Death in Zanzibar (10 page)

‘This is Miss Kitchell, Mrs Bingham. Mr Holden's secretary and a fellow-traveller to Zanzibar. She will be staying with the Frosts. Tyson Frost, the novelist, you know. What's that? … Your
brother?
Now that really is a coincidence!'

He met Dany's accusing eye with a wicked twinkle in his own, and grinned at her, entirely unabashed. But the remainder of the afternoon proved to be trying in the extreme, for he had not permitted her to separate herself from the company, and her step-father's sister had turned out to be one of those exceedingly talkative women who delight in asking endless personal questions, and handing out endless personal information in exchange.

Mrs Bingham wished to know
all
about America; a country she had not yet visited but hoped to one day. Dany, who had not visited it either, did not come well out of this catechism, and could only pray that Larry Dowling and the brisk Miss Bates were equally ignorant.

To Mrs Bingham's loudly expressed surprise at her lack of a transatlantic accent she replied glibly that her parents had only emigrated to America within recent years, and that she herself had been partly educated in England.

‘Ah!' said Gussie Bingham with the satisfaction of one who has solved a problem. ‘Then that of course is why Mr Holden selected you to come to Europe with him. You would
understand
us. I don't think I ever met this Mr Holden, but his father stayed with me once — let me see, was it in '38 or '39? He is a
great
friend of Tyson's, my brother's. A very pleasant man — for an American. Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear! How very rude that sounds. Do forgive me.'

‘It's all right,' said Dany bleakly, wondering how long it was going to be before she was asked something that was so impossible to answer that discovery was inevitable. What a fool she had been to talk to people: any people! She should have kept well out of sight and out of danger. Lash was quite right: she had no sense. All she had thought of was that a stroll round Nairobi with Larry Dowling would be a pleasant way to spend the long afternoon, and that it would be quite easy to keep off dangerous topics. And now look where it had landed her!

Gussie Bingham said: ‘Do you suppose this is all there is of Nairobi? Perhaps I should have accepted Mr Ponting's offer to show us round. My brother's secretary, you know. He was here to meet me, and he took us out to luncheon at some club. It was really very pleasant. But as the poor man had spent half the morning in a dentist's chair I insisted that he take a couple of aspirins and lie down this afternoon, and that Millicent and I would look after ourselves. I feel sure he was grateful. You must have met him, of course, when he was in the States with my brother. What did you think of him?'

Dany's heart appeared to jump six inches and then sink at least twice that distance.
Had
Ada Kitchell met this Mr Ponting when Tyson had been over in the States? Certainly Lash had met him, and therefore probably Ada. Why hadn't Lash warned her? Why hadn't she thought of asking him? Why had they both forgotten that angle, and what on earth was she going to do when she did see this man, and he refused to recognize her as Ada Kitchell?

Fortunately Gussie Bingham did not wait for an answer: ‘He has been with my brother for several years, but I had not met him before — though he has been to the house, of course. But that was when Tyson was in England a year or two ago and Millicent and I were having a little holiday in Jersey. Still, it was thoughtful of Tyson to arrange for him to meet me. Though I suspect he is really here on Dany Ashton's account — my brother's step-daughter, you know. She was to have been on the plane, but she was not at the airport, and when we made inquiries they told us that she had cancelled her seat. Very odd. Chicken-pox or mumps or something, I suppose.'

It was clear that in this matter Augusta Bingham's mind moved in much the same grooves as Larry Dowling's: school-girl diseases. But fortunately for Dany's nervous system, Mrs Bingham abandoned the subject of the missing Miss Ashton and turned to a less dangerous topic:

‘We shall be quite a party at
Kivulimi,
shall we not? You know, I haven't stayed there since Father died. That seems a very long time ago. We spent almost a year there, as children. But Father never really took to the place. Not like his eldest brother, old Uncle Barclay, who was completely besotted with the house. He had a
thing
about it — and about Zanzibar. He loved the place, and hardly ever left it. I suppose that was why he never married.'

‘Was he the eldest son of Emory — the first Frost?' inquired Larry Dowling.

‘The first Frost to visit
Zanzibar,
' corrected Mrs Bingham gently. ‘Yes. The family place is in Kent, of course. I live there now, because Tyson is so seldom in England. Millicent and I keep it warm for him, we say. I don't know what I should do without Millicent. She came to stay with me when my husband died, and she simply runs everything.'

‘Does your brother live much in Zanzibar?' asked Larry, steering the conversation firmly back to Tyson Frost.

‘Not really. He's such a restless person. Always on the move. He only lives in it by fits and starts. Asks some of his friends there, and then off he goes again. I've always thought it was such a
romantic
thing to have a house in Zanzibar, but Tyson never really stays in it very long.'

‘Probably finds it jolly uncivilized,' said Miss Bates. ‘Romance is all very well, but give me H. and C. every time! I always say there's absolutely nothing to beat “All Mod. Cons”.'

‘I'm afraid Millicent doesn't care for foreign travel,' confided Gussie Bingham in an undertone to Dany. ‘She detests the East. And she misses the Institute and the Girl Guides and things like that. She has so many interests: a tower of strength. Our vicar often says that he doesn't know how Market-Lydon would get on without her, and I'm sure she agrees with him. Oh! I didn't mean — that sounds unkind of me. What I meant
____
'

But Dany had ceased to pay attention, for the words ‘Market-Lydon' had brought a chill to the hot day.
Man Murdered at Market-Lydon
 … But it wasn't just ‘a man'. It was elderly, pedantic, disapproving Mr Honeywood. And since Mr Honeywood had been the Frost family's solicitor for at least two generations, he was almost certainly Mrs Bingham's too. She would have known him well. Did she know he was now dead? Even if she did, the news of his death could not possibly have shocked her half as badly as it had shocked Dany, who had only met him once and very briefly.

Larry Dowling was saying: ‘Does your brother often entertain like this when he is in Zanzibar, Mrs Bingham? Or is this a special occasion?'

‘Oh, I don't think it was my brother's idea at all. He's not really very sociable when he's writing, and I believe he is supposed to be working on a book just now. But his wife likes to have the house full of guests. I suppose she gets bored when he's writing all day. And then of course…'

Mrs Bingham's voice went on and on, and Larry Dowling listened with flattering attention, interjecting interested, incredulous or congratulatory noises whenever the flow showed signs of drying up. He was evidently as good a listener as he was a talker thought Dany uneasily. A very likeable man — but a dangerous one …

She said with forced lightness, breaking into the bubbling stream of confidences: ‘Mr Dowling is a newspaper man, you know.'

But if she had intended this as a warning, it missed its mark.

Larry Dowling threw her a brief, quizzical grin that was strangely disconcerting, and although Miss Bates turned sharply and regarded him as though he were something she had unexpectedly turned up with a garden spade, Gussie Bingham, far from being taken aback, was enchanted.

‘A
reporter?
But how interesting!'

‘Feature writer,' corrected Mr Dowling patiently.

‘The same sort of thing, surely?' said Gussie Bingham blithely. ‘You must live such an exciting life. Fires and murders and film stars. Paris today and Bangkok tomorrow. How I envy you! Of course Tyson — my brother — knows a great many newspapermen. He says they are the lowest form of human
____
Oh, I
am
sorry. That was
very
rude of me. I really didn't mean … I am quite sure he would like
you,
Mr Dowling.'

Miss Bates sniffed audibly and muttered something about carrion crows and snooping nosey-parkers, and Mrs Bingham frowned repressively at her, and taking Mr Dowling's arm, walked on ahead, chatting energetically and leaving Miss Bates to fall in beside Dany.

‘I'm sure I've seen that chap before somewhere,' said Miss Bates, directing a scowl at Mr Dowling's unconscious back. ‘I never forget a face. Probably in the papers, being sentenced for libel and defamation, if you ask me. It'll come back to me. I know the type. All charm and good humour, and thoroughly untrustworthy. Only out for what they can get. No better than confidence tricksters. In fact that's probably what he is! We've only his own word for it that he's a feature writer — whatever that is!'

Miss Bates sniffed again, expressively. ‘You know,' she confided, ‘Gussie's a good sort, and she's got plenty of brains in her head. But there are times when you'd never suspect it. Look at the way she's letting that reporter pump her about Tyson. Anyone could see that he's up to no good. If he's not a crook, then he's after an article — preferably one with a lot of dirty linen involved. Newspapers are a menace. Garbage — that's all they're interested in. Garbage and Murder.'

Murder!
 … Yes, murder was only something that you read about in a newspaper. It wasn't real. People one knew died; but they were never murdered …

Dany had tea on the hotel verandah, still in the company of Augusta Bingham and Millicent Bates, and the Press, as represented by Larry Dowling. Larry had issued an unexpectedly diffident invitation, which she had been about to refuse when the sight of Lash Holden had made her change her mind. For Lash was also taking afternoon tea on the verandah — with Amalfi Gordon. He was wearing a grey suit and showed no signs of a hangover, and Amalfi was looking soft and sweet and appealingly lovely in something that had undoubtedly run someone into three figures in a cheque book, and whose simplicity of line made every other woman within range look (and feel) like a back number of
Home Chat.

There was no sign of the Marchese Eduardo di Chiago, and Amalfi was talking earnestly and inaudibly, with an expression on her lovely face that admirably combined a sweetly sorrowing archangel and a child begging forgiveness for some minor peccadillo.

Lash was looking a little sulky, but at the same time bedazzled, and Dany wondered if the Marchese had been sent off on some errand that would keep him out of the way for an hour or two and allow Mrs Gordon to eat her cake and have it. The anxieties of the afternoon, together with the murder of Mr Honeywood and half a dozen pressing and unpleasant problems, retired abruptly from the forefront of her mind, to be replaced by indignation on the score of the predatory Mrs Gordon and the spinelessness of that gullible, besotted and hypnotized rabbit, Mr Lashmer J. Holden, Jnr.

What can he
see
in her! thought Dany indignantly. And instantly realized just exactly what he saw in her. Amalfi Gordon appeared to have everything.

Well she isn't going to have Lash! decided Dany fiercely, and sat down in a chair from which she could keep an eye upon that feckless and intransigent young man without appearing to do so.

Lash did not become aware of her for at least twenty minutes, but when he did, he reacted promptly; though in a manner that could hardly be termed gratifying. Suddenly catching sight of her, he remained for a moment transfixed, as though he could hardly believe his eyes, and then rising abruptly and excusing himself to Amalfi, he came quickly towards her, threading his way between the intervening tea-drinkers on the crowded verandah.

‘I've been looking for you, Miss Kitchell,' said Lash ominously. ‘There are several things that need your attention, and I'd be glad if you'd deal with them immediately. And another time, just let me know when you intend to take the afternoon off.'

Dany bit her lip and blushed painfully, but fortified by a sense of humour, and even more by the spectacle of the golden Mrs Gordon left abandoned at the far end of the verandah, she rose meekly.

‘I'm so sorry, Mr Holden. I had no idea that you would be needing me this afternoon. Will you excuse me Mrs Bingham? It seems that I have some work to do. Thank you for the tea, Larry.'

She introduced Lash to the assembled company, and left. But she had been back in the bridal suite for less than five minutes when the door opened violently to disclose her employer.

He banged it shut behind him and said furiously: ‘Say, have you taken leave of your senses? What the heck do you mean by flaunting yourself all over Nairobi and letting yourself get picked up by any Tom, Dick or Harry? Hell! d'you know who you've been getting off with? A newspaperman! Of all people to pick — of
all
people! And that blue-haired dame is Tyson Frost's sister. Your step-aunt, by God! Do you suppose she hasn't recognized you? You'll probably wake up tomorrow to find the whole thing splashed right across the front pages. You ought to have your head examined!'

‘Don't worry,' said Dany soothingly. ‘I've never met her before, so of course she can't recognize me. And I'm very sorry about Larry Dowling. I didn't think
____
'

‘You never do!' interrupted Lash bitterly. ‘
“Larry”
indeed!' Her use of Mr Dowling's Christian name appeared to infuriate him further. ‘Has it ever occurred to you to take a look at the passport you are travelling on? No? Well let me tell you that Ada comes from Milwaukee — and they don't talk with a British Broadcasting accent there!'