture worth my while, I’ll be a happy man too.”
“Don’t count on it, Splint,” Rick said. “The only time Hunky’s really happy is when he’s raking in pieces of eight and gold doubloons—and he knows the government of Tanzania has the legal right to most of what we pull out of that wreck.”
“Aye, well, the only time this bloke’s truly happy . . .” The Scotsman paused. “When are you happy, McTaggart? You don’t drink, you don’t frolic with the women, and you’re as pious as a priest. In fact, I doubt you’ve ever had a moment’s fun in your life.”
“You’re wrong there, Hunky.”
“Am I?” He gave Splinter a nudge. “This chap goes about looking as if he’s lost his one true love, if you know what I mean. Works all the time, day and night. Never plays. Never sings. Never dances. You’d think he was paying penance with his life for something terrible he’d done.”
“Unlike some people, I take my work seriously.”
“And you’ll work yourself into an early grave, too.”
“I have a peace you know nothing about.”
“Aye, you’re at peace. I’ll grant you that. But you have no joy. None at all.”
The Scotsman scrawled his name on the final page of the contract Rick was holding for him. He tucked the pen back into the pocket of his new partner’s shirt and turned toward the sea.
“I’ll be out there with my men the rest of the day,” the Scotsman said. “And whatever I find will be mine. Our contract begins tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here at dawn. And, Hunky, try not to move anything around down there today, okay?”
“Oh, you’ll put it back together the right way ’round. That’s your job, isn’t it?”
The treasure hunter hailed his men on the small white boat bobbing a short distance from shore. Without a final glance, he crossed the sand and waded into the waves. Splinter watched as the heavyset man grabbed hold of the boat and swung himself onto the deck. As the boat’s small engine coughed to life, the Scotsman busied himself putting on his flippers and arranging his air hoses.
“Has he really found gold and silver coins?” Splint asked the tall man at his side.
“A few.”
“I’m going to be a treasure hunter like Hunky when I grow up.”
“Your mom might not be too happy about that.”
“My mom hasn’t been too happy about anything since we got to Zanzibar. I think something’s bothering her.”
McTaggart studied Splint until the youngster started to feel like a specimen under a microscope. “Any idea what’s wrong?” the man asked finally.
Splint shrugged. “My mom is tough. She went from coloring pictures at a card factory to designing the cards themselves to illustrating famous books. She’s gotten us through winters where we didn’t have much heat in the flat and months where she cooked beans at every meal. Nobody messes around with my mom.”
“She sounds like a strong lady.”
“She is. I don’t worry about her too much. If something’s bothering her, she’ll get rid of it. She always does.” Splint glanced down at the limp seaweed in his hand. “I’m going up to the house to put this under my microscope.”
“Maybe I’ll show you the microscope at my laboratory sometime. It’s pretty amazing.”
“All right!” Splint couldn’t remember when he’d felt so happy. A bona fide treasure hunter was diving around a shipwreck in his own bay. A bona fide scientist had offered to let him see a real lab. Treasure might wash up on the shore at any moment. How could life get any better than this?
“Hey, Spencer,” Rick said, catching him as he headed for the cliff-side stairs. “Tell your mom I’ll be coming up to the house to talk to her in a few minutes.”
“Taking your life in your own hands, huh? Okay, I’ll tell her, but I get the feeling she’s not too crazy about you.”
“I’m afraid you’re right about that.” Rick gave him a smile that filled a spot in Splinter’s heart with a strange warmth. “Tell her I just need half an hour. Thirty minutes. After that, I promise I’ll leave Jessie alone.”
FOUR
By the time Jess got up to her bedroom, Miriamu had already made the bed and unpacked two suitcases. Hannah had joined the young African woman in attempting to sort and arrange the vast numbers of pastels, colored pencils, markers, ink pens, paints, and other art supplies the new owner of Uchungu House had brought from London. As Jess entered, she could hear the two women laughing over some shared joke, their Swahili chatter filling the cavernous room.
“Ehh, the memsahib!” Miriamu leapt to attention at the sight of her employer. “Jambo, Memsahib Thornton.”
“Good morning,” Jess said. “Miriamu, you and Mama Hannah can leave all that. I’ll do it later. I have a certain way I like to set up my tools.”
“Of course, toto.” Hannah gave a warm smile, her dark skin crinkling into a hundred tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. “This room will be a good place for painting. If you listen, you can hear the ocean. The light is strong, yet I think the room will be cool even in the middle of the day. You will paint many pictures at Uchungu House.”
“Maybe so. But if I had enough money, I’d repack those suitcases and head back to London this morning.”
“You have been disturbed by the visitors?”
“Do you realize who’s here? And he’s down on the beach right now! He’s with Splinter, Mama Hannah. I don’t know how to get rid of him.”
“I think you must trust the Lord completely, toto. Remember? Don’t ever trust yourself alone. Whatever you do, ‘put God first, and he will direct you and crown your efforts with success.’”
The familiar words of comfort felt like sandpaper against Jess’s heart. “At this point, I doubt that will do much good. I’m going to have to figure this out for myself.”
“Even King Solomon, the wisest man in the world, did not try to understand everything himself. He wrote, ‘Don’t be impressed with your own wisdom. Instead, fear the Lord and turn your back on evil. Then you will gain renewed health and vitality.’”
“Turn your back on evil? Evil incarnate is walking around down there on that beach with my son, and I’m not going to find any healing or refreshment until he leaves us alone. Do either of you know where our own Solomon is this morning? I want to talk to him about the boundaries of the land around Uchungu House. I need to know my property lines.” She had a sudden thought. “Maybe he can even help me run off these intruders.”
“Solomon has gone in the car to the market in Zanzibar town to purchase fruit and vegetables for the kitchen,” Miriamu said. “He will return before lunchtime.”
“Great. Mama Hannah, will you please walk down to the beach and check on Splinter? Stay with him. I don’t want him spending time with those divers . . . or anyone else.”
“I shall teach your son how to dig for clams. Perhaps later Miriamu will show us how to cook a good soup.”
The younger woman’s dark eyes shone. “Yes, I can make soup.”
Jess let out a breath. Her pencils and paints were calling her, but she knew she had to settle other matters first. “Look, Miriamu, I appreciate all you’ve done for me already. The breakfast this morning . . . making my bed . . . unpacking—”
“I work very hard at Uchungu House.”
“I’m sure you do. But I don’t have enough money to pay your wages. I’m sorry. If there were anything I could
do—”
“You can give the paintings of Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf to Bwana Giles Knox. He wishes very much to sell them at his gallery in Nairobi.”
“Giles Knox? Who’s that?”
“Bwana Knox is a rich man. He comes to Uchungu House sometimes, but Bwana bin Yusuf will not sell the paintings. Maybe one or two. No more. This Bwana Knox will give you money for the paintings, and you can pay the wages of your helpers.”
Jess thought for a moment. “I don’t know about that, Miriamu. If Dr. bin Yusuf didn’t want to sell his paintings—”
“This is no longer his house, memsahib. This is your house. You will sell the paintings of Bwana bin Yusuf, and then you will put your own paintings on the walls.”
Jess had to smile. “That would be like taking down a van Gogh to hang a sketch of the Berenstain Bears. I’m afraid there’s not much comparison between his art and mine. But you do have a point about the house.” She looked around the room. “This is all mine now, isn’t it? I suppose I can do anything I want.”
“I believe you will bring good things to Uchungu House, memsahib. I believe you can make this a place of happiness.” She struggled with an emotion Jess couldn’t read, some hidden sorrow or pain, and then she forced it away and lifted her chin. “I shall go to the kitchen and prepare to make a good clam soup.”
As the two African women left the room, Jess picked up a packet of colored pencils. Why couldn’t she have as much faith as Hannah? Her old ayah always believed things in life worked together for the good of those who loved the Lord. Maybe Jess didn’t love him enough.
Once she had loved Jesus with her whole heart. She had hung on the words of the Bible stories Hannah used to tell; she had rejoiced in the hymns all four Thornton children sang together; she had treasured the quiet moments she spent alone in prayer. Where had everything in her life gone wrong?
Rick McTaggart, that’s where. He had walked into her heart and trampled everything—even her faith in Christ.
Seeking relief from memories of the past and fears for the future, Jess sat down at the table and took a sheet of clean white paper from her portfolio case. Almost as if she had surrendered control of her own will, her hand picked up a pencil and began to sketch. On the page appeared the half circle of white beach . . . the bowing palm trees . . . the foamy waves . . . and her son. Spencer came bounding across the sand, arms and legs flying, head thrown back in ecstasy.
When had she lost her own joy? When had bitterness wrapped its roots so tightly around her heart? Would she ever again know childlike happiness, freedom, peace? Would she ever regain such hope? Would she ever hold the light of faith in her soul?
“Hallooo! Hallooo, the house!” The shrill voice echoed through the rooms, startling Jess into drawing a harsh blue line across the sand.
“Hodi, hodi!” The visitor called out the Swahili greeting used instead of a knock for houses without doors. “Is anybody at home?”
Jess barely had time to put her pencils back in their slots before Miriamu hurried into the room. “You have a visitor,” she said. “Memsahib Cameron has come to see you.”
Jess followed the housekeeper down the stairs toward the sitting room. “Who is Memsahib Cameron?”
“Your neighbor. She lives in the house just down the road and over the next hill.”
Jess shook her head. “I wonder who else will show up. For some reason, I expected this place to be quiet. It’s like Victoria Station on a Monday morning.”
Miriamu led the way into the front room where Dr. bin Yusuf ’s huge painting filled the wall. A small woman with soft white skin and mounds of cottony hair sat in one of the chairs. She had on a pale blue sleeveless dress that matched her eyes. Red-painted toenails peeked from the front of well-worn green flip-flops.
“Ah, you must be Jessica Thornton!” the woman exclaimed, rising and holding out a cloth-wrapped bundle. “I’m your neighbor, Antoinette Cameron, but you must call me Nettie. I’ve brought you a lovely loaf of currant bread for your tea. I made it myself just this morning, so it’s still hot.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Jess took the warm offering. “I’ve hardly seen my own kitchen yet. I’m still trying to unpack and put things in order around here. We just arrived in Zanzibar yesterday.”
“We? Are you married?”
“I have a ten-year-old son, Spencer.”
“Oh, how marvelous! A little boy. Everyone’s buzzing with the news of your arrival. Another artist living at Uchungu House. Such a surprise!”
Jess felt the chilled edges of her heart begin to thaw. “Won’t you sit down again, Nettie?”
“I shall prepare tea, memsahib,” Miriamu said. “I shall return with the warm bread.”
“Thank you, Miriamu.”
The African woman left the room, and Jess realized how easy it was becoming to accept her assistance. It would be wonderful to keep both Miriamu and Solomon at Uchungu House—not only to provide them with a livelihood but also to make things simpler for Splint and herself. Though she hadn’t figured out how she could work through all the complicated details of life on Zanzibar, Jess felt determined to make everything right. And that meant Rick McTaggart—
“I live just down the road from you,” Nettie Cameron was saying as Jess seated herself across from the little British woman. “It’s an easy walk, not more than ten minutes. You must come and pay me a visit straight away. I do love company. Bring your son as well. I shall teach him how to play Scrabble. I’m quite formidable at it.”
“You may meet your match with Spencer. He loves words—the harder and more obscure the better.”
“Ooh, lovely. We shall duel to the bitter death!” She laughed, a high tinkling sound. “When the Captain was alive, we’d stay up half the night playing Scrabble. I don’t believe there was a harsh word between us all the years of our marriage—except on Scrabble nights!”
“The Captain?”
“Captain William Cameron, King’s African Rifles. We were married for thirty-three years. A finer man could not be found in all the realm. I’ve been widowed a year now, much to my great sorrow.”
“I’m sure it’s been difficult for you.” Jess tried to find words of sympathy, but her thoughts had returned to worry about her son. If Rick said anything to Splint about her . . . or if Splint somehow figured out that she and Rick . . .
“I’ve lived in Zanzibar all my life,” Nettie continued. “I grew up in the house down the road. When my parents passed on, the Captain and I moved in, and there we lived happily until his death.”
“Do you have children, Mrs. Cameron?”
“The Captain and I? Oh no. We weren’t able, I’m sorry to say. My husband had received certain injuries in the line of his duty to the Crown. It was always a great disappointment to us, yet we managed a satisfying life in Zanzibar all the same.”
Jess forced her thoughts away from her own unhappiness and concentrated on her guest. “You must have seen a lot of changes in the island over the years. Did you know Dr. bin Yusuf well?”
“I don’t believe anybody really knew the man. He kept to himself. As far as I could tell, he had no friends.”
Miriamu entered with a tray and began pouring out the steaming amber tea. As she stirred lumps of sugar into her cup, Jess tried to reconcile Nettie’s portrayal of the artist with her memories of the man who had been such an inspiration in her life. In the classroom, Dr. bin Yusuf had been lively, engaging, even funny. All his students had adored him. Had only sharing his art brought him to life—given him joy and peace? Had this House of Bitterness somehow closed his spirit?
“I understand the professor had no family either,” Jess said.
“Oh, he had a family. Very much so. His darling sister lives in Zanzibar town. Fatima Hafidh—a very good woman.” Nettie took a sip of tea. “No one can understand why he didn’t leave her the house . . . instead of you.”
Jess glanced away. Somehow she felt guilty for having been willed a house she wasn’t even
sure she wanted. “I . . . I don’t know either. I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. I was Dr. bin Yusuf ’s student—but that was years ago.”
“You must have been very special to him. The house itself is a historic landmark, you know. The land . . . oh, my goodness, it’s worth a small fortune. And think of the art!”
Jess had opened her mouth to respond when she heard a car’s wheels crunch on the gravel of the driveway. All thoughts of a quiet morning setting up her studio and exploring the grounds vanished. The remote and isolated Uchungu House was turning out to be a beehive of activity. Footsteps sounded on the verandah.
“Ms. Thornton?” Mr. Patel peered into the living room. “Ah, you are at home. I would have phoned but . . .” His voice trailed off.
“But I have no phone. Come on in.” Jess stood. “Mr. Patel, this is my neighbor Nettie Cameron. Mr. Patel was the executor of Dr. bin Yusuf ’s estate.”
“Mrs. Cameron . . . the widow of Captain Cameron?” Mr. Patel executed a slight bow. “The honor is all mine.”
After shaking hands, he seated himself on a third chair, laid his attaché case across his knees, and flipped open the clasps. Jess eyed Nettie, who showed no sign of making ready to leave. Apparently whatever Mr. Patel had to say would be public information.
“There has been a development of which you must be made aware, Ms. Thornton,” he began. He extracted a pair of spectacles, set them on the end of his nose, hooked their wire temples around his ears, and peered down at the document in his hands. “I’m afraid there has been a change regarding the cause of death of Dr. bin Yusuf.”
“A change?”
“It seems the professor was murdered.”
Both women gasped. Jess leapt to her feet and grabbed the document. “You told me he died of cancer! Murdered? Who killed him? How did it happen?”
“Please calm yourself, Ms. Thornton.” The lawyer held up both hands in a pacifying gesture. “At first everybody believed Dr. bin Yusuf had merely succumbed to the cancer that afflicted him. When the body was examined by the coroner, however, it became apparent that the professor had died after falling down a flight of stairs. Even this turn of events was not unexpected, considering the nature of his illness. He was a very sick man, and yet he was determined to work in his studio each day. While attempting to walk from his bedroom to the library, the professor fell down the steps. Or so the report read.”
A Whisper of Danger Page 6
