Jade squelched her rising anger at the blatant insult and reached for the doorknob before Winston arrived. “That won’t be necessary. I was only doing my bit. The French gave me a Croix de Guerre, and David gave me his trust. That’s reward enough.” She yanked open the door just as the butler gripped the other side and almost pulled the old man into the room. “My hat and coat if you please, Winston,” she said authoritatively.
Winston, not yet recovered from his less than graceful entrance, said, “Yes, miss,” and hurried off to fetch the garments. Jade marched down the hall and took a last stand by the card table. She glanced down at the crystal bowl, and a devious smile grew as she pocketed a card.
Winston arrived with her coat and hat and held her coat for her as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Stepping out into the damp February air, she hailed a taxi, climbed into the backseat, and massaged her sore knee.
“Where to, miss?” asked the driver.
She consulted the business card in her hand. “Twenty-six Willowbrook Street.”
On Willowbrook Street, which had no willows to speak of, Jade located the firm of Smith, Wetherby, and Harrison. Mr. Jacobs, a solicitor for the firm, received her with warm smiles, polite bows, and an offer of tea. She accepted the first two with gratitude and declined the latter.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me so quickly, Mr. Jacobs.”
“My pleasure, Miss del Cameron. I am most intrigued as to how I may help you with regards to Mr. David Worthy.”
Jade settled herself more comfortably in the soft leather chair. “David was a friend of mine.” She paused to see if he understood. Judging by the twinkle in his brown eyes, she decided he felt he did. Jade wondered if she did. She and David had been close friends with a mutual interest in planes. When she had turned down David’s marriage proposal, he vowed to win her with feats of daring. One of those feats had killed him. Now guilt, as much as affection, drove her. “I was with him at the time of his death, and he entrusted me with an important request.”
“His last request,” breathed Mr. Jacobs as though he were about to hear the most sacred secret.
“I saw your calling card on Mrs. Worthy’s hall table. I assume you are her solicitor.”
“Her late husband’s actually.”
Jade considered this tidbit of information. “She won’t assist me. Quite adamant about it actually. I’m hoping you will.”
“If I can, miss. What was his request?”
“He asked me . . . no, he told me to find his brother. He had never spoken of a brother before then. But despite his mother’s claims, David was not delusional before he died. What he did took clear presence of mind. The short of it is, I believe him and I intend to find his brother. I’m hoping you’ll help me.”
Mr. Jacobs chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. “You said that what he did took clear presence of mind. Just what, may I ask, did he do?”
Jade responded by opening her pocketbook. She pulled out a bundle wrapped in soft gray flannel and unwrapped it. “He pulled this ring off his finger and put it in my hand. I believe he meant either for me to give it to his brother or for it to be a clue in finding him.” She handed the ring to Mr. Jacobs, who took it reverently.
“Yes,” he said softly. “David inherited this from his father when he came of age.” Mr. Jacobs rose from his seat and crossed to a large safe in the corner of his office. There he bent his tall, spare frame and carefully worked the combination while he attempted to hide the dial, not an easy task considering he was built like a beanpole. Jade discreetly looked to the other wall lined with legal books until she heard the safe door clang shut.
“I think you will find this a most interesting problem,” he said. Mr. Jacobs held a small teak box in his slender hands. He placed it on the edge of his desk next to Jade.
“Open it, Miss del Cameron.”
Jade obeyed. Nestled inside on a small silk pillow sat an exact replica of David’s ring. “I don’t understand.”
Mr. Jacobs reached into his coat pocket and smiled as he held up Jade’s identical ring. “This,” he said, nodding to the one in his hand, “is the ring you handed me. You now hold its counterpart.”
“The ring for the brother,” guessed Jade.
“Exactly! Mr. Gil Worthy had two of them made, one for each of his sons.” He handed Jade’s ring back to her.
“If I’m guessing correctly, this other son is not Mrs. Worthy’s.” Mr. Jacobs nodded. “But you know about him and you’ll take care of the situation?”
This time Mr. Jacobs shook his head. “Would that I could, Miss del Cameron, but it’s not something I can do from behind the desk, and I don’t know the entire story myself.” He shifted in his chair. “I am going to take you into my confidence, Miss del Cameron. I feel I may do that because you and I share a common duty. In fact, the more I think of it, the more I see that you are the solution to my own dilemma. Allow me to explain.” Mr. Jacobs settled back in his chair, tented his fingers together, and took on the aura of a storyteller.
“Mr. Gil Worthy decided long ago that his fortune lay in Africa. He wanted to start up a farm, sisal perhaps or coffee. He was very keen on it and tried to get his family to go with him. David was only a little tyke, four or perhaps five at the time, and Mrs. Worthy wouldn’t have it. She insisted on staying behind until her husband managed to make a suitable home for them.”
He paused and cleared his throat. “I sincerely doubt she ever intended to leave London at all. Well, to make a long story brief, Mr. Worthy was away for over four years. I believe he tried several ventures, but unfortunately, he contracted malaria and came home without realizing his fortune. Then six years ago, he approached me with that ring and a larger strongbox to be opened after his death only by David or his other son. Said he’d give me the particulars later. I gather he didn’t know himself exactly where to look. That is where the second problem begins.
“You see, Mr. Gil Worthy took it into his head at the start of 1915 to go to Africa and find this son. He took with him a sealed packet for the lad explaining everything. But instead of finding his son, Mr. Gil died in Africa under evil circumstances.”
“Evil circumstances?” asked Jade.
“Yes, Miss del Cameron. Gil Worthy mailed that sealed packet back to me unopened. He said in a brief letter that he feared he was in some danger and didn’t want the information to fall into the wrong hands.”
“May I see that letter?” Jade asked. Mr. Jacobs extracted it from a file and handed it to her.
January 28, 1915
Jacobs:
This infernal war makes it difficult to get anywhere. Trying to get out of Nairobi and make my way back to Tsavo to pick up old trails. Going to look for an old Boer I met there. I’m sending the packet back to you for safekeeping. I think someone is following me, and if something should happen to me, give the packet to David and tell him to continue the search. Don’t give it to my wife, Olivia. Must go. I’m sending this to the post by way of a Kikuyu lad I trust.
Gil
Jade handed the letter back to Mr. Jacobs, who continued his narrative.
“Of course David had already joined the Royal Flying Corps and left for the war by then. Then we received news that Mr. Gil Worthy was found dead in his hotel in Nairobi.”
So that’s what David meant when he said, “My father’s death, suspic . . .” “Isn’t Mrs. Worthy at least concerned about her husband’s death?” she asked.
“She insists his health was bad and won’t hear anything else.”
“And David never opened the strongbox?”
“He had no opportunity. It would appear that Mr. Worthy told him something of this situation since he mentioned the existence of a brother to you. Did he have any letters in his possession?”
“Not that I was able to see,” Jade replied. “All his personal effects were sent home to his mother. She’s probably burned anything regarding another son. Can’t you open the packet?”
Mr. Jaco
bs shook his head slowly. “The instructions were explicit—only David or this other son. My hands are tied.”
Jade fidgeted with frustration. “Is there at least a name for this other child?”
“Abel. At least that’s what Mr. Worthy wrote on the packet. But beyond assuming he still lives somewhere in Kenya with his mother, I have no knowledge of his exact whereabouts.” Mr. Jacobs shifted his long legs under the desk. “Miss del Cameron, to be perfectly frank, your visit is a godsend. I need to find this boy, or rather, this young man, and I truly want to bring Mr. Worthy’s tormentor to justice. If someone caused his death, then it’s murder plain and simple.”
“And you want me to help?”
“Yes.” Mr. Jacobs warmed to the subject. “You’re bright. You certainly are no stranger to travel or difficult conditions, judging by your wartime contributions. You knew David. You appear to have a passion for fulfilling his dying request. . . .” He leaned across the desk with a hopeful, pleading smile on his angular face. “In short, you are perfect for the job.”
Jade stroked the ring that David had entrusted to her and carefully rewrapped it in the square of gray flannel. “Just so I understand you, sir. You want to hire me to go to British East Africa to look for a young man of nineteen to twenty-some years, whom no one has seen or heard of before and who may not even live there anymore, to give him his lost father’s legacy. And you want me to investigate Mr. Worthy’s possible murder?”
Mr. Jacobs clapped his hands together. “Yes, that about sums it up. Shouldn’t be difficult. How many Abels can there be in the colonies?”
How many indeed. For all Jade knew, every Tom, Dick, and Harry was named Abel. David died trying to prove himself to me. I owe it to him.
“I was about to begin a job as a writer and photographer for The Traveler magazine,” she added almost to herself. “I could request the colonies for an assignment and use it as a cover.”
“That’s the ticket, Miss del Cameron,” said Mr. Jacobs enthusiastically. “Then you’ll do it for me?”
Jade tucked the ring in her bag and rose. “I’ll do it for David.”
CHAPTER 3
NAIROBI—June 1919
“Nairobi is a thriving colonial town, planted by early colonists such as Lord Delamere and cultivated by goods from Mombasa via the Ugandan Railway, sometimes referred to as the ‘lunatic line.’ Among the many modern comforts are electric lighting and shops featuring such amenities as exotic foods and modern fashions. Any traveler to Nairobi will also be delighted to experience the luxury and comfort of the Norfolk Hotel, affectionately known as the House of Lords.”
—The Traveler
HEAT WAVES SHIFTED IN TRANSPARENT RIPPLING ribbons as Jade stepped off the stifling, noisy train onto the equally hot and far more raucous Nairobi station platform. It was late afternoon, and she had no idea whether the thrice-weekly train was on time. Probably not, considering that in addition to the numerous water stops, a herd of wildebeest had blocked the tracks for three-quarters of an hour. Another delay had occurred near Voi, when some young British bucks spotted a lion and insisted on wanting a bit of sport. The lion didn’t and vacated the area as soon as the train halted.
Jade emerged into Babel, where not only a cacophony of sounds vied for her attention, but sights and smells as well. Sunburned whites in European dress or bush clothing greeted one another in the king’s English. An occasional Boer spoke in Afrikaans. Turbaned Sikh sentries shooed begging children away in thickly accented Swahili, while African women held up various goods and loudly expostulated their wares’ merits in more exotic tongues.
The African women had beautiful coffee-colored faces with clean features glistening under shaven heads flattened by years of carrying heavy loads on their backs held by head straps. Some wore strapless dresses of colorful calico wrapped above their breasts in swirls of crimson, turquoise, and ochre. Others sported animal-skin garments. All jingled with multitudes of bangles and copper wire as they waved bananas, sweet potatoes, exotic fruits, and live, squawking chickens in the air.
A young African warrior strolled by clothed in a robe of red cloth tied togalike over one shoulder. His plaited hair hung in strands dyed with ochre, and a large wooden, beaded block plugged an immense hole in one distended earlobe. A breeze fluttered his robe and exposed, along with his natural assets, a hunting knife hanging from a beaded belt around his bare waist. The man walked with liquid grace and a selfconscious air in front of the women, as though he knew he was beautiful to see and was bored by their admiration.
Most of the European men wore bush-style clothing with multipocketed khaki shirts. Broad-brimmed felt hats lined in red protected their heads from the equatorial sun’s strong rays. Jade considered them the African equivalent of the cowboy—men who wrangled coffee, horses, and an occasional antelope instead of hay, steers, and elk.
The aroma of dust, foodstuffs, locomotive grease, and human bodies in various states of cleanliness mingled freely with the scent of grasses and wild animals that wafted in from the plains. Jade inhaled deeply. After the stench of war, the sooty air of London, and the close smell of hot machinery and moldy leather seats in the train, this smelled like perfume. She brushed a coating of red dust from her waltz-length brown linen traveling suit and stepped forward.
A loud explosive bang popped a few yards away. Jade immediately ducked and waited for the falling shrapnel. None fell. She rose, feeling a little foolish at her reaction to a backfiring car.
“Memsabu, memsabu.” An African boy waved to her from the far end of the platform and pushed his way through the crowd. “You are Memsabu del Cameron,” he stated. “I am here. I take you to the hotel.”
The boy stood about one foot shorter than Jade. She examined his smooth features together with his height and reckoned him to be around ten or eleven years old. He wore a uniform of the universal khaki complete with knee-length shorts and sandals. Black eyes sparkled intelligently back at her.
“Thank you,” she said. “And you are?”
“I am here. I take you and your bags to the hotel,” he repeated as though reciting a memorized piece.
“Yes, and I thank you, but what is your name?”
The youth looked bewildered by the question, as though no one had ever found his name worth knowing before. Perhaps, thought Jade, they hadn’t.
“I am Jelani,” he said shyly. “Please, your bags, memsabu?”
Jade turned towards the train as a rail worker handed her luggage down from the car. “Ah, here they are, Jelani. Just these two. I can carry the other and my rifle myself.” Jade picked up a leather satchel containing her precious Graflex camera, shouldered her rifle, and waited. “Are you certain you don’t need another boy to help, Jelani?” she asked.
He shook his head vigorously. Then he hefted a large leather case and nodded his head towards a small wooden rickshaw. “This way, memsabu.” He began to drag the trunk behind him by one handle until Jade took hold of the other. Together, they wended through the noisy throng, past open coaches dripping with people, their friends, and their baggage; a few old private motorcars; and an official-looking coach with a uniformed guard.
“Just call me Jade,” she said. “Careful with this trunk,” she added. “It has bottles in it.” She hoped she’d packed her limited supply of photo developers carefully enough. “How did you know I was here?”
Jelani shrugged under the burden. “I am told, bring Memsabu Jade del Cameron to the hotel. Where else would you be?” Together, they placed the luggage in the back of the rickshaw. Jelani indicated that she should climb up into the seat. Then the boy positioned himself between the two long poles in front. Jade hesitated, one foot on the floorboard, the other in the street.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “You’re going to pull me?”
“Yes, Memsabu Jade,” he said with a puzzled look on his face. “I pull. You ride.”
Jade saw several other Europeans being pulled in rickshaws by African and Indian men of var
ying ages, mostly young lads. Customary or not, using fellow humans, especially children, as beasts of burden caused revulsion in her. She put her bag and Winchester on the floor next to her other luggage and stepped down.
“If you don’t mind, Jelani, I have been sitting too long in that cramped railcar. I need to walk. You may pull my luggage. I would like to practice my Swahili with you.”
Jelani’s face twitched in initial shock, which quickly dissolved into amusement. “Memsabu speaks English funny,” he volunteered.
“Yes. I am an American, Jelani. I am trying to learn Swahili. Will you help me practice?” Jelani nodded vigorously, and Jade suspected he really wanted to hear how badly she would pronounce that language as well. Considering she only had the boat trip over to study out of an evangelical mission language guide, Jade thought with amusement that the topics would be as humorous as her pronunciation. After all, how often would sentences like “Quick, there is a baboon in the bathroom” and “The drunken Englishman is sick” come into use? She decided to start simply with Jambo, habari?—Hello, how are you?—and build from there.
Jelani proved to be a patient tutor, responding to her questions and prompting her with polite questions of his own. Jade, for her part, spent a good deal of time asking in Swahili “how do you say” followed by an English word. Jelani patiently answered and corrected her mispronunciations. She inquired about his name, and the boy proudly answered that it meant strong. Jade smiled to herself as she recalled Corporal Gideon puffing up as he explained that his name meant great warrior. Did all African mothers name their sons “warrior” or “strong”? Probably, she decided. After all, where names held meaning, why risk a male child’s future prowess with a weak name?
Shops made of galvanized tin lined the straight, mile-long dirt street to the Norfolk Hotel. Colorful banners masked the shops’ shabby appearances as the shopkeepers displayed pots, fabrics, and other wares under the iron awnings. A heady aroma of spices wafted from one unstable-looking structure, and Jade thought she detected the delicious scent of coffee among other smells.
Mark of the Lion Page 3
