The Clouds Beneath the Sun (51 page)

He lit a cigarette. “But … when you are ready, if you decide you want to marry me, the offer still stands.”

•   •   •

Eleanor tapped her water glass with her knife. The buzz of conversation over the dinner table died.

“First, I think we should all welcome back Natalie.” She turned in her seat. “We have all missed you, my dear—how long has it been now? Two weeks? You look pale but how do you feel?”

Natalie sipped some water. “I feel a little weak, my hands still itch now and then, but I’m hungry for the first time in days.” She smiled.

“Good,” said Eleanor, turning to watch as Naiva brought in the food. She turned back. “This is the last time we shall all be together for a while. Arnold and Jonas are staying here, during the trial, carrying on with the digging, showing the Maasai we haven’t abandoned the gorge. Jack, Natalie, and I will be in Nairobi. Christopher should be up and about tomorrow and will come with us. The papers for
Nature
are all written—Natalie, thank you for working while you have been rather less than one hundred percent these past few days. I will post the papers from Nairobi, as one package. They should be in London in about a week. I have spoken again to Harold Heath and if he likes what we have written as much as he anticipates, and because of the controversial background, there will be a special edition of
Nature
, devoted to the gorge.” The food had reached her and she helped herself. “That may come late in the day for Marongo but a special edition of
Nature
is not nothing in scientific terms, and Russell may find himself further out in the cold than he would like.”

She turned towards Natalie again. “Before I forget, tomorrow night, the night before the trial starts, Jack, Christopher, and I are having a family dinner—it’s something we do every year at this time, to sort out family matters. So I have arranged for you to have dinner with Maxwell Sandys … I hope I did the right thing. We don’t want you to be alone the night before the trial.”

“Oh yes,” said Natalie. “Of course. Thank you.”

“Good. We’ll all fly up together in the morning, early, with Jack. Max wants to see you in the afternoon, anyway, for a final briefing. We could all meet after dinner, to see how the land lies.”

“Oh?” said Jack. “What do you mean by that?”

Eleanor looked at Mutumbu. “Daniel’s going to the concert, to be our eyes and ears. He’ll come back and tell us what Marongo had to say.”

“Hmm,” growled Jack. “Aren’t you overreacting? Whatever he says, nothing is going to happen immediately. Our license doesn’t run out until May, a special edition of
Nature
is a real event in scientific terms … We could still get the better of Russell and Richard Sutton Senior.”

“Maybe,” said Eleanor. “Maybe so. But there are a couple of things you may not know, Jack. A Russian Jeep-type vehicle was spotted in Olinkawa the day before yesterday. I suspect there’s been more gun smuggling across the border, and that some of them are destined for the Maasai—”

“But where are they getting the money?” Jack shook his head skeptically.

“That’s the second thing you don’t know,” growled Eleanor gloomily. “That was the main reason Maxwell Sandys was in touch on the radio-telephone. Richard Sutton Senior arrived three days ago, and the day before yesterday he was seen meeting with Russell and Marongo. Something’s going on, Jack, something political, something we don’t have any control over. I’m not at all sure Sutton knows what his money is being used for, but he has more than enough to buy guns.”

•   •   •

Natalie sat, just inside her tent, and looked out at and listened to the rain. The short rains, as they were called, lasted anywhere from ten minutes to an hour and a half. Nothing at all by Lincolnshire standards. The raindrops flashed and glistened and sparkled in the shine of the hurricane lamp and beat down on the roof of her tent. The smell of the acacia thorns was intensified. She found it all, for some reason, comforting.

She was still not ready to risk a whiskey, but she had lit a cigarette.

How many more nights in the gorge were left to her? If she flew to Nairobi tomorrow, and gave evidence as planned, and if Ndekei were convicted and then hanged, would Marongo really follow through with his threat? If the gorge were destroyed, or occupied, or a change of team were imposed, she—like the others—would become known throughout her chosen profession for this humiliating transformation of fortune, for throwing away the best season’s digging ever.

If she didn’t give evidence, what then? Would she be prosecuted for contempt of court, or wasting police time? Would it make any difference now? Hadn’t things gone too far? Despite the support of some newspapers, would Marongo take any notice? Richard Sutton Senior’s money spoke louder than editorials, especially editorials that didn’t see the light of day. If she could somehow face Marongo and the Maasai with Ndekei’s homosexuality, would that make a difference?
Was
Ndekei homosexual? If she didn’t give evidence, what would she think of herself a week from now, a month away, in the years ahead? Would Richard Sutton pursue her as he said he would? Either way, her career was almost on the rocks.

And
if
she was not giving evidence, when was she going to make up her mind? She was no nearer a decision than when she had first wavered all those weeks ago.

It struck her that there were similarities between her own position and Kees van Schelde’s when he had strayed into the bush, exposing himself to risks that might—or might not—kill him. The risks she faced were not mortal but they were not negligible either, not negligible professionally speaking. But, in not taking a firm decision yet, one way or the other, she was letting things ride, letting events carry on around her, in the hope that her problem would be resolved without her actually having to do anything herself.

Was that morally clean?

But the trial was the day after tomorrow. She would have to give evidence then, or the day after at the latest.

Or not.

She was nowhere nearer a decision.

She had come to the end of her cigarette. For once, it hadn’t settled her. She didn’t feel tired, and she was still on edge. Jack wouldn’t come tonight; her body was still not fully recovered. The palms of her hands still tingled.

The rain intensified.

She put out the hurricane lamp, and for a few moments listened to the downpour. She loved the sound of rain.

She shifted in her seat. Her skin still felt as though it was covered in a rash, though all the spots had gone.

Quietly, she undressed and, in total darkness, stepped out of her tent into the weather, completely naked. The warm raindrops pelted her skin, almost taking her breath away. Her mind wasn’t settled and she was still on edge. Water ran down her cheeks, down her chest between her breasts, down her thighs, it dripped off her nose and chin and nipples. Her body was cool and clean, her skin felt free of the rash at last.

And, in the deep blackness, in the total absence of any form of light, she could see her way forward.

12
THE TRIAL

“T
here she is! There she is!” About a dozen people, some with placards, were standing outside the court building as Natalie got out of Maxwell Sandys’s car. They came towards her, jogging their placards up and down. One had a photograph of Natalie, taken from one of the newspaper articles about her, with the press headline blown up:
WIDOW MAKER
. Another showed a photograph of Ndekei with a rope crudely drawn around his neck, and the words:
WHITE JUSTICE—GO HANG
.

“Widow maker,” they chanted, “widow maker …
widow maker.”

Sandys bundled her past them and on into the courthouse. They both ran up the main stairs to the first floor, and turned left into his office.

Natalie was shaking.

Sandys took her hand. “I’m sorry about that but I thought it might help you get acclimatized, to show you what was outside the courthouse, what to expect. I’m afraid it will be even worse tomorrow.”

He handed her a glass of water.

“How are you holding up?” he said. “I gather from Eleanor that you went down with tick typhus—it never rains but it pours, eh?” He smiled grimly.

“I’m fine. I don’t recommend tick typhus, but I’m fine. I gather we are having dinner together tonight and could have talked about the case then. But I’m grateful that you showed me the crowds, as mental preparation.”

He stared at her. “Dinner? But I’m—” He stopped. “Yes, of course, that’s right. I’ll come to the hotel, seven-thirtyish. I may be a little late.”

She passed a hand through her hair and nodded. “Just talk me through what will happen and let’s go from there. I’m tougher inside than I look on the outside.”

Was that true? she wondered. It had once been true but after all that had happened …

Sandys was behind his desk. He had taken off his jacket but wore a waistcoat and tie. He played with a paper knife.

“The trial starts at 10:30, as I think you know. The first morning will be taken up with the prosecution setting out our case, then the defense will do the same. Nothing too specific, no nitty-gritty, but the principles of the arguments that will be used on both sides. After lunch on the first day, we—as the prosecution—will begin presenting our evidence. We have four main matters to introduce. First, the sliver of Ndekei’s apron that was caught up on the thorn fence near Richard Sutton’s tent. Second, the print of his Wellington boot found outside the tent; and third, the boot itself, recovered by African ancillary staff at Kihara from the monkeys who were playing with it. The first two will be presented by the police who were summoned to Kihara on the morning after the murder—Frank Metcalfe and Dennis Burton—I think you met them.”

Natalie nodded. “I remember.”

Sandys leaned forward. “The bloody boot will just be presented as evidence. We don’t have a witness to say when and where it was found, because none of the locals who did find it will come to court. They are Maasai, so we never expected they would testify. For that reason, we don’t know whether the judge will allow this as evidence, or whether Hilary Hall will object, since we can’t prove when and where it was found. But we shall argue that it doesn’t really matter where it was found, the crucial point being that it is Ndekei’s boot and the blood is the same type as Richard’s.” He took a breath. “But I’ve decided not to introduce the watch. That’s a problem, too. No Maasai will come forward to give evidence and although Eleanor could say who gave it to her, she can’t say what she was told about it, why the Maasai had it in the first place, because that would be hearsay.”

Sandys leaned forward. “That will all take up the first afternoon and maybe some of the second morning. Then we come to you. I shall lead you through your story, slowly, deliberately, allowing you to say exactly what you saw that night. I shall ask my questions in such a way that you will say what you saw several times over, so it is rubbed in. Then, when I have finished, Hilary Hall will cross-examine you. You have some idea of the line he will follow from your earlier encounter.

“He will probably begin in a friendly manner but at some point turn aggressive, trying to sow doubts in your mind, and therefore in the mind of the judge, as to what, exactly, you saw that night. He will ask how good is your eyesight and, I am afraid, whether you had been drinking, whether you were having an affair with Russell North—and/or Richard Sutton—and if either of them was with you when you saw Ndekei. All you have to do, my dear, is tell the truth, as simply as possible, and try not to get angry or riled by his questions. Remember, Hilary will be putting on an act. He will not really be angry with you, he doesn’t really think you had an affair with Russell North, and of course he knows you weren’t drunk. But it’s his job to go through these hoops. He’s just as convinced that Ndekei is guilty as we are. But that’s the way the law works. If you get riled at any point, just tell yourself Hilary is acting, playing a game.”

He cleaned one of his nails with the paper knife.

“And that’s our case. After we have finished, Hilary will probably argue that we have no case, that all our evidence is circumstantial, Tudor will dismiss it, and then the fun will start, when Ndekei is called and starts to run his defense, that he was acting according to Maasai custom. How much rope Tudor gives him is anyone’s guess but I would expect very little indeed, so that either way the trial should be over by the afternoon of the second day, or the morning of the third.” He smiled at Natalie. “It might make sense for you to leave Nairobi before the end of the trial. There’s no need to expose yourself to any more unpleasantness than is absolutely necessary. And I suggest that, if you can bear it, you remain in your hotel room all day tomorrow, day one of the proceedings. Or just come down for meals. I think a low profile is called for—yes?”

Natalie nodded. Her hands were tingling again. The tick typhus just wouldn’t go away.

A thought struck her. Had Jonas got the diagnosis right? Or was she more ill than she knew, more ill than Jonas knew? She felt a flush to her face. That was a fresh worry. While she was here in Nairobi, waiting to give evidence, perhaps she should see a specialist in internal medicine. Jonas was from London, after all, and not an expert in tropical diseases. But who could she turn to? Maybe Jack could help.

“I have one extra piece of information,” she said.

“Oh, yes?” replied Sandys. “What is it?”

She told him what Kees had said about Richard Sutton being homosexual and explained about the episode in the storeroom.

He listened intently.

“So you think Ndekei had a reason other than tribal custom to kill Richard?” Sandys had scribbled a few notes.

“I don’t know. Maybe they had an argument, maybe sexual jealousy was involved. I’m guessing.”

“Hmm,” said Sandys. “Interesting but I don’t see how we can substantiate any of it.”

“We could cross-examine him on it,” said Natalie.

“Yes, but think how that would raise the political temperature. Homosexuality is even more unpopular among blacks than it is among whites. And it would be a slur on Richard Sutton which he couldn’t defend himself against.”

He put down his pen and shook his head. “I agree that your new information may throw a very different light on the proceedings, and it certainly vitiates the defense’s likely argument that you yourself were having an affair with Richard Sutton. But I don’t see how we can introduce it. This man, Kees van Schelde, is dead and without testimony directly from him, it’s all too nebulous.” He shook his head a second time. “I’m sorry but we simply can’t go down that route. Does that upset you?”

Natalie bit her lip. “I’ve been in two minds over this whole thing since Kees first revealed to me that he thought Richard was homosexual. I was going to tell you a couple of weeks ago, when you might have had time to look into it, but I fell ill.”

“I don’t think that would have made any difference,” said Sandys. “This Kees man was dead by then, Richard Sutton is dead, Ndekei is the defendant—where would our evidence have come from?” He shook his head. “It was always a nonstarter, I am afraid. I’m sorry.”

Natalie shrugged. “What was also at the back of my mind, if you said that, was a deal. I realize that all I’ve told you is innuendo—of course I know that. But there may be some truth to it and, if there is, Ndekei may think we know more than we do. I therefore wondered that if the defense intend to allege that I was having an affair with Richard or Russell, then you could ask them
not
to go that way and, in return, we wouldn’t ask about Richard and Ndekei.”

A wry smile unveiled itself across Sandys’s features. “I admire your cunning, Dr. Nelson, and if you ever get bored in the gorge, you will make an excellent lawyer, thinking like that. But I’m afraid the defense is allowed to fling mud, but not the prosecution. Hilary Hall simply wouldn’t do a deal of that kind.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, it was a valiant attempt but we can’t do as you suggest, as you hope. I don’t see that we can use this information in any way at all, I’m sorry.”

He closed the file that was in front of him and stood up. “Having bravely come in the front way,” he murmured, “I think we’ll spirit you out the back.”

•   •   •

Natalie sipped her whiskey and looked at her watch. Seven thirty-eight. Maxwell Sandys had said he might be late, but how late was he going to be? She knew it was silly but she was uncomfortable, waiting in a bar, alone, even a bar in a hotel where she had her own room. People might get the wrong idea.

Not that the bar was very full at this early hour, but even so.

She was wearing her frock, the only one she had brought with her to Africa, and her wedge heels, her life-saving wedge heels that had enabled her to run away from those men outside the bar, when she had visited Nairobi earlier, with Jack. She and Jack were meeting up later, after his mysterious family meeting, and she was looking forward to their lovemaking in a proper hotel bedroom, where the beds were big and spongy and the walls were solid and soundproof.

She blushed inwardly as she thought this. Jack might say, as he often did say, that children mattered to him, but sex mattered to her—oh, how it had come to matter. She had never thought … she had never thought she would become so … so,
demanding
, that was the word. But she couldn’t help it.

She glanced at her watch again. Seven forty-one.

She looked about her. There was another couple in the bar, and two women sitting together at the bar itself. They were all in dresses, one wore a hat, all were talking in low voices, so she couldn’t hear what was being said. Did these other women feel about sex the way she felt about it? Were they as demanding? Did they think about it as much as she did, did they make as much noise when …? She was making herself blush inwardly again.

She looked at her watch. Seven forty-three. Maxwell Sandys was really late now, verging on rude—

“Tally?”

The skin on her throat was clammy. Had she heard right? That was the name … that was the nickname her father used—

She turned and looked up at the man who was standing over her.

“Father!” she whispered. “Oh, thank God!”

She stood up. She couldn’t believe it.

Her father, in a lightweight suit she hadn’t seen before. Her father, stooping over her as he had done all her life. Her father, with his beautiful hands, made for playing the organ. Her father, with the small piece of stubble in the cleft of his chin that he always missed when he was shaving.

He held out his hand.

She took it.

He pulled her towards him and threw his arms around her.

She buried her face in his chest, smelled his smell, the smell of the house in Gainsborough, floor polish, Noah the cat, woodsmoke from the fire in his study.

They remained like that for a moment. With her head pressed sideways against his chest, she managed to murmur, “Why are you …? When did you …?”

He took her by the shoulders, then put his hand over her mouth. “All in good time,” he said softly. “You wait here while I get a drink. I need a single malt.”

She sat, smiling, as he went to the bar. She couldn’t believe it.

But there he was, her lovely father, in a lightweight suit, looking thoroughly at home in these surroundings.

She found it impossible to keep a smile off her face.

Then he came and sat next to her so that their legs were touching, so they could maintain body contact.

“I’m here partly because of your director, Eleanor Deacon—”

“No! I don’t believe it! I told her not to interfere. This is—”

“Hold on!” said Owen Nelson. “Hold on. Let me tell my story. It’s not easy.”

He sipped his single malt.

“That’s better, a lot better.” He took Natalie’s hand. “Yes, I was a very bitter man, Tally, as you may have realized. I don’t know whether you knew this—maybe you did—but I blamed you for Violette’s death. Not completely, of course, but your … your affair with that cellist … it devastated your mother, a light went out inside her when you told her. You couldn’t know this but she cried herself to sleep and sometimes she woke me up in the middle of the night with her sobbing. She was so …
disappointed
, she felt so empty …”

He sipped more whiskey.

“Anyway, when she died, I too was devastated—anyone would be—but I couldn’t see straight. I blamed you, which is why I couldn’t face you, why I avoided you, snubbed you, spurned you, all those horrible nonfatherly things that I did.”

She squeezed his hand. “I understand that, I lived through it and hated it, but what I don’t understand is what made you change your mind.”

“I’m coming to that.” He took out a cigarette case and offered Natalie one. She refused. She wanted to keep her hands free to hold her father. “Three things. Three things changed my mind.” He lit his cigarette. “You remember when you called me from Nairobi, all those weeks ago, and Mrs. Bailey answered.”