The Clouds Beneath the Sun (15 page)

The record was reaching the end, the sad, painful slow coda not quite filling the night as, every so often, the shrieks of the baboons or the cackle of hyenas drowned out the cello. Can anyone have heard this music in such weird surroundings? she thought.

Then she corrected herself. These surroundings weren’t weird. This campfire, this gorge, this plain, and this music, all together, and however much the animals might add their voices, were wonderful.

•   •   •

Natalie laid out the small table by the entrance to her tent, and placed on it a pack of cigarettes, an ashtray, and a notebook. She was still very jealous of her late-night moments, but three changes had been introduced in the light of Richard’s murder. She now sat looking the other way, across the camp towards the hills rather than in the direction where she had seen Mutevu in his Wellingtons, sneaking through the night. She had with her a notebook. Since the discoveries had begun to occur, she now felt the need to record her reactions and to write up some of the details: much better to get them down straight away when they were fresh than to revisit them later when all sorts of things might be forgotten. And, of course, there was no whiskey.

She settled in her chair, reached for the cigarettes, and looked up at the sky. No moon tonight, but the shimmer of the stars was not a bad alternative. She heard a zebra snort nearby. She was learning to identify more and more bush noises. And smells.

Pulling on her cigarette, letting her frame settle, she picked up her notebook and began to scribble some lines. She described how the idea that there was a rock shelter in the gorge had come to her. That was the kind of question not tackled in scientific papers, but which people like journalists would want to know.

Next she turned to some thoughts about the prevailing winds in Kihara Gorge. From what she now knew about them, did it make sense for the rock shelter to be orientated in the way that it was? Eleanor, who was herself growing increasingly excited about the “shelter,” as they were calling it, had spotted that its layout was semicircular, not straight. That made it more interesting as a structure. Natalie closed her eyes and tried to imagine life as it might have been two million years ago.

“Mind if I join you for a moment?”

Natalie’s eyes jerked open. She looked up to see Eleanor. “Not at all. Let me get you a chair.”

“No, no. Don’t worry, and don’t move. I’m not staying—I know how you love these late nights to yourself. I came to give you this.” And she put down on the table Natalie’s whiskey flask.

Natalie looked from the flask to Eleanor but said nothing.

Eleanor was carrying her own notebook in one hand. With the other she took off her spectacles. “I was wrong. Christopher convinced me. I was wrong about one or two things, my dear. I stand by my belief that a dig has to be run strictly, otherwise it falls apart. But, as Christopher said, I should get used to judging people individually, not putting everyone in the same boat.” She pointed to the flask. “It’s not a security risk, or a major corrupting influence. I’m sorry I was so strict about it. Please forgive me.”

Natalie, astonished by what she was hearing, nevertheless waved away the need to apologize. “Would you like to share one with me? See what all the fuss is about?”

“No, thank you. I don’t have a head for spirits. In any case, I fancy you’ll want to be more on your own than ever tonight.” She held up two envelopes. “Post. I completely forgot to give it to you at dinner. Something else I need to apologize for.”

She put the letters on the table, next to the flask. “Good night, Natalie.”

Eleanor disappeared into the gloom.

Abstractedly, Natalie muttered, “Good night” and picked up the letters. Both had a New York postmark. One, she could see, was from Russell.

Radio silence had been broken.

She inserted her finger under the flap. There was just one handwritten sheet inside, in black ink, plus some typed pages.

The resident nightjar was in full voice.

Dear Natalie
, the letter began.
I hope you receive this without it being first opened by her ladyship …

Not a good start.

I haven’t got back to Berkeley yet. I stopped off in New York and saw Richard’s parents. As you can imagine they are devastated—crushed. No, that’s not quite right. Devastated, yes, but not crushed. Richard’s father, Richard Sr., is quite a man and he is, if anything, angry, very angry. Spitting bile, fire and brimstone. Not with you, of course (I’ll come back to that), but with the Deacons in general and Eleanor in particular. Richard’s body has now been released after the inquest and is being flown back to Manhattan as I write. As soon as the funeral is over (I’m staying), Richard Sr. is planning his own trip to Nairobi and the Gorge and then we shall see what we shall see. All I can say is this: expect fireworks
.

I enclose a draft of the paper for
Nature
on the knee joint. (I found some modern bones in a Manhattan hospital!) Daniel’s name comes first, then Richard’s, then mine. All of you are included. Please show it around, so everyone can endorse it, before it appears. I can’t bring myself to write direct to her ladyship
.

I’m sorry our relationship had to begin—and end?—in the way that it did. But perhaps it’s not the final word. I hope that this season’s digging is—for you—a great success. After that—well, let’s see. I already
look back on our late-night whiskey sessions with great fondness and nostalgia. I repeat that you’ll find me a much more relaxed figure in California. Come see
.

Russell

She reread the letter. He was still very raw, that much was clear. His rawness was a form of energy, one of the things that she liked about him. But, now that he was away from the camp, his bitter side seemed to be overtaking him. And she wasn’t available to defuse his anger.

And how much of a threat was Richard Sutton Senior? Russell’s tone sounded ominous.

She poured herself half a cup of whiskey, raised it to her lips, smelled the liquid, and felt the familiar, comforting burn as it sank down and spread its warmth across her chest.

Men were a little like whiskey, she reflected. They could warm you and they could scald you. Russell was no different from Dominic on that score.

Was she unlucky with men? she wondered. Or did she invite trouble? She had agreed to spend the night in a cave with Christopher: was that wise? She really did want to see the rock art Christopher had mentioned, and she sensed she could handle him.

She rubbed her tongue along her lips, feeling the scorch of the whiskey fade.

Then she slid her finger under the flap of the second envelope and took out the sheet inside.

Dear Dr. Nelson
,

I have been given your name by Professor Russell North, a colleague of yours, though of course I already had your address because my son, Professor Richard Sutton, was, until recently, also a member of your excavation team
.

You will anticipate the reason for this letter. Russell has told my wife and me that you were a witness to the recent dreadful events that resulted in the tragic death of our son, and will be giving evidence at the trial. Tragedy is tragedy, but this one was made worse by the very great distance between Kenya and New York, where we live, and by the fact
that business/legal commitments unavoidably keep me here, when my instinct—our instinct—is to leave immediately for Kihara
.

And so I am writing this letter, and sending it by special delivery. At the moment, as I say, I am detained in New York on business matters that cannot be put to one side. But, as soon as we are able, my wife and I shall be traveling to Kihara to see for ourselves the location where this awful crime took place. We are counting on you to see that justice is done and that the cruel killing of our son is matched by the conviction of his murderer, who we understand is in custody. This is probably not a situation where money makes any difference but please be assured that I am a wealthy man and that I am willing to spend whatever it takes to achieve justice
.

Since I do not know you, Dr. Nelson, and because I do not know even Professor North that well, I am unsure how exactly to pitch the tone of this letter. My wife and I are devastated by our son’s death. Nothing can bring him back but we very much hope—on the basis of what Professor North has told us—that your testimony will give us some satisfaction. I understand that in Kenya murderers, if convicted, are hanged. That would provide some small comfort for my wife and me
.

We look forward to meeting you in the not-too-distant future
.

Sincerely yours
,

Richard Sutton (Senior)

Natalie looked out at the inky darkness and lit another cigarette.

She reread Richard Sutton Senior’s letter, especially the part where he said he would spend “whatever it takes” to avenge his son’s death. What did he mean and how did money come into it? Was the lateness of the hour getting to her or was there just a hint of menace in that wording?

•   •   •

“Look at these, Natalie. Aren’t they beautiful?” Kees van Schelde stood over her, his hand outstretched.

Natalie, crouching by the wall of the
korongo
, stood up and wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt.

“My God, Kees, yes. What are those?”

“It’s obsidian, volcanic glass. You find it all over the ancient world—North America, Central America, Scotland, Indonesia, Greece, here in Africa. Go on, feel them, touch them.”

She took the slivers in her hands. They were cool to the touch, with sharp edges.

“I’ve heard about obsidian,” Natalie said. “But I’ve never seen it in the wild, so to speak. Where did you find it?”

He pointed. “Upstream of the knee joint but at a slightly more recent level.”

“Are they hand axes?”

“They could be, but if they were they would have been ceremonial. Obsidian is both soft and yet brittle, too weak to be used as proper tools.”

She thought for a moment. “So early man had a ceremonial life?”

Kees tugged at an ear with his fingers. “Too early to say. It could be. But obsidian has one other property—other than the fact that it is shiny and sharp, and could have been polished to serve as mirrors or jewelry—and that is the fact that its chemical makeup varies quite a bit from area to area.” He took back the slivers and put them in the breast pocket of his shirt. “There are three or four sources of obsidian known in Kenya and I should be able to check if these came from any of those sources. They are all some way off and may tell us about early man’s trading patterns.”

Natalie put her hand on Kees’s shoulder. “Brilliant. But if it came from far off, what would early man have traded it for, what did he have to barter?”

“Good question—and the answer is: we don’t know. Rare wild plants maybe, with medicinal properties? Hand axes made of local rock that were super-sharp or super-hard? We just keep looking.”

Natalie took a water bottle from her bag, lying at the foot of the
korongo
wall, and offered some to Kees. “Do the Maasai use obsidian as jewelry?”

“I don’t think so. From what I’ve seen they use bloodstone and Krobo powder glass.”

“Maybe it would be a good move to offer them some. After what’s happened.”

Kees nodded. “If I find any more I’ll certainly suggest it. These two pieces are precious, though. I need them for analysis.”

He drank more water, wiped his lips with his hand, and passed back the water bottle. “What do you make of all the recent… goings on?”

Natalie took the bottle and shook her head. “I can see that from Eleanor’s point of view these are uncharted waters, and potentially disastrous. But a murder has been committed and that’s not a small thing, not at all. Ndekei could hang.”

“Are you in favor of the death penalty?”

“I think I am, yes. There’s a lot of talk in Britain, right now, of abolishing it, and the arguments on both sides are compelling.” She drank some water. “How do you see it?”

“Well, the death penalty was abolished in Holland a long time ago, in 1870 I think—”

“What! As early as that?”

He nodded. “Yes. It was reintroduced at the end of the war because the government was worried people would take the law into their own hands and assassinate collaborators. Under the reinstated law, about forty collaborators were executed legally, but no one since 1952.” He looked at her. “It was the right thing to do, in postwar circumstances, but not anymore. I agree with that. The law should be more ready to move with the times and take into account wider circumstances and someone’s background, how they are brought up—any of those things can be mitigating factors.” He paused before adding, “I do sympathize a little bit with Eleanor, that Richard and Russell brought it on themselves.”

“But not to the point of being killed, surely?”

Kees shrugged. “It seems harsh, yes. And a machete is a messy, bloody way of going about it. On the other hand, the machete is a traditional weapon here and only emphasizes that we are guests, outsiders, who should show some respect for Maasai ways.”

Natalie was sweating. Was it Kees’s argument which got under her skin, or was it the still, hot air of the gorge?

He wouldn’t give up. “Maybe you could say that you will only give evidence if the prosecution doesn’t ask for the death penalty. That would bring justice, but save a life.”