Mark of the Lion (20 page)

Madeline had managed to get Neville between herself and Isadore Woodard. Poor Neville didn’t appear comfortable being assigned the part of a protective chair by his wife to keep the catty woman on the other side at bay. Soup was followed by a fruit salad, then squab in a light cream sauce and asparagus tips. Wine flowed freely around the table, though Jade never allowed the level to drop in her own glass. Somehow, letting her guard down here seemed hazardous. Instead, she sipped water, made brief remarks when necessary, and listened.

“So the bullet went into the beast’s spine, but you know the buffalo can’t stop himself even to die. Worse than a rhino. Naturally, there was nothing left for me to do but …”

“Honestly, I caught him stealing from the storeroom, but how can you trust …”

“Your Lordship, how is your new Willys-Knight Overlander? Do you think …”

“You
must
go to Cissy’s next party.” The voice dropped to a hushed tone. “Of course, I don’t know who her supplier is, but I hear the quality is top-notch …”

“I have it on good authority that he won’t divorce her because she has all …”

Eventually, by the time custard was served, Jade knew one thing for certain—very few people spoke to Godfrey Kenton, and both Harry and Roger hated him. Since none of this helped her learn anything about David’s father or brother, she thought about talking Madeline and Neville into leaving for the farm with her. That was when Isadore suggested everyone adjourn to the lobby, wind up the gramophone, and dance.

Jade rose with the others, not as quickly as Harry, but certainly faster than the tediously dull slug, Kenton, next to her. At first she assumed that Harry had hurried around the table to escort her into the lobby, but instead he stepped up to Kenton, grabbed him by his lapels, and hoisted him out of his chair.

“I just heard from Seton that
someone
is claiming my cattle have anthrax. Now, just who do you suppose started that lie?” his voice growled low and menacingly.

Kenton whimpered something unintelligible, and Jade put a restraining hand on Harry’s right arm.

“Harry,” she said firmly, “please leave off pummeling Mr. Kenton and escort me to the dance floor.”

Hascombe flung Kenton away from him like he would a bit of offal and gave Jade his arm. “My apologies, Miss del Cameron. I should have waited till later to thrash him as he deserves.”

“No doubt, but I think he got your point. And,” she added, “if I’m supposed to call you Harry, then you had better call me Jade.”

Hascombe grinned. “Jade it is, then.” He escorted her into the spacious lobby.

The chairs and end tables had already been dragged to the sides to make room for dancing, and one young man wound up the gramophone while his partner flipped through several records, looking for something suitable. A fast foxtrot played, and Harry guided Jade through the rapid footwork.

Harry’s physical strength blended with an easy grace, resulting in an excellent dancing form. He led with a masterful assurance without overpowering his partner. Jade found herself enjoying it very much. The foxtrot ended and a tango followed. Harry muttered something about not knowing how, and before Jade could respond, Mr. Holly, one of the silly set, grabbed Jade’s arm and pushed it straight out to the side while he pressed her tightly against his body.

The man was obviously drunk and barely in control of his legs. His leering grin made it crystal clear what was on his mind as he staggered out the slow-slow-quick-quick-slow tempo. Jade pulled back and inserted her free left hand against his chest to maintain some space between them. The man had little sense or else he overrated his personal charm because he threw Jade back into a deep dip and lunged for her neck. Jade saw Harry trot towards them, but she was faster. Her right hand pulled back in a fist and let fly a strong shot to the drunk’s eye.

Her partner’s head jerked back, and Jade broke free of his embrace. Mr. Holly held a hand to his eye and weaved around the room, mouth agape, as he tried to figure out what had happened. Some of his friends laughed loudly at his plight and congratulated Jade.

“He should have known better than to mess with Memsahib Simba Jike,” said Harry. “What’s a jackal to her after killing a hyena?”

The group applauded his speech, and Donaldson shouted, “Throw out the jackal.”

The crowd took up the chant, grabbed the drunk by his jacket and trousers, and tossed him outside the Muthaiga. He landed sprawling in the dust, where he promptly passed out. The Thompsons, Colridge, Harry, and Jade watched as his friends hauled the drunken Mr. Holly into the backseat of a car. Then Jade noticed that Roger wasn’t part of the crowd and wondered what had happened to him. She looked around and saw him standing in a far corner with Leticia, engaged in what appeared to be a passionate declaration. He held her hands clasped in his while he made his case. Leticia looked more woeful than before. Her husband staggered out of the men-only bar, where he’d gone to reinforce his own manhood, and spied them together.

This time Harry grabbed his friend before Godfrey Kenton could start trouble. “You’d better go, Rog,” he urged. Roger left with a backwards look at Leticia and her reeling spouse.

“It was kind of you to look out for Mr. Forster, but I can’t imagine what Mr. Kenton could have done, aside from throwing up or passing out on him,” said Jade. “He doesn’t strike me as being a particularly formidable opponent.”

“Never underestimate a wounded animal, Jade,” Harry replied, “and a jealous husband who thinks he’s being cuckolded falls square into that category. Kenton’s an underhanded bloke who’ll try to swindle anyone. I should know, as you may have gathered. He’s probably the reason Roger lost his first herd with that anthrax scare. He even cheated Maasai once.”

The rest of the dinner guests hadn’t noticed the near encounter. They were busily engaged in sticking butter pats on the table roses and tossing them to the ceiling to see if they’d stay. Mrs. Woodard put on a waltz and cornered Mr. Donaldson for a dance. Mr. Woodard was nowhere to be seen, but then neither was Seton’s tipsy wife. Lord Colridge snoozed on a chair along the wall, an empty wineglass in his hand. The sound of a subdued argument caught Jade’s ear. She turned to witness Godfrey Kenton expostulating harshly to his browbeaten wife.

“The Woodards will drive you home, Leticia,” Kenton said.

Leticia made little fists and waved them uselessly in front of her. “Are you seeing that woman again, Godfrey?”

“That is not your concern, now, is it? But if you must know, I have a business meeting.” He waggled a slip of paper in front of her face.

Jade’s attempt to hear more was stifled by a respectful hand at her elbow. She turned to see Harry standing beside her.

“May I have this dance, Jade?” he asked. She nodded.

Neville and Madeline were already dancing together, and Harry took Jade’s hand and caught her up in the slow, dreamy rhythms of the waltz. She found herself remembering her first dance with David in Paris. She closed her eyes and could almost smell his scent. When she opened her eyes, it was to Harry’s intent gaze and, for the first time in her life, Jade felt in danger of losing the staring contest. Just before she looked away, she attempted to divert him with small talk.

“Where did you learn to dance, Mr. Hascombe?”

He didn’t answer at first and, when he did, Jade felt the words hit like a rifle’s recoil. “You need to forget him, Jade,” he said softly. “I could make you forget him, if you’d let me.”

Harry stopped dancing and simply held her in his arms. His eyes traveled from her hair, down her face to her lips, and lingered there. She pulled away.

“Madeline, I’m very tired. Shouldn’t we be going?” She woke Colridge from his nap, made her grateful farewell to him, and stepped outside into the cool night air.

Jade knew Harry had wanted to kiss her, but what had startled her was that she’d felt dangerously close to letting him.

DESPITE THE LATE EVENING, JADE WOKE up very early the next morning and put on the same conservative serge suit she’d worn on the train. It was Sunday, and she intended to drive herself to the French mission. The Thompsons had protested against such an idea. They flatly stated that she’d get lost or worse, but Jade held her ground and countered all their arguments. She spoke French fluently, was capable of navigating on her own, knew how to drive and repair her motorcar, and was experienced ad nauseam with maneuvering along cratered roads and tracks. In the end, Neville drew a map for her and instructed their headman, Juma, to accompany her.

They left before dawn in the leased Ford and reached Nairobi by sunrise. From Nairobi, they turned east toward the Ngong hills. There, in the flatlands below the hills, stood a sturdy gray stone church planted by French missionaries. Their cultivation of souls was so successful that the church structure had grown to the point of sprouting a bell tower. The mission buildings sat square in the middle of a well-maintained coffee plantation like a quaint and tidy European village. The bell chimed as she drove down into the main grounds, past the rectory, and across an arched stone bridge to the church. A few Africans emerged from their nearby huts and headed in the church’s direction. Others sat outside in the morning sun.

Jade parked the Ford a respectful distance away from the church so as not to cause too much of a distraction. Juma opted to remain in the village, so Jade walked into the church alone for Mass, presented in a curious blend of Frenchaccented Latin and Swahili.

After Mass, Jade introduced herself to one of the missionary priests. Father Jacquinet stood two inches shorter than Jade. The wiry little man wore a brown robe, and his flowing beard, which reached his waist, completed the illusion of a gnome. He expressed delight at being addressed in his native tongue and quickly bustled her off to the cool refectory for a breakfast of crepes stuffed with ripe pawpaws and topped with thick whipped cream. Juma, Jade noticed, had found his own way to one of the native huts and dined happily with other Kikuyu.

Father Jacquinet introduced Jade to his two colleagues, the elderly Father Robidoux and the younger Father Duflot. Each of the three priests listened intently to her tales of the Great War in their beloved homeland. They mourned the destruction of so many lives and beautiful farms and praised her great bravery. She asked them many questions about their mission and the coffee farm, which they gladly answered, trading news of themselves for news of others in and around Nairobi. They seemed to know a great deal about the colony, and Jade hoped one of them might have known or at least heard of Gil Worthy. Eventually she explained her own mission. They listened sympathetically and with keen interest.

“You assume then, mademoiselle, that Monsieur Worthy fathered a child in Africa and that someone killed him when he came back to find his son?” said Father Jacquinet. “Have you thought perhaps he found his son and the son killed him?”

Jade shuddered. “What a horrid idea, Father. No, I had not thought that, but I have good reason to think otherwise.” She told them what she knew about Gil’s death and about the hyena that killed a boy in the Kikuyu village. “Fathers, have you ever heard of a
laibon
using trained hyenas to kill?”

The three priests looked from one to the other and all but Father Jacquinet shook their heads. “Evil knows no country, my child, so I am not surprised at the tales the Kikuyu tell of an evil
laibon
. But I ask myself, why would such a man want to kill your Englishman? Is it not more likely that a hungry wild animal, attracted perhaps by a cut or a scent of food on Monsieur Worthy, was drawn inside? During the war, Nairobi was in much turmoil, and that agitated the animals, too.”

“But,” protested Jade, “the Kikuyu boy said—”

Father Jacquinet finished for her. “The boy was of course scared to hear a wild animal in the hotel. But he was also ashamed to have run away. Perhaps he feared a beating for not helping Monsieur Worthy. So he embellishes his tale with the supernatural to give his actions greater justification.”

“And the neck chain on the hyena?” asked Jade.

Father Jacquinet shrugged. “Something of Monsieur Worthy’s, a trinket of Africa.”

Jade sighed and put her head down. Father Robidoux patted her hand gently. “You have an awesome quest, mademoiselle,” explained Father Robidoux, “but not an impossible one. First, because nothing is impossible with God’s aid, and second, because you look for an Englishman. They are becoming more numerous, it is true, but there are yet not so many of them as to make it impossible. Add to it that you look for an orphan Englishman, young like yourself, and that narrows the search.”