Death in Kenya (2 page)

Alice pushed between the canna lilies and ran across the lawn and up the stone steps that led on to the verandah. The door into the drawing-room stood open, and entering without ceremony she leant across Gilly's shoulder and thrust his hands off the keyboard in an ugly crash of sound.

Gilly spun round on the piano stool and stared at her contorted face.

‘God! you startled me! What's up? You look all to pieces.' He rose hurriedly. ‘Nothing the matter, is there?'

‘No. No, nothing.' Alice groped behind her and catching at the arm of a chair, sat down rather suddenly. Her breathing steadied, and a little colour crept back into her pale cheeks. ‘I'm sorry, Gilly. My nerves are on edge. It was only that tune. Em's been playing it and playing it until I can't endure the sound of it.'

‘She has, has she?' said Gilly, mixing a stiff whisky and soda and handing it to Alice.

He poured out a second and larger one for himself, omitting the soda, and gulped it down: ‘Then I'm not surprised your nerves are in ribbons. She's a bloody bad pianist. She takes that third movement as though she were an elephant charging an express train.'

He sat down again at the piano as though to illustrate, and Alice said in a taut voice: ‘Gilly, if you play that again I shall scream. I mean it!'

Gilly dropped his hands and regarded her with some concern. ‘I say, you are in a bad way! Have another drink?'

‘I haven't started on this one yet,' said Alice with an attempt at a laugh. ‘Oh, it isn't that. It's – well that record being broken. You heard about that, didn't you?'

‘You mean the poltergeist? Of course I did.'

‘It
isn't
a poltergeist! Don't
say
things like that! It must be someone – a person. But Em swears by all her servants. She's had them for years and they're nearly all second-generation
Flamingo
servants. Or even third! She won't believe that it is one of them. But it's worrying her badly. I know it is.'

Gilly poured himself out another three fingers of whisky, and subsiding on to the sofa, sipped it moodily. He was a thin, untidy-looking man in the middle thirties with a pallid, discontented face and pale blue eyes that had a habit of sliding away from a direct look. His shock of fair hair was perpetually in need of cutting, and he wore a sweat-stained open-necked shirt, grubby khaki trousers and a sagging belt that supported a revolver in a well-worn holster. Altogether an incongruous figure in Lisa's over-decorated drawing-room. As incongruous as Alice DeBrett with her neat dark head, her neat dark expensive linen suit, her impeccable shoes and flawless pearls, and her pale, strained, Madonna face that was innocent of all but the barest trace of make-up.

‘Won't do Em any harm to worry,' said Gilly, sipping whisky. ‘Told her years ago she should throw out all her Kukes. Everyone's told her! But Em's always fancied she knew better than anyone else. “Treat 'em right and they'll be loyal.”
Bah!
There's no such thing as a loyal Kuke. We've all learned that – the hard way!'

Alice said uncertainly: ‘But she's fond of her Kikuyu servants, Gilly. And they did stay with her all through the Emergency, and now that it's over——'

‘Who said it was over?' demanded Gilly. ‘Over, my foot! What about this latest caper – the Kiama Kia Muingi?
A rose by any other name,
that's what! Secret ceremonies, extortion, intimidation – same old filthy familiar ingredients simmering away again and ready to boil over at the drop of a hat. And yet there are scores of little optimists running round in circles saying that it's all over! Don't let 'em fool you!'

He reached behind him, and groping for the bottle of whisky refilled his glass, slopping the liquid on to the rose-patterned chintz of the sofa in the process. ‘Who's to say how many Mau Mau are still on the run in the forests, or Nairobi, or the Rift? Why, they haven't even caught “General Africa” yet – and they say it's over! Y'know –' Gilly's words were slurring together – ‘y'know Hector Brandon? Course you do! Well, Hector's been doin' a lot of interrogation of M.M. old lags, and he says one of 'em told him that there are still a gang of hard-core terrorists hidin' out in the
marula
– the papyrus swamp. Bein' fed by the African labour of the farms along the lake. And Greg Gilbert says he believes General Africa is still employed by a settler. Why, it might be any of Em's Kukes! Who's to tell? Nice quiet house boy or cook or cattleherd by day – Gen'l Africa in a lion skin hat at night. Might even be one of Hector's. In fact, only too likely if you ask me!'

‘Oh no, Gilly! Why everyone knows that the Mau Mau swore they'd get Hector because of his intelligence work. Yet they never did, and if General Africa had been one of his own men it would have been too easy.'

‘Maybe,' said Gilly sceptically. ‘But I'll tell you something that “everyone” doesn't know! And that is that once upon a time Drew Stratton's lot nearly got the “General” – he walked into one of their ambushes with five of his men, and though he managed to get away, he left something behind him: a hunting knife. It had been in a sort of holster at his belt, and by some infernal fluke a bullet chipped it off as clean as a whistle without harming him. But it was the next best thing to getting the man himself, because it had a set of his finger prints on it. The only clue to his identity the Security Forces had ever got their hands on. And what happened to them? Well, I'll tell you. Hector carefully cleaned 'em off! It's always been my belief that he recognized the knife, and that he wasn't taking any chances of one of his darling boys being accused. “Honour of the House”, an' all that.'

‘Gilly, no!' protested Alice. ‘You shouldn't say things like that! It must have been a mistake – an accident.'

‘That's what
he
said. Said he thought it belonged to Greg, and merely picked it up off Greg's desk to doodle with. Greg nearly hit the ceiling. It's no use, Alice. You just don't understand what some of these old Kenya hands are capable of; or how their own little patch of land can end by becoming the centre of the universe to them, just because they made it out of nothing by the sweat of their brow, and starved for it and gave up their youth for it, and sacrificed comfort and safety and civilization and a lot of other trivial little things for it.
Brandonmead
is Hector's pride. No – I'm wrong. Ken's his pride.
Brandonmead
's his life; and he's always sworn by all his African labour. “Loyal to the core” and all that sort of stuff. It would have damned near killed him if it had turned out that one of his precious Kukes was a star Mau Mau thug. I believe he'd have done almost anything to cover it up, and salved his conscience by thinking he could deal with it himself. They're great ones for taking the law into their own hands out here. Haven't you noticed that yet?'

Alice said uncomfortably: ‘But Em says——'

‘Em!' interrupted Gilly rudely. ‘Em's as bad as any of them. Worse! It was silly old bitches like her who caused half the trouble. “My Kukes are loyal. I'll stake my life on it.” So they lose –
Bah!
You're not going, are you?'

Alice had put down her half finished glass and stood up. She said coldly: ‘I'm afraid I must. I only came over with a message for Lisa, but if she's out perhaps you'd give it to her.'

‘She isn't out. She's only gone down to the shamba with the Brandons and Drew Stratton. Here, don't go! Have the other half of that. I didn't mean to get your goat. I know how you feel about Em. You're fond of the old battle-axe. Well, so am I – when she isn't tearing a strip off me! So's all Kenya. Protected Monument – that's Em! Apologize, if I hurt your feelings.'

‘That's all right, Gilly,' said Alice hurriedly. ‘But I don't think I'll wait, all the same. It's getting late. And if Lisa has guests——'

There was an unexpected trace of embarrassment in her quiet voice, and Gilly's shrewd, pale eyes regarded her with observant interest. He said: ‘Ken's not with them, if that's what's worrying you.'

His laugh held a trace of malice as he saw the colour rise in Alice DeBrett's pale cheeks. ‘There's no need for you to blush like that, Alice. We all know that you've done your best to snub the poor boy. That is, all except Mabel. But you can't expect Mabel to believe that every woman isn't crazy about her darling son. He's her blind spot. Funny about Ken: I wouldn't have thought you were his type at all.'

‘I'm not,' said Alice with a trace of a snap. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Gilly. I'm old enough to be his mother!'

‘Here! Give yourself a chance! You can't be much more than thirty-five!'

‘I'm twenty-seven,' said Alice slowly. ‘And Ken isn't twenty yet.'

‘Oh well,' said Gilly, dismissing it, and unaware of the blow that he had dealt her. ‘Chaps always fall in love with someone older than themselves to start with, and they always fall hard. He'll get over it. Hector ought to send him away. God, I only wish
I
could get the hell out of this Valley! Did you know that Jerry Coles is going to retire soon? You know – the chap who manages the DeBrett property out at Rumuruti. That's the job I'm after. But Em's being damned obstinate. Suit me down to the ground. Nice home, good pay and perks – and no Em looking over my shoulder the entire time, carping and criticizing. Heaven!'

Alice smiled a little wanly and said: ‘Wouldn't you find it rather lonely? I shouldn't have thought Lisa would like living so far away.'

Gilly scowled, and his pale eyes were suddenly brooding and sombre. He said: ‘That's another reason. It's far away. Over a hundred dusty, uncomfortable, glorious miles away. Far enough, perhaps, to keep her from making an infernal fool of herself over——'

Alice did not let him finish. She walked towards the door, her face white and pinched, and spoke over-loudly, as though to drown out words that she did not wish to hear: ‘I really must go. It's getting late and I ought to get back. Will you tell Lisa that——'

Gilly said: ‘You can tell her yourself. Here they are now.'

There were footsteps and voices in the verandah, and a moment later Gilly's wife and her guests were in the room. The Brandons, whose property touched the western borders of
Flamingo
and who were such a strangely assorted pair – small, soft-voiced Mabel with her kind, charming face and grey curls, and her choleric husband, Hector, who lived up to his name and was large, loud-voiced and ruddy-featured. Drew Stratton, whose farm lay five miles further along the shores of the lake. And Lisa herself, her bright brown hair bound by a satin ribbon and her wide-skirted dress patterned with roses.

Gilly rose unsteadily and dispensed drinks, and Lisa said: ‘Why, hullo, Alice! Nice to see you.'

Her violet eyes slid past Alice with a quick eager look that turned to disappointment, and was neither lost nor misinterpreted by Eden's wife.

Lisa and Eden – ! thought Alice. She pushed away the thought as though it had been a tangible thing and said a little stiffly: ‘I only came over with a message from Em. She said that you'd asked for a lift next time she went into Nairobi, and to tell you that she'd be going in on Thursday to fetch her niece from the airport.'

‘Great-niece, surely?' corrected Lisa.

‘No,' said Mrs Brandon in her gentle voice. ‘It's her sister's child. Good evening, Alice.' She dropped her knitting bag on the sofa and sat down beside it. ‘Lady Helen was Em's half-sister, and a good deal younger than her. She came out to stay with Em during the first world war, and married Jack Caryll who used to own the Lumley place on the Kinangop: Victoria, the daughter, was born out here. I remember her quite well – a thin little girl who used to ride a zebra that Jack tamed for her. He was killed by a rhino while he was out shooting, and his wife took a dislike to the whole country in consequence. She sold the farm to the Lumleys, and went back to England; and now she's died. It's strange to think that she must have been about twenty years younger than Em, and yet Em's still so strong. But I am surprised that Em should have decided to bring Victoria out here. It seems rather an odd thing to do in – in the circumstances.'

For a moment her soft voice held a trace of embarrassment, and Alice's slight figure stiffened. She said coldly: ‘Lady Emily feels that it is time she had someone to take over the secretarial work and help with the milk records. She has always done those herself up to now, but she is getting old, and it tires her.'

‘But then she has you,' said Mrs Brandon. ‘And Eden.'

‘I'm afraid I don't type; and Eden has never been fond of paperwork.'

‘Eden,' said Hector Brandon roundly, ‘is not fond of work in any form! And it's no use your lookin' at me like that, Alice! I've known your husband since he was in short pants, and if you ask me, its a pity his grandmother didn't dust 'em more often – with a slipper!'

Mrs Brandon frowned reprovingly at her husband and said pacifically: ‘You mustn't mind Hector, Alice. He always says what he thinks.'

‘And proud of it!' boomed Hector.

Why?
thought Alice with a spasm of nervous exasperation. Why should anyone consider it an admirable trait to speak their mind when it hurt other people's feelings? – when it was rude and unkind?

‘Rugged individualism,' murmured Mr Stratton absently into his glass.

He caught Alice's eye and grinned at her, and some of her defensive hostility left her. Her taut nerves relaxed a little, and she returned the smile, but with a visible effort.

She liked Drew Stratton. He was one of the very few people with whom she felt entirely at ease. Perhaps because he took people as he found them and did not trouble to interest himself in their private affairs. Drew was tall and fair; as fair as Gilly but, unlike Gilly, very brown from the sun that had bleached his hair and brows. His blue eyes were deceptively bland, and if there was any rugged individualism in his make-up it did not take the form of blunt outspokenness. Nor did he find it necessary, in the manner of Hector, to dress in ill-fitting and sweat-stained clothes in order to emphasize the fact that he worked, and worked hard, in a new and raw land.