The Governor's Lady (37 page)

‘I put it to you that you
did
want to run into someone, Mr. Henley,' he said. ‘Who was it that you went to meet?'

The A.D.C. was sweating again. He had gone damp and sticky all over. There was a signet ring on his left hand, and he kept twisting it nervously round between his thumb and forefinger.

Mr. Das took that for another good sign.

‘I didn't go to meet anyone.'

Mr. Das paused.

‘Was the kitchen boy a friend of yours, Mr. Henley?' he asked.

‘He was about the camp. I'd spoken to him.'

‘And was that as far as the friendship went?'

The A.D.C. drew down the corners of his mouth. He was staring straight at Mr. Das, looking him full in the eyes, and not answering. It was obvious that he did not intend to answer.

But this did not matter in the slightest. Mr. Das had been waiting, preparing for this moment, all the way along. And, now that it had come, he was ready for it.

Still with the same fixed smile upon his face, he started to address the A.D.C. again.

‘Mr. Henley,' he said, ‘I put it to you that everything that you have said in this Court has been lies. All lies, and nothing but lies. It wasn't an attack of dysentery that drove you from the tent, because you never had dysentery, did you? You left the tent because you wished to see
someone. That someone was the kitchen boy. It was by prior arrangement that you met him, wasn't it? And you chose the African latrine because it was so close to his quarters, so convenient for him. All that is correct, is it not, Mr. Henley?'

The sweat that had been forming on the A.D.C.'s face had begun to trickle. Even from where Mr. Ngono was sitting, he could see little rivulets running down. While Mr. Ngono watched, he saw the A.D.C. pass the back of his hand across his forehead: it came away glistening.

‘It is not correct.'

Mr. Das looked perfectly cool: he wasn't even sweating.

‘I put it to you, Mr. Henley, that you were there to meet your accomplice. The accomplice was the kitchen boy. You had got it all worked out, hadn't you?'

‘We'd got nothing worked out.'

The A.D.C. had interrupted at last. It did not, however, sound in the least like his own voice. Usually he was rather quietly spoken.

Mr. Das was not disconcerted. Eyes shut, he was reconstructing the whole affair.

‘Sir Gardnor had dropped you, hadn't he?' he went on, in the same musical voice that had annoyed the Chief Justice when he first heard it. ‘He was going to leave you behind, wasn't he? And I put it to you that you had decided to get your own revenge. You had decided to kill him, hadn't you?'

The Chief Justice raised his forefinger.

‘Do what to him, Mr. Das?' he asked.

‘Kill him, m'lud.'

The Chief Justice lowered his hand again.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘I did not hear you. You may proceed.'

Mr. Das's eyes were open by now.

‘And when you had killed him, stabbed him with his own paper-knife, you put the rest of your plan into operation. You had already bribed the kitchen boy, paid him money, hadn't you, Mr. Henley? And for one reason and for one reason only—to put suspicion on himself by running away. You knew that he'd never be found again, not out there in all that jungle. That was why you met him in the latrine that night, wasn't it? To tell him that you'd done your bit.'

The A.D.C. had gone very pale.

‘No' was all he said.

‘Then why did you meet him there?' Mr. Das demanded.

At that moment, the centre fan gave a shudder that set the blades vibrating. The rattle made everyone look upwards. But there was nothing to see. The fan had started to revolve quite normally again.

Dinner was now over, and Mr. Frith sat facing Mr. Drawbridge across the width of the small table at the end of the long dining-room.

It had been a short, simple sort of meal: in Sir Gardnor's day there would have been two, possibly three, more courses. Also, the small table would never have been used at all. Whenever Mr. Frith had dined alone with Sir Gardnor, they had always been separated by an immense distance of mahogany, with the candlesticks and the silver pheasants and the big rose bowl cutting them off almost entirely from each other.

As it was, the smoke from the pipe that Mr. Drawbridge was lighting kept drifting into Mr. Frith's face. It was an old pipe, charred round the rim, and burnt down on one side where the match always went. Lighting a pipe in the dining-room was another thing that would never have happened in Sir Gardnor's day.

‘Did the right thing, of course,' Mr. Drawbridge remarked. ‘Sent a note down asking us to excuse him. Said he would be staying in his room this evening.'

Mr. Frith roused himself. The day had been an exhausting one, just sitting there in Court listening. Now that it was finished, moments of sleepiness kept coming over him.

‘Don't wonder,' he replied. ‘Can't see how he can live it down. Not after all that native latrine stuff.'

Mr. Drawbridge nodded.

‘Too bad really,' he said. ‘I'm told everyone knew he was that way. But you don't have to make a thing of it. Very dirty of Counsel to play it up like that.'

‘Dirty sort of Counsel,' Mr. Frith observed. ‘That's why they got him out here.'

‘All Talefwa's doing, I suppose.'

Mr. Frith leant forward as though he were afraid of eavesdroppers.

‘Hand in glove,' he replied. ‘Anyhow, the C.J. spotted it. Cuts him down to size, doesn't it, just being interpreter?'

‘How did the jury take it—the bit about the A.D.C., I mean?'

‘Oh, they got the message all right. Probably all new to some of them. Weren't all regular Residency types, you know.'

‘And did they resent it—coming from an Indian, I mean?'

‘Slit his throat tomorrow if they got the chance. All twelve of them. All eleven, I should say. Don't know about young Ngono. He's like a kid at his first circus.'

Mr. Drawbridge had passed the port bottle back in Mr. Frith's direction. He filled up his glass again. It wasn't really his drink, port. But it would do for now; do, until they got round to the whisky later. Whisky, he knew, was the only thing that would really revive him, put him back on his form again.

‘Think they'll fall for the idea of the kitchen boy being mixed up in the murder?' Mr. Drawbridge asked. ‘Clever of Das to bring it up in that way. Bound to leave a doubt in their minds.'

‘Oh, he's clever all right. Grant you that much.'

Mr. Frith had spilt some of the port down his shirt-front, and had to start mopping at it with his napkin. Mr. Drawbridge sat watching him.

‘Then how d'you think it's all going?'

‘Difficult to say. Very difficult. Getting it all their own way at the moment.' He paused. ‘Wish our A.-G. had got a bit more guts in him,' he added. ‘Taking it all too quietly for my liking. No—
whoosh!'

Mr. Frith still had his port glass in his hand as he pronounced the word. It was careless. And too emphatic. Mr. Drawbridge had to begin dabbing at the tablecloth as well.

‘Really? Only seen the transcript, myself,' he told him. ‘Read all right to me.'

But Mr. Frith had become despondent.

‘Don't like to think of Lady Anne in the box,' he said. ‘Not with the other fellow firing the questions. Might say anything, you know.'

Mr. Drawbridge only smiled.

‘I don't think there'll be any trouble with her,' he replied. ‘Never does to go for a woman. He wouldn't want to put the jury's backs

His pipe had gone out, and he was at work lighting it again.

‘It's Stebbs tomorrow, isn't it?' he asked. ‘He ought to be all right. Seems steady enough to me.'

‘Oh, yes. I'm not worried about him. Damn it all, he
saw
it.'

Tomorrow had come; and, so far, things in the courtroom were moving quite smoothly.

‘And what did you do, Mr. Stebbs, when you heard Lady Anne scream?'

The Attorney-General asked the question in that quiet, conversational tone of his that Mr. Frith found so unconvincing.

‘I jumped out of bed and ran over.'

‘Immediately?'

‘Immediately.'

‘No hanging about to get some clothes on?'

‘No.'

‘How were you dressed then?'

‘I was in my pyjamas.'

‘And how far was your tent from Sir Gardnor's?'

‘About twenty yards.'

‘Was it a clear run, or were there any obstructions?'

‘Perfectly clear.'

‘And could you see where you were going?'

‘No difficulty at all.'

‘Then it can't have taken you very long, can it? How long, in fact, did elapse between hearing the scream and reaching Sir Gardnor's tent? A minute?'

‘Much less.'

‘Half-a-minute, then?'

‘Less.'

‘Less? A quarter-of-a-minute, perhaps?'

‘Not more. I got there as quickly as I could.'

‘So in a quarter-of-a-minute you had reached the doorway. Was the flap open?'

‘No. It was closed.'

‘How was it closed?'

‘Only loosely. The cords had been looped together on the outside.'

‘You did say on the
outside?
'

‘I did.'

‘And “looped” you said. Do you mean “looped” or “knotted”?'

‘You could call it a sort of knot, I suppose. But it wasn't tied tight, or anything like that.'

‘Then you had no difficulty in undoing it?'

‘None whatever. The ends just came apart.'

‘So it didn't hold you up in any way?'

‘Not at all. I went straight in.'

‘How far did you, in fact, go?'

‘There was a sort of little passage-way inside the tent. I had to get to the end of it before I could see what was going on.'

‘And what was going on?'

‘Sir Gardnor was at his desk, sir. Dead.'

‘Was he alone at the time?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Who was with him?'

Harold shifted his position slightly. Where he was standing he could just see the white corner of the Mimbo blanket over the edge of the dock-rail.

‘Old Moses,' he said.

‘What exactly was Old Moses doing? Tell the Court in your own words, please.'

It was the same low, almost casual, voice that the Attorney-General was using. But it was not without its effect. The Court was suddenly as silent as it had been when Mr. Das had so dramatically thrown his papers down.

‘He was bent over the back of Sir Gardnor's chair. He was stabbing him. There was blood everywhere.'

In the quiet of the court room, Harold became uncomfortably aware of the sound of his own voice: he seemed to be listening to himself,

‘Could you see clearly?'

‘Absolutely clearly.'

‘No possibility of your being mistaken?'

‘None whatever.'

‘And where was the wound that was being inflicted?'

‘Right up on the shoulder. Where it joins the neck.'

He raised his hand instinctively and touched the spot with his finger.

‘And could you actually see the weapon?'

‘Only the handle. The blade was inside.'

‘You mean it was just sticking there? Was no one touching it?'

Harold lowered his eyes for a moment: he found this bit distasteful.

‘Old Moses was.'

‘And was his hand merely resting on it?'

‘No, sir. He was grasping it.'

Harold raised his arm as he was speaking and involuntarily clenched his fist.

The Attorney-General looked at him closely.

‘Would you turn, please, so that his Lordship and the jury can both see.'

Harold turned: the same uncomfortable feeling had come over him. He seemed to be watching himself as well as listening, now.

But already the A.-G. was speaking again: in the same, curiously detached voice, he was ambling on.

‘ “Grasping”, I think you said. Was it a good firm grip?'

‘It was.'

‘Considerable muscular power behind it?'

‘Considerable.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because I tried to pull his hand away.'

‘And what did Old Moses do?'

‘He struggled. He wouldn't let go of it.'

The Attorney-General pursed up his lips and nodded as though he were savouring the reply.

‘He wouldn't let go of it,' he repeated slowly. Then, just when Mr. Ngono thought that the Attorney-General had finished, he apparently remembered something.

‘Were you alone all this time?' he asked.

‘No, sir.'

‘Who else was there?'

‘Lady Anne.'

‘And was Lady Anne anywhere near Sir Gardnor?'

‘No, sir. She was right over on the other side.'

‘On the other side of the desk?'

‘No, sir. On the other side of the marquee. Where the ladies' quarters joined on.'

The Attorney-General bent down and picked up a large folded sheet.

‘I have here a scale plan of the marquee,' he said. ‘It shows the position
of the desk and of the ladies' quarters. That would mean that Lady Anne was some thirty feet away, would it not?'

‘About that, sir.'

‘And was Lady Anne simply standing there?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘She didn't come forward to help you in any way?'

‘She didn't move, sir. She had her hands up to her face. She was covering up her eyes.'

‘And it was Lady Anne you heard scream?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You are certain about that?'

‘Positive.'

‘Thank you. I have no more questions.'

He looked across at the jury as he said it. Then, with a little shrug, he hitched up his trousers and sat down. Once seated, he closed his eyes as if he had lost all interest in the case.