The Governor's Lady (24 page)

For an instant, Harold saw a glimpse of tawny fur through a gap between the boulders. Then it was gone again. But it was still coming his way. He crawled further along the rock face. Then, his rifle ready, he raised his head and stood there.

The next moment, something hit the loose stones in front of him and exploded in his face. He dropped his rifle and lifted his left hand to his eye. His cheek was soft and sticky.

Somewhere above and behind him he could hear Sir Gardnor shouting.

‘The damn fool,' Sir Gardnor was saying. ‘We should never have brought him. I marked his exact spot, and he moved away from it. That's where he signalled from. Over there, I tell you.' Evidently, Sir Gardnor was pointing. ‘Where he showed up was a good twenty feet away.'

‘Perhaps we'd better be getting back, sir,' the A.D.C. suggested.

‘And you can put the sight away,' Sir Gardnor told him. ‘I didn't use it after all.'

‘Pretty unlucky he's been, hasn't he?' Harold heard the A.D.C. remark in his polite, conversational way. ‘First that bit of trouble in the swamp, and now this. Doesn't look as if he's really cut out for this kind of thing.'

Harold was sitting some distance away from them. He had wrapped his handkerchief across his face, and he had his head down on his knees, resting. Sir Gardnor's back was turned towards him. The words came only faintly.

‘Unlucky? The fellow's a Jonah, if you ask me. I shan't be sorry when this safari's over.'

They made the journey back to the camp in good order, but slowly. With only one eye on the job, Harold kept stumbling. Each time it was the A.D.C. who saved him. Sir Gardnor was in no position to do so: still angry and disgusted by the whole affair, he was way out in front with the two Kiburru. And, sensing that he was displeased by something, they led him back by a slightly longer route so that he would at least feel that he had been getting his money's worth.

It was not until Sir Gardnor had reached the senty posted outside the camp that he seemed even to be aware of the rest of his party. He waited for them to catch up.

‘I should get your eye seen to,' he said.

It was his first remark to Harold since the shooting; and he did not add to it. He turned immediately to the A.D.C.

‘The fact that it was a baboon,' he told him, ‘makes the whole thing even more preposterous. Baboon is the staple diet of the leopard. No baboon would ever have gone near the place if it had been a lair.'

They were inside the camp by now, and Sir Gardnor was intercepted by the Corporal from Signals. The man gave the appearance of having been standing around for some time waiting for him.

And, once more, Sir Gardnor seemed eager for the message. Handing his rifle to the A.D.C, he ripped open the envelope. He stood there, for a moment, quite still—unnaturally still, Harold thought—while he was reading. Then, suddenly, he came to life again. He crushed the sheet up in his hand and, without speaking—without even looking back again— he went over to his tent.

The crumpled corners of the buff Signals form were still sticking out of his closed fist as he walked away.

Even though the hunting-party was back, the camp still seemed deserted.

Captain Webber's enormous pink tablets had only just begun to have any effect, and Lady Anne remained in her tent all day alongside Sybil
Prosser. Nor did Sir Gardnor appear. His A.D.C, rather subdued-looking and with his lock of hair more frequently out of place than usual, emerged shortly after one o'clock to say that H.E. was lunching inside and would the others please start the meal without him. Then the A.D.C. went back inside to Sir Gardnor again.

In the result, it was only Major Mills and the Signals Officer who sat down together. There was next to no conversation between them. Major Mills always suffered a mild stomach-upset when there had been any misuse of fire-arms, and the Signals Officer was singularly silent. He had, Major Mills decided, got something on his mind.

Harold himself was flat out on his folding bed. Captain Webber had taken a good look at the bad eye, and pronounced that the cornea was punctured. There was, he said frankly, nothing that he could do about it in camp conditions. He merely put on a proper bandage and gave Harold a couple of drops to kill the pain; the other tablets were against infection, he said. If the pain got worse, he added rather meaninglessly, Harold had only to call him.

The drops had been of double strength. One was the standard dose. But with Sybil Prosser on his hands, Captain Webber wanted to make sure. Two invalids at a time was more than he felt he could manage.

In consequence, it was not until after dark when Harold was about again. The fiercest of the shooting pains had gone from his eye—there was now only a dull ache that might have gone with any ordinary black-eye—and he was feeling hungry.

He went over to the doorway of the tent and looked out. But it was too late. The dinner-table had been cleared away and the chairs were all folded and stacked up against each other. Even the native end of the camp was silent. The only sound was the
hu-hu-hu-hu
ing of an eagle-owl that had come from nowhere and was now hanging about in the adjacent trees.

The light over Sir Gardnor's desk was still burning. It lit up the whole marquee like a Chinese lantern. Evidently it was one of his late sessions.

Harold went inside again. Hungry as he was, there was nothing for it but to wait for breakfast-time.

The scream that woke him in the night seemed loud and very close at hand while he was still asleep; and faint, remote and unplaceable as soon as he was roused.

But he could not mistake it. That was why, still dazed with sleep, he had slung his legs over the side of the bed and was groping his way past the tripod washstand for the door. It had been a woman's scream. And, his head all swathed round as it was with Captain Webber's crepe bandaging, he started to run towards the tent where Lady Anne had shut herself away with Sybil Prosser.

The tent-flap that faced him, however, was closed tight; and the tent itself was in darkness. The only light still burning anywhere in the camp was in Sir Gardnor's marquee. The flap there had not been fastened down. It was laced loosely together on the outside as though someone had just gone out and had tied the cords behind him to keep the canvas from flapping.

Harold undid the knots and thrust his way inside. The light from the pressure lamp dazzled him, and he raised his hand to shield his good eye from the glare. Sir Gardnor was there all right. He was seated at his desk; presiding over it as it were. His eyes were open. But his jaw had fallen. Down one side of his face there was a great slicing cut that had pared off a sliver of the flesh. His throat, his shoulder and his shirt front were all soaked in fresh, wet blood.

And standing behind him was Old Moses. His hand was resting on something up by Sir Gardnor's collar band. He was straining at it. And then Harold saw what it was. Only the handle was showing. The rest of the long paper-knife was hidden; pegged down somewhere inside.

As Harold made for him, Old Moses turned. It was not the Old Moses that Harold knew. This one was mad, quite mad. His lips were drawn back from his yellow, stumpy teeth; and his eyes were staring. He kept his black hand clasped firmly round the handle of the knife.

He was strong, too; stronger than Harold would have believed possible. Ancient as he was, he fought back. When Harold grappled with him, the thin, claw-like fist closed tighter. As they struggled, the cutting-edges see-sawed back and forth, opening up the wound.

Then Harold looked up. In the far corner of the marquee, he saw that Lady Anne was standing.

A moment later, the entrance flap was jerked aside, and Major Mills arrived. He had been making one of his surprise patrols when he heard the scream, and the whole length of the camp had been between him. In running for it, he had fallen over one of his own trip-wires. Late and therefore ashamed of himself, he was breathless and gasping as he burst in.

But he was still able to sum things up. Also, he knew how to deal with natives. He already had his revolver in his hand. And, spinning it in the air like a juggler, he caught it by the barrel and brought the butt-end down on the bare, leather-looking skull in front of him.

The whole action was neat, speedy and efficient. Old Moses collapsed instantly. But Major Mills was not yet finished. Taking off his tie, he turned Old Moses face downwards and, kneeling on his buttocks, bound his hands together behind his back, straining at the knots so that no amount of struggling would undo them. That completed, Major Mills removed his belt, and strapped it tightly round the spiny ankles.

Then, because he was a humane man who had only been doing his duty, he thrust out his foot and rolled Old Moses over onto his side, so that he should not suffocate.

But he was too late to save Sir Gardnor. He had already slumped over sideways. Quite slowly, his head fell forward and he collapsed onto his desk, his outstretched arm upsetting the crystal-and-silver inkwell, the pen tray, the holder with all the paper clips.

Across the marquee, Harold saw that Sybil Prosser, her wispy hair dishevelled into a halo and wearing a grotesque magenta bed-jacket that didn't button-up properly, was standing over by Lady Anne. She had her arm round her, and was trying to lead her away. But Lady Anne did not move. She stood where she was, her hands covering up her face.

After that first scream, she had been entirely silent.

Captain Webber, neatly turned out for that time of night, had now
joined them. He had his professional-looking medical bag with him. Stepping rather self-consciously over the bound body of Old Moses, he went straight across to the desk in brisk, bedside fashion and reached for the pulse in the outstretched wrist that had upset the inkwell.

Harold and Major Mills stood watching him. After a few seconds they saw him frown and, bending forward, thrust his hand under Sir Gardnor's shirt, feeling for his heart. When he had withdrawn his hand, he stood back for a moment. He might have been getting ready simply to take the patient's temperature. Instead, he began gingerly fingering round the wound where the knife had entered. Then, pressing down hard on Sir Gardnor's shoulder with his left hand, he removed the dagger, like an experienced wine-steward drawing a stiff cork. The pattern of engraving on the blade showed up bright and scarlet.

‘Better get him on the floor,' he said. ‘Perhaps you'd give me a hand, would you?'

It was not easy. In life, Sir Gardnor had been a heavy man; and, in death, he was clumsy. He bumped rather than was laid upon the ground. But immediately Captain Webber was professionally at work again. This time it was his ear that he placed up against Sir Gardnor's chest. He stayed there motionless for some time, listening.

And this was the moment when Lady Amie opened her eyes again. She dropped her hands and stood there, staring at the empty desk. It seemed, at first, that she could not understand. Then she saw Sir Gardnor's body sprawled out on the rug, and Captain Webber crouching over him.

‘What have you done to him?' she began asking.

Captain Webber placed his two hands stiffly in the small of his back, and got up. He went over to his bag and took out a hypodermic syringe. Something had told him that, if it was Lady Anne who had screamed, he might be needing it.

Very deliberately, he filled the syringe up to the two c.c. mark, and went over to her.

It was Sybil Prosser whom he addressed.

‘Would you mind holding the sleeve back?' he said.

Then he beckoned to Harold.

‘We'll carry her through,' he said. ‘And be careful to keep her head up. Miss Prosser had better sit with her. She'll be out for quite some time. Better that way.'

When they got back to the Governor's quarters, the A.D.C was there.

Naked to the waist and in his pyjama trousers, he was standing over Sir Gardnor's body.

Not that he was of much use to anyone. All that he was doing was looking down, and saying ‘Oh, my God, my God.' His distress was genuine all right: he was crying.

Harold noticed, too, how unkempt he was. Everyone's hair gets mussed-up and tangled in the night, but the A.D.C.'s was disgraceful. It had bits of grass and sand in it as though he had been sleeping in the open. And his bare chest had scratch-marks all down it as though he had been playing with a kitten.

Major Mills did not seem to be particularly impressed by the crying.

‘Where were you when it happened?' he asked.

The A.D.C. rounded on him.

‘What the hell
did
happen?' he demanded.

‘You ought to know,' Major Mills told him. ‘You were his A.D.C, weren't you?'

The A.D.C. looked down at the big body lying sprawled there, and said, ‘Oh, my God,' again.

‘I asked you a question,' Major Mills reminded him.

The A.D.C. was breathing in very deeply. That wasn't like him either. He was in perfect physical condition, and he was behaving like an old man who had just been running upstairs.

‘Where were you?' Major Mills repeated.

The A.D.C. turned round and faced him.

‘I don't have to tell you,' he said. ‘You're not a policeman.'

It was a most extraordinary reply, and Major Mills took note of it. He went red in the face, redder even than his natural colour.

‘As the officer responsible for security,' he said, realising as he uttered them how singularly empty the words sounded, ‘I could have you arrested.'

But that was too much. The A.D.C. found Major Mills's manner insufferable. He wasn't going to have any over-promoted infantryman addressing him in that fashion.

‘You can do what you bloody well like,' he replied. ‘It's too late now, anyhow.'

He turned his back on Major Mills as he said it. Then he knelt down and took hold of Sir Gardnor's hand in his. When he got up, he pushed
his lock of hair into place, brushed the back of his hand across his cheek where the tears were showing and walked away without another word, simply leaving them there.