“That’s wonderful, Maddy,” said Jade. “You beat the Karen Coffee Company. You can ask a higher price next time you sell.”
“Yes. Assuming we get our coffee dryer cleaned and the door back before we need it in another six months for the big crop.”
Jade saw this as the opening she needed to discuss their information. She broached the topic obliquely to begin with, since there were so many people in earshot. “Neville should ask for the door back, in a firm manner. Finch should be done with it by now.”
“That chicken or duck blood should not be too difficult to clean out,” Sam said. Then he added more recent news in a softer voice. “Especially since Constable Miller was back yesterday with battery lamps. He went into the drum and dusted and photographed and scraped everything he could off the insides. It’s probably cleaner in there now than it was when Neville bought it.”
Jade wondered what sort of materials Miller found inside. Hairs? Fibers? She’d read an article in a popular magazine about the information that police could find by photographing these items under a microscope. As a photographer herself, she found the topic fascinating. As a suspect or a friend of one, her interest took another, less academic direction.
Biscuit, restless from standing too long in one spot, tugged on his leash. “I want to talk about this more, but not now. We should separate,” said Jade, “and gather information.”
“How?” asked Maddy.
Jade shrugged. “Eavesdrop. Or, in your case, since the body was found in your dryer, use that to initiate conversation. Maybe someone has heard something useful.”
“I’ll find Neville,” Maddy said. “I’d rather do this with him nearby. By the way, I want to thank you, Jade, and you, too, Sam, for putting those notices in the papers. I bought a copy of the Leader this morning.” She pulled the paper from her large handbag and gave it to Jade.
Jade flipped past the steamer arrivals to the public notices and Maddy’s ad. From there, her attention turned to an article headed Native Trouble Brewing? It mentioned a Kikuyu named Harry Thuku who was urging villagers to stop working. Next to it was an essay on native superstitions. “Let’s hope it does some good,” said Jade, handing back the paper. “Now, everyone skeedaddle and get to work. We’ll all meet up this afternoon at Bev and Avery’s house, where we can talk in private.”
Sam waited until Madeline left to find Neville before speaking his mind. “I think we should stick together, Jade. You and me.”
“No, Sam. You have a perfect excuse to infiltrate and study people.” She pointed to his camera. “You could even use it as part of the subject matter. Tell them you want to document the horrified reactions of the townspeople to this outrageous incident. You don’t even have to load film if you don’t want to. They won’t know that you’re cranking empty reels.”
“But you could come with me.” Sam found an empty bench and sat down.
Jade saw his face, flushed just a moment ago, blanch. “Are you sure you’re all right, Sam?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve probably caught a cold.” He forced a grin. “It is winter here in Nairobi, you know.”
Jade chuckled. “Right. As if moving a few miles south of the equator makes a difference.” Then she had a thought and sobered. “Your leg isn’t becoming a problem, is it?”
Sam laughed. “That’s it. I’ve got termites or a tree fungus.”
Jade laughed in spite of her concern. “I meant your real leg on top. I would think that having that wooden one underneath would rub sores or something.”
Sam shook his head. “Nope, but,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her down onto the seat next to him, “I do appreciate your concern.”
Biscuit butted his head before Sam could show his appreciation. “This cheetah needs to walk, Sam,” Jade said as she rose.
“Wait,” said Sam. “About Finch and what happened with Stokes . . .”
Jade sat back down and waited for him to continue. People milled around them, making any private conversation nearly impossible.
“I hit him,” Sam said. “I didn’t intend to, but I did.” He studied her face.
Jade frowned, then nodded. “And that’s why Stokes suspects you. But how do you unintentionally hit someone?”
“I know fuel costs are rising, but that last bill was outrageous. In light of his skimming off the books, I can now see why. I yelled at him and waved the bill and . . . well, maybe I waved it a bit too close to his jaw on purpose. But he was still standing when I left.”
“But Finch probably doesn’t believe you,” Jade said.
When Sam shook his head, she said, “Then I need to do something about that. Can’t have Finch locking up my friends.” Jade stood up again.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked.
“Hunting.”
SAM WISHED HE FELT BETTER. Right now his head felt like two bulls butting, and the headache wouldn’t go away despite those aspirin Jade always recommended. He was running a bit warm, so he’d loosened his collar and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. It was possible that he had caught a chill while flying yesterday. Should have worn your leather jacket, you dolt. But even with his self-chiding, Sam didn’t believe it was a cold. No, it was worry. Was Finch focusing only on him? Men had been convicted on less evidence before. True, Jade was on his side, but her reason stung.
What was it she said? Can’t let Finch arrest my friends? Friends! He wanted more, much more. One thing at a time, partner. Can’t ask a woman to marry you when you’re going to jail.
He’d just have to clear his name. Find out something to remove him from suspicion. That was when Sam saw four men standing in front of the Stokes and Berryhill booth, and decided that if there was ever an opportune spot to gather information, this was it. A teenage boy who Sam presumed was Berryhill’s son, Harley, stood behind a plank desk, looking as bored as only a young man impatient to mingle with his friends could. Sam stood the tripod on the ground in front of him and introduced himself to the group.
“Gentlemen, I’m Sam Featherstone, and as you can tell by my accent, I’m an American. You can probably guess by this camera, I’m also a motion picture maker, and I sure would like to include some of this fine fair.”
The men, curious about the camera, stepped closer.
“I say. Are we in your way or something, young fellow?” asked the oldest. Unlike the others, he hung back.
“No. As a matter of fact, I want you in the picture.” Sam nodded to the Berryhill boy. “You, too, if you don’t mind.”
Suddenly, everyone stood a little straighter, and several of the men took off their hats and ran their fingers through their hair to set it in order. As if on cue, they formed a line and struck a pose together.
“Oh, no. You misunderstand me, gentlemen,” said Sam. “This is a motion picture camera. I want you to move and talk to one another, just as you were doing before.”
“I say,” repeated the old man. He blew out his bushy mustache. “Just what sort of motion picture is this that we would want to participate?” His companions nodded in agreement.
“I am actually filming the life of the coffee farmers Mr. and Mrs. Neville Thompson to be exact. That includes this fair and the people at it.”
“Indeed! Well. Hmm, that is an altogether different matter, then,” said the elderly man. He pushed up the brim of his solar topee, exposing a crop of hair as snowy as his mustache. “I know the Thompsons. First-rate people. Good workers. Smart fellow, that Thompson. Took my advice last year on an engine. Naturally we shall help then. You’ll be documenting that, I presume. Of course you will. Might have expected it.” He waved his companions forward. “Snap to, gentlemen. Look lively, now. Help this young fellow out. Er, what did you say your name was?”
“Featherstone. Sam Featherstone. I’m an engineer, so I’m also working for Thompson.”
“Naturally,” decreed the old man. “Only decent thing to do. Interesting people, you Americans. Good of you to help out in the war. A bit late,
though.”
The men, having the approval of the old man, outdid one another in their dramatic endeavors. First they kept finding pretexts to face the camera until they appeared to speak to young Harley over their shoulders. Next they fumbled about picking up a gadget or two and struck excited or incredulous poses complete with forehead slapping and wild gesticulations, all except the elderly man. He watched his companions with what appeared to be a great deal of amusement. Every few moments, his shoulders shook and his magnificent, bushy white mustache fluttered as he blew out a puff of air.
By this time, a small crowd, including two small boys and a Great Dane, had gathered to watch the antics. Sam waited patiently for the gawkers to get bored and leave, and bribed the two boys into going with four rupees each. Only the dog, which had settled itself in a shady spot and appeared to be staying for the duration, refused to go.
“Gentlemen, I want to film you doing just what you were doing when I arrived.”
“But we were merely discussing the fair,” said one man. “That and the latest shauris.”
“Exactly,” said Sam. “It is a perfect scene of gentlemen farmers at the fair.” He stepped forward from behind the camera and examined the items in the booth. His gaze quickly found what he wanted, the display of new maize knives. “I have an idea.” He motioned for the elderly man to stand just to the right of the display.
“You’re Lord Colridge, aren’t you, sir?”
Colridge nodded. “Who else would I be?”
“Then I know that I can count on you to lead the way.” Sam picked up a trowel and placed it in Colridge’s hands. “You, sir, will be examining this trowel.”
“Pish tosh! I’m not interested in a trowel,” protested Colridge. His mustache fluttered with an exasperated snort.
“If you would only pretend to be interested, sir.”
“You can act interested in a trowel, can’t you, Colridge?” asked one of his companions. “After all, you do an excellent job of acting interested whenever the commissioners try to talk you into something. That trowel is probably more animated than any of them.”
The other men chuckled at this joke, including Colridge. “All right, all right. I shall play the part and I daresay you won’t find a better actor anywhere short of the Theatre Royale.”
With the apparent ringleader settled, the rest of the men fell into Sam’s plan easily enough. “When I say, ‘Action,’ you gentlemen,” he said, indicating the other three men, “will come walking by and see your friend here examining this trowel. You will stop and shake hands and begin talking about the fair. I need you to look lively, but not exaggerated. That’s the hard part. It should look like a very interesting discussion without appearing staged.”
Sam snapped his fingers as though a great idea had just occurred to him. “I’ve got it. I heard where one of these gloves with the knife attached was found recently on a dead man. One of you will look up at the display and point to these knives and comment on how it figured into the recent tragedy. Then just continue talking about what you’ve heard.”
“Wait just a moment, lad,” said Colridge. “I daresay that will make for a lively discussion but I don’t know that I want it on record. Will anyone know what we are saying?”
“Oh, no,” said Sam. “Sound doesn’t record and I doubt anyone will be able to read lips.”
“Especially with that broom covering yours, Colridge,” said one of the other men.
“I do believe you are safe there, sir,” said Sam. “I will make up some words to appear on the screen. Probably something about a marauding lion in with your stock or something of that nature. The audience will love it.”
While the men got into position, Sam noticed the lad behind the counter kept clenching and unclenching his fist as though he burned to say something. “You’re important in this scene, too, young man,” said Sam, noticing the youth starting to sputter in irritation. “You’re the proprietor. Feel free to add whatever you like to their discussion.”
Then he went behind the camera, removed the lens cap, called, “Action!” and rolled film.
WITH NO PARTICULAR plan in mind, Jade decided to stroll and let fate or Biscuit make the decisions. She was an American, an outsider, and as such, her questions about Stokes might make some people defensive. The Nairobiites would feel the need to defend one of their own rather than open up about him. How did that proverb go? Something about “even the fierce leopard does not devour its cubs.”
Instead, she intended to rely on her two best allies for bringing people to her: Biscuit and her Kodak. Having a tame cheetah made her more like one of the more eccentric locals, and taking pictures for an international magazine like the Traveler often brought even the most reticent and stuffy person around. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to be famous.
She wended her way past several Dutch-speaking Boers in heavy shirts, thick trousers, and broad hats. She took a photograph of them with the produce display in the background and walked on. Next Jade strolled by a cluster of young ladies busily eyeing the nearby gentlemen, then past the bachelor herd itself decked out in pale linen suits and boater hats, feverishly discussing the latest cricket matches.
She heard snippets of conversations from gloved ladies in airy flowered dresses discussing the upcoming return of Lady Northey and when they would host the next benefit for the children’s home. A Pomeranian on a leash, too foolish to realize it was edible, yapped at Biscuit, who ignored it with the disdain of one with better taste than for small dogs. Petite Cherie’s mistress pulled back on the leash, glaring at Jade. Jade smiled back, assuring the ladies that Biscuit was no threat. The women eyed Jade’s jodhpurs and boots and gave her a cutting look.
Ahead lay the store booths. Jade heard a strong male voice proclaiming the merits of a new coffee pulper.
“There’s no dead body in it, is there?” quipped one of the male onlookers. “I won’t pay extra for coffee equipment just because it holds a dead body.”
The others laughed at this macabre joke, and Jade moved closer to listen.
“That’s only a problem at the Berryhill store,” said the proprietor. “We don’t carry those maize knives, and you can’t get the corpse without first having one of those.”
Jade shuddered at the callous remarks. Then she recognized one of the chuckling onlookers as Mr. Holly, a banker that she’d once met at the Muthaiga Club. If memory served, he’d been roaring drunk at a party in her honor and made a pass while they danced. She hoped he didn’t remember the punch to the eye she had given him.
“One would get the impression that Mr. Stokes was not well liked,” she said.
Holly turned and, recognizing her, smiled broadly and tipped his hat. “Miss del Cameron, how pleasant to see you.” He ogled her figure. “Still as lovely as ever, if I may say so.” Biscuit brushed against his legs, and he started momentarily. “Oh, and you have a cat.”
“His name is Biscuit,” she said.
“Hascombe’s cheetah?” Holly asked.
“Not any longer,” Jade said. “He handed him off to me when he took up safari work for good. But, Mr. Holly, you were saying something about Mr. Stokes.” She knew he wasn’t, but it didn’t hurt to prompt him.
“Call me Stuart. I actually always found Stokes a very likable chap. A good man on the football field, too. But there are others who weren’t so keen on him.”
“Oh?”
He stepped closer and leaned over to pass his confidences to her alone. Jade suspected from his greeting that he had other reasons for getting nearer. Good thing Sam’s not here.
“Mind you, I’m not certain of any facts,” Holly said, “but I heard that he was positively monstrous to his wife. Never letting her go out without him, never letting her join any of the ladies’ clubs.”
“I heard she disappeared,” said Jade. “Do you think she’ll return now that he’s gone?”
“Yes, presuming that she will have a way of knowing he’s dead—a friend perhaps, or the paper. More to th
e point, presuming she’s still alive.”
“Still alive? You think he killed her?”
He shrugged. “I heard gossip that there was a child.”
“A child?” asked Jade. “How old? Where is it now?”
Holly raised one eyebrow. “Where indeed? I got the story from a friend who heard it from a doctor’s assistant. Delivered at home three, maybe four months ago. Boy, I believe. I have no idea where it is. Just so long as I don’t have it.”
Clearly, Holly wanted to impress her with his inside knowledge. Since Jade already knew all this, she decided to fish for more. “Well, he must have felt terrible remorse to commit suicide in that manner.”
“You think he killed himself?” He chuckled and nudged her with his elbow. “My dear young lady, you have it all wrong. I have it on good authority that he was murdered.”
Jade put her hand to her open mouth and opened her eyes as wide as she could. “Murdered? So he didn’t slit his own wrist with one of those horrid glove knives?”
Holly took her by the elbow and escorted her to a shady spot closer to the back side of the booth. “I heard from a very reliable source, a ‘hello girl’ to be precise, that Martin Stokes was already dead when his wrist was cut. Apparently there would be a lot more blood, and it wouldn’t have come from a bird at any rate because that was what was in the dryer drum.”
Jade didn’t reply, hoping Holly would “up the ante” and add the next layer of information. He did.
“What was most intriguing was the report that he had arsenic in his lungs.”
Jade gasped. “He was poisoned?”
“No. He drowned in it. Cattle or sheep dip, or something like that.”
Jade thought about all the arsenic-based dip in use in the colony, employed to kill a variety of skin parasites. Stokes could have been killed at any number of locations.
“Drowned in cattle dip! Are you sure?”
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