The Governor's Lady (4 page)

The feeling of having been there before, of somehow belonging to the place, returned to Harold more sharply than ever.

‘Just the way I knew it would be,' he found himself thinking. ‘Just like my dream.'

Seen at close quarters, the Residency was a vast, blanc-mange edifice, with a lofty Colonial portico and a row of highly-polished antique cannon facing nothing down the drive. The guard all wore a broad scarlet sash across their tunics, and carried gold shoulder-tabs. The sentries, two of them, standing alongside the cannon, had their bayonets fixed.

Mr. Frith strode in across the threshold. Fortified as he now was, he showed himself completely at his ease. He was beaming.

‘Don't bother about the Book,' he said. ‘That's only for outsiders.'

Together they went on, under the big crystal chandelier, across the tennis-court-sized area of blue carpet, and began to mount the staircase. It was a long staircase, and the climb did not agree with Mr. Frith. He was breathing rather heavily by now, and small beads of perspiration had begun to break out along his forehead.

At the top, the A.D.C. was waiting, his charming, slightly-tired smile at the ready. A slim young man with a lock of brown hair that he was constantly thrusting back from his forehead, he was undoubtedly good-looking in a smooth, orthodox sort of way. It was only on closer inspection that the features seemed somehow too regular, too standardised. It was as though if any one of them should get bent or damaged or mislaid it could be quite readily replaced—at Harrod's or Fortnum's, probably.

But already he was stepping forward.

‘Mr. Stebbs?' he asked. ‘His Excellency's expecting you.'

The introduction was marred only because Mr. Frith did not raise his right foot quite high enough to clear the top step. At one moment he was politely ushering Harold forward and, at the next, he had catapulted him into the A.D.C.'s arms.

The A.D.C. appeared entirely oblivious.

‘Evening, Tony,' Mr. Frith said. ‘You well?'

The A.D.C. turned again to Harold Stebbs.

‘It's not a dinner party,' he explained. ‘It's entirely stag. You might call it a working session really—the book you know. H.E.'s going off on tour tomorrow. That's why we're in the Library. H.E. does hope you'll excuse us.'

The corridor along which they were passing was wide, high and apparently endless. The blue carpet seemed to go on for ever. A pair of tall double-doors stood open on one side, revealing a big, shadowy interior. It made the whole house seem somehow emptier and more lifeless.

Mr. Frith had caught up with them by now. After pausing for a moment to inspect himself in front of the mirrors, he had recovered all his old self-possession. He was whispering.

‘Not a word about Lady Anne. And don't be surprised if H.E.'s offhand: it's only his way. And try and keep the conversation going. He likes that. The claret'll be Barton, by the way. Don't let youself be caught out.'

The A.D.C. had opened the door at the far end and was standing back for Harold to go in ahead of him.

‘Excellency,' he said, speaking just loud enough to be heard distinctly but not so loud as to be disturbing, ‘Mr. Stebbs has arrived.'

Harold waited. All that he could see was the high back of a red leather chair. From behind it there was a movement and a rustle of papers, and then Sir Gardnor appeared. A tall man, he gave the impression of still rising even when he was already standing. He pushed the chair back and came round, hand outstretched, and smiling.

‘Mr. Stebbs,' he said. ‘How kind of you to come like this. Without warning, too. This is a bachelor household at the moment, you understand. You're not tired, are you—after the journey, I mean? You wouldn't rather be in bed?'

By now, Sir Gardnor seemed somehow to be hanging over him. But it was Mr. Frith whom Sir Gardnor was already addressing.

‘Good of you to go out of your way like this to bring Mr. Stebbs here tonight,' he said. ‘You weren't thinking of doing anything else, were you?'

While Sir Gardnor was speaking, Harold was able to observe him more closely. It was a remarkably effective smile that he had; quite enveloping, in fact. Not that Harold was unfamiliar with it: he had seen Sir Gardnor's photographs often enough in the papers. It was only that, in real life, the face, like the smile, was even more impressive.

The whole effect was rather formidable: there was the iron grey hair; the wide forehead coming down to the dark jutting eyebrows; the high arch to the nose; the massive deeply divided chin. Like some bloody Roman gladiator, Harold found himself thinking.

And while he was looking, he noticed the smile again. It bore no relation to what Sir Gardnor was saying; was simply turned on and off at will, like floodlighting.

There was one other thing that Harold noticed. Sir Gardnor introduced a question into every other sentence, and then turned to another topic before there was time for a reply.

‘Your trip,' he was now saying to Harold, ‘you read it up, I hope? The birds are particularly interesting. And the geology, didn't you find? The watershed explains a great deal about the Mimbo. You noticed their stature? Clearly a hill people, but living in the plains. And their language. Are you interested in native tongues? “Mimbo” also means “palm wine” you know. A once great people, divided by a valley and a
river—and a war of conquest, of course. Have you read much African history, Mr. Stebbs? It's most rewarding. Essential, in fact, if you're to see exactly where we fit into things.'

The smile had flitted in and out half-a-dozen times while Sir Gardnor was speaking, and around his feet the little pile of unanswered questions was steadily getting deeper.

He turned to Harold.

‘You don't mind dining early, do you?' he asked. ‘I want to talk to you afterwards. It's about the book. You've heard I shall be away up country? I don't want to lose any time. While I'm on my tour, I thought you could be getting on with things. It's really the tables, you know. We can't afford to have them out of date, can we?'

Sir Gardnor had been sipping the hock without any apparent interest. Then the Mimbo butler poured the claret. He was a lined, ancient creature, the butler, with no more than isolated tufts of hair left upon his scalp. But the other servants all seemed in awe of him: Harold noticed how they stepped back for him to pass. He noticed also how attentive he was, how watchful. His head held slightly to one side, he was observing Sir Gardnor all the time.

Sir Gardnor raised the claret to his nostrils, and closed his eyes as he did so. A sudden hush had come over the room, and the silence remained as Sir Gardnor slowly and very deliberately sniffed. Then he opened his eyes, and the tension was over.

He turned towards Harold: the warm, sweet glare of his smile was now full on him.

‘I think you'll find that, for its age, it's travelled well,' he said. ‘You must give us your opinion.'

Harold remembered his cue, and the question came blurting out.

‘Is it Barton?' he asked.

Mr. Frith gave a short, nervous cough, but Sir Gardnor ignored the question altogether.

‘And what are they drinking in Cambridge these days?' he enquired. ‘In my time it was St. Julien, and a rather cheap Pommard mostly.'

He glanced across at Mr. Frith. It was only a half-smile, this time; a mere token.

‘Which bungalow is Mr. Stebbs having?' he asked. ‘Have you put him somewhere near you?'

Mr. Frith had been perspiring heavily ever since he had sat down. He kept running his handkerchief over his forehead. And, hot as he was, he suddenly appeared hotter.

‘Sorry, Excellency,' he said. ‘There isn't a bungalow. Not till the end of the month, that is.' He cleared his throat as he was speaking, and gave a rather silly little laugh. ‘Mr. Stebbs is at the Royal Albert, sir. Nice room. You're all right where you are, aren't you, Stebbs?'

Before Harold could reply Sir Gardnor had intervened.

‘But I thought that a bungalow was understood. For Mr. Stebbs's sake, you know. As well as mine. I couldn't allow my papers to be left lying about in a hotel, now could I?'

This time the pause was so long that it was obvious that, for once, he actually expected an answer.

‘I suppose I could turn someone out, Excellency,' he began.

Sir Gardnor, however, was not listening. He was addressing the A.D.C. instead.

‘Our own bungalow,' he said triumphantly. ‘The one that poor Miles had. That's free, isn't it?'

The A.D.C. winced slightly.

‘No staff, sir. Not for the moment.'

Sir Gardnor raised his eyebrows.

‘Then they can service it from the House,' he said. ‘We shall be away for a week. Possibly ten days. Perhaps longer. It's difficult to tell, isn't it? You can fix up permanent staff for Mr. Stebbs when we get back. And you, Mr. Frith, can dismiss it from your mind, can't you? It's all solved.'

He was smiling again as he said it, but he was also drumming with his fingers on the table-top.

‘You do see my point, Mr. Stebbs, don't you? You'll need to work on it in the evenings. Most evenings, I'm afraid. And I'm sure you'd much rather be on your own, wouldn't you?'

Harold started to thank him, but Sir Gardnor's attention had already strayed. He was looking hard at Harold's glass.

‘You approve, then?' he asked. ‘And what year would
you
say it was?'

Dinner was already finished when the A.D.C. got up, and went over to the door. There was a whispered conversation. Then the A.D.C. came back, and stood behind Sir Gardnor's chair.

‘It's Major Hastings, sir,' he said. ‘The General asked him to come over.'

Sir Gardnor continued with the business of lighting his cigar.

‘Well ask him to come in,' he replied. ‘It's no good leaving him out there, is it?'

The cigar was drawing nicely by now, and Sir Gardnor seemed in the best of spirits. He was smiling.

His really big smile, however, was reserved for Major Hastings.

‘Ah, come in, Major,' he said, springing to his feet, as though his whole evening had suddenly been made for him. ‘You haven't come across specially, have you?'

Major Hastings came respectfully to attention, at exactly the three feet six inches laid down in the textbook.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Excellency,' he said, ‘but we've just had some bad news come through.'

Sir Gardnor leant forward.

‘You've dined, of course?' he asked, his face suddenly lined by anxiety. ‘Then sit down and have a glass of port with us. Or would you rather a whisky-and-soda?' He beckoned the A.D.C. ‘Tony, give the Major a glass of port.'

Sir Gardnor glanced from his cigar to Major Hastings, and then back to his cigar again.

‘Some bad news you were saying?' he asked.

Major Hastings sat up very straight.

‘It's about your trip tomorrow, sir,' he explained. ‘There's been another outbreak. Up at Omtala.'

‘Omtala,' Sir Gardnor said reflectively. ‘That's Henderson. What's he doing about it?'

‘Henderson's missing, sir.'

Sir Gardnor started to drum with his fingers on the table-top again.

‘Missing?'

‘Yes, sir. The bungalow was broken into.' Major Hastings was speaking very precisely as though he were repeating a lesson that he had just learnt by heart. ‘There was a lot of blood in the bedroom. But that was all. They killed the houseboy, too, sir. His body's been found.'

‘What about the sentries?'

‘Vanished, sir. Simply vanished. We got the message from Captain Endell. He dropped in, sir, and found the whole place deserted.'

Sir Gardnor was having trouble with his cigar. For some reason, it was burning sideways. He held the match very carefully, to the unsmouldering rim of leaf. Then, satisfied at last, he slowly drew in and just as slowly exhaled a long cloud of the blue smoke.

‘Henderson will have to be replaced, of course,' he said. ‘I'll see about that.'

He turned to Major Hastings.

‘And we must organise a proper search party. Endell's not really up to it, is he? He's only been out here six months. We must do everything we can for Henderson, musn't we, Major?'

Major Hastings squared his shoulders and brought his chin back.

‘You can take it from me, sir: Henderson was murdered last night.'

Sir Gardnor looked surprised.

‘Not murdered, surely,' he replied. ‘Assassinated, possibly. But not murdered. This must be purely political. You're not telling me that there was any personal element, are you?'

Harold was watching the Major's face while Sir Gardnor was speaking. It was not a very striking face. The ginger moustache divided it neatly into two halves, without adding anything to either. At the moment, he looked resentful.

‘Henderson was a friend of mine, sir,' he began.

But Sir Gardnor was not listening.

‘How was the houseboy killed?' he asked.

‘The usual way, sir.'

‘And Henderson?'

‘We don't know, sir. The only evidence is the blood.'

‘So you think it's the Leopard Men?'

‘Endell's positive, sir.'

‘Well, we'll know tomorrow, shan't we?' Sir Gardnor observed. ‘I shall be passing through Omtala. I'll make some enquiries.'

Major Hastings braced himself.

‘That's what the General had in mind, sir. In the circumstances, he wondered …'

‘Wondered what?'

‘Wondered if you'd care to give it a miss, sir. Make a detour as it were.'

‘But hasn't my tour been announced?' Sir Gardnor asked. ‘Aren't people expecting me?'

His tone was one of completely bewildered astonishment.

Major Hastings nodded.

‘Yes, sir,' he said.

‘Then I must go, mustn't I?'