Death in Kenya by M. M. Kaye
‘Ever noticed that there’s a trolley arrangement that runs from the shamba to the road, and passes within a few yards of the kilns? No one would have needed to do any carrying of corpses. Even you could have managed it without much difficulty.’
‘Me! But——’
‘No, I’m not accusing you of running amok with a hatchet, so there’s no need to glare at me. Though I daresay Greg has had to consider that possibility.’
‘What possibility?’
‘That you and Eden might have cooked this up between you.’
Victoria looked at him, meeting his bland blue gaze thoughtfully and without anger. Studying his face in the dusk as if it had been a letter held up for her to read: a very important letter.
She said at last: ‘And what do you think?’
‘Does it matter?’
Victoria did not answer, and presently Drew said slowly and as though he were thinking aloud:
‘People who are desperately and deeply in love are probably capable of anything. There are endless examples in history and the newspapers to prove that love can be a debasing passion as well as the most ennobling one; and a stronger and more relentless force than either ambition or hate, because those can be cold-blooded things, but love is always a hot-blooded one. Men and women have died for it – or for the loss of it. They have committed crimes for it and given up thrones for it, started wars, deserted their families, betrayed their countries, stolen, lied and murdered for it. And they will probably go on doing so until the end of time!’
He stubbed out his cigarette against the rail and dropped it among the geraniums, and after a moment or two Victoria said meditatively and without turning her head:
‘And you think I might be – capable of anything?’
Drew gave an odd, curt laugh. ‘Not of murder. Or even of conniving at it. But of covering up for someone you were in love with, or even very fond of, yes.’
‘Even if I knew they had committed a murder? A horrible murder?’
‘No. Because you would never love anyone like that.’
Victoria turned to look at him. The last of the daylight was running out with the swiftness of sand in an hour glass, and now it was so dark that she could no longer see the lines in his face.
She said: ‘Then at least you don’t believe that Eden could have done it.’
‘I didn’t say that. For all I know, he may have done it; though I shouldn’t say it was in the least likely. But then you aren’t in love with Eden.’
Victoria did not say anything, but she did not turn away, and Drew said: ‘Are you.’
It was an affirmation rather than a question, and as she still did not speak he took her chin in his hand, as he had done once before.
Victoria stood quite still, aware of a crisis in her life: of having reached the end of a road – or perhaps the beginning of one. And then a door at the far end of the verandah opened and the shadows retreated before a flood of warm amber light, and it was no longer dusk, but night.
Drew’s hand dropped and he turned unhurriedly:
‘Hullo, Eden. Has Greg finished with you at last? How much longer is he likely to be around?’
‘God knows,’ said Eden shortly. ‘What on earth are you two doing out here in the dark?’
‘Talking,’ said Drew pleasantly. ‘Any objection?’
‘No, of course not! But there are drinks in the drawing-room if you want one. I’ve sent Gran to bed.’
‘Did she go?’
‘Yes, surprisingly enough. She’s going to be the next person to have a heart attack if we don’t watch it.’
‘A genuine one?’ enquired Drew. ‘Or one of the kind that hit Gilly?’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake!’ said Eden angrily, and turning his back on Drew he took Victoria’s arm. ‘Come on, Vicky darling. You must be cold. Come and have a glass of sherry. Or let’s finish off the vodka and get really tight.’
They found Mabel in the drawing-room, sipping a brandy and soda and watching the door. Hector, accompanied by Bill Hennessy, had returned to Brandonmead to collect various necessities for a night’s stay at the Markham’s bungalow, but Ken was still being questioned, and Mabel would not leave without him.
‘What are they doing with Kennie?’ she demanded unhappily. ‘He’s been in there for hours! They must know that he can’t know anything at all about this. It isn’t kind of Greg – and after all the years we’ve known him! Drew, don’t you think you could go and tell him that we’re all very tired, and couldn’t he let us go home?’
‘No, Mabel. I couldn’t,’ said Drew firmly, collecting himself a stiff whisky and soda and sinking into an arm-chair. ‘It would not only be a pure waste of time, but I have no desire to receive a blistering snub. He’ll stop when he feels like it, or when he’s got what he wants, and not before.’
‘But we shall all be here tomorrow, and the next day.’
‘We hope,’ said Drew dryly. ‘Well, here’s to crime.’
He lifted his glass and drank deeply, and Eden said furiously: ‘Must you make a joke of it?’
‘Sorry,’ said Drew mildly.
But Eden refused to be placated. His handsome face was taut with strain and his voice was rough with fatigue, anxiety and anger: ‘In the present circumstances, that sort of remark is in bloody bad taste, besides being entirely un-funny!’
Drew raised his eyebrows and pulled a faint grimace, but fore-bore to take offence. He said amiably: ‘You’re quite right. I can’t have been thinking. My apologies. Have an olive, Mabel; and stop watching that door. Ken will be along any minute now. Hullo, here’s another car. Who do you suppose this is? the D.C.?’
But it was only Hector, returning from Brandonmead with an assortment of pyjamas, tooth brushes and bedroom slippers. He accepted a drink, and after a nervous glance at his wife said in a subdued voice that contained no echo of his former booming tones: ‘Is Kennie still there? They’re keeping him a long time. Surely they know the boy isn’t feeling fit. Never known him to pass out like that before. He ought to be in bed, not being badgered with silly questions.’
‘Then why don’t you put a stop to it?’ demanded Mabel, wavering on the verge of tears. ‘You’re his father. They’re bullying him: I know they are. Oh, if only he’d never met her! Why did this have to happen just when it seemed that everything was going to be peaceful and happy again? I’ll never forgive Greg for this – never!’
Hector said uncomfortably: ‘He’s only doing his duty, dear. Why don’t you come over to Lisa’s with me now? She won’t have given any orders about supper, so we’d better go and see about it.’
Mabel burst into tears and said wildly that is was just like a man to think of his own stomach before the welfare of his son, and Drew got up and left the room.
He returned a few minutes later, looking particularly wooden and accompanied by a white and subdued Ken Brandon, and the reunited family removed themselves into the night.
‘How did you work that?’ enquired Eden with grudging respect.
‘Stuck my neck out,’ said Drew morosely, ‘and was duly executed.’ He drew his index finger across his throat in a brief expressive gesture. ‘Greg is in no very pleasant temper, but at least it was preferable to having Mabel going on a crying jag.’
Mr Gilbert appeared in the drawing-room on the heels of this remark, and informed them curtly that he was leaving, but would be back at nine o’clock on the following morning. He would be obliged if they would all be in the house and available at that hour, and he was leaving Bill Hennessy to see to it.
He had refused a drink, and had left; and they had dined frugally on soup and sandwiches, for the majority of the house servants had spent the day being questioned at police headquarters, and Zacharia and Thuku, together with the cook, were being kept there overnight.
Victoria had retired to bed immediately afterwards, and had been accompanied to the door of her room by Eden. He had not searched her room as Drew had done, but he had asked her if she had any
She had made no attempt to avoid his embrace; but neither had she returned it. And when he released her at last she had put up a hand and touched his cheek in a fleeting caress that was purely maternal, and there was relief and pity and sadness in her smile; as though she had been a much older woman who has found a page of a forgotten love letter, and is smiling a little ruefully at herself because she cannot remember the name of the boy who wrote it.
16
Mr Gilbert was not only true to his word, but regrettably punctual. It was exactly one minute past nine, and breakfast was still in progress, when the now familiar squad of police and C.I.D. men arrived at Flamingo.
But this time the proceedings were brief. Typewritten copies of statements made on the previous day were produced and they were asked to sign them, and that being done Mr Stratton and the Brandons were curtly informed that they could return to their own houses, with the proviso that they must stay within reach of a telephone and not leave the Rift until further notice.
‘And that means that you can’t suddenly decide to go off on safari to the Northern Frontier, Stratton. Or take a holiday to Malindi, Mrs Brandon. I want you where I can get in touch with you at short notice. I hope that is quite clear.’
‘Painfully, thank you,’ said Drew.
‘Are we under arrest?’ demanded Hector, who appeared to have recovered some of his former truculence.
Greg favoured him with a bleak stare and said: ‘No,’ and went away, armed with a stop watch and a pair of binoculars, to head what appeared to be a conducted tour of the grounds and the short cut between Flamingo and Brandonmead.
It had been decided after some discussion that Mabel would remain with Lisa for a few days, and Eden had escorted her back to the Markhams’ bungalow. Em had gone off to deal with some domestic crisis, pausing only to say morosely: ‘I won’t ask you to stay to luncheon, Drew, because there probably won’t be any. But you should find some beer in the dining-room – if the C.I.D. haven’t removed it for analysis to make quite sure we haven’t added arsenic to it!’
The door slammed behind her, and Drew laughed. But Victoria did not. Victoria was standing by the bow window, watching Eden and Mabel Brandon as they walked away down the narrow dusty path that led across the garden towards the plumbago hedge and the Markhams’ bungalow, and presently Drew said: ‘What are you thinking about?’
He had spoken very quietly, as though he did not wish to break her train of thought, and Victoria answered him as quietly:
‘Eden.’
A bee flew into the room and buzzed about it, and when it flew out again into the sunlight the room seemed strangely silent.
Victoria said, still looking out of the window: ‘You said last night that Eden might have killed his wife; and Kamau. You don’t really think that, do you?’
‘No. In fact I should say that the betting is about a hundred to one against, despite the fact that the first question that is asked in a murder case is cui bono? – who benefits? and, financially at least, Eden does. But then I’ve known him, on and off, for a good many years, and this affair doesn’t fit in with anything I know about him. Eden isn’t a fool. He’s got plenty of intelligence, and despite all that sunny surface charm, a cool brain and more stubborn determination than most people would give him credit for. He would have known quite well, for instance, that he was bound to be the number one suspect; and why. And that being so he would, if he were guilty, have provided himself with a reasonably cast-iron alibi. Whoever murdered Alice DeBrett planned it pretty carefully – the fact that Em’s red trouserings were stolen is proof enough of that! – and only someone who did not need an alibi would have failed to provide one. That, to my mind – and I think, to Greg’s – washes Eden out. But I don’t know what it leaves us with.’
Victoria said: ‘Aunt Em, Mrs Markham, the Brandons, “General Africa”— and you.’
Drew laughed: a laugh that was singularly devoid of amusement. He said: ‘I asked for that one, didn’t I?’
And then the door opened and Em was back, looking tired and cross and harried, and addressing someone in the hall in vituperative Swahili.
She broke off on seeing Drew and Victoria, and shutting the door with a defiant bang, sank gratefully into the depths of the wing-chair and observed that had she but died an hour before this chance, she had lived a blessed time.
Drew turned his head rather quickly and looked at her with frowning intentness, his blue eyes narrowed and his brows making a straight line across his forehead, as though he were trying to recall some tag-end of memory. Victoria, who had forgotten any Swahili she had ever known, said: ‘Who were you talking to, Aunt Em?’
‘Myself,’ said Em. ‘It’s the privilege of the aged.’
‘In Swahili?’ enquired Victoria with a smile.
‘Oh, that. That was only Samuel: Hector’s gunbearer-cum-driver-cum-general factotum. I found him wandering round the hall, hunting for Mabel’s knitting bag that he seems to think she left here. I told him that it wouldn’t be here, it would be over at Lisa’s if anywhere. He must have misunderstood her. What are you scowling about, Drew?’
‘Hmm?’ said Drew in a preoccupied voice. ‘Oh – nothing much. Just an idea. I must go. Thanks for your enforced hospitality, Em.’
He walked to the door, opened it, and then hesitated as though he were reluctant to leave, and turned to look back at them, the frown still in his eyes and a strange unreadable look on his face that was oddly disturbing. As though he were puzzled and disbelieving – and afraid.
He stood there for at least a minute, looking from one to the other of them; and then he had shrugged his shoulders and gone away without saying anything, and they heard his car start up and purr away down the drive.
Em said uneasily: ‘Something’s worrying Drew. I wonder— Oh, well, I suppose this wretched business is getting us all down.’
It was shortly after his departure that they heard Greg’s car drive away, but it was almost two o’clock by the time Eden returned. He had replied to Em’s questions in monosyllables, been uncommunicative on the subject of Lisa, and refusing the dishes that Zacharia proffered, had lunched frugally off a biscuit and several cups of black coffee.
Em had retired to her room to rest, having advised Victoria to do the same. But Victoria had seldom felt less like resting, and she had wandered into the drawing-room, and sitting down at the piano had played scraps of tunes: playing to keep herself from thinking, not of the frightening happenings of the last week, but of the past and her own personal problems. But when she lifted her hands from the keys the thoughts were there waiting for her, and even her hands betrayed her, for they turned from Bach and Debussy to the trite, sweet sentimental melodies of songs that she had once danced to with Eden: ‘Some Enchanted Evening’… ‘La Vie en Rose’… ‘Hullo, Young Lovers’… And an older tune that an older generation had danced to in the days before the war, and that Eden had taken a fancy to. I get along without you very well …
I get along without you very well;
Of course I do.
Except perhaps in spring——
But she had not got along without him very well. Not in spring or summer, autumn or winter …
‘What a fool am I…!’
Her fingers stumbled on the yellowed keys in a jarring discord, for she had not heard Eden enter and she started violently when he touched her; spinning round on the piano stool so that she was in his arms.
He had not meant to touch her. He had been through a horrible and harrowing week, and had endured a recent interview with Lisa Markham that he did not want to think of ever again – and knew that he would never forget. He supposed that he deserved it, although all the initial advances had been made by her, and he had thought that she knew the rules and would keep to them. But it had been a mistake f
He had not expected to see Victoria again, or wanted to. But he had not been able to protest against her coming, because to do so might have led to questions, and he had never discussed Victoria with either Alice or Em, and he would not do so now. He had tried to shut Victoria out of his mind and his heart, but it had not been easy. That sentimental song of the ’thirties, that they had discovered and played light-heartedly in the sober post-war years, had indeed proved prophetic. I get along without you very well – of course I do – except perhaps in spring … Or when a tune was played to which they had once danced. Or a girl wore a yellow dress. Or when a rose, or a scent, or a sound recalled Victoria …
And then Em had sent for her, and he had not had the moral courage to explain to Em why she must not come; though knowing that he would see her again he had realized at last, and with blinding clarity, that neither Alice nor any of the shallow, foolish affairs with which he had attempted to fill the void in his heart meant anything to him; that only Victoria mattered, and despite any barrier of blood he must have her. That he would risk anything to have her! If only he were free——
Victoria had arrived at Flamingo, and Alice was dead. He was free. But he knew that he must behave circumspectly. He could not court another woman, even one to whom he had once been engaged, within a few days or even a few months of his wife’s death. He would have to wait. He would persuade Em to send him to Rumuruti, and when enough time had elapsed to blur the raw memory of Alice’s death he would come back and ask Victoria to marry him, and take her away from the Rift and all its tragic associations until people had forgotten. Until then he would not even touch her again.
But he had walked into the drawing-room and found her playing the tune that had been peculiarly their own, and had touched her almost without meaning to. And she had whirled about and was in his arms, and he was holding her hard against him: decency, convention, common sense thrown to the winds and forgotten. Kissing her hair and whispering broken endearments; telling her that they would get married at once – they could keep it a secret and no one need know except Em. That he could not wait, and that nothing mattered now that they were together again.