The Governor's Lady (38 page)

It was Mr. Das who brought things to life. He was as polite as ever. The whole bowing business started up again.

‘Mr. Stebbs,' he said, ‘I see that you've injured your eye.'

‘That is so.'

‘Is it a recent affliction?'

‘About ten weeks.'

‘And I notice you keep raising your hand to the eye-shade. Does that mean it still troubles you?'

‘At times.'

‘Is it troubling you now?'

‘A little.'

‘Had you hurt it by the time of Sir Gardnor's death?'

‘Yes. It happened earlier on safari.'

‘And did you receive medical attention?'

‘Captain Webber dressed it.'

‘Was that all he did?'

‘It was all he could do.'

‘But didn't it hurt?'

‘Naturally.'

‘And did Captain Webber not give you anything to ease the pain?'

‘Yes, he gave me some pills.'

‘Were they sleeping-pills?'

‘Some of them were. There were two sorts.'

‘And you took both of them?'

‘I did.'

‘Did you take any on the night of the death?'

‘Yes.'

‘Including the sleeping-pills?'

‘Including the sleeping-pills.'

‘At what time?'

‘About eleven.'

‘And how long did the effects of the sleeping-pills usually last?'

‘I don't know. About five or six hours, I suppose. I just went off to sleep. I didn't time them.'

‘And at what hour did you hear the scream?'

‘About three.'

‘And you had taken the pills around eleven?'

‘I've already told you so.'

Mr. Das's smile became even more polite.

‘I know. I was making sure that I had understood you.'

He broke off for a moment and stood there, still smiling.

‘Were you wearing an eye-shade on the night of the murder?'

‘No. I was wearing a bandage.'

‘A thick bandage?'

‘Thick enough.'

‘And did it cover up one eye completely?'

‘It did.'

‘No vision there at all?'

‘None at all.'

‘Was there a light in Sir Gardnor's tent?'

‘Yes.'

‘A powerful light, or a dim light?'

‘A powerful light.'

Mr. Das tilted his wig forward again.

‘And you are telling the Court that, having taken two sorts of drugs— one a sleeping-pill of which the effects were only half worn off—and having run, not walked, mark you, all the way from your sleeping tent, you went straight out of the night into a brightly lit room and with one
eye covered up by a thick bandage you could still see clearly enough with the other one to condemn a man?'

The Chief Justice picked up his pencil and tapped with it as if it were a conductor's baton.

‘Surely you do not mean “condemn”, do you, Mr. Das?' he asked. ‘It is entirely outside the province of a witness to condemn anybody. Do you not mean “identify”?'

‘I stand corrected, m'lud.'

The Chief Justice put the pencil down again.

‘You were enquiring about the witness's eyesight,' he said. ‘You may continue.'

‘Thank you, m'lud.'

Mr. Das turned back towards the witness-box.

‘Do you remember my question?'

‘I do.'

‘And what is your answer?'

‘I could see clearly enough to identify him. And I could see exactly what he was doing. I've told the Court.'

It was Harold's round, and Mr. Das let him have it. But he did not appear unduly concerned: the game was not yet over. He was still smiling.

‘You engaged in a piece of play-acting just now,' he said. ‘You showed the Court how the knife was being held. Would you show the Court again, please?'

‘Show them again?'

‘Can you not recall what you did before?'

‘I can.'

‘Then do it, please.'

He's making a fool of me, Harold told himself; he wants me to look ridiculous in front of all those jurors.

‘Face the Court, please,' Mr. Das was asking. ‘,' know what it looks like. I want to be quite sure that the jury knows, too.'

Harold turned, and Mr. Das let him stand there. Mr. Ngono, who had never guessed that there would be a second time, was enthralled. Overcome by the drama of it, his pink-palmed hand kept closing round an invisible dagger of his own.

‘Thank you,' Mr. Das said at length. ‘Now face me again, please.' He paused. ‘So that was how the knife was held, was it, while you
say it was being stabbed downwards into Sir Gardnor's shoulder?'

‘It was.'

‘And now,
without moving your arm
, would you please show me how you would have held the knife if you had been trying to draw it out. Draw it out, I said, not thrust it in.'

Harold stood there, not moving. Mr. Das observed him closely, shifting his head from side to side so that he could study every detail.

‘Thank you,' he said at last. ‘I can see no difference. But turn round once more please and face the Court. Perhaps the jury can see a difference.'

Harold turned. Again Mr. Das was in no hurry.

‘That will do,' he said finally. ‘You may unclench your fist.'

Mr. Das eased himself back onto his heels.

‘I congratulate you on your powers of observation,' he said. ‘But I put it to you that you have drawn the entirely wrong conclusion. If Sir Gardnor had already been stabbed when Old Moses came upon him, isn't the first thing that Old Moses would have done would have been to try to remove the weapon? Wouldn't it, Mr. Stebbs?'

But the Chief Justice was having none of that.

‘Mr. Das,' he said. ‘I have spoken to you before about inviting answers that can be no more than mere conjecture. And because they are conjecture they are of no interest to this Court.' He bent over towards the Clerk. ‘The whole of that last question will be struck out.'

‘I am sorry, m'lud.'

‘You may continue.'

Mt. Das gave his politest bow.

‘Thank you, m'lud. I am not yet finished.'

Because the bearings had really seized up this time, the fan in the centre of the ceiling had stopped revolving. The temperature inside the courtroom had risen steadily into the nineties, and the Chief Justice had just announced an adjournment of twenty minutes so that everyone could cool down a bit.

Harold returned to the makeshift waiting-room. While he had been in the witness box, the sun had moved round. It now cleared the roof of the Administration block, and fell full on the single window. The slats of the Venetian blind inside were lit up along the top edges as if they were on fire.

There was a knock on the door, and the Attorney-General joined him.

‘Everything all right?' he asked. ‘Like a cold drink, or something?'

Harold shook his head. There was still an empty carton on the table in front of him. It had contained lemonade—stale, warm and card-boardy-tasting. There was a dead fly in it.

‘I'm afraid I'm making an awful mess of things,' he said. ‘He keeps on trying to catch me.'

The Attorney-General looked surprised.

‘You're doing awfully well,' he told him. ‘The jury obviously believes you.'

Harold threw the empty carton over his shoulder in the metal bin behind him. Because the bin was already half full of other crumpled cartons, it hardly made a sound as it landed there.

‘They bloody well ought to,' he said. ‘It's the truth.'

‘There you are,' the Attorney-General agreed with him. ‘Just stick to the truth, and he can't do a thing to you. He's damn good really. I've been admiring him. I think he'd spot it, if you were trying to conceal anything.'

Harold caught his eye.

‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘I'm not.'

Outside, there was some kind of panic among the messengers. They were all talking at the tops of their voices.

The Court was due to resume in two minutes, it appeared; and one of them had been sent to look for the Attorney-General.

Mr. Das's smile, when he faced Harold, was a particularly friendly one. It was the sort of smile that friend gives friend after involuntary separation.

‘Mr. Stebbs,' he said, ‘I want you to cast your mind back again to the night of the tragedy.'

There was a pause.

‘Are you quite sure that there was no one else there when you entered Sir Gardnor's tent—just you and Lady Anne and Old Moses?'

Harold was grateful for the adjournment: his mind was clearer.

‘Except for Sir Gardnor, of course.'

‘Of course.'

Mr. Das paused.

‘And he may have been dead already, may he not?'

‘He may have been. I'm not an expert on such things.'

‘You don't have to be an expert, Mr. Stebbs. You are merely an eyewitness. In your opinion, was Sir Gardnor dead when you entered?'

‘He may have been.'

‘And if Sir Gardnor was dead when you entered, he may have been dead some time before you got there. That is so, is it not, Mr. Stebbs? Say five minutes before, for instance.'

‘Possibly.'

‘Quarter-of-an-hour, then?'

So Mr. Das was back to the A.D.C. again. ‘Quarter-of-an-hour, then?' were the very words that he had used when he was cross-examining him. Harold determined that he wasn't going to be drawn into that one.

‘All I know is that the body was still warm when I touched it,' he said.

‘But it was a warm night, wasn't it?'

‘It was.'

‘And you have said that you are no expert. The heat of the body would prove nothing—except to an expert, that is—now would it, Mr. Stebbs?'

‘I've only told you what I noticed.'

‘And was there anything else you noticed—Lady Anne, for instance?'

‘No. She was right over on the other side of the tent.'

Mr. Das was no longer smiling at Harold. Head back, he was staring vacantly at the ceiling where the fan kept giving a half turn or two, and then stopping short again.

‘Are you and Lady Anne what might be called independent witnesses?' he asked.

The Chief Justice stirred himself and pushed his glasses further up his nose: he found that he was always heard better when he was wearing his glasses properly.

‘I don't understand you.'

‘There was no arrangement between you?'

‘None whatsoever.'

‘No special understanding?'

‘I have told you. None.'

Mr. Das's eyes had returned to him now.

‘But you are friends, are you not?'

‘Yes. We are friends.'

‘Close friends?'

‘I suppose you could call it that.'

‘I don't call it anything, Mr. Stebbs. I want you to tell me what your relations were.'

He paused.

‘Were they intimate?'

Mr. Ngono was suddenly leaning so far forward that he was blotting out everything. The chief cashier, whose view he was totally blocking, touched him on the shoulder again. But, this time, Mr. Ngono did not move. In his excitement, he did not even notice.

‘We didn't see a great deal of each other, if that's what you mean.'

‘It is not in the least what I mean,' Mr. Das replied. ‘I was using the word in its more specific legal sense.'

Mr. Ngono drew in his breath sharply. Mr. Das's question must mean that Mr. Talefwa had told him everything, simply stolen his confidences and used them for his own purposes. Mr. Ngono hated Mr. Talefwa.

‘Do you understand my meaning now?' Mr. Das asked.

The familiar smile was there when he put the question. It was still
there while he waited for the reply. The Court had gone very quiet again.

‘I do.'

Harold could feel his heart bumping as he said the words.

‘And what is your answer?'

‘No. It is not true.'

Mr. Das's smile changed somewhat. It now seemed somehow toothier.

‘I want to avoid any possibility of misunderstanding on this point,' he said. ‘I will therefore re-phrase my question.'

He halted deliberately.

‘Were you]and Lady Anne lovers?' he asked.

Harold could not remember afterwards whether he had actually denied it. He had been ready to do so: that much was certain. There were some things that Mr. Das would never be able to drag out of him.

But, at that moment, there was an interruption.

It came from inside the dock itself. His white cloth slipping off him, Old Moses struggled up from his chair. Now that he was upright, he looked more gaunt and scarecrow-like than ever. Pursing up his withered, crinkled lips, he spat on the floor at Mr. Das's feet.

Harold and the Attorney-General were cool at last. Bathed and changed, they were out on the verandah of the Milner Club, and the breeze that had come up had just begun to set the corners of the table-cloths flapping. The air usually got moving in this way after dusk, when it was too late to be of real use to anybody.

‘Pity the C.J. isn't here,' the Attorney General remarked reflectively. ‘But he's awfully strict about it. No mixing while the case is on.'

Over in the lighted doorway of the clubhouse, one of the bar boys was standing. While he was still speaking, the Attorney-General made a circular, signalling movement with his hand to indicate that another round was needed.

‘Well, I can tell you one thing,' Harold said. ‘If he hadn't spat at him, I think I'd have done myself.'

The Attorney-General shook his head.

‘You did very well,' he told him. ‘Just the right note of indignation. Keep it up that way.'

‘Dirty little swine.'

‘Oh, I don't know about that,' he replied. ‘Only doing his job. Trying to establish conspiracy. Not a bad idea. Lots of juries fall for it.'